French Decadent Tales (Oxford World's Classics) (39 page)

And soon she was prey to a poignant anguish, for she thought she recognized gestures he had made in an earlier illness. Certain movements seemed familiar from before; and the way he held his emaciated hands reminded her of hands that had been dear to her, and which had brushed her sheets, before the great abyss had opened up in her life.

And the wail coming from the poor abandoned one pierced her heart; and in a breathless uncertainty, she once more scrutinized the faceless heads. They were no longer just two purple dolls—one was a stranger—and the other was part of her own self. When the one who was ailing died, all her grief returned.

She now truly believed that she had lost her husband; and she ran, full of hate, towards the other
Sans-Gueule
, and then stopped short, seized by her childlike pity, in front of the wretched red mannikin who was smoking away joyously, uttering his little cries.

T
O
one side of a wide road planted uniformly with trees, whose close-cropped foliage made each of them resemble a sugarloaf on a frail stem, was a flat, yellowish wall, with two identical wings at either end. The paint on the entrance gate was dreary; it led into a sandy oblong courtyard which separated parallel buildings with their tall glazed doors; the two-storeyed constructions had low roofs from which grey-slated bell turrets rose at regular intervals. Seemingly endless grey cloisters led off from the corners of the yard; and a series of little garden beds, round, square, triangular, and lozenge-shaped, in which the flinty earth could be seen between the thin grass, varied, along
with the benches, the melancholy stretch of enclosed ground with a few traces of pale green.

Amongst this geometrically arranged vegetation, descending the steps, under the glazed doors, around the single pool of dusty water, emerging from the dull mouths of old stone which stretched away on every side, groups of almost immobile human beings moved haltingly forward, heads shaking and knees trembling; old men and old women, some of whom, to judge from their ceaselessly nodding heads, seemed to be saying
yes, yes
, while others, their heads wagging from left to right, said
no, no
; ancient affirmatives and negatives stubbornly on the move, but feebly and without variation.

The men wore hats that had lost any pretence of shape, the crown either knocked in or knocked out. But several wore them ambitiously at a rakish angle. The women let their thin white hair flow loose under dirty bonnets; but some of them wore curled wigs, which looked startlingly black above their parchment faces. Crossing each other in the garden area, some old beaux would bow with a flourish, while some of the old women clucked and simpered behind their glasses. And they would gather in groups, to read the local newspapers and offer each other a hand; while the more addled among them stared in dismay at the wily little smiles which they could no longer understand.

The hospital where they lodged admitted them from the age of sixty upwards, for a thousand francs or so a month and a little extra for the meat dish. The rich had their own room, which was given a number, off a corridor. No one was possessed of a name anymore. You were Voltaire 63 or Arago 119. All distinguishing signs, that had served in society over a lifetime, were left at the admissions desk; this animated cemetery was more anonymous than the ones that hold the dead.

It was a regimented society, with its own rules and conventions. The owners of the private rooms off the corridors, having the wherewithal to lose at the gaming table and offer to pleasant members of the opposite sex delicate morsels from the canteen, despised the wretched denizens of the common wards, where one had no escape from prying eyes, either to wash or to hide one’s bald head.

Entitled to twice-weekly medication, they would lay siege to the in-house nurses beforehand, for a glimpse of the register. They would come with torn old bits of paper on which they had written
their order, as if on a trip to the grocer’s; and they took pleasure in imitating a cough, which they forced from their rasping lungs, in exaggerating the pain in their twisted limbs, in feigning insomnia, in complaining of imaginary ills. At the ward round they outdid each other with their complaints, so they could hold aloft in triumph their chits for the bath, their phials of camphor, their flasks of glucose. They would place them on their bedside table, and gaze at them one by one, as if they were healing works of art or provisions they had laid in at a bargain price; but their greatest joy was to possess more than anyone else—since for them these objects were their last vestiges of property.

Orfila ward was inhabited by two old women who were too poor to rent a private room. Two rows of beds, of dubious whiteness, stood opposite each other, and lying on the folded sheets was a double bank of female busts, wrapped in camisoles. No. 53 would get up, still having some use of her legs, despite rheumatism of the left knee and partial paralysis of the left arm, which was folded over her waist. She was respected, because she was said to be in receipt of a little money from some distant relatives. But this she preferred to save and use as she liked, rather than pay the administration in exchange for a room of her own. In the bed directly opposite, no. 52 would vex her by flaunting her greater mobility; she had the use of both arms and only a touch of gout in one of her toes. But due to a weakened muscle, her lower right eyelid drooped, showing the bloodshot underside of the eye.

These two women were rivals, not only in body but in matters of the heart as well. As far as human passions were concerned, nothing had diminished in these old men and women. There existed make-believe
ménages à deux
or
à trois
in the rooms; there were violent exhibitions of jealousy; warring parties flung snuff-boxes and crutches at each other in the corridors. At night, ragged shadows waited at doors, armed with a menacing bolster, night-bonnet pulled down to the chin. There were bandy-legged pursuits, sufferers from coxalgia going headlong, jealous spats between old women chattering as they washed their linen: one would sing the praises of her man, who was decorated and well turned-out; the other vaunted hers, who still had the use of all his members.

So it was that sometimes bony fists would make contact with bony cheekbones; hair was pulled out, leaving the pointed or pitted skull
even balder. Spectacles were smashed over black tobacco noses; sharp old elbows would appear in symmetry, hands placed on hips. And frightful querulous oaths would ring out all day long.

War broke out between 52 and 53 over a pipe made of red barley-sugar. There was an old military-looking gent—almost certainly a former concierge—who paid regular visits to 53 Orfila, supposedly his cousin. The words ‘my cousin’, sounding incessantly in the toothless mouths of both parties, rang like an echo in the ears of the nurses, who in consequence lowered their guard. But 52 had taken a fancy to her neighbour’s man. She puckered her mouth, rolled her eyes, brushed him with her camisole when he passed,with a little stammer. The others heartily detested her, because she could move about so much. Thick, rheumy laughter provoked in others nervous coughs of exhaustion. Flattered, the old man gave up his games of bowls and cards to spend the afternoon flirting. No. 53 straightened his tie, administered his eyedrops, and gave him some precious electrical pills which she kept in a little box hidden under her pillow.

But she couldn’t help gazing jealously at 52’s night-table. No. 52 consulted regularly with the doctors, and returned with numerous bottles that she would smugly put on display. The day when the old man gallantly produced from his checked hankie the red pipe, no. 53 squirmed with joy, pumped up her pillow and, leaning on it, pipe beween her teeth, stared out her rival.

She waved the pipe around like a child, sucked on it, and looked at the end she had sucked; she made bawdy innuendos that were not quite picked up, but not quite lost either.

In any case, from that time on 52 disappeared at the same time every morning. No one knew where she went. For several days she seemed distressed. And then she got happier and happier. Eventually, returning one morning from her mysterious walkabout, she thumbed her nose magnificently at 53’s red pipe, and parting two fingers, she made the sign of a pair of horns over her forehead. Then she touched her right arm with a kind of mocking despair, as if pitying 53 for not being able to do as much.

This was the breaking-point. A plot was hatched in the ward against the brazen hussy. People affected to spit when she passed, and touched their eyes, simulating nausea. They whispered among themselves, and cut 52 out from everything. A rustle of paper and the scratching of pens could be heard in the evening.

And yet the old man, feigning innocence, would still come to see his ‘cousin’.

No. 53 showed no signs of irritation. But she was less effusive, and asked her cousin, pointedly, what he did with his mornings. The old man rubbed his hands and lied through his teeth.

The day came when the head doctor came round, causing a stir of excitement. He stopped in front of no. 52 and said aloud to the nurses: ‘This one will change wards.’ Astonished, 52 asked: ‘But why, doctor?’ The doctor replied, as he continued on his round: ‘Your companions will inform you.’

No sooner had he left the ward than the concert began. Breathless whistles and catcalls came from everywhere, followed by raucous coughing. Some of the old women drooled with pleasure. Others beat their sheets in a paroxysm of laughter. And no. 53, who had raised herself right up, waved her pipe about and screamed: ‘Why, my lambkin? Because we have petitioned against you. The whole ward. Your bloodied eye is just too
disgusting
. It puts us off our food.’

And in a raucous, rasping, husky chorus the whole ward of invalids cried out: ‘Yes, yes, your eye is
disgusting
!’

Stupefied, 52 lay back on her pillow. To her left, a woman whose eye-muscles were paralysed, wagged her head from side to side and up and down, observing her discomfort beadily, like a parrot. To her right was an old woman with the shakes, whose jaws clacked frenetically, open and shut. Her face was smooth and mask-like; unceasingly, with her fingers she rolled imaginary cigarettes on her coverlet.

L
UCRETIUS
was born into a grand family that had long since withdrawn from public life. His early days were lived in the shadow of the black porch fronting a tall house built on a mountainside. The atrium was severe and the slaves silent. Since his childhood he had been nourished with a contempt for politics and men. The noble Memmius, who was the same age, suffered the games that Lucretius imposed on him when they played in the forest. The two of them marvelled at the deeply wrinkled bark of old trees, and at leaves quivering in the sun
like a green veil streaked with light. They mused on the striped backs of the wild piglets which snuffled the earth. They passed through swarming streams of bees and moving columns of ants on the march. One day they broke through from a thicket into a clearing completely surrounded by cork-oaks, which were growing in a circle so densely packed together it seemed like a well sunk into the blue sky. The place was infinitely restful. As though they were on a clear, wide road that led to the rarefied air of the divine. Lucretius was touched there by the blessing of calm spaces.

Accompanied by Memmius, he left the serene temple of the forest to study eloquence at Rome. The aged gentleman who ruled over the tall house found him a tutor to teach him Greek, and enjoined him not to return until he had learned the art of despising the world and all its ways. Lucretius never saw him again. He died alone, railing against the tumult of society. When Lucretius returned, he brought with him into the tall empty house, under the severe atrium among the silent slaves, an African woman who was beautiful, barbarian, and perverse. Memmius had returned to the paternal home. Lucretius had witnessed bloody factions, feuding parties, and political corruption. He was in love.

At first his life was an enchantment. Against the wall-tapestries the African female pressed her tangled mass of hair. Her languid body married with its full length the contour of every couch. She held mixing-bowls full of foaming wine, with her arms encrusted in translucent emeralds. She had a strange way of lifting one finger and shaking her head. Her smiles had their deep source in the rivers of Africa. Instead of spinning, she would shred the wool patiently into tiny flecks that floated round about her.

Lucretius wanted nothing more ardently than to melt into that beautiful body. He squeezed her metallic hands and placed his lips against her dark, scarlet mouth. The words of love were exchanged and sighed out; they made them laugh and became worn out. The pair of them brushed against the supple and opaque veil that separates lovers. Their desire grew ever fiercer and sought to become the other. It reached an inflamed extremity that is released over the flesh rather than deep in the entrails. The African withdrew into her remote heart. Lucretius grew desperate at being unable to consummate his love. The woman grew haughty, grim and silent, like the atrium and the slaves. He wandered into the library.

It was there that he unfolded the scroll on which a scribe had copied out the treatise of Epicurus.

No sooner had he done so than he understood the huge variety of things in this world, and the futility of trying to turn them into ideas. The universe seemed to him similar to the little flecks of wool the African scattered through his halls. The bees in their clusters and the ants in their columns and the leaves in their moving tissue were like groups and sub-groups of atoms. And within his own body he felt an invisible mutinous people, eager to fly apart. The gaze seemed to him to be more subtly embodied rays, and the image of the beautiful barbarian was now a pleasant and colourful mosaic; he felt the end of this infinity of movement to be sad and vain.

He viewed the bloodied factions of Rome, with their armed and insulting partisans and claimants, as analogous to the swirling of troops of atoms dyed with the same blood, fighting for some obscure supremacy. And he understood that the dissolution that comes with death was nothing other than the releasing of this turbulent mass that rushes on to a thousand further futile movements.