Teleny or the Reverse of the Medal (16 page)

The husband, likewise, must love indeed, not to feel an inward sinking when a few days after the wedding he finds his bride's middle parts tightly tied up in foul and bloody rags. Why did not nature create us like birds—or rather, like midges—to live but one summer day—a long day of love?

On the night of this next day Teleny surpassed himself at the piano; and when the ladies had finished waving their tiny handkerchiefs, and throwing flowers at him, he stole away from a host of congratulating admirers, and came to meet me in my carriage, waiting for him at the door of the theatre; then we drove away to his house. I passed that night with him, a night not of unbroken slumbers, but of inebriating bliss.

As true votaries of the Grecian god, we poured out seven copious libations to Priapus— for seven is a mystic, cabalistic, propitious number—and in the morning we tore ourselves from each other's arms, vowing everlasting love and fidelity; but, alas! what is there immutable in the ever-changing world, except, perhaps, the sleep eternal in the eternal light.

—And your mother?

—She perceived that a great change had been wrought in me. Now, far from being crabbed and waspish, like an old maid that cannot find rest anywhere, I was even-tempered and good-humored. She, however, attributed the change to the tonics I was taking, little guessing the real nature of these tonics. Later, she thought I must have some kind of
liaison
or other, but did not interfere with my private affairs; she knew that the time for sowing my wild oats had come, and she left me complete freedom of action.

—Well, you were a lucky fellow.

—Yes, but perfect happiness cannot last long. Hell gapes on the threshold of heaven, and one step plunges us from ethereal light into Cerebian darkness. So it has ever been with me in this checkered life of mine. A fortnight after that memorable night of unbearable anguish and of thrilling delight, I awoke in the midst of felicity to find myself in thorough wretchedness.

One morning, as I went in to breakfast, I found on the table a note which the postman had brought the evening before. I never received letters at home, having hardly any correspondence, save a business one, which was always transacted at the office. The handwriting was unknown to me. It must be some tradesman, thought I, leisurely buttering my bread. At last I tore the envelope open. It was a card of two lines without any address or signature.

—And—?

—Have you ever by accident placed your hand on a strong galvanic battery, and got through your fingers a shock that for a moment bereaves you of your very reason? If so, you can have but a faint impression of what that bit of paper produced on my nerves. I was stunned by it. Having read those few words I saw nothing more, for the room began to spin round me.

—Well, but what was there to terrify you in such a way?

—Only these few harsh, grating words that have remained indelibly engraved on my mind.

'If you do not give up your lover T.... you shall be branded as an
encule.'

This horrible, infamous, anonymous threat, in all its crude harshness, came so unexpectedly that it was, as the Italians express it, like a clap of thunder on a bright sunshiny day.

Little dreaming of its contents, I had opened it carelessly in my mother's presence; but hardly had I perused it than a state of utter prostration came over me, so that I had not even strength enough to hold up that tiny bit of paper.

My hands were trembling like aspen leaves— nay, my whole body was quivering; so thoroughly was I cowed down with fear and appalled with shame.

All the blood fled from my cheeks, my lips were cold and clammy; an icy perspiration was on my brow; I felt myself growing pale, and I knew that my cheeks must have been of an ashen, livid hue.

Nevertheless, I tried to master my emotion. I lifted up a spoonful of coffee to my mouth; but, ere it had reached my lips, I gagged, and was ready to throw up. The pitching and tossing of a boat on the heaviest sea could not have brought about such a state of sinking sickness as that with which my body was then convulsed. Nor could Macbeth, upon seeing Banquo's murdered ghost, have been more terrified than I was.

What was I to do? To be proclaimed a sodomite in the face of the world, or to give up the man who was dearer to me than life itself? No, death was preferable to either.

—And still, you said just now that you would have liked the whole world to know your love for the pianist.

—I admit that I did, and I do not deny it; but have you ever understood the contradictions of the human heart?

—Moreover, you did not consider sodomy a crime?

—No; had I done society any harm by it?

—Then why were you so terrified?

—Once a lady on her reception day asked her little boy—a lisping child of three—where his papa was?

'In his room,' said he.

'What is he doing?' asked the imprudent mother.

'He is making proots,' replied the urchin, innocently, in a high treble, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

Can you imagine the feelings of the mother, or those of the wife, when, a few moments afterwards, her husband came into the room? Well, the poor man told me that he almost regarded himself as a branded man, when his blushing wife told him of his child's indiscretion. Still, had he committed a crime?

Who is the man that, at least once in his lifetime, has not felt a perfect satisfaction in breaking wind, or, as the child onomatopoetically expressed it, making a 'proof?' What was there, then, to be ashamed of; that surely was no crime against nature?

The fact is, that nowadays we have got to be so mealy-mouthed, so over-nice, that Madame Eglantine, who 'raught full semely after her meat' would be looked upon, in spite of her stately manners, as something worse than a scullery-maid. We have become so demurely prim that every member of Parliament will soon have to provide himself with a certificate of morality from the clergyman, or the Sabbath-school teacher, before he is allowed to take possession of his seat. At any cost, appearances must be saved; for ranting editors are jealous gods, and their wrath is implacable, for it pays well, as good people like to know what naughty folks do.

—And who was the person who had written those lines to you?

—Who? I cudgelled my brain, and it evoked a number of specters, all of which were as impalpable and as frightful as Milton's death; all threatened to hurl at me a deadly dart. I even fancied for an instant, that it was Teleny, just to see the extent of my love for him.

—It was the Countess, was it not?

—I thought so, too. Teleny was not a man to be loved by halves, and a woman madly in love is capable of everything. Still, it seemed hardly probable that a lady would use such a weapon; and moreover, she was away. No, it was not, it could not be, the Countess. But who was it? Everybody and nobody.

For a few days I was tortured so incessantly that at times I felt as if I were growing mad. My nervousness increased to such a pitch that I was actually afraid to leave the house for fear of meeting the writer of that loathsome note.

Like Cain, it seemed as if I carried my crime written upon my brow. I saw a sneer upon the face of every man that looked at me. A finger was forever pointing at me; a voice, loud enough for all to hear, was whispering, 'The sodomite!'

Going to my office, I heard a man walking behind me. I went on quickly; he hastened his step. I almost began to run. All at once a hand was laid on my shoulder. I was about to faint with terror. At that moment I almost expected to hear the awful words,—'In the name of the law I arrest you, sodomite!'

The creaking of a door made me shiver; the sight of a letter appalled me.

Was I conscience-striken? No, it was simply fear—abject fear, not remorse. Moreover, is not a sodomite liable to be condemned to perpetual imprisonment?

You must think me a coward, but after all even the bravest man can only face an open foe. The thought that the occult hand of an unknown enemy is always uplifted against you, and ready to deal you a mortal blow, is unbearable Today you are a man of a spotless reputation; tomorrow, a single word uttered against you in the street by a hired ruffian, a paragraph in a ranting paper by one of the modern
bravi
of the press, and your fair name is blasted forevermore.

—And your mother?

—Her attention had been drawn elsewhere when I opened my letter. She only remarked my paleness a few moments afterwards. I therefore told her that I was not feeling well, and seeing me retching she believed me; in fact, she was afraid I had caught some illness.

—And Teleny—what did he say?

—I did not go to him that day, I only sent him word that I would see him on the morrow.

What a night I passed! First I kept up as long as I could, for I dreaded going to bed. At last, weary and worn out, I undressed and lay down; but my bed seemed electrified, for all my nerves began to twitch, and a feeling of creepiness came over me.

I felt distracted. I tossed about for some time; then, frightened lest I should grow mad, I got up, went stealthily to the dining room and got a bottle of cognac, and returned to my bedchamber. I drank down about half a tumbler, and then went again to bed.

Unaccustomed to such strong drink I went off to sleep; but was it sleep?

I awoke in the middle of the night, dreaming that Catherine, our maid, had accused me of having murdered her, and that I was about to be tried.

I got up, poured myself another glass of spirits, and again found oblivion if not rest.

On the morrow I again sent word to Teleny that I could not see him, although I longed to do so; but the day after that, seeing that I did not come to him as usual, he called upon me.

Surprised at the physical and moral change which had come over me, he began to think that some mutual friend had been slandering him, so to reassure him, I—after much pressing and many questions—took out that loathsome letter which I as much dreaded to touch as if it had been a viper, and gave it to him.

Although more than myself inured to such matters, his brow grew cloudy and thoughtful, and he even went pale. Still, after pondering over it for a moment, he began to examine the paper on which those horrible words were written; then he lifted up both card and envelope to his nose, and smelt them both. A merry expression came all at once over his face. 'I have it— I have it—you need not be afraid! They smell of attar of roses,' cried he; 'I know who it is.'

'Who?'

'Why! can't you guess?'

'The Countess?'

Teleny frowned.

'How is it you know about her?'

I told him all. When I had finished, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me again and again.

'I tried in every way to forget you, Camille, you see if I succeeded. The Countess is now miles away and we shall not see each other again.'

As he said these words my eyes fell on a very fine yellow diamond ring—a moonstone—which he wore on his little finger.

'That is a woman's ring,' I said, 'she gave it to you?'

He made no answer.

'Will you wear this one in its stead?'

The ring I gave him was an antique cameo of exquisite workmanship, surrounded with brilliants, but its chief merit was that it represented the head of Antinous.

'But,' said he, 'this is a priceless jewel'; and he looked at it closer. Then taking my head between his hands, and covering my face with kisses,—'Priceless indeed to me, for it looks like you.'

I burst out laughing.

'Why do you laugh?' said he, astonished.

'Because,' was my reply, 'the features are quite yours.'

'Perhaps, then,' he said, 'we are alike in looks as well as in tastes. Who knows—you are, perhaps, my
doppelganger?
Then, woe to one of us!'

'Why?'

'In our country they say that a man must never meet his
alter ego,
it brings misfortune to one or to both'; and he shivered as he said this. Then, with a smile, 'I am superstitious, you know.'

'Anyhow,' I added, 'should any misfortune part us, let this ring, like that of the virgin queen, be your messenger. Send it to me and I swear that nothing shall keep me away from you.'

The ring was on his finger and he was in my arms. Our pledge was sealed with a kiss.

He then began to whisper words of love in a low, sweet, hushed, and cadenced tone that seemed like a distant echo of sounds heard in a half-remembered ecstatic dream. They mounted up to my brain like the bubbles of some effervescent, intoxicating love-philter. I can even now hear them ringing in my ear. Nay, as I remember them again, I feel a shiver of sensuality creep all over my body, and that insatiable desire he always excited in me kindles my blood.

He was sitting by my side, as close to me as I am now to you; his shoulder was leaning on my shoulder, exactly as yours is.

First he passed his hand on mine, but so gently that I could hardly feel it; then slowly his fingers began to lock themselves within mine, just like this; for he seemed to delight in taking possession of me inch by inch.

After that, one of his arms encircled my waist, then he put the other round my neck, and the tips of his fingers twiddled and fondled my throat, thrilling me with delight.