Beside a Dead Man
He was dying rapidly, as people die who have tuberculosis. Every day I saw him sit down, at about two o’clock, under the hotel windows, facing the calm sea, on a bench on the terrace. For some time he would remain motionless in the warmth of the sun, gazing at the Mediterranean with mournful eyes. Sometimes he would glance towards the lofty mountain, with its misty heights, that encloses Mentone; then, with a very deliberate movement, he would cross his long legs, so thin that they looked like two bones, about which the cloth of his trousers flapped loosely, and he would open a book, always the same one.
Then he would stir no more, but would read, read with all his eyes and mind; the whole of his poor expiring body looked to be reading; his whole soul would bury itself in the book, losing itself and disappearing in it, until the hour when the cooler air made him cough a little. Then he would rise and go indoors.
He was a tall German with a fair beard; he lunched and dined in his own room, and spoke to no one.
A vague feeling of curiosity drew me towards him. I sat down one day beside him, having brought with me, for the sake of appearances, a volume of de Musset’s poetry.
I began to glance through “Rolla.”
“Do you know German, monsieur?” said my neighbour, suddenly, in good French.
“Not a word of it, monsieur.”
“I am sorry. Since chance has placed us side by side, I would have lent you, I would have shown you a priceless treasure: the book I have here.”
“What is it?”
“It is a copy of my master Schopenhauer, annotated by his own hand. All the margins, as you see, are covered with his writing.”
I took the book with respect and contemplated these shapes, incomprehensible to me, but revealing the immortal mind of the greatest destroyer of dreams who has ever passed through the world.
And the lines of de Musset broke forth in my memory:
“Dors-tu content, Voltaire, et ton hideux sourire
Voltige-t-il encor sur tes os decharnes?”11
Involuntarily I compared the childish, religious sarcasm of Voltaire with the irresistible irony of the German philosopher whose influence is henceforth ineradicable.
One may protest and lose one’s temper, one may be indignant or loftily disdainful, but Schopenhauer has stamped humanity with the seal of his contempt and disenchantment.
A disillusioned hedonist, he has overturned beliefs, hopes, poetry, and idle fancies, has destroyed the aspirations and laid waste the trust of souls, has killed love, has abolished the idealised worship of woman, has exploded the illusions of the heart, and has accomplished the most gigantic labour of scepticism that has ever been achieved. His mocking spirit has traversed all things, and drained them all dry. And, even today, those who execrate him bear in their spirits, despite themselves, fragments of his mind.
“So you were a personal friend of Schopenhauer’s?” I said to the German.
He smiled sadly.
“Till his death, monsieur.”
And he spoke to me of him, telling me of the almost supernatural impression which that strange being made on all who came near him.
He told me of the old demolisher’s interview with a French politician, a doctrinaire republican, who was eager to see the man and found him in a noisy beerhouse, seated in the midst of his disciples, dry, wrinkled, smiling his unforgettable smile, rending and tearing ideas and beliefs with a single sentence, as a dog with one bite tears to ribbons the stuffs he is playing with.
He repeated to me the remark of the Frenchman, as he went away bewildered and scared, exclaiming: “It was like spending an hour with the devil.”
Then he added:
“He had, in truth, monsieur, a terrifying smile which frightened us, even after his death. It is an almost unknown anecdote, and I will tell it you if it interests you.”
And he began, in a tired voice, occasionally interrupted by violent fits of coughing:
“Schopenhauer had just died, and it was decided that we should watch by the deathbed in turns, two and two, till morning.
“He lay in a large, very plain room, vast and sombre. Two candles burned on the night table.
“It was midnight when I took up my watch, with one of our comrades. The two friends whom we were replacing walked out, and we went in and sat down at the foot of the bed.
“The face had not altered at all. It was laughing. The hollow crease we knew so well ran past the corner of the lips, and we fancied that he was about to open his eyes, move, and speak. His mind, or rather his thoughts, enveloped us; we felt ourselves to be more than ever in the atmosphere of his genius, invaded and possessed by him. His domination seemed to us even more sovereign now that he was dead. A mystery mingled with the power of that incomparable mind.
“The bodies of such men vanish, but the men themselves remain; and, on the night which follows the stopping of their hearts, I assure you, monsieur, they are terrifying.
“Softly we spoke together of him, recalling speeches and formula of his, and those amazing maxims which are like rays of light thrown, in a few words, on the darkness of the unknown Life.
“ ‘He looks as though he were going to speak,’ said my companion.
“And we gazed, with an uneasiness bordering on terror, at the motionless, still smiling countenance.
“Little by little we felt more ill at ease, oppressed, almost swooning.
“ ‘I don’t know what is the matter with me,’ I stammered, ‘but I can assure you that I am not well.’
“Then we perceived that the body had begun to smell.
“Thereupon my friend proposed that we should go into the next room, leaving the door open, and I consented.
“I took one of the candles burning on the night table and left the other, and we went and sat at the other end of the room, in such a position that we could see from it the bed and the dead man, full in the light.
“But he still obsessed us; it was as though his immaterial, detached, free nature, all-powerful and dominant, were prowling all round us. And occasionally, too, the filthy odour of the decomposing body reached us, soaking right through us, as it were, vague and sickening.
“Suddenly a shiver ran through our bones; a sound, a tiny sound had come from the room of the dead man. Our eyes were instantly turned upon him, and we saw, yes, monsieur, we saw as plainly as possible, both of us, something white run over the bedclothes, drop down on to the carpet, and disappear under a chair.
“We were on our feet before we had time to think, wild with senseless terror, on the point of flight. Then we looked at each other. We were horribly pale. Our hearts were beating furiously enough to move the folds of our coats. I was the first to speak.
“ ‘Did you see?’
“ ‘Yes, I saw.’
“ ‘Is he not dead?’
“ ‘But if he is beginning to putrefy!’
“ ‘What shall we do?’
“My companion replied, hesitating:
“ ‘We must go and see.’
“I took our candle and went in first, and my eyes roved all round the big room with its dark corners. There was no more movement, and I went to the bed. But I stood paralysed with amazement and terror: Schopenhauer was no longer smiling! He was grimacing in a horrible way, his mouth tight shut, with deep hollows in the cheeks.
“ ‘He is not dead!’ I stammered.
“But the awful smell rose to my nostrils, choking me. I did not stir, but gazed fixedly at him, terror-struck, as though in the presence of a ghost.
“Then my companion, taking the other candle, bent down. Then he touched my arm without speaking. I followed his gaze, and saw on the ground, under the chair at the bedside, quite white on the dark carpet, open as though to bite, Schopenhauer’s false teeth.
“The process of decomposition, loosening the jaws, had caused them to spring out of his mouth.
“I was really afraid that day, monsieur.”
And, as the sun was drawing close to the sparkling sea, the consumptive German rose, bowed to me, and went into the hotel.