IV
A
CARRIAGE drew up late one afternoon outside the house at Fontenay. As Des Esseintes
never had any visitors and the postman did not so much as approach this
uninhabited region, since there were no newspapers, reviews, or letters to be
delivered, the servants hesitated, wondering whether they should answer the door
or not. But when the bell was sent
jangling violently against the wall, they ventured so far as to uncover the
spy-hole let into the door, and beheld a gentleman whose entire breast was
covered, from neck to waist, by a huge buckler of gold.
They informed their master, who was at
breakfast.
"Yes indeed," he said;
"show the gentleman in" - for he remembered having once given his
address to a lapidary so that the man might deliver an article he had ordered.
The gentleman bowed his way in, and on the
pitch-pine floor of the dining-room he deposited his golden buckler, which
rocked backwards and forwards, rising a little from the ground and stretching
out at the end of a snake-like neck a tortoise's head which, in a sudden panic,
it drew back under its carapace.
This tortoise was the result of a fancy
which had occurred to him shortly before leaving Paris. Looking one day at an Oriental carpet aglow
with iridescent colours, and following with his eyes the silvery glints running
across the weft of the wool, which was a combination of yellow and plum, he had
thought what a good idea it would be to place on this carpet something that
would move about and be dark enough to set off these gleaming tints.
Possessed by this idea, he had wandered at
random through the streets as far as the Palais-Royal,
where he glanced at Chevet's display and suddenly
struck his forehead - for there in the window was a huge tortoise in a
tank. He had bought the creature; and
once it had been left to itself on the carpet, he had sat down and subjected it
to a long scrutiny, screwing up his eyes in concentration.
Alas, there could be no doubt about it:
the nigger-brown tint, the raw Sienna hue of the shell, dimmed the sheen of the
carpet instead of bringing out its colours; the predominating gleams of silver
had now lost nearly all their sparkled and matched the cold tones of scraped
zinc along the edges of this hard, lustreless carapace.
He bit his nails, trying to discover a way
of resolving the marital discord between these tints and preventing an absolute
divorce. At last he came to the
conclusion that his original idea of using a dark object moving to and fro to
stir up the fires within the woollen pile was mistaken. The fact of the matter was that the carpet
was still too bright, too garish, to new-looking; its colours had not yet been
sufficiently toned down and subdued. The
thing was to reverse his first plan and to deaden those colours, to dim them by
the contrast of a brilliant object that would kill everything around it,
drowning the gleams of silver in a golden radiance. Stated in these terms, the problem was easier
to solve; and Des Esseintes accordingly decided to
have his tortoise's buckler glazed with gold.
Back from the workshop where the gilder
had given it board and lodging, the reptile blazed as brightly as any sun,
throwing out its rays over the carpet, whose tints turned pale and weak, and
looking like a Visigothic shield tegulated
with shining scales by a barbaric artist.
At first, Des Esseintes
was delighted with the effect he had achieved; but soon it struck him that this
gigantic jewel was only half-finished and that it would not be really complete
until it had been encrusted with precious stones.
From a collection of Japanese art he
selected a drawing representing a huge bunch of flowers springing from a single
slender stalk, took it to a jeweller's, sketched out a border to enclose this
bouquet in an oval frame, and informed the astonished lapidary that the leaves
and petals of each and every flower were to be executed in precious stones and
mounted on the actual shell of the tortoise.
Choosing the stones gave him pause. The diamond, he told himself, has become
terribly vulgar now that every businessman wears one on his little finger;
Oriental emeralds and rubies are not so degraded and they dart bright tongues
of fire, but they are too reminiscent of the green and red eyes of certain
Paris buses fitted with headlamps in the selfsame colours; as for topazes,
whether pink or yellow, they are cheap stones, dear to people of the small
shopkeeper class who long to have a few jewel-cases to lock up in their mirror
wardrobes. Similarly, although the
Church has helped the amethyst to retain something of a sacerdotal character,
at once unctuous and solemn, this stone too has been debased by use in the red
ears and on the tuberous fingers of butcher's wives whose ambition is to deck
themselves out at little cost with genuine, heavy jewels. Alone among these stones, the sapphire has
kept its fires inviolate, unsullied by contact with commercial and financial
stupidity. The glittering sparks playing
over its cold, limpid water have as it were protected its discreet and haughty
nobility against any defilement. But
unfortunately in artificial light its bright flames lose their brilliance; the
blue water sinks low and seems to go to sleep, to wake and sparkle again only
at daybreak.
It was clear that none of these stones
satisfied Des Esseintes' requirements; besides, they
were all too civilized, too familiar.
Instead he turned his attention to more startling and unusual gems; and
after letting them trickle through his fingers, he finally made a selection of
real and artificial stones which in combination would result in a fascinating
and disconcerting harmony.
He made up his bouquet in this way: the
leaves were set with gems of a strong and definite green - asparagus-green chrysoberyls, leek-green peridots,
olive-green olivines - and these sprang from twigs of
almandine and uvarovite of a purplish red, which
threw out flashes of harsh, brilliant light like the scales of tartar that
glisten on the insides of wine-casks.
For the flowers which stood out from the
stem a long way from the foot of the spray, he decided on a phosphate blue; but
he absolutely refused to consider the Oriental turquoise which is used for
brooches and rings, and which, together with the banal pearl and the odious
coral, forms the delight of the common herd.
He chose only turquoises from the West -
stones which, strictly speaking, are simply a fossil ivory impregnated with
coppery substances and whose celadon blue looks thick, opaque, and sulphurous,
as if jaundiced with bile.
This done, he could now go on to encrust
the petals of such flowers as were in full bloom in the middle of his spray,
those closest to the stem, with translucent minerals that gleamed with a
glassy, sickly light and glittered with fierce, sharp bursts of fire.
For this purpose he used only Ceylon
cat's-eyes, cymophanes, and sapphires - three stones
which all sparkled with mysterious, deceptive flashes, painfully drawn from the
icy depths of their turbid water: the cat's-eye of a greenish grey streaked
with concentric veins which seem to shift and change position according to the
way the light falls; the cymophane with blue waterings rippling across the floating, milky-coloured
centre; the sapphire which kindles bluish, phosphorescent fires against a dull,
chocolate-brown background.
The lapidary took careful notes as it was
explained to him exactly where each stone was to be let in.
"What about the edging of the
shell?" he then asked Des Esseintes.
The latter had originally thought of a
border of opals and hydrophanes. But
these stones, interesting though they may be on account of their varying colour
and vacillating fire, are too unstable and unreliable to be given serious
consideration; the opal, in fact, has a positively rheumatic sensitivity, they
play of its rays changing in accordance with changes in moisture and
temperature, while the hydrophane will burn only in water and refuses to light
up its grey fires unless it is wetted.
He finally decided on a series of stones
with contrasting colours - the mahogany-red hyacinth of Compostella
followed by the sea-green aquamarine, the vinegar-pink balas ruby by the pale
slate-coloured Sudermania ruby. Their feeble lustre would be sufficient to
set off the dark shell but not enough to detract from the bunch of jewelled
flowers which they were to frame in a slender garland of subdued brilliance.
New Des Esseintes
sat gazing at the tortoise where it lay huddled in a corner of the dining-room,
glittering brightly in the half-light.
He felt perfectly happy, his eyes feasting
on the splendour of these jewelled corollas, ablaze with colour against a
golden background. Suddenly he had a
craving for food, unusual for him, and soon he was dipping slices of toast
spread with superlative butter in a cup of tea, an impeccable blend of Si-a-Fayoun, Mo-you-Tann, and Khansky
- yellow teas brought from China into Russia by special caravans.
He drank this liquid perfume from cups of
that Oriental porcelain known as egg-shell china, it is so delicate and
diaphanous; and just as he could never use any but these adorably dainty cups,
so he insisted on plates and dishes of genuine silver-gilt, slightly worn so
that the silver showed a little where the thin film of gold had been rubbed
off, giving it a charming old-world look, a fatigued appearance, a moribund
air.
After swallowing his last mouthful he went
back to his study, instructing his manservant to bring along the tortoise,
which was still obstinately refusing to budge.
Outside the snow was falling. In the lamplight icy leaf- patterns could be
seen glittering on the blue-black windows, and hoar-frost sparkled like melted
sugar in the hollows of the bottle-glass panes, all spattered with gold.
The little house, lying snug and sleepy in
the darkness, was wrapped in a deep silence.
Des Esseintes
sat dreaming of one thing and another.
The burning logs piled high in the fire-basket filled the room with hot
air, and eventually he got up and opened the window a little way.
Like a great canopy of counter-ermine, the
sky hung before him, a black curtain spattered with white.
Suddenly an icy wind blew up which drove
the dancing snowflakes before it and reversed this arrangement of colours. The sky's heraldic trappings were turned
around to reveal a true ermine, white dotted with black where pinpricks of
darkness showed through the curtain of falling snow.
He shut the window again. This quick change, straight from the torrid
heat of the room to the biting cold of midwinter, had taken his breath away;
and curling up beside the fire again, it occurred to him that a drop of spirits
would be the best thing to warm him up.
He made his way to the dining-room, where
there was a cupboard built into one of the walls containing a row of little
barrels, resting side-by-side on tiny sandalwood stands and each broached at
the bottom with a silver spigot.
This collection of liqueur casks he called
his mouth organ.
A rod could be connected to all the
spigots, enabling them to be turned by one and the same movement, so that once
the apparatus was in position it was only necessary to press a button concealed
in the wainscoting to open all the conduits simultaneously and so fill with
liqueur the minute cups underneath the taps.
The organ was then open. The stops labelled 'flute', 'horn', and 'vox angelica' were pulled out, ready for use. Des Esseintes would
drink a drop here, another there, playing internal symphonies to himself, and
providing his palate with sensations analogous to those which music dispenses
to the air.
Indeed, each and every liqueur, in his
opinion, corresponded in taste with the sound of a particular instrument. Dry curaçao, for
instance, was like the clarinet with its piercing, velvety note; kümmel was like the oboe with its sonorous, nasal timbre;
crème de menthe and anisette like the flute, at once sweet and tart, soft and
shrill. Then to complete the orchestra
there was kirsch, blowing a wild trumpet blast; gin and whisky raising the roof
of the mouth with the blare of their cornets and trombones; marc-brandy
matching the tubas with its deafening din; while peals of thunder came from the
cymbal and the bass drum, which arak and mastic were
banging and beating with all their might.
He considered that this analogy could be
pushed still further and that string quartets might play under the palatal
arch, with the violin represented by an old brandy, choice and heady, biting
and delicate; with the viola simulated by rum, which was stronger, heavier, and
quieter; with vespetro as poignant, drawn-out, sad,
and tender as a violoncello; and with the double-bass a fine old bitter,
full-bodied, solid, and dark. One might
even form a quintet, if this were thought desirable, by adding a fifth
instrument, the harp, imitated to near perfection by the vibrant savour, the
clear, sharp, silvery note of dry cumin.
The similarity did not end there, for the
music of liqueurs had its own scheme of interrelated tones; thus, to quote only
one example, Benedictine represents, so to speak, the minor key corresponding
to the major key of those alcohols which wine-merchants' scores indicate by the
name of green Chartreuse.
Once these principles had been
established, and thanks to a series of erudite experiments, he had been able to
perform upon his tongue silent melodies and mute funeral marches; to hear
inside his mouth crème-de-menthe solos and rum-and- vespetro
duets.
He even succeeded in transferring specific
pieces of music to his palate, following the composer step by step, rendering
his intentions, his effects, his shades of expression, by mixing or contrasting
related liqueurs, by subtle approximations and cunning combinations.
At other times he would compose melodies
of his own, executing pastorals with the sweet blackcurrant liqueur that filled
his throat with the warbling song of a nightingale; or with the delicious cacaochouva that hummed sugary bergerets
like the Romances of Estelle and the Ah! vous dirai-je, maman of olden days.
But tonight Des Esseintes
had no wish to listen to the taste of music; he confined himself to removing
one note from the keyboard of his organ, carrying off a tiny cup which he had filled
with genuine Irish whiskey.
He settled down in his armchair again and
slowly sipped this fermented spirit of oats and barley, a pungent odour of
creosote spreading through his mouth.
Little by little, as he drank, his
thoughts followed the renewed reactions of his palate, caught up with the
savour of the whiskey, and were reminded by a striking similarity of smell of
memories which had lain dormant for years.
The acrid, carbolic bouquet forcibly
recalled the identical scent of which he had been all too conscious whenever a
dentist had been at work on his gums.
Once started on this track, his
recollections, ranging at first over all the different practitioners he had
known, finally gathered together and converged on one of these men whose distinctive
method had been graven with particular force upon his memory.
This had happened three years ago:
afflicted in the middle of the night with an abominable toothache, he had
plugged his cheek with cotton-wool and paced up and down his room like a
madman, blundering into the furniture in his pain.
It was a molar that had already been
filled and was now past cure; the only possible remedy lay in the dentist's
forceps. In a fever of agony he waited
for daylight, resolved to bear the most atrocious operation if only it would
put an end to his sufferings.
Nursing his jawbone, he asked himself
exactly what he should do when morning came.
The dentists he usually consulted were well-to-do businessmen who could
not be seen at short notice; appointments had to be made in advance and times
agreed.
"That's out of the question," he
told himself. "I can't wait any
longer."
He made up his mind to go and see the
first dentist he could find, to resort to a common, lower-class tooth-doctor,
one of those iron-fisted fellows who, ignorant though they may be of the
useless art of treating decay and filling cavities, know how to extirpate the
most stubborn of stumps with unparalleled speed. Their doors are always open at daybreak, and
their customers are never kept waiting.
Seven o'clock struck at last. He rushed out of doors, and remembering the
name of a mechanic who called himself a dentist and lived in a corner house by
the river, he hurried in that direction, biting on a handkerchief and choking
back his tears.
Soon he arrived at the house, which was
distinguished by an enormous wooden placard bearing the name 'Gatonax' spread out in huge yellow letters on a black
ground, and by two little glass-fronted cases displaying neat rows of false
teeth set in pink wax gums joined together with brass springs. He stood there panting for breath, with sweat
pouring down his forehead; a horrid fear gripped him, a cold shiver ran over
his body - and then came sudden relief, the pain vanished, the tooth stopped
aching.
After staying for a while in the street,
wondering what to do, he finally mastered his fears and climbed the dark
staircase, taking four steps at a time as far as the third floor. There he came up against a door with an
enamel plaque repeating the name he had seen on the placard outside. He rang the bell; then, terrified by the
sight of great splashes of blood and spittle on the steps, he suddenly turned
tail, resolved to go on suffering from toothache for the rest of his life, when
a piercing scream came from behind the partition, filling the well of the
staircase and nailing him to the spot with sheer horror. At that very moment a door opened and an old
woman asked him to come in.
Shame overcame fear, and he let her show
him into what appeared to be a dining-room.
Another door banged open, admitting a great, strapping fellow dressed in
a frock-coat and trousers that seemed carved in wood. Des Esseintes
followed him into an inner sanctum.
His recollections of what happened after
that were somewhat confused. He vaguely
remembered dropping into an armchair facing a window, putting a finger on the
offending tooth, and stammering out:
"It has been filled before. I'm afraid there's nothing can be done this
time."
The man promptly put a stop to this explanation
by inserting an enormous forefinger into his mouth; then, muttering to himself
behind his curly waxed moustaches, he picked up an instrument from a table.
At this point the drama really began. Clutching the arms of the chair, Des Esseintes felt the cold touch of metal inside his cheeks,
then saw a whole galaxy of stars, and in unspeakable agony started stamping his
feet and squealing like a stuck pig.
There was a loud crack as the molar broke
on its way out. By now it seemed as if
his head were being pulled off and his skull smashed in; he lost all control of
himself and screamed at the top of his voice, fighting desperately against the
man, who bore down on him again as if he wanted to plunge his arm into the
depths of his belly. Suddenly the fellow
took a step backwards, lifted his patient bodily by the refractory tooth and
let him fall back into the chair, while he stood there blocking the window,
puffing and blowing as he brandished at the end of his forceps a blue tooth
tipped with red.
Utterly exhausted, Des Esseintes
had spat out a basinful of blood, waved away the old woman who came in to offer
him his tooth, which she was prepared to wrap up in a piece of newspaper, and
after paying two francs had fled, adding his contribution to the bloody spittle
on the stairs. But out in the street he
had recovered his spirits, feeling ten years younger and taking an interest in
the most insignificant things.
"Ugh!" he said to himself,
shuddering over these gruesome recollections.
He got to his feet to break the horrid fascination of his nightmare
vision, and coming back to present day preoccupations he felt suddenly uneasy
about the tortoise.
It was still lying absolutely
motionless. He touched it; it was
dead. Accustomed no doubt to a sedentary
life, a modest existence spent in the shelter of its humble carapace, it had
not been able to bear the dazzling luxury imposed upon it, the glittering cape
in which it had been clad, the precious stones which had been used to decorate
its shell like a jewelled ciborium.