The Man Who Laughs

by Victor Hugo

  Dea, being used to the green box, came and went in the interior of the wheeled house, with almost as much ease and certainty as those who saw.

  The eye which could penetrate within this structure and its internal arrangements might have perceived in a corner, fastened to the planks, and immovable on its four wheels, the old hut of Ursus, placed on half-pay, allowed to rust, and from thenceforth dispensed the labour of rolling, as Ursus was relieved from the labour of drawing it. This hut, in a corner at the back, to the right of the door, served as bedchamber and dressing-room to Ursus and Gwynplaine. It now contained two beds. In the opposite corner was the kitchen.

  The arrangement of a vessel was not more precise and concise than that of the interior of the Green Box. Everything within it was in its place, arranged, foreseen, and intended. The caravan was divided into three compartments, partitioned from each other. These communicated by open spaces without doors. A piece of stuff fell over them, and answered the purpose of concealment.

  The compartment behind belonged to the men, the compartment in front to the women, the compartment in the middle, separating the two sexes, was the stage. The instruments of the orchestra and the properties were kept in the kitchen. A loft under the arch of the roof contained the scenes, and on opening a trap-door lamps appeared, producing wonders of light.

  Ursus was the poet of these magical representations; he wrote the pieces.

  He had a diversity of talents; he was clever at sleight-of-hand. Besides the voices he imitated, he produced all sorts of unexpected things: shocks of light and darkness; spontaneous formations of figures or words, as he willed, on the partition; vanishing figures in chiaroscuro; strange things, amid which he seemed to meditate, unmindful of the crowd who marveled at him.

  One day Gwynplaine said to him: "Father, you look like a sorcerer!"

  And Ursus replied: "Then I look, perhaps, like what I am.

  The Green Box, built on a clear model of Ursus's, contained this refinement of Ingenuity--that between the fore and hind wheels the central panel of the left side turned on hinges by the aid of chains and pulleys, and could be let down at will like a drawbridge. As it dropped it set at liberty three legs on hinges, which supported the panel when let down, and which placed themselves straight on the ground like the legs of a table, and supported it above the earth like a platform. This exposed the stage, which was thus enlarged by the platform in front. This opening looked for all the world like a "mouth of hell," in the words of the itinerant Puritan preachers, who turned away from it with horror. It was, perhaps, for some such impious invention that Solon kicked out Thespis.

  For all that Thespis has lasted much longer than is generally believed. The traveling theatre is still in existence. It was on those stages on wheels that, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, they performed in England the ballets and dances of Amner and Pilkinton; in France, the pastorals of Gilbert Colin; in Flanders, at the annual fairs, the double choruses of Clement, called Non Papa; in Germany, the "Adam and Eve" of Theiles; and, in Italy, the Venetian exhibitions of Animuccia and of Cafossis, the Silvæ of Gesualdo, the Prince of Venosa, the Satyr of Laura Guidiccioni, the Despair of Philene, the Death of Ugolino, by Vincent Galileo, father of the astronomer, in which Vincent Galileo sang his own music and accompanied himself on his viol de gamba; as well as all the first attempts of the Italian opera which, from 1580, substituted free inspiration for the madrigal style.

  The chariot, of the colour of hope, which carried Ursus, Gwynplaine, and their fortunes, and in front of which Fibi and Vinos trumpeted like figures of Fame, played its part of this grand Bohemian and literary brotherhood.

  Thespis would no more have disowned Ursus than Congrio would have disowned Gwynplaine.

  Arrived at open spaces in towns or villages, Ursus, in the intervals between the too-tooing of Fibi and Vinos, gave instructive revelations as to the trumpetings.

  "This symphony is Gregorian," he would exclaim, "citizens and townsmen; the Gregorian form of worship, this great progress, is opposed in Italy to the Ambrosial ritual, and in Spain to the Mozarabic ceremonial, and has achieved its triumph over them with difficulty."

  After which the Green Box drew up in some place chosen by Ursus, and, evening having fallen, and the panel stage having been let down, the theatre opened and the performance began.

  The scene of the Green Box represented a landscape painted by Ursus; and, as he did not know how to paint, it represented a cavern just as well as a landscape.

  The curtain, which we call drop nowadays, was a checked sills, with squares of contrasted colours.

  The public stood without, in the street, in the fair, forming a semicircle round the stage, exposed to the sun and the slopers; an arrangement which made rain less desirable for theatres in those days than now. When they could they acted in an inn yard, on which occasions the windows of the different stories made rows of boxes for the spectators. The theatre was thus more inclosed, and the audience a more paying one.

  Ursus was in everything--in the piece, in the company, in the kitchen, in the orchestra. Vinos beat the drum, and handled the sticks with great dexterity. Fibi played on the morache, a kind of guitar. The wolf had been promoted to be a utility gentleman, and played, as occasion required, his little parts. Often when they appeared side by side on the stage, Ursus in his tightly-laced bear's skin, Homo with his wolf's skin fitting still better, no one could tell which was the beast. This flattered Ursus.

  * * *

  IX

  ABSURDITIES WHICH FOLKS WITHOUT TASTE CALL, POETRY

  THE PIECES written by Ursus were interludes--a kind of composition out of fashion nowadays. One of these pieces, which has not come down to us, was entitled Ursus Rursus. It is probable that he played the principal part himself. A pretended exit, followed by a reappearance, was apparently its praiseworthy and sober subject. The titles of the interludes of Ursus were sometimes Latin, as we have seen, and the poetry frequently Spanish. The Spanish verses written by Ursus were rhymed, as was nearly all the Castilian poetry of that period. This did not puzzle the people. Spanish was then a familiar language; and the English sailors spoke Castilian even as the Roman sailors spoke Carthaginian (see Plautus). Moreover, at a theatrical representation, as at mass, Latin, or any other language unknown to the audience, is by no means a subject of care with them. They get out of the dilemma by adapting to the sounds familiar words. Our old Gallic France was particularly prone to this manner of being devout. At church, under cover of an Immolatus, the faithful chanted, "I will make merry;" and under a Sanctus, "Kiss me, sweet." The Council of Trent was required to put an end to these familiarities.

  Ursus had composed expressly for Gwynplaine an interlude, with which he was well pleased. It was his best work. He had thrown his whole soul into it. To give the sum of all one's talent in the production is the greatest triumph that any one can achieve. The toad which produces a toad achieves a grand success. You doubt it? Try, then, to do as much.

  Ursus had carefully polished this interlude. This bear's cub was entitled, Chaos Vanquished.

  Here it was:

  A night scene. When the curtain drew up, the crowd, massed around the Green Box, saw nothing but blackness. In this blackness three confused forms moved in the reptile state: a wolf, a bear, and a man. The wolf acted as the wolf; Ursus, the bear; Gwynplaine, the man. The wolf and the bear represented the ferocious forces of Nature--unreasoning hunger and savage ignorance. Both rushed on Gwynplaine. It was chaos combating man. No face could be distinguished. Gwynplaine fought enfolded in a winding-sheet, and his face was covered by his thickly-falling locks. All else was shadow. The bear growled the wolf gnashed his teeth, the man cried out. The man was down; the beasts overwhelmed him. He cried for aid and succour; he hurled to the unknown an agonised appeal. He gave a death-rattle. To witness this agony of the prostrate man, now scarcely distinguishable from the brutes, was appalling. The crowd looked on breathless; in one minute more the wild beasts would triumph,
and chaos re-absorb man. A struggle--cries--howlings; then, all at once, silence.

  A song in the shadows. A breath had passed, and they heard a voice. Mysterious music floated, accompanying this chant of the invisible; and suddenly, none knowing whence or how, a white apparition arose. This apparition was a light; this light was a woman; this woman was a spirit. Dea--calm, fair, beautiful, formidable in her serenity and sweetness--appeared in the centre of a luminous mist. A profile of brightness in a dawn! She was a voice: a voice light, deep, indescribable. She sang in the new-born light; she, invisible, made visible. They thought that they heard the hymn of an angel, or the song of a bird. At this apparition the man, starting up in his ecstasy, struck the beasts with his fists, and overthrew them.

  Then the vision, gliding along in a manner difficult to understand, and therefore the more admired, sang these words in Spanish sufficiently pure for the English sailors who were present:

  "Ora! llora!

  De palabra

  Nace razon.

  De luz el son." [1]

  Then, looking down, as if she saw a gulf beneath, she went on: *linec

  "Noche, quita te de alli!

  El alba canta hallali." [2]

  As she sang, the man raised himself by degrees; instead of lying he was now kneeling, his hands elevated toward the vision, his knees resting on the beasts, which lay motionless, and as if thunder-stricken. She continued, turning toward him:

  "Es menester a cielos ir,

  Y tu que llorabas reir." [3]

  And approaching him with the majesty of a star, she added:

  "Gebra barzon;Deja, monstruo,

  A tu negroCaparazon." [4]

  And she put her hand on his brow.

  Then another voice arose deeper, and, consequently, still sweeter--a voice broken and enrapt with a gravity both tender and wild. It was the human chant responding to the chant of the stars. Gwynplaine, still in obscurity, his head under Dea's hand, and kneeling on the vanquished bear and wolf, sang:

  "O ven! ama!

  Eres alma,

  Soy corazon." [5]

  And suddenly from the shadow a ray of light fell full upon Gwynplaine.

  Then, through the darkness, was the monster fully exposed.

  To describe the commotion of the crowd is impossible. A sun of laughter rising, such was the effect. Laughter springs from unexpected causes, and nothing could be more unexpected than this termination. Never was sensation comparable to that produced by the ray of light striking on that mask, at once ludicrous and terrible. They laughed all around his laugh. Everywhere: above, below, behind, before, at the uttermost distance; men, women, old gray-heads, rosy-faced children; the good, the wicked, the gay, the sad, everybody. And even in the streets the passers-by who could see nothing, hearing the laughter, laughed also. The laughter ended in clapping of hands and stamping of feet. The curtain dropped, Gwynplaine was recalled with frenzy. Hence an immense success. Have you seen Chaos Vanquished? Gwynplaine was run after. The listless came to laugh, the melancholy came to laugh, evil consciences came to laugh--a laugh so irresistible, that it seemed almost an epidemic. But there is a pestilence from which men do not fly, and that is the contagion of joy. The success, it must be admitted, did not rise higher than the populace. A great crowd means a crowd of nobodies. Chaos Vanquished could be seen for a penny. Fashionable people never go where the price of admission is a penny.

  Ursus thought a good deal of his work, which he had brooded over for a long time.

  "It is in the style of one Shakespeare," he said, modestly.

  The juxtaposition of Dea added to the indescribable effect produced by Gwynplaine. Her white face by the side of the gnome, represented what might have been called divine astonishment. The audience regarded Dea with a sort of mysterious anxiety. She had in her aspect the dignity of a virgin and of a priestess, not knowing man and knowing God. They saw that she was blind, and felt that she could see. She seemed to stand on the threshold of the supernatural. The light that beamed on her seemed half earthly and half heavenly. She had come to work on earth, and to work as heaven works, in the radiance of morning. Finding a hydra, she formed a soul. She seemed like a creative power, satisfied, but astonished at the result of her creation; and the audience fancied that they could see in the divine surprise of that face desire of the cause, and wonder at the result. They felt that she loved this monster. Did she know that he was one? Yes; since she touched him. No; since she accepted him. This depth of night and this glory of day united formed in the mind of the spectator a chiaroscuro in which appeared endless perspectives. How much divinity exists in the germ, in what manner the penetration of the soul into matter is accomplished, how the solar ray is an umbilical cord, how the disfigured is transfigured, how the deformed becomes heavenly, all these glimpses of mysteries added an almost cosmical emotion to the convulsive hilarity produced by Gwynplaine. Without going too deep, for spectators do not like the fatigue of seeking below the surface, something more was understood than was perceived. And this strange spectacle had the transparency of an avatar.

  As to Dea, what she felt can not be expressed by human words; she knew that she was in the midst of a crowd, and knew not what a crowd was. She heard a murmur, that was all. For her the crowd was but a breath. Generations are passing breaths. Man respires, aspires, and expires. In that crowd Dea felt herself alone, and shuddering as one hanging over a precipice. Suddenly, in this trouble of innocence in distress, prompt to accuse the unknown, in her dread of a possible fall, Dea, serene notwithstanding, and superior to the vague agonies of peril, but inwardly shuddering at her isolation, found confidence and support. She had seized her thread of safety in the universe of shadows; she put her hand on the powerful head of Gwynplaine. Joy unspeakable! she placed her rosy fingers on his forest of crisp hair. Wool when touched gives an impression of softness. Dea touched a lamb which she knew to be a lion. Her whole heart poured out an ineffable love. She felt out of danger, she had found her saviour. The public believed that they shiv the contrary. To the spectators the being loved was Gwynplaine, and the saviour was Dea. What matters! thought Ursus, to whom the heart of Dea was visible. And Dea, reassured consoled and delighted, adored the angel while the people contemplated the monster, and endured, fascinated herself as well, though in the opposite sense, that dread Promethean laugh.

  True love is never weary. Being all soul, it can not cool. A brazier comes to be full of cinders; not so a star. Her exquisite impressions were renewed every evening for Dea, and she was ready to weep with tenderness while the audience was in convulsions of laughter. Those around her were but joyful; she was happy.

  The sensation of gayety due to the sudden shock caused by the rictus of Gwynplaine was evidently not intended by Ursus. He would have preferred more smiles and less laughter, and more of a literary triumph. But success consoles. He reconciled himself every evening to his excessive triumph, as he counted how many shillings the piles of farthings made, and how many pounds the piles of shillings, and besides, he said, after all, when the laugh had passed, Chaos Vanquished would be found in the depths of their minds, and something of it would remain there. Perhaps he was not altogether wrong; the foundations of a work settle down in the mind of the public. The truth is, that this populace, attentive to the wolf, the bear, to the man, then to the music, to the howlings governed by harmony, to the night dissipated by dawn, to the chant releasing the light, accepted with a confused, dull sympathy, and with a certain emotional respect, the dramatic poem of "Chaos Vanquished," the victory of spirit over matter, ending with the joy of man.

  Such were the vulgar pleasures of the people.

  They sufficed them. The people had not the means of going to the noble matches of the gentry, and could not, like lords and gentlemen, bet a thousand guineas on Helmsgail against Phelem-ghe-Madone.

  [1] Pray! Weep! Reason is born of the word. Song creates light.

  [2] Night, away! The dawn sings hallali.

  [3] Thou must go to h
eaven, and laugh, thou that weepest.

  [4] Break the yoke, throw off, monster, thy black cloak.

  [5] O, come and love! thou art soul, I am heart.

  * * *

  X

  AN OUTSIDER'S VIEW OF MEN AND THINGS

  MAN HAS a notion of revenging himself on that which pleases him. Hence the contempt felt for the comedian.

  This being charms me, diverts, distracts, teaches, enchants, consoles me, flings me into an ideal world, is agreeable and useful to me. What evil can I do him in return? Humiliate him. Disdain is a blow from afar. Let us strike the blow. He pleases me, therefore he is Tile. He serves me, therefore I hate him. Where can I find a stone to throw at him? Priest, give me yours. Philosopher, give me yours. Bossuet, excommunicate him. Rousseau, insult him. Orator, spit the pebbles from your mouth at him. Bear, fling your stone. Let us cast stones at the tree, hit the fruit and eat it. Bravo! and down with him! To repeat poetry is to be infected with the plague. Wretched play-actor, we will put him in the pillory for his success. Let him follow up his triumph with our hisses. Let him collect a crowd, and create a solitude. Thus it is that the wealthy, termed the higher classes, have invented for the actor that form of isolation, applause.

  The crowd is less brutal. They neither hated nor despised Gwynplaine. Only the meanest caulker of the meanest crew of the meanest merchantman, anchored in the meanest English seaport, considered himself immeasurably superior to this amuser of the "scum," and believed that a caulker is as superior to an actor as a lord is to a caulker.