When the scenes required it, the professor paid extras to do certain jobs. Swathed in thick jerseys beneath the costumes that their characters required, and with their heads protected by thick wigs, they were able to remain inside the ice house.
The following eight dead people were in turn brought to Locus Solus, underwent the new treatment and relived scenes which summarized various concatenations of events.
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1. Gérard Lauwerys, the poet, brought along by his widow, who was sustained in her frenzy of grief only by the hope of the artificial resurrection that Canterel promised.
During the past fifteen years Gérard had successfully published, in Paris, a series of remarkable poems in which he excelled at portraying the local color of the most diverse lands.
The nature of his talent obliged him to travel incessantly, and so, to avoid continual agonizing separations, he took his young wife Clotilde with him through the world, along with his son Florent, a sturdy child who was in no way fatigued by the wandering life. Both he and his wife had a passable command of each of the main European languages.
One day, while traveling in a Berlin coach through the wild Calabrian passes of the Aspromonte, Gérard was attacked by a gang of brigands under the leadership of Grocco, the notorious robber chief, whose daring raids on numerous travellers whom he held dearly to ransom were proverbial.
In his first efforts at resistance Gérard was wounded by a dagger thrust in his left leg and captured, together with Florent who was then aged two. Grocco at once notified Clotilde, who had been left at liberty, that she could rescue the two prisoners from death only by bringing him the sum of fifty thousand francs before a date which he fixed for their execution. Taking from his belt a writing case containing stamped sheets of paper, he compelled the poet, who had missed not a word of his sentence, to make out a letter of attorney in Clotilde’s favor so as to facilitate any transfer of funds.
Along with their baggage, Gérard and Florent were conducted to the top of a steep mountain and consigned to an ancient chapel that formed part of an old abandoned fortress, where Grocco had after a fashion fixed his camp.
On reflection, the poet could foresee no chance of deliverance. Since Grocco had quite mistakenly taken him for a rich and leisured man traveling from inclination, he had fixed the price of the ransom much too high, so that Clotilde would scarcely be able to raise a fifth of it. And when money did not arrive the notorious bandit never delayed the time of an execution by a single instant.
Nevertheless, after prolonged cogitation, Gérard hit upon a daring way to save Florent’s life, at least. By promising him several thousand francs, which he knew Clotilde would be able to get together without difficulty, the poet won over his jailer — one Piancastelli, reputed to be the craftiest of the gang — who resolved to attempt a stroke of daring, assisted only by Marta, his concubine.
Several bandits had mistresses like this in the camp, who were not subject to any discipline and went to the nearby towns whenever they pleased to make various purchases there. Marta, being free like her companions, was to take Florent secretly away and return him to Clotilde in exchange for the agreed sum, which she was to bring back to Piancastelli. After that they would promptly quit Grocco’s hideout, to avoid any reprisals.
The poet renounced his own escape to assure that of his son. Since Grocco frequently passed by in front of the chapel, situated at ground level, and could see Gérard through the window, his own departure would instantly have stirred up a hot pursuit. On the other hand, by remaining at his post, the father would certainly cover his child’s flight — which the nature of the country promised to render long and difficult.
Fearing that those he made prisoners might establish communication with the outside world with a view to escaping him, Grocco always expressly forbade them to have pens or pencils. Piancastelli defied this decree for a few moments in order to give the prisoner the means of stipulating in a letter to Clotilde that a particular sum should be handed over to the unknown woman who returned Florent to her. Before dawn the next day Marta left with the child concealed beneath her cloak, bearing the letter.
However, that very day, Grocco suddenly learnt that a party of rich travellers well worth capturing would shortly be passing nearby, and since he greatly valued Piancastelli’s help and advice on any important occasion, he took him away on the expedition.
A new jailer, Luzzato, was provided for Gérard, and the thought that Florent’s escape might be discovered and comprehended made him shudder — for there was still plenty of time left to catch up with Marta. Fortunately, when Luzzato brought in the first meal he paid no attention to Florent, whom he must have assumed to be still asleep on the small pallet set in a shadowy corner. But the next time he came, the fond father reasoned, this stand-in would be sure to notice that the child was missing, and everything — alas! — would become known before Marta was safe from pursuit. Gérard racked his brain for some expedient by which the danger might be averted.
Against one of the walls of the chapel in which he was detained, amid the remains of an altar, there lay a life-size statue of the Virgin, in several pieces; nearby, separated from the maternal arms that had once supported him, the Infant Jesus remained intact.
The poet decided to use this stone child to put Luzzato off the scent.
To ease the wound which he had in his left leg since the attack on the Berlin, Grocco had given him an ointment whose color blended indistinguishably with that of his flesh.
He took the divine child and, after covering its face, ears and neck with a film of ointment, laid it in Florent’s truckle bed. Satisfied with the illusion achieved, his present preoccupation was how to conceal fully the stone hair. The only thing that would look natural would be a little white cap. But how was such an article to be made? As his custom was on all his travels, Gérard was wearing only colored linen, which was rather gaudy, and would have made a suspicious-looking cap.
The chapel was lit by a single window. This was fitted with a stout grille, placed there in the past as a protection against nocturnal marauders, and it formed the back of a narrow external alcove created by a recess in the façade. There were many bits of refuse heaped against one of the corners of this recess — scraps, crusts, cores and peelings.
Turning his plan over in his mind, the prisoner searched on the off-chance of finding some suitable material in this reserve — which the slightly bulging shape of the grille permitted him to examine.
Noticing numerous pear peelings on top of the pile, he remembered that one of the bandits had stolen a full basket of bergamots from a peasant’s cart the day before, and the whole camp had regaled themselves with them. He had gleaned this information from Piancastelli, who had served him one of the fruits at supper.
An idea suddenly occurred to Gérard; passing one arm between two bars, he gathered up all the white filaments by which the stalks are prolonged, and separated them. After removing the pips and their surrounding parts, he was left with crude, thick cords, which were soon carefully divided into numerous thin threads; from these, by dint of perseverance, his unpracticed fingers, weaving and knotting without respite, fashioned a passable bonnet. When the state was adorned with this headgear and covered up to its neck, with its face to the wall, it deceptively resembled a real child. The ointment closely imitated flesh, and the bonnet seemed made of linen.
The poet was very careful to return to the heap from which he had requisitioned them all the compromising remains that had dropped from his hands during his task.
When Luzzato came with the midday meal, Gérard, suppressing his terrible emotion, begged him to be quiet so as not to disturb Florent’s slumbers, as he had been ailing since the morning. The jailer glanced toward the pallet in its dark corner and was taken in by the ruse. The same scene was successfully reenacted that evening, when supper was brought in.
During the first part
of the night Gérard was woken by the sound of keys being turned. Grocco’s latest expedition must have been successful, for prisoners were being shut up in the rooms nearby.
Next day Piancastelli resumed his duties as jailer, and admired the subterfuge of the poet, whose story dispelled the obsessive anxieties he had been prey to since the previous morning. For reasons of prudence the statue was left in its place untouched, so as to deceive any unexpected visitors should the need arise.
Marta returned after the absence of five days. She had had no difficulty in finding Clotilde, who, in exchange for Florent, had handed her the stipulated sum — together with an affectionate letter for Gérard in which she mentioned a thousand audacious plans for freeing him.
One morning Grocco instructed Piancastelli to enquiries about the presence, in the near future, of an opulent lady traveller in the Aspromonte. His mission was to last two days, and Piancastelli saw it as a chance of leaving the camp for good, with Marta and the money. The poet approved his plan and bade him a grateful farewell.
The poet was anxious to assure Piancastelli an unimpeded flight and, thanks to his skill, Luzzato, who had again become jailer, mistook the statue on the pallet for Florent for one more day; but on the following day his suspicions were aroused and, on approaching the bed, he understood all. When Grocco was informed, he held an inquiry, and guessed the part played by Piancastelli and Marta who, being now out of reach with no intention of returning, escaped his reprisals.
Gérard was eager to while away the period of waiting by work, so he looked around for some means of writing despite Grocco’s prohibition.
On the very eve of the catastrophe, as the Berlin was leaving a village and ascending a slope, accompanied by poor children who vied with each other in holding out handfuls of freshly picked flowers, Gérard had bought a bouquet for Clotilde, who immediately took it into her head to select a rose from the bunch and fix it to the lapel of the donor. As a prisoner, the poet had reverently preserved this sweet souvenir of the woman he no longer expected to see again.
Gérard now thought of using one of the thorns of this rose as a pen, so he stripped them all away except the longest, and cut off the stem above it with his fingernail. He thus found himself in possession of a convenient instrument.
At his request, he was allowed the use of some books found in his baggage; among them was a large, very ancient dictionary which began and ended with blank leaves added by the binder — thus offering four huge, untouched pages ready to receive a considerable piece of work.
Gérard was aware that his own blood, made to flow by a prick of the thorn, could have done as ink, but he was afraid of betraying his ruse by accidentally spotting his linen or his clothes.
If a durable substance, he said to himself, such as a metal for example, were reduced to powder, it could be used to color characters written in water, the only liquid available — and once this had dried out in the normal way, it would give a stable and legible text.
But what metal was he to pulverize? The window bars, being made entirely of steel, were unassailable, while the chapel, whose door was closed by external bolts only, was completely bare. Fortunately, when they had taken Gérard’s jewelry and coins away from him before his incarceration, one ancient gold piece of sentimental origin had been overlooked.
During a summer that she had once passed in Auvergne when she was a child, Clotilde had often used to play under the thick shade of some trees which formed a classic end of an avenue, not far from a feudal ruin. One day, as she was digging in the ground with her spade, in order to surround with moats a sand castle of her own making, she caused a gold piece to fly up, which, upon examination, proved to be an écu à la chaise of the fourteenth century. Clotilde was proud of her find and determined to wear the crown, hung on a little golden chain, as a bracelet. She continued to wear the delicate piece of jewelry throughout her girlhood, with a lengthened chain. On receiving her engagement ring, she made a present of it to Gérard so that he might encircle his wrist with this object from which she had not been separated since infancy. The poet kept this sentimental relic on his arm both day and night, and, thanks to the cover provided by his sleeve, the bandits had not detected its presence when they searched him.
The window bars, held in place by two curved cross-pieces fixed into the wall, ended in points whose steel was capable of wearing the crown away to provide gold dust. This crown, so precious to the couple from the sentimental point of view, would thus be spoilt. But later, in the eyes of Clotilde the widow, the special value in question could not fail to be enhanced by marks intimately connected with the swan song of her poet — for there could be no doubt that she would buy back from Grocco all his jewelry and baggage.
In view of the presumed fragility of the future letters, which the slightest friction would be enough to disturb, Gérard decided to fill up the two blank leaves without detaching them from the volume, so as to take advantage of the substantial shelter of its binding. Furthermore, his work would be more likely to reach Clotilde in this way, since, on completing the repurchase of the souvenirs, she would be certain to check the presence of everything, especially that of an ancient book.
To avoid defacing the volume, which represented a considerable sum of money and deserved better than merely to provide a few virgin pages, the prisoner decided to make his verses relate closely to the author’s prose. As an extraneous work the future poem would have marred the whole — which on the other hand would be enriched if the volume itself were to provide the subject. This close connection in substance would safeguard the two leaves in question from being torn out and, by assuring the frail writing of the eternal protection of the binding, would give the autograph stanzas a chance to last for ever. Moreover, by this means the poet would embellish his own work, inasmuch as the book, entitled Erebi Glossarium a Ludovico Toljano, was well-suited to convey and furnish material for a condemned man’s last lament.
After a whole lifetime given up to the deep and specialized study of mythology, the famous sixteenth-century scholar, Louis Toljan, had made a lucid collection, in two remarkable dictionaries, one called Olympi Glossarium and the other Erebi Glossarium, of the innumerable facts constantly accumulated during thirty years of patient research. In these, the alphabetically arranged names of gods, animals, rites and objects relating to the two supernatural abodes are accompanied by long articles in which records, anecdotes, facts and quotations are judiciously amassed. Any word not connected with Olympus in one part, or with Erebus in the other, is excluded from the list.
These two works, printed in Latin, and even today considered valuable monuments of erudition, are scarcely to be found now, on account of their rarity, except in certain famous public libraries. But in the Lauwerys family, writers from father to son, a copy of the second volume had long been handed down — an intact copy which Gérard would leaf through every day with admiration. The word “Erebus” is there taken in its widest sense to cover the whole gamut of hells.
Now, for the utterance of his last cry on the threshold of the tomb, what better source could he draw on than this, whose subject matter concerned exclusively the abode of the dead?
Gérard planned the outlines of an ode in which his soul, for poetic purposes endowed with a pagan afterlife, would have many visions on reaching Erebus — all of them inspired, with a view to the desired fusion, by certain passages in the book.
The poet, who jibbed at regular and methodical work, always progressed by intense but short-lived bursts, going without rest, sleep or food until his task was finished; after which a terrible exhaustion obliged him to deny himself, for a long time, the slightest creative thought. As he was gifted with an infallible memory, he completed everything in his mind before taking up his pen.
Following the rules he had laid down, Gérard composed his ode in sixty consecutive hours, every second of which was put to use. At the beginning of one dawn he finished it.
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Then, at the window, he carefully collected a quantity of gold dust supplied by the crown after scraping it for a long time against the lower spike of one of the steel bars. Next, he moistened the thorn in the water of his pitcher and began to write his ode upon the white space set aside for it, sprinkling all the letters with gold dust after every stanza, while they were still wet.
Bit by bit the very first page of the dictionary was covered down to the bottom; soon dry, it displayed a clear, gilded text after Gérard, for reasons of economy, had recovered the grains of powder not captured by the water by means of two skillfully executed wipes. After filling up the back of the preliminary leaf in the same way, then both sides of the last one, the poet concluded his ode and signed it.
Gérard was anxious to obtain, in some other engrossing occupation, relief from the bitter thoughts he felt ready to assail him afresh, but as his gigantic effort had rendered him incapable of any creative labors for a long time, he decided to fall back on some dull mnemonic exercises. The dictionary of Erebus contained many interesting passages that might have been committed to memory, but they would have been dangerous for the overwrought brain of Gérard who, after each formidable bout of work, went so far as to deny himself all contact with imaginative literature.
Being eager, rather, for some cold scientific text, he chose from his stock of books The Eocene — an erudite study of the single geological period indicated in the title. As a poet, he often loved to leaf through this work because of its remarkable series of colored plates, which transported his bewildered and enraptured mind into the abysses of the planetary past. He thought that if he were to learn some dull paragraphs from it, while concealing the engravings, this would provide him with a harmless counter-irritant against his obsessions.
However, Gérard was well aware that, in order to succeed in such a difficult undertaking, a fixed and rigorous rule would be necessary, capable of binding him, up until the last day, to an unalterable daily task.
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