The Angels of Perversity

by Remy de Gourmont

  When her mother went back to bed, though, Douceline tried to calm herelf by recalling to mind the stories she had been told of the lives of the saints. As she drifted back to sleep herself, all the strange names which she had stored up in her head while listening to sermons and legends seemed to echo in her ears like the sound of bells. She continued to hear them tolling, louder than the peals which called the faithful to mass on Sundays, as she slipped into a dream; but one name gradually separated itself from all the rest, sounding and resounding within the imaginary chimes:

  Pé-hor – Pé-hor – Pé-hor – Pé-hor.

  Demons are like obedient dogs; they come when they are called. Péhor loves the daughters of men, and still remembers fondly the days when he excited the passions of Cozbi, daughter of that Sur who was prince of the Midianites. Péhor came in response to Douceline’s call; he was drawn to her by the combined attraction of her freshly-attained puberty and her earlier self-pollution. He took up his chosen lodging in the inn of her vice, where he consented to be caressed, relishing the carnal attentions of her feverish hands, without any fear that he might suffer here the kind of blow with which, in olden times, Phineas had simultaneously cut short the delights of Cozbi and the pleasures of Zambri, while the son of Salu was entered in the body of the daughter of Sur.

  Although it was the middle of the night, the room was illuminated by the demon’s presence. All the objects in it were haloed with light, as though they had become luminous themselves and had acquired the power to radiate warmth.

  All was calm, and a ruddy shadow seemed to descend upon Douceline, closing all the doors of her perception. Then, ecstasy came.

  Douceline savoured the moment of pleasure’s arrival, and all the thrilling frissons which travelled the length and breadth of her body before eventually becoming localised. The red shadow which lay upon her was interrupted and traversed by messenger lights which insinuated themselvesinto every fibre of her being, dancing to a rapid rhythm. In the end, there was an explosive sensation like the bursting of a skyrocket: an exquisite crack which flashed within her brain and down her spine, through the marrow of her bones and into all her mucous membranes, hardening the nipples of her breasts. All the silken hairs which dressed her skin were elevated; stirred up as grass might be stirred when lightly brushed by a skimming breeze.

  After the last quiver of her startled flesh, the valves of her heart seemed to open wide, and the filtered pleasure coursed through her veins to touch every cell in her body.

  Péhor, at that moment, rose up out of his hiding-place and magnified himself, growing swiftly into the image of a beautiful young man. Douceline, who was by now beyond the reach of astonishment, admired and loved him upon the instant. She laid her head upon his shoulder, and fell contentedly asleep, conscious of nothing save for the fact that she was gladly held in the embrace of Péhor.

  From that night on, Douceline’s life continued in a similar fashion. By day she delighted herself with the memory of her nights, recapitulating her delectation by dwelling luxuriously upon the impudicity of her encounters, upon the acuity of the caresses and the crushing pressure of the kisses of the invisible and intangible Péhor. She gloried in the languorous pleasures which continued to surge within her, almost magically, after that first sweetly-perfumed eruption of joy.

  What a being Péhor was! She never wondered, though, what manner of being he might be; she was heedless of everything save for the enjoyment. The multiplicity of the spasms which overcame her reduced her to an animal level of consciousness, and she lived in a carnal dream.

  In constantly renewing her solitary debauchery, she played the part of the virginal Psyché, abandoning herself to whatever dark angel cared to claim her. She had neither the strength of will nor the reticence to resist; she did not care whether her visitant came clad in rust-fed shadows or fulgurant with cerebral light.

  Douceline had reached the age of fifteen when, in the shed where her family’s milch-cow was kept, an itinerant peddler of religious tracts took advantage of her enervated state of mind to press his attentions upon her. She let him do what he wanted, and did not suffer any pain or indignity at all while he did it, having already been amply deflowered by the demon of her audacious imagination. The man’s lewd grunts and grimaces made him altogether ridiculous in her eyes, and when he looked at her – having straightened his clothing again – with an amorously fond expression she rose promptly to her feet and burst out laughing. Then she shrugged her shoulders and went away.

  But she was punished for what she had allowed to be done to her: after that, Péhor came to her no more.

  In the weeks that followed, she no longer dreamed about Péhor when she tended the cow in the shed; instead, she could not help but remember the peddler, and not altogether without shame. The incident had left its legacy, and she became afraid. She had seen pregnant women in church, lighting candles to the Holy Virgin and praying that they might safely be delivered of their burdens, and she in her turn lit a large candle and placed it on its spike, praying that her own belly might not swell up.

  She recognised the fact that her demon had been exorcised, and took the opportunity to devote herself once again to her prayers. She began to avoid the cowshed, preferring to be on her knees on the paving stones of a small chapel where an image of Jesus was lodged. Here she took herself to look up into the loving and reassuring face, as she had so loved to do in earlier times.

  Even without the interventions of Péhor, however, she continued to indulge her secret vice. But now it seemed that she had begun to be corroded by its effects: her cheeks became hollow, and she was continually seized by fits of coughing. She was so tormented in her sleep that she felt as if she might as well have spent her nights in the stinking straw of the cowshed, trampled by the hooves of the cow.

  A morning eventually came when Douceline trembled so violently that she could not put on her stockings. She had to lie down again, and terrible pains began to afflict her belly. Her inflamed ovaries throbbed as though they were constantly being pricked by bundles of needles. From that morning on, she was unable to get up.

  During the days which followed, as she lay in agony upon her desolate bed, she was frequently visited by fanciful dreams of an unexpected naïvety, which recalled to her mind the icons of her lost innocence. Her rapturous delusions showed her, in succession, God the Father, all clad in white like a priest she had once seen celebrating mass during Lent; St. John playing in the celestial groves with curly-fleeced and beribboned lambs; Our Lord, dressed all in gold with a long red beard; and the face of the Holy Virgin, smiling from a blue-tinted cloud.

  In later days, however, these consoling apparitions abandoned her. It was as though the sky itelf had darkened above her, to reflect her more recent complicity with the demon. The hypocrisy of her child-like visions could not be sustained, and the impenitent sinner yielded herself again to the memory of the horrible infamies which she had celebrated with he whom she had chosen to be her eternal master. Péhor returned to lodge once again in the secret residence where she had consented to become impure.

  Douceline felt herself ravaged afresh by the demon’s caresses, which were now excruciating instead of tender. It was as though her flesh were being teased by stinging nettles or bitten by a great host of ants. Her ripened private parts were all engorged, opened up like a split fig, and they seemed almost to be rotting while she still lived.

  While she endured the hours of unremitting agony the laughter of Péhor resounded in her belly like the changes rung on Maundy Thursday, which seemed to emerge from all the graves and tombs of humankind.

  Péhor abandoned himself entirely to the hilarity of his demonic satisfaction, and to amuse himself further he puffed himself up with rude vapours, which he let out loudly in gusts of noisome wind. Then he subjected her, as he had so often done before, to his amorous kisses – save that now he substituted mordant bites for ecstatic spasms. Douceline screamed in pain, but it seemed to her that Péhor cried out more
strongly than she did, filling up her abdomen with the shrill stridency of his voice, and making it vibrate with resonance.

  It seemed, as the end approached, that there began a great stir and bustle in the filthy haven where the demon had found asylum, which gradually spread through the pit of her stomach a terrible sensation of squeezing and choking.

  Péhor was at last taking leave of his residence.

  As he broke out of his hiding-place, Péhor drove his talons into Douceline’s breast; he tore at her heart, and rent the soft spongy tissue of her lungs. Then her throat dilated, like the swollen neck of a serpent regurgitating the sticky remains of its digested prey, and a great gout of blood spurted from her mouth, ignominiously expelled as though by a drunken hiccup.

  She was able to take one last breath, although she was very near to losing consciousness. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were cast wide; she floated upon the soft waves of the tide which fate sends to carry the damned away, like wrecked ships, to the abysmal depths of Hell.

  She felt a single kiss applied very precisely to her lips: a kiss excrementally and purulently rank. Thus the soul of Douceline quitted the world: sucked in and swallowed up by the demon Péhor, and securely ensconced within his entrails.

  *Péhor was a god of the Midianites, one of the many rival tribal deities demonized by the Children of Israel at the behest of their own jealous God; the name is rendered Baal-peor (“master of the opening”) in the Authorised Version of the Old Testament. Numbers 25 describes how Phineas, the son of Eleazer, obeys Moses’ command to punish those Israelites who have “committed whoredom” with Midianite women by killing Zambri (Zimri in the A.V.), son of Salu, and Cozbi, daughter of Sur (Zur in the A.V.). Phineas slew them both with a single blow of his spear, presumably while they were copulating.

  THE WHITE DRESS

  Oh, how sorry I was to leave the corner where, ungently rocked by the swaying of the carriage, I had dreamed of landscapes more exciting by far than the one through which we passed: the silent windmills, the lonely steeples, the gnarled apple-trees and the sad hovels, all asleep in the evening mist, beyond the reach of sunlight, laughter, sweat and tears.

  I had come here to be the best man at the wedding of my old friend Alberic de Courcy. Politeness had compelled me to agree to his request for me to do so, although I am quite indifferent to such matters. It is not my habit to participate too enthusiastically in the celebrations of others, nor in their mourning, but I always conduct myself with affable dignity. I rely on my calmly apologetic smile to obtain forgiveness for the flashes of resentment which sometimes show in my eyes.

  There was no one to meet me; I was not expected until the next morning. I was happy enough to make my own way, although it required me to walk through the woods for three-quarters of an hour. I avoided the open spaces and the insipid glare of the moon.

  I was not overly worried about the prospect of arriving unannounced in the middle of the night, when everyone would be asleep. I knew my way around, thanks to my previous visits, and I assumed that the gate would not be locked.

  No dogs howled as I entered; I was as stealthy as an artful thief.

  As I crossed a lawn which was bordered by a great circular path, making a detour around a clump of lilac trees – what a sharp scent they had! – I caught sight of two lighted windows side by side in an otherwise featureless facade.

  I headed straight for the windows, which were on the ground floor. As I was about to tap on the glass I hesitated, and took the liberty of looking in to see what was happening there.

  In the middle of a small and very untidy room three women were studying a white dress which they had displayed upon an armchair: a dress whose whiteness seemed as pure as the souls of the Holy Innocents. One of the women was Rosa, an old servant of the family. The second I recognised as Madame de Laneuil. The third was a young girl, the sight of whose face reminded me immediately of the innocent yet wholehearted affection of which we are capable as children – and of a time when two laughing girls in their first grown-up costumes had gravely given to Alberic and myself the flowers from their bouquets as if they were tokens of betrothal, and had permitted each of us the Holy Sacrament of a kiss!

  How many years ago had that been? Ten, perhaps. Oh, how sweet the memory of youthful desire could be! How the blackbirds used to greet the dawn from the leaf-laden crowns of the chestnut-trees, in those wonderful days of yesteryear!

  Since the death of Monsieur de Laneuil the house had been closed, but it had been reopened so that Alberic might wed his chosen bride here – and I had come to be a witness to his marriage, to confer upon it the unnecessary approbation of the world at large.

  The two sisters were Edith and Elphège; Alberic was to marry Edith, the elder of the two. But which of the two was I looking at now, so fair and so pale? Was she so pale and tremulous because she was to be married tomorrow, or was she merely to be the bridesmaid, more anxious on the bride’s behalf than the bride herself? Which was she, whose face had reawakened in my soul the memory of youthful passion and childhood affection?

  It had to be Elphège. Undoubtedly, it was Elphège – Elphège the pale, Elphège the fair. …

  Reassured by the phantom of reason which gripped me with its ironic hands, I revelled in the sight of her, delighted and fascinated. I tantalised myself with the fantasy of a double wedding: two processions down the aisle; four cushions ranged at the feet of the presiding priest; four gold rings resting upon the plate … a veritable chain of gold to link our souls!

  It was Elphège. It was Elphège, without a doubt, and I loved her! I loved her with such fervour that I could not believe that I had ever ceased to love her – not even for a single minute! – during all the long years I had been away.

  It was true. I loved her! But then I seemed to see her more clearly: the laughter bubbling up within her smile; the eyes anticipating joys to come. The beautiful harmonies which had been aroused in my soul seemed suddenly plaintive and uncertain. I had too often seen rainbows appear to colour a sullen sky, and then fade again; I understood only too well how easily hopeful joy can turn to sadness; I knew how completely I had been disillusioned of that innocence which used to be mine, when the blackbirds greeted the dawn from the leaf-laden crowns of the chestnut trees.

  The sharp scent of the lilacs confused me with a sudden dizziness. …

  I reached out and rapped on the window.

  The three women started in alarm.

  When they had recovered from their surprise, Madame de Laneuil ordered Rosa to go to the window and draw aside the curtain. Rosa obeyed, putting her hand up to shade her eyes as she squinted into the darkness.

  “Who’s that?” she demanded of the shadow beyond the pane.

  I called out my name. Madame de Laneuil hurried from the room, and the young girl laughed. It was Elphège, it had to be Elphège! What a wonderful welcome I was to have, in spite of my late arrival!

  The door was unbolted and I entered. I was received by my hostess, who held up the lantern which she had seized in order to examine me closely, to make sure that it was really me, and not some artful thief.

  “How pale you are!” she exclaimed, overriding my hesitant greeting.

  I tried to excuse myself, protesting that it was mere appearance – a deceptive effect of the unusually pale moonlight.

  “It must be affecting all of us in the same way!” she replied, obliquely, as she lowered the lantern. “Oh, what a bother it all is! Would you believe it? Everyone else – including Alberic – has been in bed for hours. Elphège is quite worn out, suffering from that strange disquiet which always afflicts girls whose sisters are to be married … I only wish Edith could be in bed too, to enjoy the innocent sleep appropriate to her last solitary night, but the wedding dress has only just come back from Paris … this white dress here! We wanted to make a small alteration … nothing at all … Rosa has been trying to pin it up … now it is too wide here! Too wide by this much!”

  Madame de
Laneuil held up her hand, with finger and thumb outstretched to indicate the magnitude of the problem.

  “This much!” she repeated. “We are near to despair. We don’t know what to do – we take up the scissors, one after another, but no one dares to cut – and yet it has to be done. We must make it fit, one way or another! I fear that the time has crept up on us. …”

  My voice was as colourless as the magical dress as I said, trying impotently to feign indifference: “Before I rapped at the window I inadvertently caught sight of one of your daughters, which I took to be Elphège … I was certain that it was Elphège. …”

  “They are so very similar in appearance, and it has been such a long time!” she replied. “Those were happy times – were they not? – when you were all so young. But we haven’t time to stand here dreaming – come in! A man’s calmness is just what we need at a time like this. …”

  I could not move, and she had to repeat her invitation.

  “Come in, please!”

  When I followed her into the room, Edith greeted my appearance with a questioning frown, evidently surprised that her mother had brought me here. Madame de Laneuil, who was no less conscious of the impropriety of my intrusion upon such a delicate business, immediately began to set things to rights by explaining, in good-humoured fashion, the reason for my presence. She took pains to stress that it was her own idea. …

  As for me, I now understood only too well that it was Edith who stood before me – undoubtedly Edith. It was, in truth, Edith that I loved: pale Edith; fair Edith. It was Edith I loved, with the full force of my unreasonable passion! Had I been alone with her, I would have stood there stunned with amazement, beset by dreadful temptations; I would have been mad with the desire to crush her lips to mine, to drink in their moisture.