Ce
grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul. -
La Bruyere
It was well said of a certain German book that
"er lasst sich nicht lesen"- it does not permit itself to be read. There
are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly
in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them
piteously in the eyes- die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat,
on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves
to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden
so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And
thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat
at the large bow- window of the D-- Coffee-House in London. For some months
I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning
strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so precisely
the converse of ennui-moods of the keenest appetency, when the film from
the mental vision departs- achlus os prin epeen- and the intellect, electrified,
surpasses as greatly its everyday condition, as does the vivid yet candid
reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe
was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate
sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing.
With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing
myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements,
now in observing the promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering
through the smoky panes into the street.
This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and
had been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came
on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well
lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past
the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been
in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me,
therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all
care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of
the scene without.
At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn.
I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate
relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute
interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage,
and expression of countenance.
By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied, business-like
demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way through the
press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly; when pushed
against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom of impatience, but
adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a numerous class,
were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated
to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on account of the very denseness
of the company around. When impeded in their progress, these people suddenly
ceased muttering; but redoubled their gesticulations, and awaited, with
an absent and overdone smile upon their lips, the course of the persons
impeding them. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared
overwhelmed with confusion. There was nothing very distinctive about these
two large classes beyond what I have noted. Their habiliments belonged
to that order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly
noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers- the Eupatrids
and the common-places of society- men of leisure and men actively engaged
in affairs of their own- conducting business upon their own responsibility.
They did not greatly excite my attention.
The tribe of clerks was an obvious one; and here I discerned two
remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses- young
gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and supercilious
lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may be termed
deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to
be an exact facsimile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about
twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the castoff graces of the gentry;-
and this, I believe, involves the best definition of the class.
The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the "steady
old fellows," it was not possible to mistake. These were known by their
coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, with white
cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or gaiters.
They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right ears, long used
to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I observed that
they always removed or settled their hats with both bands, and wore watches,
with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient pattern. Theirs was
the affectation of respectability- if indeed there be an affectation so
honorable.
There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets, with which all
great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much inquisitiveness,
and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be mistaken for
gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of wristband, with
an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at once.
The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily
recognizable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate
thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains,
and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornate clergyman,
than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still all were distinguished
by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy dimness of eye,
and pallor and compression of lip. There were two other traits, moreover,
by which I could always detect them: a guarded lowness of tone in conversation,
and a more than ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction at right
angles with the fingers. Very often, in company with these sharpers, I
observed an order of men somewhat different in habits, but still birds
of a kindred feather. They may be defined as the gentlemen who live by
their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two battalions- that of
the dandies and that of the military men. Of the first grade the leading
features are long locks and smiles; of the second, frogged coats and frowns.
Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker
and deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing
from countenances whose every other feature wore only an expression of
abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowling upon mendicants
of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the night for
charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed a sure
hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every one beseechingly
in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation, some lost hope;
modest young girls returning from long and late labor to a cheerless home,
and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the glances of ruffians,
whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided; women of the town of
all kinds and of all ages- the unequivocal beauty in the prime of her womanhood,
putting one in mind of the statue in Lucian, with the surface of Parian
marble, and the interior filled with filth- the loathsome and utterly lost
leper in rags- the wrinkled, bejewelled, and paint-begrimed beldame, making
a last effort at youth- the mere child of immature form, yet, from long
association, an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning
with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards
innumerable and indescribable- some in shreds and patches, reeling, inarticulate,
with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes- some in whole although filthy
garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual lips, and hearty-looking
rubicund faces- others clothed in materials which had once been good, and
which even now were scrupulously well brushed-men who walked with a more
than naturally firm and springy step, but whose countenances were fearfully
pale, and whose eyes were hideously wild and red; and who clutched with
quivering fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which
came within their reach; beside these, pic-men, porters, coal-heavers,
sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitors, and ballad-mongers, those who
vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every
description, and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred
discordantly upon the ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye.
As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene;
for not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its
gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly
portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief,
as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den), but
the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the dying
day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing a
fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid- as that ebony to which
has been likened the style of Tertullian.
The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual
faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted
before the window prevented me from casting more than a glance upon each
visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I could
frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of
long years.
With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the
mob, when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid
old man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age)- a countenance which
at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the absolute
idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that
expression I had never seen before. I well remember that my first thought,
upon beholding it, was that Retszch, had he viewed it, would have greatly
preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the fiend. As I endeavored,
during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis of
the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and paradoxically within my
mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of
avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood-thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment,
of excessive terror, of intense- of supreme despair. I felt singularly
aroused, startled, fascinated. "How wild a history," I said to myself,
"is written within that bosom!" Then came a craving desire to keep the
man in view- to know more of him. Hurriedly putting on all overcoat, and
seizing my hat and cane, I made my way into the street, and pushed through
the crowd in the direction which I had seen him take; for he had already
disappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within sight
of him, approached, and followed him closely, yet cautiously, so as not
to attract his attention.
I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short
in stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally,
were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong
glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of beautiful
texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely buttoned
and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a
glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These observations heightened
my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the stranger whithersoever he should
go.
It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the
city, soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had
an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new
commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the jostle,
and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did not much
regard the rain- the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering the
moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a handkerchief about
my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held his way with difficulty
along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked close at his elbow through
fear of losing sight of him. Never once turning his head to look back,
he did not observe me. By and by he passed into a cross street, which,
although densely filled with people, was not quite so much thronged as
the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his demeanor became evident.
He walked more slowly and with less object than before- more hesitatingly.
He crossed and re-crossed the way repeatedly, without apparent aim; and
the press was still so thick, that, at every such movement, I was obliged
to follow him closely. The street was a narrow and long one, and his course
lay within it for nearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually
diminished to about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway
near the park- so vast a difference is there between a London populace
and that of the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us
into a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old
manner of the stranger reappeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while
his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon
those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the
square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished
to see him repeat the same walk several times- once nearly detecting me
as he came around with a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met
with far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell
fast, the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With
a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a by-street comparatively
deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity
I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to
much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and busy bazaar,
with the localities of which the stranger appeared well acquainted, and
where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he forced his way
to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and sellers.
During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this
place, it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach without
attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc overshoes,
and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he see that I
watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word,
and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly
amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not part until
I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.
A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting
the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man,
and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He hurried
into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran
with incredible swiftness through many crooked and peopleless lanes, until
we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started-
the street of the D---Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same aspect.
It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and there
were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked moodily
some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned
in the direction of the river, and, plunging through a great variety of
devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the principal theatres.
It was about being closed, and the audience were thronging from the doors.
I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the
crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in
some measure, abated. His head again fell upon his breast; he appeared
as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now took the course in which
had gone the greater number of the audience but, upon the whole, I was
at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his actions.
As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party
of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one dropped
off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane, little
frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in thought;
then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which brought
us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from those we
had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of London, where
every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable poverty, and
of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an accidental lamp, tall,
antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen tottering to their fall,
in directions so many and capricious, that scarce the semblance of a passage
was discernible between them. The paving-stones lay at random, displaced
from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in
the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet,
as we proceeded, the sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and
at length large bands of the most abandoned of a London populace were seen
reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a
lamp which is near its death-hour. Once more he strode onward with elastic
tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight,
and we stood before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance- one
of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.
It was now nearly daybreak; but a number of wretched inebriates still
pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy
the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original bearing,
and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among the throng.
He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors
gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was something
even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the countenance
of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously. Yet he did
not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps
at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while
I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny
in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded,
and, when we had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous
town, the street of the D-- Hotel, it presented an appearance of human
bustle and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening
before. And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist
in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and
during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And, as
the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and,
stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the
face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing
to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "The old man," I said at
length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone.
He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow, for I shall learn
no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser
book than the 'Hortulus Animae,'* and perhaps
it is but one of the great mercies of God that "er lasst sich nicht lesen."
* The "Hortulus Animae cum
Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis" of Grunninger.
