by Unknown
It is a strange and cruel discovery. The patient begins a conversation with himself in which he invests all his tenderness, and it is repeated to him with ever greater indifference. He speaks passionately, but what he hears is colder and more foreign to his life than any random word spoken by another man. The more heated passion he puts into his words, the more what he says leaves him frozen. If he calls on what is dearest to him in all the world, he perceives it as separated from him forever. How to explain this terrible anomaly? When he thinks about it, and of course he can only think by speaking, he sees that the words he hears are like those of a dead man; he hears himself as if he were already deprived of consciousness; he is his own echo in a world where he is no more; he undergoes the torture of receiving from somewhere outside his existence the words that have been the soul and the speech of his entire life. This impression is invaded by delirium. The ear becomes enormous and takes the place of the body. Everyone who goes through this believes he has been changed into this hearing in which the most beautiful songs, the most beloved words, and life itself die away in an eternal suicide. Then they open your room; they speak your name. You hear it as it deserves to be heard. After that comes the purification of the hands." "That's enough," said Thomas. "The story you're telling me is probably supposed to soften me up; in this case, you have missed your target, for it has only increased my disgust. But if it is in accordance with the truth, then that's even worse, since only tremendous crimes could have merited such terrible punishments." "That's not true," said the old employee, roughly seizing hold of Thomas. "They are not punishing us, and we have not committed any crime. And you, are you guilty? No, but you will be submitted to a similar treatment if you do not agree to help us." "Absurd threats," said Thomas. "Why would I be exposed to the same punishments as you, when everything between us - our past, our behav ior, our situation - is different?" "Because of the infirmary," said the employee timidly. "The infirmary?" asked Thomas. "Yes," said the employee, "don't you know? Almost the entire first floor has been transformed into a vast infirmary where the very ill are cared for. These patients, because of their weakness and the nature of their malady, are particularly afraid of contagion, to such a point that whenever the 120
proper precautions are not taken for approaching them, they contract all sorts of new diseases. They are therefore obliged at first to sequester any one who must enter these spaces. This is called the disinfection stage." Thomas reflected; the employee's remark was a very unpleasant sur prise. "I will not be entering the rooms of the sick," he answered finally. "How could you do otherwise?" said the employee. "Have you not come here as a witness?" "No doubt," said Thomas. "Well," said the employee, "then you will be forced to enter their rooms, at least ours, since you are the one who will be in charge of watching over us." "But you're not sick," said Thomas. "We will be," said the employee, with a groan. "I already feel ill at ease in this room. As for you, I am already beginning not to recognize you. You are almost another man, taller, stronger, the very image of your compan ion. You look at me with eyes that seem never to have looked at me before, and you have such an impeccable appearance. Oh!" he cried suddenly, "I have been oddly mistaken. You are not who I thought you were; you're the executioner." He crept into a corner of the room, staring at Thomas with fearful eyes. "What am I going to do with these two drunks?" he asked himself. Could he leave them there? Would he be allowed to leave the room, and if he did, would he not have to cross through the large sick room? He spoke to the young employee who was sprawled out on the ground in a nearly inani mate state. "Put a stop to this childishness," he said. "Don't try to mislead me with your lies. You seem to be less steeped in vice - can you not speak to me honestly instead of trying to make me complicit in your crimes?" The young man - at this moment he seemed a mere boy- raised his imploring eyes to Thomas, but he could not speak. The old man shouted from his corner: " Be careful, Simon. Don't trust anything he says to you. He came with us only to be our torturer, and he's in a hurry to begin his task." Then he threw himself on the young man asking him to repeat what Thomas had said. The young man tried in vain to move his lips, but all he could do was grab the throat of his companion and give it a feeble squeeze. "You," said the old employee, turning to Thomas. "Here's the fine result of your efforts. He can't talk anymore. Won't you please have mercy on 121
him? He is still so young, and weak; I, who am old and sturdy, have many more reasons to be pitied. What would become of me if you scrupulously fulfilled your function?" "I am not the executioner," said Thomas. "I have not been officially as signed to give you a thrashing; but if you persist in your shameful behav ior, I will need no one else's order to inflict on you an exemplary punish ment. Why," he added, "do you think I'm the executioner?" "We see it in your eyes," said the old employee, raising himself up with a cringe. "Your way of looking is like that of a person who has been given a mandate. You don't look at us; you look at what you have to do to us. You don't see our fault; you keep your eyes focused on your action. All executioners are like that. Some of them are deaf and mute. What would they have to say or to hear since the truth is in their battering hands and their lashing whip. You, you're a natural born executioner, the kind that says: 'It's still not too late,' even when your knife has cut the throat of the culprit." "We also see it in your hands," said the young employee, who had been drawn out of his stupor by the words of his companion, as if they had ex plained what was ailing him. "There was no need for you to touch me for me to know that they strike hard and handle the rod with severity. But when you strike me, think only of my fault." "That's quite enough," said Thomas. "I don't know how you might have guessed that I could hurt you badly with my stick, but now you're certainly going to find out." He picked up a piece of wood that was lying on the table and struck the young employee several times; even before the blows reached him, he fainted. "Do you see this rod?" said Thomas to the old employee, who was already screaming. "I only wanted to show you what I would use to correct you if you continue to lie to me. Now answer my questions. Where did the guardian go?" "We only have one guardian -you," said the employee. "Watch the stick!" said Thomas. "There is another guardian, the one who brought us here and who must now be walking back and forth in front of some door." The old man shook his head and said: "He's one of your countless sub ordinates. It's only natural that you don't know them all. As for myself, I was your servant, and you ignored me until today. It's unfortunate that you remember them only when it's time for a punishment." 122
"And don't forget it," said Thomas. "What did the guardian go to do?" "He went to carry out your orders," said the old man. "And what were my orders?" asked Thomas. "To prepare the room where you're going to punish us." "I could just as well punish you right here," said Thomas. "So that is not what I ordered him to do. Think of a better answer." "You're a hard one," said the old man. "You sent him to get the message." "That message again," said Thomas. "Why are you bringing it up too? You know then that someone was supposed to bring me a message? Per haps you saw it? Perhaps you're the one who forgot to pass it on to me? That's no doubt why you're going to be punished." "You're wrong," said the old man in a whining tone. "We did everything we could. I led you through the room as far as possible, and I even sent an emissary to you in the night to ask you not to take too long. Have I done wrong?" Thomas looked at his stick, then at the employee, and said: "Wasn't it wrong to keep the message from me?" The old man took a step back. "But," he said, "no one but you has men tioned it to me. No one has given me the slightest assignment to carry out for you. Who could know the affairs that concern you? The person you should be interrogating is yourself." Thomas did not answer. He had hoped for something else. So this was all the help he was going to get: an old employee, just today driven out of his post, had, in the dark hours of the night in which he was trying to ex onerate himself, reflected on something he had said and had dispatched a messenger who had not even carried out his mission. The messenger's failure could be explained by the insignificance o
f the message; they had called him with too weak a voice, one that had nothing to say and whose promises were empty. Thomas stared in anger at the old man, as though this man had stripped all value from the message by the simple fact of having gotten his base servant's thoughts mixed up with it. "Now," he said, "things have become serious. I will not tolerate your equivocations any longer. What is the crime for which you are being prose cuted, both of you?" "You have no right to interrogate us," said the employee. "If you are really the executioner, you are the one who will show us our crime in your punishment, and we will find out then what your reproach is. What good 123
would the punishment do otherwise? Nevertheless, since in a certain way you have shown yourself to be good to us, since you did not hit us when I spoke of the message, I can tell you a few small things. We are not guilty as you imagine us to be; at least we have no idea about what it could be. Who has ever fulfilled their duties more scrupulously? We worked from morn ing to night, and when night came we rehearsed in our minds everything we had done, for fear that we might have neglected some order. Perhaps it is this very zealousness that was our undoing. By concentrating so much attention on it, we gradually developed a taste for service; whereas in the beginning we performed our tasks mechanically, not even watching what we were doing, with our eyes fixed on the commandment alone, but little by little we found ourselves attracted by the beauty and brilliance of our gestures, by the value of what passed through our hands, by the dignity of those who worked alongside us. When we were in the kitchen, we never grew tired of staring at all the utensils and implements. Before pouring water into them, we would caress them; we would slowly pass our fingers over their edges as though in search of a breach that would allow us to penetrate them, and from such contemplations we could not tear ourselves away. Likewise, when the liquid had flowed into the cups, we looked at it, wet our lips with it, and satisfied our thirst, and these too had become obli gations that gave us infinite pleasure. Should we have resisted? Perhaps; but where was the harm, since it was for the sake of giving a greater per fection to the accomplishment of our tasks that we succumbed to these de lights, and since we found joy in them only because we were good servants? And what was our crime, when so many others - who were not nearly as absorbed in their work as we were -gave in to much greater excesses than this? No doubt, this enthusiasm caused us to neglect some of the functions for which we were responsible. After lavishing so much care on the ob jects entrusted to us for these purposes, we could not bear to lose sight of them, to let them deteriorate in the hands of strangers. It was also our duty to prevent their destruction. Sometimes we hid them; at other times we flatly withdrew them from the use of tenants who were crude and in sensitive. It was with deep sorrow that we poured into the clients' cups the beverage they were incapable of appreciating. We followed with mistrust these men who plodded their way through so many splendors without en joying their beauty. This forced us to live a great deal among them. After spending many hours in rooms whose air seemed sweet with perfume and 12 4
where everything one touched gave off a glow, it was difficult to climb back up to those dark regions where we could hardly breathe. We were called back downstairs. Serving has no meaning except where there are men to be served. We wanted to see how our work was changing the world, and this desire drew us into an unctuous promiscuity with that world. First, we had to renounce our noble tasks and accept the occupations of the servants that allowed us to have close relations with the tenants. These occupations are very tiring, but since they require great strength, those who go in for them are well nourished and are generally rather plump. That happened to us as well. We could no longer climb the stairs in the evening without pant ing and straining; sometimes we didn't reach the upper floors until night was over, and it was time to go back down again. What was the point of going up there? Were we not domestics in the large halls? To sleep, now that was what really tempted us, but at the time we had no way of realizing it. All we could think of was keeping close watch over our duties, all the while dreaming of tomorrow's tasks. Unfortunately, the nights downstairs were so hot that it was hardly possible to remain idle there. So we worked with out pause. Although our limbs pained us, so heavily were they weighed down with fatigue, we walked all night long. Our ponderous steps could be heard all over. We looked like guardians, and indeed we kept watch over our own sleep. Alas, what can one do against the night? To sleep, that was our dream, and we could not escape it." "You have told me nothing I did not already know," said Thomas. "Glut tons, thieves, idlers - one can see all that just by looking at you. To what hands, then, did I entrust my message?" "But you don't know anything yet," replied the employee. "We did no wrong, and there is nothing to reproach us with. Were we not domestics? Even sleeping was not a serious offense; we merely had to take precautions not to be discovered. Our misfortune came from elsewhere. When we re solved to give in to sleepiness, we felt a great joy; finally we would taste this sweet repose that had evaded us. What an illusion! It was to our own torment that we had just given in. The first night we spent in the small room just off the gaming room. Was it emotion, was it desire, or excessive fatigue? We tossed and turned in vain on a crude and ragged bed of our own making. Our eyes received from within a sort of light that woke them like the day. Our limbs snatched at shadows and trembled in a fever that only increased their fatigue without preparing the way to their rest. We 12 5
heard words being spoken - our own. It was a terrible night. The break of day restored our hope. We could no longer believe that our torture would have no end. Alas, the second night was just like the first, and the third added its cruelty to the memory of the other two. Search as we might for favorable locations, we were only tormented all the more by the rest that eluded us precisely there where it most seduced us. We kicked ten ants out of their rooms and took over their beds; a pointless injustice, for the thought of the sleep they themselves had so often found there chased our own away and left us broken and miserable in the morning. Then it happened that the day, far from relieving our sufferings, only increased them by arousing our desire. Hardly had we emerged from the night when fatigue began to weigh us down, and the need to sleep pressed our eyes closed. We would shamelessly collapse into a corner, but here again it was only to knock against that high white wall erected between our sleep and us. What miserable wretches we were! We searched in vain for the rest that the day brought so near to us and from which the night continually chased us away. And yet these were only minor sufferings. Our true dis tress began when Simon decided to speak to the maidservant about our insomnia. This desire shows how unhinged his mind had become. For he suffered not only from lack of sleep but also from the silence he had to maintain about his long wakeful nights. They condemned him to a soli tude that, young as he is, he could only think of avoiding. He, at all costs, had to find someone on whom to unload his burden. It seemed to him that it would almost be the same as sleeping if only he could confide to another the thought of his sleepiness. Obviously I was there, and he was able to talk about it with me. But at the time, he had taken an extreme dislike to me, so that merely to lay eyes on me or to hear my voice threw him into a state of anxious confusion that only increased his discomfort. He said that with me he felt more alone than if the house were nothing but a great void. It's understandable. My face reflected all the pains that weighed on him. I could barely open my eyes, and the look he saw there was so hazy and so obscure that he thought I must have been sleeping on my feet and that I was hiding from him the consolations thus granted me. What would he have said if he could have seen himself? His entire being consisted of sleepiness. If he spoke, it was the beginning of a dream; if he listened, it was through a thick partition that made him mistake what he said for what he heard. He was as much a stranger to himself as to others, as if he had 126
