Will she forever summon in vain to her assistance the lance of light of the ideal?
Is she condemned to hear the fearful approach of Evil through the density of the gulf, and to catch glimpses, nearer and nearer at hand, beneath the hideous water of that dragon’s head, that maw streaked with foam, and that writhing undulation of claws, swellings, and rings?
Must it remain there, without a gleam of light, without hope, given over to that terrible approach, vaguely scented out by the monster, shuddering, dishevelled, wringing its arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a sombre Andromeda white and naked amid the shadows!
CHAPTER III—SLANG WHICH WEEPS AND SLANG WHICH LAUGHS
As the reader perceives, slang in its entirety, slang of four hundred years ago, like the slang of to-day, is permeated with that sombre, symbolical spirit which gives to all words a mien which is now mournful, now menacing.
One feels in it the wild and ancient sadness of those vagrants of the Court of Miracles who played at cards with packs of their own, some of which have come down to us.
The eight of clubs, for instance, represented a huge tree bearing eight enormous trefoil leaves, a sort of fantastic personification of the forest.
At the foot of this tree a fire was burning, over which three hares were roasting a huntsman on a spit, and behind him, on another fire, hung a steaming pot, whence emerged the head of a dog.
Nothing can be more melancholy than these reprisals in painting, by a pack of cards, in the presence of stakes for the roasting of smugglers and of the cauldron for the boiling of counterfeiters.
The diverse forms assumed by thought in the realm of slang, even song, even raillery, even menace, all partook of this powerless and dejected character.
All the songs, the melodies of some of which have been collected, were humble and lamentable to the point of evoking tears.
The pegre is always the poor pegre, and he is always the hare in hiding, the fugitive mouse, the flying bird.
He hardly complains, he contents himself with sighing; one of his moans has come down to us:
“I do not understand how God, the father of men, can torture his children and his grandchildren and hear them cry, without himself suffering torture."43 The wretch, whenever he has time to think, makes himself small before the low, and frail in the presence of society; he lies down flat on his face, he entreats, he appeals to the side of compassion; we feel that he is conscious of his guilt.
Towards the middle of the last century a change took place, prison songs and thieves’ ritournelles assumed, so to speak, an insolent and jovial mien.
The plaintive malure was replaced by the larifla.
We find in the eighteenth century, in nearly all the songs of the galleys and prisons, a diabolical and enigmatical gayety.
We hear this strident and lilting refrain which we should say had been lighted up by a phosphorescent gleam, and which seems to have been flung into the forest by a will-o’-the-wisp playing the fife:—
Miralabi suslababo
Mirliton ribonribette
Surlababi mirlababo
Mirliton ribonribo.
This was sung in a cellar or in a nook of the forest while cutting a man’s throat.
A serious symptom.
In the eighteenth century, the ancient melancholy of the dejected classes vanishes.
They began to laugh.
They rally the grand meg and the grand dab.
Given Louis XV. they call the King of France “le Marquis de Pantin.”
And behold, they are almost gay.
A sort of gleam proceeds from these miserable wretches, as though their consciences were not heavy within them any more.
These lamentable tribes of darkness have no longer merely the desperate audacity of actions, they possess the heedless audacity of mind.
A sign that they are losing the sense of their criminality, and that they feel, even among thinkers and dreamers, some indefinable support which the latter themselves know not of.
A sign that theft and pillage are beginning to filter into doctrines and sophisms, in such a way as to lose somewhat of their ugliness, while communicating much of it to sophisms and doctrines.
A sign, in short, of some outbreak which is prodigious and near unless some diversion shall arise.
Let us pause a moment.
Whom are we accusing here? Is it the eighteenth century?
Is it philosophy?
Certainly not.
The work of the eighteenth century is healthy and good and wholesome.
The encyclopedists, Diderot at their head; the physiocrates, Turgot at their head; the philosophers, Voltaire at their head; the Utopians, Rousseau at their head,—these are four sacred legions.
Humanity’s immense advance towards the light is due to them.
They are the four vanguards of the human race, marching towards the four cardinal points of progress. Diderot towards the beautiful, Turgot towards the useful, Voltaire towards the true, Rousseau towards the just.
But by the side of and above the philosophers, there were the sophists, a venomous vegetation mingled with a healthy growth, hemlock in the virgin forest.
While the executioner was burning the great books of the liberators of the century on the grand staircase of the court-house, writers now forgotten were publishing, with the King’s sanction, no one knows what strangely disorganizing writings, which were eagerly read by the unfortunate.
Some of these publications, odd to say, which were patronized by a prince, are to be found in the Secret Library.
These facts, significant but unknown, were imperceptible on the surface.
Sometimes, in the very obscurity of a fact lurks its danger.
It is obscure because it is underhand.
Of all these writers, the one who probably then excavated in the masses the most unhealthy gallery was Restif de La Bretonne.
This work, peculiar to the whole of Europe, effected more ravages in Germany than anywhere else.