the magic skin-第5节

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every　form；　and　endowed　the　phantoms　conjured　up　from　that　inert　and

plastic　material　so　liberally　with　his　own　life　and　feelings；　that　the

sound　of　his　own　footsteps　reached　him　as　if　from　another　world；　or　as

the　hum　of　Paris　reaches　the　towers　of　Notre　Dame。



He　ascended　the　inner　staircase　which　led　to　the　first　floor；　with　its

votive　shields；　panoplies；　carved　shrines；　and　figures　on　the　wall　at

every　step。　Haunted　by　the　strangest　shapes；　by　marvelous　creations

belonging　to　the　borderland　betwixt　life　and　death；　he　walked　as　if

under　the　spell　of　a　dream。　His　own　existence　became　a　matter　of　doubt

to　him；　he　was　neither　wholly　alive　nor　dead；　like　the　curious　objects

about　him。　The　light　began　to　fade　as　he　reached　the　show…rooms；　but

the　treasures　of　gold　and　silver　heaped　up　there　scarcely　seemed　to

need　illumination　from　without。　The　most　extravagant　whims　of

prodigals；　who　have　run　through　millions　to　perish　in　garrets；　had

left　their　traces　here　in　this　vast　bazar　of　human　follies。　Here；

beside　a　writing　desk；　made　at　the　cost　of　100；000　francs；　and　sold

for　a　hundred　pence；　lay　a　lock　with　a　secret　worth　a　king's　ransom。

The　human　race　was　revealed　in　all　the　grandeur　of　its　wretchedness；

in　all　the　splendor　of　its　infinite　littleness。　An　ebony　table　that　an

artist　might　worship；　carved　after　Jean　Goujon's　designs；　in　years　of

toil；　had　been　purchased　perhaps　at　the　price　of　firewood。　Precious

caskets；　and　things　that　fairy　hands　might　have　fashioned；　lay　there

in　heaps　like　rubbish。



〃You　must　have　the　worth　of　millions　here！〃　cried　the　young　man　as　he

entered　the　last　of　an　immense　suite　of　rooms；　all　decorated　and　gilt

by　eighteenth　century　artists。



〃Thousands　of　millions；　you　might　say；〃　said　the　florid　shopman；　〃but

you　have　seen　nothing　as　yet。　Go　up　to　the　third　floor；　and　you　shall

see！〃



The　stranger　followed　his　guide　to　a　fourth　gallery；　where　one　by　one

there　passed　before　his　wearied　eyes　several　pictures　by　Poussin；　a

magnificent　statue　by　Michael　Angelo；　enchanting　landscapes　by　Claude

Lorraine；　a　Gerard　Dow　（like　a　stray　page　from　Sterne）；　Rembrandts；

Murillos；　and　pictures　by　Velasquez；　as　dark　and　full　of　color　as　a

poem　of　Byron's；　then　came　classic　bas…reliefs；　finely…cut　agates；

wonderful　cameos！　Works　of　art　upon　works　of　art；　till　the　craftsman's

skill　palled　on　the　mind；　masterpiece　after　masterpiece　till　art

itself　became　hateful　at　last　and　enthusiasm　died。　He　came　upon　a

Madonna　by　Raphael；　but　he　was　tired　of　Raphael；　a　figure　by　Correggio

never　received　the　glance　it　demanded　of　him。　A　priceless　vase　of

antique　porphyry　carved　round　about　with　pictures　of　the　most

grotesquely　wanton　of　Roman　divinities；　the　pride　of　some　Corinna；

scarcely　drew　a　smile　from　him。



The　ruins　of　fifteen　hundred　vanished　years　oppressed　him；　he　sickened

under　all　this　human　thought；　felt　bored　by　all　this　luxury　and　art。

He　struggled　in　vain　against　the　constantly　renewed　fantastic　shapes

that　sprang　up　from　under　his　feet；　like　children　of　some　sportive

demon。



Are　not　fearful　poisons　set　up　in　the　soul　by　a　swift　concentration　of

all　her　energies；　her　enjoyments；　or　ideas；　as　modern　chemistry；　in

its　caprice；　repeats　the　action　of　creation　by　some　gas　or　other？　Do

not　many　men　perish　under　the　shock　of　the　sudden　expansion　of　some

moral　acid　within　them？



〃What　is　there　in　that　box？〃　he　inquired；　as　he　reached　a　large　closet

final　triumph　of　human　skill；　originality；　wealth；　and　splendor；　in

which　there　hung　a　large；　square　mahogany　coffer；　suspended　from　a

nail　by　a　silver　chain。



〃Ah；　monsieur　keeps　the　key　of　it；〃　said　the　stout　assistant

mysteriously。　〃If　you　wish　to　see　the　portrait；　I　will　gladly　venture

to　tell　him。〃



〃Venture！〃　said　the　young　man；　〃then　is　your　master　a　prince？〃



〃I　don't　know　what　he　is；〃　the　other　answered。　Equally　astonished；

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　hi