sábado, 3 de julho de 2010

The Man of the Crowd [original]

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.
La Bruyère

It was well said of a certain German book that “er lasst sich nicht lesen”—it does not permititself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men dienightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them piteously in theeyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness ofmysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience ofman takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. Andthus 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 ofthe D—— Coffee-House in London. For some months I had been ill in health, but was nowconvalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which areso precisely the converse of ennui—moods of the keenest appetency, when the film from themental vision departs—the achlus os prin epæen (Gr.)—and the intellect, electrified, surpasses asgreatly its every-day condition, as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad andflimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasureeven from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in everything. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for thegreater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing thepromiscuous 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 crowdedduring the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and, by thetime the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing pastthe 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 ofthe scene without.

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers inmasses, 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, andexpression of countenance.

By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied business-like demeanor, andseemed to be thinking only of making their way through the press. Their brows were knit, andtheir eyes rolled quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom ofimpatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a numerous class, were restlessin their movements, had flushed faces, and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling insolitude on account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in theirprogress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their gesticulations, andawaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon the lips, the course of the persons impedingthem. If jostled, they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed withconfusion.—There was nothing very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I havenoted. Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly termed the decent. They wereundoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers—the Eupatrids and thecommon-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. Therewere the junior clerks of flash houses—young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, welloiledhair, and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which may betermed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these persons seemed to me an exactfacsimile of what had been the perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before.They wore the cast-off 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 notpossible to mistake. These were known by their coats and pantaloons of black or brown, made tosit comfortably, with white cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose orgaiters.—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 hatswith both hands, 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 tothe race of swell pick-pockets with which all great cities are infested. I watched these gentry withmuch inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be mistaken forgentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of wristband, with an air ofexcessive frankness, should betray them at once.

The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily recognisable. They woreevery variety of dress, from that of the desperate thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancyneckerchief, 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 certainsodden 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 lownessof tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of the thumb in a direction at rightangles with the fingers. Very often, in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of mensomewhat different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be defined as thegentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to prey upon the public in two battalions—that ofthe dandies and that of the military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks andsmiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.

Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and deeper themes forspeculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing from countenances whose every otherfeature wore only an expression of abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowlingupon mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the night forcharity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed a sure hand, and who sidledand tottered through the mob, looking every one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of somechance consolation, some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long and late labor to acheerless 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 allages—the unequivocal beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statuein Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with filth—the loathsome andutterly lost leper in rags—the wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a lasteffort at youth—the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association, an adept in thedreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid ambition to be ranked the equal of herelders 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—othersclothed in materials which had once been good, and which even now were scrupulously wellbrushed—men who walked with a more than naturally firm and springy step, but whosecountenances were fearfully pale, whose eyes hideously wild and red, and who clutched withquivering fingers, as they strode through the crowd, at every object which came within theirreach; beside these, pie-men, porters, coal- heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders, monkey-exhibitersand ballad mongers, those who vended with those who sang; ragged artizans and exhaustedlaborers of every description, and all full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarreddiscordantly 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 generalcharacter of the crowd materially alter (its gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal ofthe more orderly portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief, as thelate 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, andthrew over every thing a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid—as that ebony towhich has been likened the style of Tertullian.

The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual faces; and althoughthe rapidity with which the world of light flitted before the window, prevented me from castingmore than a glance upon each visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, Icould 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 therecame into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old man, some sixty-five or seventy years ofage,)—a countenance which at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of theabsolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely resembling that expression Ihad never seen before. I well remember that my first thought, upon beholding it, was thatRetszch, had he viewed it, would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of thefiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, to form some analysis ofthe meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and paradoxically within my mind, the ideas ofvast mental power, of caution, of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of bloodthirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense—of supreme despair. I feltsingularly aroused, startled, fascinated. “How wild a history,” I said to myself, “is written withinthat bosom!” Then came a craving desire to keep the man in view—to know more of him.Hurriedly putting on an 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 alreadydisappeared. With some little difficulty I at length came within sight of him, approached, andfollowed 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, andapparently very feeble. His clothes, generally, were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now andthen, within the strong glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of beautifultexture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a closely-buttoned and evidentlysecond-handed roquelaire which enveloped him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of adagger. These observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the strangerwhithersoever he should go.

It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city, soon ending in a settledand heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd effect upon the crowd, the whole of whichwas at once put into new commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, thejostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did not much regard therain—the lurking of an old fever in my system rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerouslypleasant. Tying a handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held hisway with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked close at his elbow throughfear of losing sight of him. Never once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. Byand bye he passed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite somuch 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 recrossedthe way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick that, at everysuch movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The street was a narrow and long one, andhis course lay within it for nearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually diminishedto about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the Park—so vast adifference is there between a London populace and that of the most frequented American city. Asecond turn brought us into a square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The oldmanner of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled wildlyfrom under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who hemmed him in. He urged his waysteadily and perseveringly. I was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit ofthe square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished to see him repeat thesame walk several times — once nearly detecting me as he came round with a suddenmovement.

In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with far less interruptionfrom passengers than at first. The rain fell fast; the air grew cool; and the people were retiring totheir homes. With a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-street comparativelydeserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an activity I could not havedreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutesbrought us to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared wellacquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he forced his way to andfro, 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 muchcaution on my part to keep him within reach without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore apair of caoutchouc over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he seethat I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke no word, and looked at allobjects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmlyresolved 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 shopkeeper,in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and at the instant I saw a strong shuddercome over his frame. He hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, andthen ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we emergedonce 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 fellfiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked moodilysome paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh, turned in the direction of theriver, and, plunging through a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of oneof the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were thronging from thedoors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he threw himself amid the crowd; but Ithought that the intense agony of his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head againfell upon his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now took the coursein which had gone the greater number of the audience—but, upon the whole, I was at a loss tocomprehend the waywardness of his actions.

As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness and vacillationwere resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of some ten or twelve roisterers; butfrom this number one by one dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow andgloomy 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 thecity, amid regions very different from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisomequarter 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, wormeaten,wooden tenements were seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capriciousthat scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones lay atrandom, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in thedammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, thesounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the most abandonedof 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. Suddenlya corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the hugesuburban temples of Intemperance—one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.

It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still pressed in and out of theflaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed atonce his original bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among thethrong. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the doors gave token thatthe host was closing them for the night. It was something even more intense than despair that Ithen 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 theheart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildestamazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. Thesun arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most thronged mart ofthe populous town, the street of the D—— Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle andactivity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid themomently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, hewalked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And, as theshades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front ofthe wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemnwalk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. “This old man,” I said atlength, “is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of thecrowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worstheart of the world is a grosser book than the ‘Hortulus Animæ,’ and perhaps it is but one of thegreat mercies of God that ‘er lasst sich nicht lesen.’

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