“Do you drink?”
“I have a horror of wine, of every kind of alcohol; I drink nothing but water. But I haven’t yet told you the worst…” (he hesitated)… “what it is that is really grave in my condition… If anyone contradicts me even, about a trifle, for a look, a gesture, a nothing, a sort of fury takes possession of me. I am careful never to carry any weapon in case I might be unable to resist using it. It seems to me that at these times my own will leaves me, as if that of someone else takes its place; it drives me on, I cease to be my own master, and when I come back to myself I can’t remember anything—except that I wanted to murder someone! If one of these crises takes me when I am at home, I can shut myself up safely in my own room, but if, as sometimes happens, I am out, I know nothing more till I find myself perhaps sitting on a bench alone at night in some strange place. Then, remembering the fury I felt and coupling it with the lassitude that has followed and the impossibility of recollecting what I have done, I begin to wonder if I have committed some crime. I rush home and shut myself up, my heart beats violently whenever the bell rings, and I have no peace of mind till some days have gone by and I feel sure that once again I have been saved from myself. You will understand, Doctor, that this state of things can’t go on. I shall lose not only my health, but my reason… What am I to do?”
“There’s nothing to be really alarmed about,” I replied. “These are only the symptoms of a nervous condition that will yield to treatment. Let us try to find its cause. Do you work very hard?—No.—Is there anything in your life that is likely to cause great nerve-strain?—No.—Any excesses?—None.—You can tell a doctor anything…”
His tone was convincing as he replied:
“I have told you the truth.”
“Let us look for other reasons. Have you any brothers or sisters?—No.—Your mother is alive?—Yes.—She is probably very high-strung?—Not at all.—And your father?—Is he strong, too?”
In a very low voice he replied:
“My father is dead.”
“He died young?”
“Yes, I was just two years old.”
“Do you know what he died of ?”
This question seemed to affect him deeply, for he grew very pale. At this moment more than at any other I was struck by the extraordinary resemblance between him and the apparition. After a pause, he replied:
“Yes… and that is why my condition terrifies me. I know what my father died of: my father was guillotined.”
Ah, how I regretted having pushed my investigations so far! I tried to glide off to something else; but we now understood each other. Endeavoring to speak naturally and hopefully, I gave him some general advice and some kind of prescription; then I told him that he must have confidence in himself, and be sure to come back to me soon. After I had gone to the door with him I said to my servant:
“I will not see anyone else today.”
I was not in a state to listen to or examine a sick person. My mind was confused: the apparition… the resemblance… this confession… I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts, but in spite of myself my eyes kept fixing themselves on the skull. I looked in vain for the strange resemblance that had for so long puzzled me—I saw nothing but its mysterious mask. But I was unable to keep my gaze from it; the head drew me toward it… I ended by leaving my chair and going to lift it down.
Then it was that, raising it in my hands, I became aware of an extraordinary thing that had till now escaped my notice. The lower part of the back of the head was marked by a broad and sharp groove, an unmistakable gash such as would be made by the violent stroke of an axe, such as is made on the necks of those who are executed by the instinctive retreat of the body at the supreme moment from the knife of the guillotine.
It may have been nothing but coincidence. Perhaps it could be explained by saying that I had already seen, without noticing, my consultant in the street, and that, unknowingly, the face thus subconsciously registered in my memory had come before me when I was looking at the skull the night of the apparition… Perhaps… perhaps?… But there are mysteries, you know, that it is wiser not to try to solve.
Illusion
BLUE WITH cold, clutching at the bottom of his pockets the few pence he had earned that morning by opening and shutting the doors of cabs, his head bent toward his shoulder in an attempt to get some shelter from the biting wind, the beggar moved among the hurrying crowd, too weary to accost, too benumbed to risk holding out a bare hand.
Blown sideways in powdery flakes, the snow caught in his beard, or melted on his neck. He did not notice it, for he was lost in a dream.
“If I were rich, just for an hour… I’d have a carriage…”
He stopped, thought for a moment, shook his head, and asked himself:
“And what else?…”
Visions of various kinds of luxury passed through his mind. But every time he formulated a wish, he shrugged his shoulders.
“No, that’s not it… Is it then so difficult to get just one minute of real happiness?…”
As he trudged along in this way he saw another beggar who was shivering under the protecting doorway of a house, his features drawn, his hand outstretched, his voice so weak it was lost in the noises of the street as he droned:
“Help, if you please… Please help me…”
Close by him sat a dog, a poor bedraggled cur that trembled as it barked, feebly trying to wag its tail. He stopped. At the sight of this other brother in affliction, the dog yelped a little louder, rubbing its nose against him.
He looked with attention at the beggar, at his rags, his gaping shoes, his poor hands blue with cold, at the set, livid face with closed eyes, at the gray placard on his breast which bore the one word: “Blind.”
Feeling that a man had stopped before him, the blind man took up his plaintive cry:
“Help, Monsieur… Pity the poor blind…”
The beggar stood motionless. The passersby quickened their steps, turning their heads away. A woman loaded with furs and followed by a servant in livery who held an umbrella over her came out of the door of the house and walking quickly on the tips of her toes as she protected her mouth with her muff, was swallowed up in her carriage.
The blind man kept on murmuring his monotonous appeaclass="underline"
“Help… Please spare me a copper…”
But no one paid any attention to him. After a time the beggar took some coppers from his pocket and held them out. Seeing the action the dog barked with pleasure. The blind man closed his trembling fingers on the halfpence and said:
“Thank you, Monsieur… may God reward you…”
Hearing himself addressed as “Monsieur,” the beggar was on the point of replying:
“I’m not ‘Monsieur,’ mate. I’m just another poor devil as miserable as yourself…”
But he restrained himself, and knowing only too well how the poor are spoken to, answered:
“It is very little, my poor fellow…”
“You are very kind, Monsieur… it is so cold, and you must have taken your hands out of your pockets for me. It is bad weather for the infirm… If people only knew…”
A great pity welled up in the heart of the beggar as he muttered: