Thérèse Raquin (22 page)

Little by little, the painter, who was allowing himself to fall back
on the divan, fancied he saw the faces become animated. He had five
Camilles before him, five Camilles whom his own fingers had powerfully
created, and who, by terrifying peculiarity were of various ages and of
both sexes. He rose, he lacerated the pictures and threw them outside.
He said to himself that he would die of terror in his studio, were he to
people it with portraits of his victim.

A fear had just come over him: he dreaded that he would no more be able
to draw a head without reproducing that of the drowned man. He wished to
ascertain, at once, whether he were master of his own hand. He placed a
white canvas on his easel; and, then, with a bit of charcoal, sketched
out a face in a few lines. The face resembled Camille. Laurent swiftly
effaced this drawing and tried another.

For an hour he struggled against futility, which drove along his
fingers. At each fresh attempt, he went back to the head of the drowned
man. He might indeed assert his will, and avoid the lines he knew so
well. In spite of himself, he drew those lines, he obeyed his muscles
and his rebellious nerves. He had first of all proceeded rapidly with
his sketches; he now took pains to pass the stick of charcoal slowly
over the canvas. The result was the same: Camille, grimacing and in
pain, appeared ceaselessly.

The artist sketched the most different heads successively: the heads of
angels, of virgins with aureoles, of Roman warriors with their helmets,
of fair, rosy children, of old bandits seamed with scars; and the
drowned man always, always reappeared; he became, in turn, angel,
virgin, warrior, child and bandit.

Then, Laurent plunged into caricature: he exaggerated the features,
he produced monstrous profiles, he invented grotesque heads, but
only succeeded in rendering the striking portrait of his victim more
horrible. He finished by drawing animals, dogs and cats; but even the
dogs and cats vaguely resembled Camille.

Laurent then became seized with sullen rage. He smashed the canvas with
his fist, thinking in despair of his great picture. Now, he must put
that idea aside; he was convinced that, in future, he would draw nothing
but the head of Camille, and as his friend had told him, faces all alike
would cause hilarity. He pictured to himself what his work would have
been, and perceived upon the shoulders of his personages, men and women,
the livid and terrified face of the drowned man. The strange picture he
thus conjured up, appeared to him atrociously ridiculous and exasperated
him.

He no longer dared to paint, always dreading that he would resuscitate
his victim at the least stroke of his brush. If he desired to live
peacefully in his studio he must never paint there. This thought that
his fingers possessed the fatal and unconscious faculty of reproducing
without end the portrait of Camille, made him observe his hand in
terror. It seemed to him that his hand no longer belonged to him.

The crisis threatening Madame Raquin took place. The paralysis, which
for several months had been creeping along her limbs, always ready to
strangle her, at last took her by the throat and linked her body. One
evening, while conversing peacefully with Therese and Laurent, she
remained in the middle of a sentence with her mouth wide open: she felt
as if she was being throttled. When she wanted to cry out and call for
help, she could only splutter a few hoarse sounds. Her hands and feet
were rigid. She found herself struck dumb, and powerless to move.

Therese and Laurent rose from their chairs, terrified at this stroke,
which had contorted the old mercer in less than five seconds. When she
became rigid, and fixed her supplicating eyes on them, they pressed her
with questions in order to ascertain the cause of her suffering. Unable
to reply, she continued gazing at them in profound anguish.

They then understood that they had nothing but a corpse before them, a
corpse half alive that could see and hear, but could not speak to them.
They were in despair at this attack. At the bottom of their hearts, they
cared little for the suffering of the paralysed woman. They mourned over
themselves, who in future would have to live alone, face to face.

From this day the life of the married couple became intolerable. They
passed the most cruel evenings opposite the impotent old lady, who no
longer lulled their terror with her gentle, idle chatter. She reposed in
an armchair, like a parcel, a thing, while they remained alone, one
at each end of the table, embarrassed and anxious. This body no longer
separated them; at times they forgot it, confounding it with the
articles of furniture.

They were now seized with the same terror as at night. The dining-room
became, like the bedroom, a terrible spot, where the spectre of Camille
arose, causing them to suffer an extra four or five hours daily. As soon
as twilight came, they shuddered, lowering the lamp-shade so as not to
see one another, and endeavouring to persuade themselves that Madame
Raquin was about to speak and thus remind them of her presence. If they
kept her with them, if they did not get rid of her, it was because her
eyes were still alive, and they experienced a little relief in watching
them move and sparkle.

They always placed the impotent old lady in the bright beam of the lamp,
so as to thoroughly light up her face and have it always before them.
This flabby, livid countenance would have been a sight that others
could not have borne, but Therese and Laurent experienced such need for
company, that they gazed upon it with real joy.

This face looked like that of a dead person in the centre of which two
living eyes had been fixed. These eyes alone moved, rolling rapidly in
their orbits. The cheeks and mouth maintained such appalling immobility
that they seemed as though petrified. When Madame Raquin fell asleep and
lowered her lids, her countenance, which was then quite white and mute,
was really that of a corpse. Therese and Laurent, who no longer felt
anyone with them, then made a noise until the paralysed woman raised her
eyelids and looked at them. In this manner they compelled her to remain
awake.

They regarded her as a distraction that drew them from their bad dreams.
Since she had been infirm, they had to attend to her like a child. The
care they lavished on her forced them to scatter their thoughts. In the
morning Laurent lifted her up and bore her to her armchair; at night he
placed her on her bed again. She was still heavy, and he had to exert
all his strength to raise her delicately in his arms, and carry her. It
was also he who rolled her armchair along. The other attentions fell
to Therese. She dressed and fed the impotent old lady, and sought to
understand her slightest wish.

For a few days Madame Raquin preserved the use of her hands. She could
write on a slate, and in this way asked for what she required; then the
hands withered, and it became impossible for her to raise them or hold
a pencil. From that moment her eyes were her only language, and it
was necessary for her niece to guess what she desired. The young
woman devoted herself to the hard duties of sick-nurse, which gave her
occupation for body and mind that did her much good.

So as not to remain face to face, the married couple rolled the armchair
of the poor old lady into the dining-room, the first thing in the
morning. They placed her between them, as if she were necessary to their
existence. They caused her to be present at their meals, and at all
their interviews. When she signified the desire to retire to her
bedroom, they feigned not to understand. She was only of use to
interrupt their private conversations, and had no right to live apart.

At eight o'clock, Laurent went to his studio, Therese descended to the
shop, while the paralyzed woman remained alone in the dining-room until
noon; then, after lunch, she found herself without company again until
six o'clock. Frequently, during the day, her niece ran upstairs, and,
hovering round her, made sure she did not require anything. The friends
of the family were at a loss for sufficiently laudatory phrases wherein
to extol the virtues of Therese and Laurent.

The Thursday receptions continued, the impotent old lady being present,
as in the past. Her armchair was advanced to the table, and from eight
o'clock till eleven she kept her eyes open, casting penetrating glances
from one to another of her guests in turn. On the first few of these
evenings, old Michaud and Grivet felt some embarrassment in the presence
of the corpse of their old friend. They did not know what countenance to
put on. They only experienced moderate sorrow, and they were inquiring
in their minds in what measure it would be suitable to display their
grief. Should they speak to this lifeless form? Should they refrain
from troubling about it? Little by little, they decided to treat Madame
Raquin as though nothing had happened to her. They ended by feigning
to completely ignore her condition. They chatted with her, putting
questions and giving the answers, laughing both for her and for
themselves, and never permitting the rigid expression on the countenance
to baffle them.

It was a strange sight: these men who appeared to be speaking sensibly
to a statue, just as little girls talk to their dolls. The paralysed
woman sat rigid and mute before them, while they babbled, multiplying
their gestures in exceedingly animated conversations with her. Michaud
and Grivet prided themselves on their correct attitude. In acting as
they did, they believed they were giving proof of politeness; they,
moreover, avoided the annoyance of the customary condolences. They
fancied that Madame Raquin must feel flattered to find herself treated
as a person in good health; and, from that moment, it became possible
for them to be merry in her presence, without the least scruple.

Grivet had contracted a mania. He affirmed that Madame Raquin and
himself understood one another perfectly; and that she could not look at
him without him at once comprehending what she desired. This was another
delicate attention. Only Grivet was on every occasion in error. He
frequently interrupted the game of dominoes, to observe the infirm woman
whose eyes were quietly following the game, and declare that she wanted
such or such a thing. On further inquiry it was found that she wanted
nothing at all, or that she wanted something entirely different. This
did not discourage Grivet, who triumphantly exclaimed:

"Just as I said!" And he began again a few moments later.

It was quite another matter when the impotent old lady openly expressed
a desire; Therese, Laurent, and the guests named one object after
another that they fancied she might wish for. Grivet then made himself
remarkable by the clumsiness of his offers. He mentioned, haphazard,
everything that came into his head, invariably offering the contrary to
what Madame Raquin desired. But this circumstance did not prevent him
repeating:

"I can read in her eyes as in a book. Look, she says I am right. Is it
not so, dear lady? Yes, yes."

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to grasp the wishes of the poor old
woman. Therese alone possessed this faculty. She communicated fairly
well with this walled-up brain, still alive, but buried in a lifeless
frame. What was passing within this wretched creature, just sufficiently
alive to be present at the events of life, without taking part in them?
She saw and heard, she no doubt reasoned in a distinct and clear
manner. But she was without gesture and voice to express the thoughts
originating in her mind. Her ideas were perhaps choking her, and yet
she could not raise a hand, nor open her mouth, even though one of her
movements or words should decide the destiny of the world.

Her mind resembled those of the living buried by mistake, who awaken
in the middle of the night in the earth, three or four yards below the
surface of the ground. They shout, they struggle, and people pass over
them without hearing their atrocious lamentations.

Laurent frequently gazed at Madame Raquin, his lips pressed together,
his hands stretched out on his knees, putting all his life into his
sparkling and swiftly moving eyes. And he said to himself:

"Who knows what she may be thinking of all alone? Some cruel drama must
be passing within this inanimate frame."

Laurent made a mistake. Madame Raquin was happy, happy at the care and
affection bestowed on her by her dear children. She had always dreamed
of ending in this gentle way, amidst devotedness and caresses. Certainly
she would have been pleased to have preserved her speech, so as to be
able to thank the friends who assisted her to die in peace. But she
accepted her condition without rebellion. The tranquil and retired
life she had always led, the sweetness of her character, prevented her
feeling too acutely the suffering of being mute and unable to make a
movement. She had entered second childhood. She passed days without
weariness, gazing before her, and musing on the past. She even tasted
the charm of remaining very good in her armchair, like a little girl.

Each day the sweetness and brightness of her eyes became more
penetrating. She had reached the point of making them perform the duties
of a hand or mouth, in asking for what she required and in expressing
her thanks. In this way she replaced the organs that were wanting, in a
most peculiar and charming manner. Her eyes, in the centre of her flabby
and grimacing face, were of celestial beauty.

Since her twisted and inert lips could no longer smile, she smiled with
adorable tenderness, by her looks; moist beams and rays of dawn issued
from her orbits. Nothing was more peculiar than those eyes which laughed
like lips in this lifeless countenance. The lower part of the face
remained gloomy and wan, while the upper part was divinely lit up.
It was particularly for her beloved children that she placed all her
gratitude, all the affection of her soul into a simple glance. When
Laurent took her in his arms, morning and night, to carry her, she
thanked him lovingly by looks full of tender effusion.