An Oasis of Horror

AN OASIS OF HORROR-1

AN OASIS OF HORRORAmer savoir, celui qu’on tire du voyage!

Le monde, monotone et petit, aujourd’hui,

Hier, demain, toujours, nous fait voir image:

Une oasis d’horreur dans un désert d’ennui!

Charles Baudelaire, “Le voyage”.

1. Spleen de Paris: 30 June 1845

“Existence,” said Charles Baudelaire to his father’s ghost, “moves in the midst of a multifarious epidemic in which no one is ever quite content with the disease that has fallen to his lot. The metaphorical consumptive contemplates with peevish frustration those afflicted with St. Anthony’s fire; the spiritual leper would prefer the particular ruination of lupus; those whose souls bear the scars of smallpox would rather entertain the demon of cholera...no, it won’t do, will it? Too obvious. We’re all sick—so what? To yearn to be sick in a different way is as good a definition of futile hope as any, but it can’t explain....”

Waiting for a reply from his absent father, present only in feeble spirit, would also have been as good a definition of futile hope as any, but that wasn’t why Charles trailed off. He had conceived a new beginning.

“It is unnecessary to envy the dead body its oblivion,” he said, “for annihilation is within the grasp of any man, but to envy the dead soul its transcendence of life is another matter. The objective of one who is unhappy with life is not to cease to be, but rather to discover a realm in which being is not so direly bound by discomfiting circumstance—which is to say, a realm in which the pattern of discomfiting circumstance is not so stifling in its arid monotony. No—it pains me to admit it, but it may be true that there are points at which all communication fails, where silence is preferable to verbal expression because the act speaks for itself, more eloquently than any steel nib....”

Charles set down his pen. He had, in any case, already taken care of the formal necessities; he had written his will and placed it in an envelope, with a covering letter, addressed to his lawyer, Ancelle. He had bequeathed all his possessions to his savior, Jeanne Duval, and had asked the lawyer to watch over her and guide her, just as he would have watched over and guided him, in accordance with the order of guardianship for which his mother had applied to the Tribunal in the previous September. He had asked Ancelle to remember him to Jeanne as a hideous example—a dire warning of the extremes to which a disorderly life might go. That was enough; his dead father needed no suicide note to understand what Charles was doing and why, and nothing could be said that would enlighten Madame Aupick, let alone the general. His mother and stepfather had long grown used to their particular sicknesses, and did not understand the politics of resistance. When his mother had gone to the Tribunal to have Ancelle appointed as his legal guardian, it was in the genuine belief that she was acting in his best interests, in a spirit of valiant palliation.

Charles picked up the dagger in the same hand that had set down the pen, and placed the point to his left breast, feeling for a gap between the ribs.

He did not expect to discover what it felt like to die. He expected to feel a sudden shock of pain, in which his consciousness would sooner or later dissolve—sooner, if his hand were steady and the blade punctured his heart at the first stroke; later if he faltered, and was forced to move the blade from side to side, groping for fatality.

Jeanne had told him that he need have no fear of death, because she had favored him with a special kiss that would deliver him to vampire undeath, but he had not believed it when she said it and he did not believe it now. He did not expect to be clawing his way out of the tomb on the day after his burial. Jeanne Duval was certainly a lamia—a serpent in human form, a temptress asp—but Charles did not believe that her sting was more powerful than that of death.

He took a deep breath, and pressed the dagger home.

His hand was not steady, and he cursed his heart for being so unexpectedly hard to find. Then he found it, and he felt the point strike like a cobra’s fang, opening the ventricle to let out the pulsing blood.

He waited to die. And waited. In the end, the pain faded away, but consciousness did not. He never lost his grip on consciousness for a instant, and never would again.

“Has heaven rejected me, then?” he asked his father, eventually. “Or is it simply that my blood is no longer my own, and will not flow to my bidding.”

He checked his pulse, and could not find one. He breathed on a mirror, and it did not fog—although his reflection was still there, as dull and sickly as ever, wearing a rictus snarl. His heart had evidently stopped; his lungs no longer sucked in air; he had left life behind—but not for death. Jeanne had told him the truth.

Another man might have picked up his hat and rushed to see his sometime mistress, in order to begin his education in the politics and practices of undeath, but Charles did not. Jeanne was an actress, of sorts, but she was not a poet. She knew how to exist as she existed, but Charles did not think for a moment that she had the slightest idea what possibilities there were in undeath.

“Perhaps there have been undead poets before,” he said, no longer to his father but more straightforwardly to himself, “and perhaps there are some still active, in the New World if not in the old—but that does not matter. They could no more teach me what I need to learn than Jeanne could. It is 1845, and wisdom is being rewritten with every day that passes. It is not the ancient alchemy of undeath that I need to discover but the new chemistry: the new atomism. It is not a mentor that I need but a method of investigation; I am the Lavoisier of vampirism, appointed by fate to discover its oxygen. I am the sick man who has finally found the disease that will fulfill me. I cannot ask, and do not want, to be happy, but I have found my sublimity, my astonishment, my horror. Henceforth, I am the poet of undeath—and could never have wished for any other fate, had I ever believed that this one might be achievable.”

He did take up his hat, then. Before he closed the door behind him he looked around his room with new eyes, no longer seeing its shabbiness, its unworthiness, its vile mundanity. It was no longer a manger fit for beasts but a cradle fit for a messiah. He no longer had the slightest desire to leave it behind forever.

“I need to look at the world,” He said, to his impatient writing-desk, “but I shall return—and in time, I shall know how to vent my spleen!”

2. Les métamorphoses du vampire: 1845-1848

It was not that simple, nor that easy. He never missed the beating of his heart, or the necessity to draw breath, and learned to feign the latter easily enough. He would not have missed the necessity to eat and drink, either, had he been relieved of them, but he was not. The undead, he discovered, hungered and thirsted for more than blood. Indeed, the first of many inherited misconceptions he had to put aside was the notion that the undead were entirely dependent for their sustenance on human blood. Human blood tasted sweet, to be sure, but it was an indulgence—perhaps a fetish—rather than an appetite. To sustain himself, he learned by trial and error, his only absolute requirements were red meat and water—in which, he presumed, all the raw materials of blood were conserved.

What he did miss, however, was sleep. His sleep, as a living man, had long been so overfull of dreams as never to give him a moment’s respite, but he had never grasped the significance of that fact until sleep was denied to him. He could feign sleep as easily as he could feign breathing, but he could not actually lose consciousness. He could dream, but he could no longer cage his dreams, carefully placing them beyond the bounds of conscious life. His dreams were free now, and would have to be tamed—if he did intend to tame them, and if it were possible to tame them—in a different manner.

That, he knew, would take time.

For a while, he considered the possibility of becoming an apostle of undeath, openly acknowledging his condition and advertising its merits. From time to time he planned essays on the subject, but never took the risk of writing one down, let alone attempting to publish one.

“The transition to undeath is not pleasant,” he told his imagined audience, “but nor is it surprising. It is more like waking up than going to sleep; the sensation seems familiar. That may seem odd to you, but one sometimes requires a spur to bring out the fullness of what one has always known. Perhaps, when you leave life behind, you will find death more familiar than you had anticipated. You might think of death as a moment that cannot be experienced twice, but it is entirely possible that you will one day realize—cursing yourself for not having realized it before—that death is always with us, an inevitable companion of life. We begin to die before we are born, and even as we are conceived we carry forward a legacy of death that extends throughout the history of creation. Death is original sin, and we live with it constantly. The embryo in the womb is sculpted by death, as an artist chips a statue free from inchoate stone. The elements of the growing body are ceaselessly replaced; every aspect of our form has been remade a dozen times before we achieve maturity. We know death intimately, but it is the dullest sickness of all, the ultimate uniformity. It is a rare victim who learns the desire to be rid of it, and a rarer one who finds the means, but it can be done. Only follow me, and I shall show you the way. I am the resurrection and the undeath, the way to salvation.”

He could not do it, not because he would have been staked through the heart, burned at the stake, beheaded or crucified merely for making the suggestion, but because it was essentially blasphemous. He was, after all, an incorrigible Catholic.

In that respect, if not in any other, Charles learned to do as other vampires did; he feigned humility as he feigned life; he pretended to be a man. He took care to appear to breathe as a man breathed, and he took care to appear to write as a man wrote. As Jeanne Duval was an actress, whether she was on stage at the Théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Antoine or in his bed, so Charles became an actor, not merely in the salons he frequented and the Café Brasserie, but in the privacy of his room and his writing-desk. He was undead, but he played the part of a living man addressing other living men.

He stuck to his resolution of never seeking help from Jeanne—although she understood the change in his condition from the first moment she saw him undead—but he did begin to understand her a little better than he had before. He came to understand the peculiarity of her whoredom—why she did not like to accept the gifts that pleased other whores, including money; why she was reluctant to accept food or wine in restaurants; and why she was so proud of her seemingly meager needs. He never tried to discover her real name, age or place of origin, not so much because he was not curious or because he suspected that she had long since forgotten all those details, but because he preferred to exercise his imagination on such questions. He wanted to think of her as a representative of some primal African race, ancestral to all humankind: an infertile Eve, who lived in civilization but was not part of it. In his own mind, he reconstructed the myth of Eden, preferring a version in which Adam abandoned his second wife as he had abandoned his first, to be given another of the same name on which to father Cain, while the one he left in Eden—Genesis being explicit in the statement that he was expelled alone—had entered into a more intimate relationship with the serpent, and had found a better fate than death in the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.