Maldoror And Poems Part 1

MALDOROR AND POEMS.

Comte de Lautreamont.

FIRST BOOK.

1.

May it please heaven that the reader, emboldened and having for the time being become as fierce as what he is reading, should, without being led astray, find his rugged and treacherous way across the desolate swamps of these sombre and poison-filled pages; for, unless he brings to his reading a rigorous logic and a tautness of mind equal at least to his wariness, the deadly emanations of this book will dissolve his soul as water does sugar. It is not right that everyone should savour this bitter fruit with impunity. Consequently, shrinking soul, turn on your heels and go back before penetrating further into such uncharted, perilous wastelands. Listen well to what I say: turn on your heels and go back, not forward, like the eyes of a son respectfully averted form the august contemplation of his motheras face; or rather like a formation of very meditative cranes, stretching out of sight, whose sensitive bodies flee the chill of winter, when, their wings fully extended, they fly powerfully through silence to a precise point on the horizon, from which suddenly a strange strong wind blows, precursor of the storm. The oldest crane, flying on alone ahead of the others, shakes his head like a reasonable person on seeing this, making at the same time a clack with his beak, and he is troubled (as I, too, would be, if I were he); all the time his scrawny and featherless neck, which has seen three generations of cranes, is moving in irritated undulations which foretoken the quickly-gathering storm. Having calmly looked in all directions with his experienced eyes, the crane prudently (ahead of all the others, for he has the privilege of showing his tail-feathers to his less intelligent fellows) gyrates to change the direction of the geometric figure (perhaps it is a triangle, but one cannot see the third side which these curious birds of pa.s.sage form in s.p.a.ce) either to port or to starboard, like a skilled captain; uttering as he does to his vigilant cry, like that of a melancholy sentry, to repulse the common enemy. Then, maneuvering with wings which seem no bigger than a starlingas, because he is no fool, he takes another philosophic and surer line of flight.

2.

Reader, perhaps it is hatred you wish me to invoke at the outset of this work! What makes you think that you will not sniffa"drenched in numberless pleasures, for as long as you wish, with your proud nostrils, wide and thin, as you turn over on your belly like a shark, in the beautiful black air, as if you understood the importance of this act and the equal importance of your legitimate appet.i.te, slowly and majesticallya"its red emanations. I a.s.sure you, they will delight the two shapeless holes of your hideous muzzle, if you endeavour beforehand to inhale, in three thousand consecutive breaths, the accursed conscience of the Eternal One! Your nostrils, which will dilate immeasurably in unspeakable contentment, in motionless ecstasy, will ask nothing better of s.p.a.ce, for they will be full of fragrance as if of perfumes and incense; for they will be glutted with complete happiness, like angels who dwell in the peace and magnificence of pleasant Heaven.

3.

I will state in a few lines that Maldoror was good during the first years of his life when he lived happily. That is that. Then he noticed that he had been born evil: an extraordinary fatality! As far as he could, he hid his real character for a large number of years; but in the end, because of the concentration this required, which did not come naturally to him, the blood used to rush to his head every day; until, no longer able to bear such a life, he flung himself resolutely into a career of evildoing...a sweet atmosphere! Who would have thought so! Whenever he kissed a little pink-faced child, he felt like tearing open its cheeks with a razor, and he would have done so very often, had not Justice, with its long train of punishments, prevented him. He was no liar, admitted the truth and said that he was cruel. Human beings, did you hear that? He dares to say it again with his trembling pen. So it is a power stronger than will...Curse! Could a stone escape from the laws of gravity? Impossible. Impossible, for evil to form an alliance with good. That is what I was saying in the above lines.

4.

There are those whose purpose in writing is, by means of the n.o.ble qualities of heart which their imagination invents or which they themselves may have, to seek the plaudits of other human beings. For my part, I use my genius to depict the delights of cruelty: delights which are not transitory or artificial; but which began with man and will end with him. Cannot genius be allied with cruelty in the secret resolutions of Providence? Or can one, being cruel, not have genius? The proof will be in my words. You have only to listen to me, if you wish...Excuse me, for a moment it seemed as if my hair was standing on end; but it is nothing, for I had no trouble in putting them back in place again with my hand. He who sings does not claim that is cavatinas are utterly unknown; on the contrary, he commends himself because his heroas haughty and wicked thoughts are in all men.

5.

Throughout my life, I have seen narrow-shouldered men, without a single exception, committing innumerable stupid acts, brutalizing their fellows, and perverting souls by all means. They call the motive for their actions fame. Seeing these spectacles, I wanted to laugh like the others but I found that strange imitation impossible. I took a knife with a sharp steel cutting-edge on its blade and slit my flesh where the lips join. For a moment I believed I had achieved my object. I looked in a mirror at this mouth disfigured by an act of my own will It was a mistake! The blood flowing from the two wounds prevented me from discerning whether the laugh really was the same as the othersa. But after comparing them for a few moments I saw clearly that my laugh did not resemble that of human beings, i.e. I was not laughing at all. I have seen men, ugly men with their eyes sunk in dark sockets, surpa.s.sing the hardness of rock, the rigidity of cast steel, the insolence of youth, the senseless rage of criminals, the falseness of the hypocrite, the most extraordinary actors, the strength of character of priests, beings whose real character is the most impenetrable, colder than anything else in heaven or on earth; I have seen them wearing out moralists who have attempted to discover their heart, and seen them bring upon themselves implacable anger from on high. I have seen them all now, the strongest fist raised towards heaven, like a child already disobedient towards its mother, probably incited by some spirit from h.e.l.l, eyes full of the bitterest remorse, but at the same time of hatred; glacially silent, not daring to utter the vast ungrateful meditations hidden in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, because those meditations were so full of injustice and horror; I have seen them grieve the G.o.d of mercy in his compa.s.sion; and again at the moment of the day, from their earliest childhood right up to the end of their old age, I have seen them uttering unbelievable anathemata, void of all common sense, against everything which breathes, against themselves, and against Providence; prost.i.tuting women and children, thus dishonouring the parts of the body consecrated to modesty. Then, the waters of the seas rise up, engulfing ships in their bottomless depths; hurricanes and earthquakes level houses; plague and all kinds of diseases decimate families. But men do not realize this. I have seen them blushing, or turning pale for shame at their conduct on this eartha"rarely. Tempests, sisters of the hurricanes; bluish firmament, whose beauty I refuse to acknowledge; hypocritical sea, image of my own heart; earth, who hold mysteries hidden in your breast; the whole universe; G.o.d, who created it with such magnificence, it is thee I invoke; show me a man who is good...But at the same time increase my strength tenfold; for at the sight of such a monster, I may die of astonishment; men have died of less.

6.

One should let one's nails grow for a fortnight. Oh! How sweet it is to brutally s.n.a.t.c.h from his bed a child with no hair yet on his upper lip, and, with eyes wide open, to pretend to suavely stroke his forehead, brushing back his beautiful locks! Then, suddenly, at the moment when he least expects it, to sink one's long nails into his tender breast, being careful, though, not to kill him; for if he died, there would be no later viewing of his misery. Then, one drinks the blood, licking the wounds; and, during the entire procedure, which ought to last no shorter than an aeon, the boy cries. Nothing could be better than his blood, warm and just freshly squeezed out as I have described, if it weren't for his tears, bitter as salt. Mortal one, haven't you ever tasted your blood, when by chance you cut your finger? Tasty, isn't it? For it has no taste. Besides, can you not recall one day, absorbed in your dismal thoughts, having lifted your deeply cupped palm to your sickly face, drenched by the downpour from your eyes; the said hand then making its fatal way to your mouth, which, from this vessel chattering like the teeth of the schoolboy who glances sidelong at the one born to oppress him, sucked the tears in long draughts? Tasty, aren't they? For they taste of vinegar. A taste reminiscent of the tears of your true love, except a child's tears are so much more pleasing to the palate. He is incapable of deceit, for he does not yet know evil: but the most loving of women is bound to betray sooner or later... This I deduce by a.n.a.logy, despite my ignorance of what friendship means, what love means (I doubt I will ever accept either of these, at least not from the human race). So, since your blood and tears do not disgust you, go ahead, feed confidently on the adolescent's tears and blood. Blindfold him, while you tear open his quivering flesh; and, after listening to his resplendent squeals for a good few hours, similar to those hoa.r.s.e shrieks of death one hears from the throats of the mortally wounded on battlefields, you then, running out faster than an avalanche, fly back in from the room next door, pretending to rush to his rescue. You untie his hands, with their swollen nerves and veins, you restore sight to his distraught eyes, as you resume licking his tears and blood. Oh, what a genuine and n.o.ble change of heart! That divine spark within us, which so rarely appears, is revealed; too late! How the heart longs to console the innocent one we have harmed. "O child, who has just undergone such cruel torture, who could have ever committed such an unspeakable crime upon you! You poor soul! The agony you must be going through! And if your mother were to know of this, she would be no closer to death, so feared by evildoers, than I am now. Alas! What, then, are good and evil? Might they be one and the same thing, by which in our furious rage we attest our impotence and our pa.s.sionate thirst to attain the infinite by even the maddest means? Or might they be two separate things? Yes... they'd better be one and the same... for, if not, what shall become of me on the Day of Judgment? Forgive me, child. Here before your n.o.ble and sacred eyes stands the man who crushed your bones and tore off the strips of flesh dangling from various parts of your body. Was it a frenzied inspiration of my delirious mind, was it a deep inner instinct independent of my reason, such as that of the eagle tearing at its prey, that drove me to commit this crime? And yet, as much as my victim, I suffered! Forgive me, child. Once we are freed from this transient life, I want us to be entwined for evermore, becoming but one being, my mouth fused to your mouth. But even so, my punishment will not be complete. So you will tear at me, without ever stopping, with your teeth and nails at the same time. I will adorn and embalm my body with perfumes and garlands for this expiatory holocaust; and together we shall suffer, I from being torn, you from tearing me... my mouth fused to yours. O blond-haired child, with your eyes so gentle, will you now do what I advise you? Despite yourself, I wish you to do it, and you will set my conscience at rest." And in saying this, you will have wronged a human being and be loved by that same being: therein lies the greatest conceivable happiness. Later, you could take him to the hospital, for the crippled boy will be in no condition to earn a living. They will proclaim you a hero, and centuries from now, laurel crowns and gold medals will cover your bare feet on your ancient iconic tomb. O you, whose name I will not inscribe upon this page consecrated to the sanct.i.ty of crime, I know your forgiveness was as boundless as the universe. But look, I'm still here!

7.

I have made a pact with Prost.i.tution to sow disorder in families. I remember the night which preceded this dangerous liaison. Before me I saw a tombstone. I heard a glow-worm, big as a house, say to me: aI will give you the light you need. Read the inscription. It is not from me that this supreme order comes.a A vast blood-coloured light, at the sight of which my jaws clacked and my hands fell inert, suffused the air as far as the horizon. I leaned against a ruined wall, for I was about to fall, and read: aHear lies a youth who died of consumption: you know why. Do not pray for him.a Not many men perhaps would have shown such courage as I did. Meanwhile, a beautiful naked woman came and lay down at my feat. Sadly, I said to her, aYou can get up.a And I held out to her the hand with which the fratricide slits his sisteras throat. The shining worm, to me: aBeware, look to your safety, for you are the weaker and I the stronger. Her name is Prost.i.tution.a With tears in my eyes and my heart full of rage, I felt an unknown strength rising within me. I took hold of a huge stone; after many attempts, I managed to lift it as far as my chest. Then, with my arms, I put it on my shoulders. I climbed the mountain until I reached the top: from there, I hurled the stone on to the shining worm, crushing it. Its head was thrust six feet into the ground, a manas height; the stone rebounded as high as six churches. Then it fell down again into a lake, and for a moment the water-level, eddying, dropped as the sinking stone created an immense inverted cone. The surface became calm again; the blood-red light ceased to shine. aAlas! alas!a the naked woman exclaimed. aWhat have you done?a I said to her: aI prefer you to him. Because I pity the unhappy. It is not your fault that eternal justice has created you.a And she said: aOne day men will do me justice; I will say no more to you. Let me go and hide my infinite sadness at the bottom of the sea. Only you, and the hideous monsters who swarm in those black depths do not despise me. You are good. Adieu, you who have loved me.a I, to her: aAdieu, once more adieu! I will always love you. From today, I abandon virtue.a And that is why, oh you peoples of the earth, when you hear the winter wind moaning on the sea and by its sh.o.r.es, or above the large towns which have long been in mourning for me, or across the cold polar regions say: aIt is not G.o.das spirit pa.s.sing over us: it is only the shrill sigh of Prost.i.tution in unison with the deep groans of the Montevidean.a Children, it is I who say this to you. Then, full of mercy, kneel down. And let men, more numerous than lice, say long prayers.

8.

In the moonlight, by the sea, or in isolated parts of the country, when plunged in bitter reflections one can see everything take on yellow, vague, fantastic shapes. Tree-shadows, now quickly, now slowly, run, come back, and disappear again to return in different shapes, flattening out, sticking to the ground. In the days when I was borne along on the wings of my youth, this used to make me dream, this appeared strange to me. Now I have grown used to it. Through the leaves the wind moans its languorous notes, and the owl sings its solemn complaint, which makes the hair of those who hear it stand on end. Then dogs, driven wild, break their chains and escape from distant farms. They run all over the countryside, a prey to madness. Suddenly they stop and, wildly anxious, their eyes burning, they look around them on all sides. And just as elephants, in the desert, before they die, look up one last time at the sky, despairingly raising their trunks, not moving their eyes, so too these dogsa ears do not move, but, raising their heads, they swell out their dreadful necks and start barking in turns, like a hungry child yelling for food, or a cat who has ripped its guts open on a roof, like a woman about to give birth, or a plague-ridden patient dying in hospital, or a young girl singing a sublime air; at the stars in the north, at the stars in the east, at the stars in the south, at the stars in the west; at the moon; at the mountains which in the distance seem like giant rocks in the darkness; at the tops of their voices they bark at the cold air they are breathing, the cold air which makes the insides of their nostrils red and burning; at the silence of the night; at the screech-owls who brush against their muzzles in their oblique line of flight, as they carry off in their beaks a rat or a frog, living nourishment, sweet to the little ones; at the rabbits who scurry out of sight in the winking of an eye; at the thief, fleeing on his galloping horse after committing a crime; at the snakes stirring in the heath, who make their flesh creep, their teeth chatter; at their own barks, which frighten them; at the toads whom they crush with a quick, sharp movement of their jaws (why have they strayed so far from the swamps?); at the trees, whose gently-rustling leaves are as many mysteries that they cannot understand, which they want to fathom with their attentive, intelligent eyes; at the spiders hanging beneath their long legs, who climb up trees to escape; at the raves who, during day, have found nothing to eat and are returning with tired wings to their nests; at the craggy cliffs along the sea-sh.o.r.e; at the fires burning on the masts of invisible ships; at the m.u.f.fled sound of the waves beating against the huge fish who, as they swim, reveal their black backs and then plunge down again into the fathomless depths; and against man, who makes slaves of them. After which, they start running again through the countryside, bounding across ditches, paths, fields, through weeds and over steep rocks, their paws bleeding. You would think they had caught rabies and were seeking a vast pool in which to quench their thirst. Their prolonged howls fill nature with dread. And then, woe to the belated traveler! These graveyard fiends will set upon him, will tear him to pieces and eat him, their mouths dripping blood; for they have sound teeth. The wild animals, not daring to approach and partake of the meal of flesh, fled out of sight, trembling. After some hours, the dogs, exhausted by running round, almost dead, their tongues hanging out, set upon one another and, not knowing what they are doing, tear one another into thousands of pieces with incredible rapidity. Yet they do not do this out of cruelty. One day, a glazed look in her eyes, my mother said to me: aWhen you are in bed and you hear the barking of the dogs in the countryside, hide beneath your blanket but do not deride what they do; they have an insatiable thirst for the infinite, as you, and I, and all other pale, long-faced human beings do. I will even allow you to stand in front of your window to contemplate this spectacle, which is quite edifying.a Since that time, I have respected the dead womanas wish. Like those dogs, I feel the need for the infinite. I cannot, cannot satisfy this need. I am the son of a man and a woman, from what I have been told. This astonishes me...I believed I was something more. Besides, what does it matter to me where I come from? If I had any choice, I would rather have been born the male of a female shark, whose hunger welcomes tempests, and of the tiger, whose cruelty is well-known. You, who are looking at me, go away, for the breath I exhale is poisonous. No one has yet seen the green wrinkles on my brow; nor the protruding bones of my face which are like the bones of some huge fish, or the cliffs along the sea-horse, or the steep alpine mountains which I often crossed when the hair on my head was of a different colour. And when on stormy nights I prowl around the habitations of men, my hair lashed by the wind of the tempests, my eyes aflame, isolated like a huge boulder in the middle of a path, I cover my face with a piece of velvet, black as the soot which gathers inside chimneys. No eyes may behold the ugliness which the Supreme Being, with a smile of omnipotent hatred, has set upon my face. Each morning, when for others the sun rises, spreading joy and health-bringing warmth through nature, no line of my face moves as, staring into the s.p.a.ce which is full of darkness, crouching in the depths of my beloved cave, in a mood of despair which intoxicates me like wine, I tear my breast to shreds with my powerful hands. Yet I do not feel that I am the victim of some rabid fit! Yet I do not feel that I am the only one who suffers. Yet I feel that I am still breathing. Like a condemned man flexing his muscles and reflecting on their fate as he is about to mount the scaffold, sitting up on my bed of straw with my eyes closed I slowly move my neck from right to left, from left to right, for hours on end; I do not fall down stone dead. From time to time, whenever my neck cannot continue moving in any direction, whenever it stops before starting to turn the opposite way again, all of a sudden I look up at the horizon, through the rare gaps in the brushwood which covers the caveas entrance. And I see nothing! Nothing...unless it be the countryside dancing and whirling with the trees and the birds criss-crossing the air. This perplexes my blood and my brain...who is beating me on the head with an iron rod, like a hammer striking the anvil?

9.

I propose, without emotion to declaim the cold and serious strophe which you are about to hear. You, pay attention to its contents and beware of the painful impression which it will not fail to leave, like a brand, on your perplexed imaginations. Do not think that I am about to die, for I am no skeleton yet and old age is not yet stamped on my brow. Discard therefore any notion of comparison with the swan at the moment when its soul takes flight; see before you nothing but a monster, whose face I am glad you cannot perceive; though it is less horrible than his soul. However, I am not a criminal...enough of this subject. It is not long ago since I saw the sea again and walked the decks of ships and my memories of this are as strong as if I only came ash.o.r.e yesterday. Nevertheless be, if you can, as calm as I in reading these lines which I already regret offering you, and do not blush at the thought of what the human heart is. O Octopus, with your silken look! whose soul is inseparable from mine; you most beautiful inhabitant of the terrestrial globe, who have at your disposal a seraglio of four hundred suckers; you in whom linked indestructibly by a common accord, the sweet communicative virtue and the divine graces are n.o.bly present, as if in their natural residence, why are you not with me, your mercury belly against my aluminum breast, both of us sitting on some sea-sh.o.r.e rock, to contemplate the spectacle I adore!

Old ocean, crystal-waved, you resemble proportionally the azure stains seen on the disfigured tops of mosses; you are an immense blueness on the body of the earth: I love this comparison. Thus on seeing you first, a prolonged breath of sadness which one would take for the murmuring of your delicious breeze, pa.s.ses, leaving ineffable traces on the deeply-moved soul, and recalling to the minds of those who love youa"though one does not always realize thisa"manas crude beginnings, when he first came to know sorrow, which has been with him ever since. I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, your harmoniously spherical form, which gladdens the stern countenance of geometry, reminds me only too well of manas small eyes, which are like the boaras in their minuteness and like the eyes of night-birds in the circular perfection of contour. However, throughout the centuries, man has considered himself beautiful. For my part, I rather suppose that man only believes in his own beauty out of pride; that he is not really beautiful and he suspects this himself; for why does he look on the face of his fellow-man with such scorn? I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, you are the symbol of ident.i.ty: always equal to yourself. You never vary essentially and, if somewhere your waves are raging, further away, in some other zone, they are perfectly calm. You are not like man who stops in the street to watch two bulldogs snarling and biting one anotheras necks, but who does stop to watch when a funeral pa.s.ses; who is approachable in the morning, in a black mood in the evening; who laughs today and cries tomorrow...I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, there is nothing far-fetched in the idea that you hide within your breast things which will in the future be useful to man. You have already given him the whale. You do not easily allow the greedy eyes of the natural sciences to guess the thousand secrets of your inmost organization. You are modest. Man brags incessantly of trifles. I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, the different species of fish to which you give nourishment have sworn no brotherhood among themselves. Each species keeps to itself. Temperaments, shapes and sizes, which vary from species to species, satisfactorily explain what at first appears to be only an anomaly. The same is true in manas case, though he cannot plead the same excuses. If a piece of land is occupied by thirty million human beings, they feel obliged not to become involved in their neighbouras existence, rooted as they are to their own piece of ground. From great to small, each man lives like a savage in his lair, rarely venturing out to visit his fellow-creature, who is also crouching in his lair. The great universal family of men is a utopia worthy of the most mediocre logic. Furthermore, his ingrat.i.tude stands out against the spectacle of your fecund b.r.e.a.s.t.s; for one thinks of those many parents ungrateful enough to their creator to abandon the fruit of their wretched union...I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, your physical immensity can only be conceived if one tries to measure the active potency needed to engender the totality of your ma.s.s. You cannot be embraced in a single look. In order to contemplate you, the sights of the telescope must be turned in a continuous movement towards the four points of the horizon, just as a mathematician is obliged when doing and algebraic equation to examine individually all the various possible cases before arriving at an answer. Man eats nourishing substances and makes other efforts, worth of a better fate, to appear huge. Let him puff himself out as much as he wishes, this adorable frog. Set your mind at rest, he will not equal you in size; at least, I suppose not. I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean your waters are bitter. Their taste is the same as the rancorous gall which criticism distills and pours on the arts, the sciences, everything. If someone is a genius, it condemns him as an idiot; if another has a beautiful body, then he is a frightful hunchback. Certainly, man should have a strong sense of his own imperfections, three-quarters of which are due to himself alone, in order to criticize them thus. I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, men, despite the excellence of their methods, though they are helped by scientific means of investigation, have not yet succeeded in measuring your vertiginous depths. Even the largest and heaviest sounding-lines have failed to plumb your inaccessible gulfs. Fish may: but not men. I have often wondered which is the easier to fathom: the depth of the ocean or the depth of the human heart! Often as I stood on ships' decks with my hand on my brow, while the moon swung fitfully between the masts, I have found myself grappling with this difficult problem, having set aside anything which could distract me from my object. Yes, which the deeper, the more impenetrable of the two: the ocean or the human heart? If thirty years of experience of life can sway the balance from one to the other of these solutions, I will venture to say that despite the depth of the ocean, it cannot rank, as far as a comparison of this quality goes, with the depth of the human heart. I have had connections with men who were virtuous. They died at sixty, and not one of them failed to exclaim that 'he had done his best on this earth, that is he had practised charity; that is all, that was easy enough, anyone might do the same.' Who can understand how two lovers who idolized each other only the day before, separate over a misinterpreted word, one going east, one west, with needlepoints of vengeance, hatred, love and remorse, and never see each other again, each one draped in his solitary pride. It is a miracle which recurs every day but is none the less miraculous. Who can understand how it is that we relish not only the general misfortunes of our closest friends, at the same time as being distressed about them? An unanswerable example to close the series: man hypocritically says 'yes' and thinks ano.a That is why the wild boars of humanity have so much trust in one another and are not egoists. Psychology still has a long way to go. I hail you, old ocean!

Old ocean, your might is such that men have discovered it to their own cost. In vain do they deploy all the resources of their ingenuity...they are incapable of mastering you. They have met their match. I say that they have found something stronger than they. This something has a name. That name is: the ocean! The fear that you inspire in them is such that they respect you. In spite of this, you set their heaviest machines dancing with grace, elegance and ease. You make them execute gymnastic leaps right up to the sky, and admirable dives to the bottom of your domains: a circus acrobat would envy them. They are fortunate if you don not enfold them finally in you whirling, bubbling embrace, taking them on a trip--not by railway--to see your aquatic entrails, to see how the fish are, and above all, how they are themselves. Man says: 'I am more intelligent than the ocean.' That is possible; it is even quite true; but the ocean is more terrifying to him than he to the ocean; this does not need to be proven. This observant patriarch, contemporary of the first epochs of our suspended globe, smiles with pity as he witnesses naval battles among the nations. The hands of men have created hundreds of leviathans. The pompous orders given on deck, the cries of the wounded, bursts of a cannon-fire, these are noises whose only function is to kill a few seconds. It seems that the excitement is over, the ocean's belly has swallowed everything up. Its mouth is formidable, it must be huge towards the bottom, in the direction of the unknown. And at last, to crown the stupid comedy, which is not even interesting, you can see a pa.s.sing stork in the air, slowed down by fatigue, beginning to cry, though not slackening its wingspan: 'Well...how annoying! There were some black specks down there; I closed my eyes and they just disappeared.' I salute you, old ocean!

Old ocean, great celibate, when you survey the solemn solitude of your imperturbable realms, you are justly proud of your native magnificence and of the true praises which I so fervently bestow on you. Rocked voluptuously by the gentle effluvia of your majestic slowness--that most imposing of all the attributes with which the divine power has endowed you--you unroll in sombre mystery, along all your sublime surface, your incomparable waves, in calm awareness of your eternal power. At short intervals, they follow one another in parallel lines. No sooner does one subside than another comes to meet it, accompanied by the melancholy sound of the frothing foam, reminding us that all is foam. (Thus human beings, those living waves, die one after another, monotonously; but they make no foaming sound.) The bird of pa.s.sage rests on the waves, then abandons himself to their movements, full of proud grace, until the bones of his wings have recovered their accustomed strength and he can continue his aerial pilgrimage. I wish that human majesty were only the incarnate reflection of your own. I am too demanding but my sincere wish glorifies you. Your moral grandeur, image of infinity, is as vast as the philosopher's reflections, as woman's love, as the divine beauty of the bird, as the meditations of the poet. You are more beautiful than the night. Answer me, ocean, will you be my brother? Swell more violently...more...still more, if you want me to compare you to G.o.d's vengeance. Lengthen your livid claws, as you clear a way over your own breast...that is good. Unroll your frightful waves, hideous ocean, whom I alone understand, before which I fall, prostrate, at your knees. Man's majesty is a deception; he does not overawe me; but you do. Oh when you advance with your high and terrible crest, wild and hypnotic, surrounded by a court of sinuous coils of waves rolling on one another fully aware of all you are, while you utter from the depths of your breast, as if weighed down by and intense remorse whose cause I cannot discover, the perpetual suppressed moan which men so often fear, even when they contemplate you, in safety, trembling from the sea-sh.o.r.e, then I see that I cannot claim the ill.u.s.trious right to call myself your equal. That is why, in face of your superiority, I would give you all my love (and no one knows the amount of love in my aspirations towards the Beautiful) if only because you make me think with sorrow on my fellows, who form the most ironic contrast with you, the most farcical ant.i.thesis that has ever been seen in the whole of creation; I cannot love you, I detest you. Why, then, do I return to you for the thousandth time to your welcoming arms which caress my flaming brow, your touch dispelling its feverish heat. I do not know your hidden destiny; everything about you interests me. Tell me, then, if you are the abode of the Prince of Darkness. Tell me...tell me, ocean (only me, so as to cause no grief to those who till now have known only illusions), tell me if it is the breath of Satan that creates the tempests which whip your salt-water cloud-high. You must tell me, for I would rejoice to know that h.e.l.l is o near to man. I intend this to be the last strophe of my invocation. Thus, one last time, I want to hail you and bid you goodbye. Old ocean, crystal-waved...Free-flowing tears well up in my eyes, I have no strength to go on; for I feel that the moment has come for me to return to men, brutish in their appearance; but...courage! Let us make a superhuman effort and, conscious of our duty, fulfill our destiny on this earth. I hail you, old ocean!

10.

You will not, in my last hour, find me surrounded by priests. I want to die lulled by the waves of the stormy sea, or standing on a mountain-top...my eyes looking upwards, no: I know my extinction will be complete. Besides, I would have no hope of mercy. Who is opening the door of my funeral chamber? I had said no one was to enter. Whoever you are, go away; but if you believe you notice some mark of sorrow or fear on my hyena's face (I use the comparison although the hyena is more handsome than I, pleasanter to look at), if you believe this, then let me undeceive you: let him approach. It is a winter night on which the elements are dashing against one another on all sides, man is afraid, and the youth broods on some crime against one of his friends, if he is like I was in my youth. Let the wind, whose plaintive whistle has saddened mankind ever since the wind and mankind have existed, let it carry me on the bone of its wings, just before my last agony, across the world impatient for my death. I will still enjoy in secret the numerous examples of human malice (a brother, unseen, likes to observe his brothers' acts). The eagle, the raven, the immortal pelican, the wild duck, the migrant crane, awakened, chattering with cold, will see me pa.s.sing by the light of the lightning, a horrible, happy spectre. They will not know the meaning of it. On earth, the viper, the toad's bulbous eyes, the tiger, the elephant; in the sea, the whale, the shark, the hammer-fish, the misshapen ray-fish, and the tooth of the polar seal, will wonder what this violation of the laws of nature is. Man, trembling, will press his head against the earth in the midst of his groans. 'Yes, I surpa.s.s you all by my innate cruelty which it was not for me to suppress. Is this the reason why you prostrate yourselves before me? Or is it because you have seen me, a new phenomenon, traversing blood-drenched s.p.a.ce like a terrifying comet? (A shower of blood falls from my vast body, like the blackish cloud which the hurricane pushes before it.) Do not be afraid, children. I do not want to curse you. The harm you have done me is too great, too great the harm I have done you, to have been deliberate. You have gone your way and I have gone mine, both similar, both depraved. Given our resemblance of character, we must, necessarily, have met; the resultant impact has been fatal for us both.' Then men, taking courage, little by little will look up, stretching out their necks like the snail to see who is speaking thus. All of a sudden, their flaming, distorted faces, showing their terrible emotions, will grimace in such a way that wolves will shrink in fear. They will all rise at once like an immense spring. What imprecations! What voices breaking as they yell! They have recognized me. And now see how the animals of the earth are joining in with men, making their bizarre outcry heard; the hatred they both feel has turned against the common enemy, me; they are reconciled by universal a.s.sent. Winds who bear me up, carry me higher; I fear perfidy. Let us disappear gradually from their sight, witness, once again, of the consequences the pa.s.sions bring in their wake, completely satisfied. I thank you, oh bat rhinolophe, for waking me with the beating of your wings, bat with the horse-show crested nose: I realize that it was, in fact, only, unfortunately, a pa.s.sing illness, and I feel--with disgust--that I am recovering. Some say you were coming towards me to suck the little blood left in my body: why cannot this supposition be reality?

11.

A family around a table with a lamp on it: 'My son, give me those scissors on that chair.'

'They are not there, mother.'

'Go and look for them in the other room, then. Do you remember the time, my dear husband, when we vowed to have a child in whom we would be born again a second time and who would be the comfort of our old age?'

'I remember, and G.o.d granted our wish. We have nothing to complain in our lot on this earth. Every day we bless Providence and its goodness. Our Edward has all his mother's charms.'

'And his father's manly qualities.'

'Here are the scissors, mother. I found them at last.'

He resumes his work...but someone has appeared at the front door, and has for some time been contemplating the scene before him.

'What does this sight mean? There are many people less happy than these. What shifts have they made to be able to love their existence so? Away, Maldoror, from this peaceful hearth! You do not belong here!'

He has withdrawn!

'I do not know what can have brought it about; but I feel my human faculties conflicting in my breast. My soul is ill at ease, and does not know why; the atmosphere is heavy.'

'Wife, my impressions are the same as yours; I am trembling with fear that some misfortune is going to befall us. Have faith in G.o.d; our supreme hope is in Him.'

'Mother, I can hardly breath; my head aches.a 'You too, my son! I will wet your temples and forehead with vinegar.'

'No, dear mother.'

See, he leans back on his chair, tired.

'Something is going round and round inside me, which I cannot explain. Now the least object annoys me.'

'How pale you are! This evening will not pa.s.s without some catastrophe plunging all three of us into the lake of despair.'

I hear in the distance prolonged cries of the most acute pain.

'My son!'

'Oh mother, I am afraid.a 'Tell me quickly if you are feeling ill.'

'Mother, I fell no pain...I am not telling the truth.'

His father has not recovered from his astonishment: 'These are cries one sometimes hears in the silence of starless nights. Although we hear these cries, he who utters them is not near here; for one can hear groans at three leagues' distance, borne by the wind from one town to the next. People have often spoken to me of this phenomenon; but I have never had occasion to judge the truth of it for myself. Wife, you spoke to me of a catastrophe; never has greater woe existed in time's long spiral than the woe of him who now troubles the sleep of his fellows...a I hear in the distance prolonged cries of the most acute pain.

'Please heaven his birth may not be a calamity for his country, which has driven him from her breast. He goes from land to land, abhorred by everywhere. Some say he has been afflicted since childhood with a kind of original madness. Others a.s.sert that he is extremely and instinctively cruel, is himself ashamed of this, and that his parents died of sorrow. There are some who claim that he was branded with a surname in youth; that he has been inconsolable ever since, because his wounded sense of dignity saw in this fact a flagrant proof of the wickedness of man, which becomes apparent in his earliest years and increases later. That surname was the vampire!'

I hear in the distance prolonged cries of the most acute pain.

aThey add that day and night, without relief or rest, horrible nightmares make him bleed from his mouth and his ears; that spectres sit at his bedas head anda"impelled in spite of themselves by an unknown force, implacable persistent, in voices one moment gentle, another like the roars of battlea"yell in his face this name, still tenacious, still hideous, which will only perish with the universe. Some even a.s.sert that love has reduced him to this state; or that these cries testify to his repentance at some crime buried in the night of his mysterious past. But the majority think that he is tortured by immeasurable pride, as Satan once was, and that he wants to be equal with G.o.d...a I hear in the distance prolonged cries of the most acute pain.

aMy son, these are exceptional confidences. I pity you for having heard them at your age, and I hope you will never imitate this man.a aSpeak, oh my Edward; answer that you will never imitate this man.a aOh beloved mother, to whom I owe my life, I promise you, if the holy promise of a child has any value, that I will never imitate this man.a aThat is good, my son. You must obey your mother, no matter what.a The groans can no longer be heard.

aWife, have you finished your work?a aThere are still a few st.i.tches to be put in this shirt, though we have stayed up late this evening.a aAnd I have not yet finished my chapter. Let us take advantage of the lampas last gleams; for the oil is running out, let each one of us finish his work.a The child exclaims: aIf G.o.d lets us live!a aRadiant angle, come to me. You will walk through meadows from morning to evening; you will no have to work. My palace is built of silver walls, gold columns, and diamond doors. You will go to bed when you choose, to the sound of celestial music, without saying your prayers. When, in the morning, the sun shows its dazzling rays and the lark carries its song with it out of sight up into the sky, you can stay in bed until you become tired of it. You will walk on the most precious carpets; you will be constantly enveloped in an atmosphere composed of the perfumed essences of the most fragrant flowers.a aIt is time to rest body and mind. Rise up, mother, on your muscular ankles. It is right that your stiff fingers should abandon this excessive work. We should avoid extremes.a aOh, how pleasant your life will be there. I will give you an enchanted ring; when you turn its ruby round, you will be invisible, like the princes in fairy-tales.a aPut those daily weapons of yours into the cupboard while I, for my part, arrange my papers.a aWhen you put it back in its normal position you will reappear as nature formed you, oh young magician. All this because I love you and aspire to make you happy.a aGo away, whoever you are; take your hands off my shoulders.a aMy son, do not fall asleep, lulled by the dreams of childhood. Our evening prayer together has not begun, and you have not yet put your clothes tidily on your chair...on your knees! Eternal creator of the universe, you show your inexhaustible goodness even in the smallest things.a aDo you not like clear streams where thousands of little red, blue and silvery fish dart? You will catch them with a net so fine it will itself be the bait, until it is full. You will see the shiny pebbles beneath the surface, more polished than marble.a aMother, look at these claws; I do not trust him; but my conscience is clear. I have nothing to reproach myself with.a aYou see us as prostrate at your feet, overwhelmed by you greatness. If any proud thought has crept into our minds, we reject it immediately with the spittle of contempt and make you irremissible sacrifice of it.a aYou will bathe with the girls there, who will embrace you in their arms. When you have left the bath, they will tress you crowns of roses and carnations. They will have transparent b.u.t.terfly wings and long undulating hair floating around their pretty foreheads.a aEven if your palace were more beautiful than crystal, I would not leave this house to follow you. I believe you are no imposter, since you speak so softly, for fear of being heard. To leave oneas parents is a wicked deed. I do not intend to be an ungrateful son. As for your little girls, they are not as beautiful as my motheras eyes.a aAll our life is spent singing canticles to your glory. We have been your faithful servants up to now and such we will remain until the moment when we receive your command to leave this earth.a aThey will obey you at your slightest sign and will think of nothing but pleasing you. If you wish for the bird which never rests, they will bring it to you. If you wish for the snow-carriage which takes you to the sun in the twinkling of an eyelid, they will bring it for you. They would bring you anything you asked for! They would even bring you the kite, big as a tower, who was hidden in the mo and from whose tail birds of all kinds hang by a silken thread. Think of what you are doing...follow my advice.a aDo whatever you wish. I do not want to interrupt the prayer by calling for help. Although your body vanishes whenever I try to ward it off, know that I do not fear you.a aBefore you, nothing is great, unless it be the flame from a pure heart.a aThink of what I have told you, if you do not want to repent later.a aCelestial Father, avert, avert the woes which may befall our family.a aWill you not be gone evil spirit?a aPreserve this my dearest wife, who has consoled me in my dejection.a aSince you refuse, I will make you weep and grind your teeth like a man on the gallows.a aAnd this my loving son, whose pure lips have scarcely opened to the kisses of lifeas dawn.a aMother, he is strangling me...Father, help me, I cannot breathe...Your blessing!a A cry of immense irony has risen in the air. See how the eagles, stunned, fall turning and turning from the clouds, literally thunderstruck by the column of air.

aHis heart has stopped beating...And his mother dead too at the same time as the fruit of her womb, whom I can no longer recognize, he is so disfigured...My wife...My son...I recall a far-off time when I was a husband and a father!a At this scene he had said that he would not be able to bear this injustice. If that power accorded him by the infernal spirits, or rather which he draws from within himself, is efficacious, then this child, before the night has pa.s.sed, should no longer be.

12.