the magic skin-第6章

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each　looked　for　a　moment　at　the　other。　Then　construing　the　stranger's

silence　as　an　order；　the　apprentice　left　him　alone　in　the　closet。



Have　you　never　launched　into　the　immensity　of　time　and　space　as　you

read　the　geological　writings　of　Cuvier？　Carried　by　his　fancy；　have　you

hung　as　if　suspended　by　a　magician's　wand　over　the　illimitable　abyss

of　the　past？　When　the　fossil　bones　of　animals　belonging　to

civilizations　before　the　Flood　are　turned　up　in　bed　after　bed　and

layer　upon　layer　of　the　quarries　of　Montmartre　or　among　the　schists　of

the　Ural　range；　the　soul　receives　with　dismay　a　glimpse　of　millions　of

peoples　forgotten　by　feeble　human　memory　and　unrecognized　by　permanent

divine　tradition；　peoples　whose　ashes　cover　our　globe　with　two　feet　of

earth　that　yields　bread　to　us　and　flowers。



Is　not　Cuvier　the　great　poet　of　our　era？　Byron　has　given　admirable

expression　to　certain　moral　conflicts；　but　our　immortal　naturalist　has

reconstructed　past　worlds　from　a　few　bleached　bones；　has　rebuilt

cities；　like　Cadmus；　with　monsters'　teeth；　has　animated　forests　with

all　the　secrets　of　zoology　gleaned　from　a　piece　of　coal；　has

discovered　a　giant　population　from　the　footprints　of　a　mammoth。　These

forms　stand　erect；　grow　large；　and　fill　regions　commensurate　with

their　giant　size。　He　treats　figures　like　a　poet；　a　naught　set　beside　a

seven　by　him　produces　awe。



He　can　call　up　nothingness　before　you　without　the　phrases　of　a

charlatan。　He　searches　a　lump　of　gypsum；　finds　an　impression　in　it；

says　to　you；　〃Behold！〃　All　at　once　marble　takes　an　animal　shape；　the

dead　come　to　life；　the　history　of　the　world　is　laid　open　before　you。

After　countless　dynasties　of　giant　creatures；　races　of　fish　and　clans

of　mollusks；　the　race　of　man　appears　at　last　as　the　degenerate　copy　of

a　splendid　model；　which　the　Creator　has　perchance　destroyed。

Emboldened　by　his　gaze　into　the　past；　this　petty　race；　children　of

yesterday；　can　overstep　chaos；　can　raise　a　psalm　without　end；　and

outline　for　themselves　the　story　of　the　Universe　in　an　Apocalypse　that

reveals　the　past。　After　the　tremendous　resurrection　that　took　place　at

the　voice　of　this　man；　the　little　drop　in　the　nameless　Infinite；

common　to　all　spheres；　that　is　ours　to　use；　and　that　we　call　Time；

seems　to　us　a　pitiable　moment　of　life。　We　ask　ourselves　the　purpose　of

our　triumphs；　our　hatreds；　our　loves；　overwhelmed　as　we　are　by　the

destruction　of　so　many　past　universes；　and　whether　it　is　worth　while

to　accept　the　pain　of　life　in　order　that　hereafter　we　may　become　an

intangible　speck。　Then　we　remain　as　if　dead；　completely　torn　away　from

the　present　till　the　valet　de　chambre　comes　in　and　says；　〃Madame　la

comtesse　answers　that　she　is　expecting　monsieur。〃



All　the　wonders　which　had　brought　the　known　world　before　the　young

man's　mind　wrought　in　his　soul　much　the　same　feeling　of　dejection　that

besets　the　philosopher　investigating　unknown　creatures。　He　longed　more

than　ever　for　death　as　he　flung　himself　back　in　a　curule　chair　and　let

his　eyes　wander　across　the　illusions　composing　a　panorama　of　the　past。

The　pictures　seemed　to　light　up；　the　Virgin's　heads　smiled　on　him；　the

statues　seemed　alive。　Everything　danced　and　swayed　around　him；　with　a

motion　due　to　the　gloom　and　the　tormenting　fever　that　racked　his

brain；　each　monstrosity　grimaced　at　him；　while　the　portraits　on　the

canvas　closed　their　eyes　for　a　little　relief。　Every　shape　seemed　to

tremble　and　start；　and　to　leave　its　place　gravely　or　flippantly；

gracefully　or　awkwardly；　according　to　its　fashion；　character；　and

surroundings。



A　mysterious　Sabbath　began；　rivaling　the　fantastic　scenes　witnessed　by

Faust　upon　the　Brocken。　But　these　optical　illusions；　produced　by

weariness；　overstrained　eyesight；　or　the　accidents　of　twilight；　could

not　alarm　the　stranger。　The　terrors　of　life　had　no　power　over　a　soul

grown　familiar　with　the　terrors　of　death。　He　even　gave　himself　up；

half　amused　by　its　bizarre　eccentricities；　to　the　influence　of　this

moral　galvanism；　its　phenomena；　closely　connected　with　his　last

thoughts；　assured　him　that　he　was　still　alive。　The　silence　about　him

was　so　deep　that　he　embarked　once　more　in　dreams　that　grew　gradually

darker　and　darker　as　if　by　magic；　as　the　light　slowly　faded。　A　last

struggling　ray　from　the　sun　lit　up　rosy　answering　lights。　He　raised

his　head　and　saw　a　skeleton　dimly　visible；　with　its　skull　bent

doubtfully　to　one　side；　as　if　to　say；　〃The　dead　will　none　of　thee　as

yet。〃



He　passed　his　hand　over　his　forehead　to　shake　off　the　drowsiness；　and

felt　a　cold　breath　of　air　as　an　unknown　furry　something　swept　past　his

cheeks。　He　shivered。　A　muffled　clatter　of　the　windows　followed；　it　was

a　bat；　he　fancied；　that　had　given　him　this　chilly　sepulchral　caress。

He　could　yet　dimly　see　for　a　moment　the　shapes　that　surrounded　him；　by

the　vague　light　in　the　west；　then　all　these　inanimate　objects　were

blotted　out　in　uniform　darkness。　Night　and　the　hour　of　death　had

suddenly　come。　Thenceforward；　for　a　while；　he　lost　consciousness　of

the　things　about　him；　he　was　either　buried　in　deep　meditation　or　sleep

overcame　him；　brought　on　by　weariness　or　by　the　stress　of　those　many

thoughts　that　lacerated　his　heart。



Suddenly　he　thought　that　an　awful　voice　called　him　by　name；　it　was

like　some　feverish　nightmare；　when　at　a　step　the　dreamer　falls

headlong　over　into　an　abyss；　and　he　trembled。　He　closed　his　eyes；

dazzled　by　bright　rays　from　a　red　circle　of　light　that　shone　out　from

the　shadows。　In　the　midst　of　the　circle　stood　a　little　old　man　who

turned　the　light　of　the　lamp　upon　him；　yet　he　had　not　heard　him　enter；

nor　move；　nor　speak。　There　was　something　magical　about　the　apparition。

The　boldest　man；　awakened　in　such　a　sort；　would　have　felt　alarmed　at

the　sight　of　this　figure；　which　might　have　issued　from　some

sarcophagus　hard　by。



A　curiously　youthful　look　in　the　unmoving　eyes　of　the　spectre　forbade

the　idea　of　anything　supernatural；　but　for　all　that；　in　the　brief

space　between　his　dreaming　and　waking　life；　the　young　man's　judgment

remained　philosophically　suspended；　as　Descartes　advises。　He　was；　in

spite　of　himself；　under　the　influence　of　an　unaccountable

hallucination；　a　mystery　that　our　pride　rejects；　and　that　our

imperfect　science　vainly　tries　to　resolve。



Imagine　a　short　old　man；　thin　and　spare；　in　a　long　black　velvet　gown

girded　round　him　by　a　thick　silk　cord。　His　long　white　hair　escaped　on

either　side　of　his　face　from　under　a　black　velvet　cap　which　closely

fitted　his　head　and　made　a　formal　setting　for　his　countenance。　His

gown　enveloped　his　body　like　a　winding　sheet；　so　that　all　that　was

left　visible　was　a　narrow　bleached　human　face。　But　for　the　wasted　arm；

thin　as　a　draper's　wand；　which　held　aloft　the　lamp　that　cast　all　its

light　upon　him；　the　face　would　have　seemed　to　hang　in　mid　air。　A　gray

pointed　beard　concealed　the　chin　of　this　fantastical　appearance；　and

gave　him　the　look　of　one　of　those　Jewish　types　which　serve　artists　as

models　for　Moses。　His　lips　were　so　thin　and　colorless　that　it　needed　a

close　inspection　to　find　the　lines　of　his　mouth　at　all　in　the　pallid

face。　His　great　wrinkled　brow　and　hollow　bloodless　cheeks；　the

inexorably　stern　expression　of　his　small　green　eyes　that　no　longer

possessed　eyebrows　or　lashes；　might　have　convinced　the　stranger　that

Gerard　Dow's　〃Money　Changer〃　had　come　down　from　his　frame。　The

craftiness　of　an　inquisitor；　revealed　in　those　curving　wrinkles　and

creases　that　wound　about　his　temples；　indicated　a　profound　knowledge

of　life。　There　was　no　deceiving　this　man；　who　seemed　to　possess　a

power　of　detecting　the　secrets　of　the　wariest　heart。



The　wisdom　and　the　moral　codes　of　every　people　seemed　gathered　up　in

his　passive　face；　just　as　all　the　productions　of　the　globe　had　been

heaped　up　in　his　dusty　showrooms。　He　seemed　to　possess　the　tranquil

luminous　vision　of　some　god　before　whom　all　things　are　open；　or　the

haughty　power　of　a　man　who　knows　all　things。