The Crystal Spider

Author(s): Madame Rachilde and Daniel Gerould

Source: Performing Arts Journal, Vol. 7, No. 1 (1983), pp. 123-129
Published by: Performing Arts Journal, Inc
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3245304
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 The Crystal Spider

Madame Rachilde

Translated by Daniel Gerould

To Jules Renard

First Performance: Theatre de I'Oeuvre at the Bouffes-du-Nord on February

13, 1894.

Mother: B. Bady

Terror-Stricken: Lugne-Poe

First Publication: Mercure de France, June, 1892, pp. 147-55. Reprinted in Le

Demon de I'Absurde (Paris: Mercure de France, 1894), pp. 13-31.

A large drawing room, one of whose three windows opens on a terrace filled

with honeysuckle. Very bright summer night. The moon illuminates the en-

tire portion of the stage where the characters are found. The back of the

stage remains engulfed in darkness. One gets a glimpse of furniture with

heavy, old-fashioned shapes. In the midst of this demi-obscurity, a high

psyche mirror in the empire style, supported on each side by slender swan

necks with brass beaks. A faint reflection of light on the mirror, but, seen

from the lighted terrace, this reflection seems not to come from the moon,

but rather appears to emanate from the psyche itself, as a light that could

be intrinsic to it.

NOTE: A psyche, or cheval glass, is a mirror mounted so as to swing in a

frame, and large enough to reflect the whole figure.

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 Mother: 45 years old, bright eyes, tender mouth; she has a young face be-

neath gray hair. She wears an elegant black house dress and a white lace

mantilla. Sensual voice.

Terror-Stricken: 20 years old. He is thin, almost wispy in his casual outfit

made of pure white poplin. His face is ashen, his eyes have a vacant ex-

pression. His straight black hair glistens on his brow. He has regular fea-

tures recalling his mother's beauty, much the way a dead man resembles

his own portrait. Voice dull and indolent. The two characters are seated in

front of the open door.

MOTHER: Come on, little boy, tell me what you're thinking of?

TERROR-STRICKEN: But... nothing, mother.

MOTHER: (Stretching out in her armchair.) What a fragrance, that

honeysuckle! Do you smell it? It makes you tipsy. You could call it one of

those refined liqueurs for the lady ... (She licks her lips.)

TERROR-STRICKEN: A liqueur, that honeysuckle? Ah! ... Yes, mother.

MOTHER: You're not cold, I hope, in weather like this? And you don't have a

headache, do you?

TERROR-STRICKEN: No, thank you, mother.

MOTHER: Thank you for what? (She leans over and regards him closely.) My

poor little Sylvius! Now admit it, it is not amusing to keep an old woman

company. (Inhaling the breeze.) What a mild night! There is no need to

have the lamps brought in, is there? I told Francois that he could go for a

walk and I wager he's carrying on with the maids. We shall stay here until

the moon starts down ... (A moment of silence. She begins again in a

serious tone.) Sylvius, it is no use denying it, you are unsuccessful in

love. The longer you go on like this, the thinner you get ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: I have already assured you, mother, that I have never

loved anyone but you!

MOTHER: (Touched.) What foolishness! Look here, if she is a princely maid-

en, we could afford to treat ourselves to her, now couldn't we! And if she

is a scullery maid, just as long as you don't marry her ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: Mother, your teasing drives needles through my ear-

drum.

MOTHER: And if you've run into debt, into serious debt, well, what of it? You

know I can pay it off.

TERROR-STRICKEN: That debt again! But I have more money now than I

know how to spend.

MOTHER: (Lowering her voice and drawing her chair closer.) Now then you

won't get angry, will you? Why, to be sure! You men have secrets that are

more shameful than wicked passions or debts ... I have made up my

mind to take charge of everything ... Do you understand what I mean? If

my own flesh and blood took sick ... well, then, (Delicately.) we would

look after our health until we were cured ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (With a gesture of disgust.) My mother has gone mad.

MOTHER: (Carried away.) Yes, I am actually beginning to believe that I am

losing my mind every time I set eyes on you. (She gets up.) Haven't you

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 noticed how the sight of you inspires me with fear?

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Trembling.) With fear!

MOTHER: (Coming back and leaning over him, full of caresses.) I didn't

mean to cause you pain, Sylvius! (A pause, then she straightens up, and

speaks with vehemence.) Oh! What sort of tramp has taken my Sylvius

away from me? Because there is a tramp at the bottom of this, that is cer-

tain ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Shrugging his shoulders.) Why don't we make it sev-

eral tramps, if that is what my mother wants to hear.

MOTHER: (Remaining on her feet and seeming to talk to herself.) Or per-

haps a dreadful vice, one of those vices of which we respectable women

do not even have the slightest suspicion. (She speaks directly to him.)

Since you've become this way, I have started reading novels in an at-

tempt to understand you, and I haven't yet discovered anything that I did

not already know.

TERROR-STRICKEN: Oh! I can well imagine.

MOTHER: It's settled! Tomorrow we shall invite guests, women, young

ladies. You'll see your cousin Sylvia again. There was a time when you

used to follow her about like a little doggie, and now she has grown quite

charming; a bit of a flirt, I grant you, but so captivating with her imita-

tions of all the popular singers in vogue! ... Oh! My dear, woman should

be the sole preoccupation of man. Then love makes you handsome! (She

caresses his chin.) You will be able to interrogate the mirror in your

dressing room! ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Starting up with a gesture of dread.) The mirror in my

dressing room! ... Dear God! Women, young ladies, creatures who in the

depths of their eyes all retain the reflections of mirrors ... Mother!

Mother! Does my mother want to kill me ...

MOTHER: (Astonished.) What! Still harboring ideas on the subject of

dreams! So it's serious, that mania of yours? My word, he has ended up

imagining he's ugly. (She laughs.)

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Casting a furtive look behind him, in the direction of

the pysche which the moon distantly illumines.) Mamma, I beg you, let's

drop this topic. No, my physical well-being is not at issue ... There are

psychic reasons ... Dear God! You can see that I am stifling! ... Is that

anything you could understand! Oh! It's been incessant persecution for

the past week! You are crushing me! No, I'm not ill! ... I need to be

alone, that's all it is. Invite all the mirrors that you like and hang from the

walls all the women on earth, but do not tickle me in order to make me

laugh ... Ah! It's more than I can stand, more than I can stand! ... (He

falls back into his armchair.)

MOTHER: (Clutching him in her arms.) You are stifling, Sylvius, who are you

saying that to? As if I weren't consumed with anxiety when I see that sul-

len look on your face! Make an effort, I am capable of understanding you,

you'll see ... since I adore you! ... (She kisses him.)

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Suddenly bursting.) Well, all right then! Yes, that's it, I

am afraid of mirrors, have me put away if you wish! (Moment of silence.)

MOTHER: (Gently.) We'll put away the mirrors, Sylvius.

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 TERROR-STRICKEN: (Holding out his hands to her.) Forgive me, mother, I

am a brute. In all likelihood, I should have spoken sooner, but it is sheer

torture to think that you will be ridiculed. And this can scarcely be said in

a word or two ... (He passes his hands over his forehead.) Mother, what

do you see when you look at yourself? (He breathes with difficulty.)

MOTHER: I see myself, dear Sylvius. (She sits down again and shakes her

head.) I see an old woman. Alas! ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Giving her a look of commiseration.) Ah! Have you

never seen anything in there except yourself? I pity you! (Growing ani-

mated.) Now I have the impression that the inventor of the first mirror

must have gone mad with fear in the presence of his own creation! So,

for you, a woman of intelligence, there is nothing in a mirror but the

simplest things? In this atmosphere of the unknown, have you never

seen a host of phantoms suddenly rise up? At the threshold of those

dream gates, have you never felt the magic spell of the infinite keeping

you under surveillance? But a mirror is something so dreadful that I am

amazed, each morning, to find you still alive, all you women and young

ladies who spend your days admiring yourselves endlessly! ... Mother,

listen to me, it is a long story, and I must go far back to uncover the

cause of my hatred for mirrors, for I am one of the predestined, I have

been forewarned from my childhood ... I was ten years old, I was down

there in the pavilion of our park, all alone, and, in view of a huge, huge,

mirror-which has not been there for ages-I was leafing through my

school notebooks, I had a make-up assignment to write out. The enclos-

ed room, with its curtains drawn, struck me as being like a dwelling of

the poor; it was furnished with garden chairs quite eaten away by the

damp, and with a table covered by a dirty cloth full of holes. The ceiling

leaked, you could hear the rain beating against the half-demolished zinc

roof. The sole touch of luxury was suggested by that huge mirror, oh!

such a huge mirror, that stood as high as a man! Instinctively, I looked at

myself. Beneath the limpidity of its glass, it was flecked with lugubrious

spots. They could have been water lilies swelling on the surface of a

standing pool, and further down, in a recess of shadows, there rose up in-

distinct forms that resembled spectres moving through the streaming of

their slimy hair. I remember, as I stood there admiring myself, that I had

the strange sensation of plunging neck-deep into this looking-glass as

though it were a muddy lake. I had been locked in, I was doing penance

and so I was compelled, like it or not, to remain immersed in this stag-

nant water. By fixing my eyes on the eyes of my image, I made out a

small dot shining in the thick of those mists, and at the same time I dis-

cerned a faint insect sound coming from the place where I saw the dot.

Almost imperceptibly this dot spread out into a star. It crackled like dart-

ing streaks of lightning in the inmost core of that somnolent atmos-

phere, it buzzed the way a fly does against a window-pane. Mother! That

is what I saw and heard! I wasn't dreaming, I was wide awake. No possi-

ble way for a ten-year-old to explain it, nor could a grown-up do any bet-

ter, I assure you! I was aware that the pavilion had a shed attached to it

where the garden tools were kept; but it was unoccupied. I told myself

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 that, in all probability, some spider of an unknown species was about to

leap at my face, and, paralyzed, I remained rooted to the spot, my arms

frozen at my side. The white spider kept coming at me, it turned into a

youngcrab with asilver carapace, its head wasa constellation of dazzling

arcs, its claws stretched out eternally on my reflective head, it invaded

my forehead, split my temples, devoured my pupils, gradually effaced my

image, decapitated me. For a moment I saw myself standing there bolt

upright, arms twisted in horror, bearing upon my shoulders a monstrous

beast that had the sinister look of a cuttlefish! I tried to cry out; but, as

invariably happens in nightmares, I was unable to utter a sound. From

that moment on I felt myself at the mercy of the crystal spider who was

sucking my brains out! And it kept on buzzing, with the dull drone of a

beast who has decided to finish off an enemy once and for all... Then all

of a sudden, the huge looking-glass shattered under the enormous pres-

sure of the monster's tentacles, and this entire fictional vision crumbled

in glittering fragments, one of which slightly cut my hand. I let out har-

rowing cries and fainted ... When I was in a state to comprehend, our

gardener, who had made his way into my prison to reassure me, showed

me the brace and bit that he had been using, on the other side of the wall,

with the sole intention of driving in an immense nail! Having pierced the

wall, he had likewise pierced the looking-glass, suspecting nothing, as

he went about his work that was accompanied by the grinding sound

made by the tool. My wound was not serious ... The good man was

afraid that there might be a fuss ... and promised to keep quiet about

the whole thing ... From that day on, I have been inordinately preoc-

cupied with mirrors, despite the nervous revulsion that I experienced for

them. My brief existence has been utterly imbued with their satanic

reflections. And after the first physical contact, I have suffered many

other spiritual blows ... At one point, it may be the grotesque memory of

the way I looked beneath my schoolboy laurels. At another, it takes the

form of the photographic negative of my sins as a roue ... A mystery lies

buried in this mirror pursuit, in this hunt for the guilty one aimed at me

alone!-(He becomes lost in dreams for a moment, then begins again,

growing more and more animated.) Against me alone?... But no!

Believe me, mother, those who see well are as terror-stricken as I am.

After all, does any one know why this piece of glass that we coat with

quicksilver suddenly acquires the depths of an abyss ... and makes the

world double? The mirror is the problem of life perpetually opposed to

man! Does any one know precisely what Narcissus saw in the fountain

or what it was that killed him?...

MOTHER: (Shuddering.) Oh! Sylvius! Now you terrify me. So you are not

merely telling me far-fetched stories? Is it really true ... that you think

about those things?

TERROR-STRICKEN: Mother, would you dare, right at this very moment, go

and look at yourself in a looking-glass?

MOTHER: (Turning around towards the back of the drawing room, very dis-

turbed.) No! No! I would not dare to ... If we lighted a lamp ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Forcing her to sit down again and sneering.) There...

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 I knew that you too would be afraid! In just a few moments you will see in

there very clearly! Woman, why do insist upon peopling our apartments

with those cynical blunders that make sure I can never, never be alone?

Why do you throw in my face this man-spy who has the ability to weep

my tears? One evening as I was draping a fur pelisse over your shoulders

when we came out from a ball, I saw in a mirror a lady who resembled my

mother smile voluptuously! ... One morning while I was waiting for my

cousin Sylvia, cooling my heels at her door, a bouquet of orchids in my

hand, I watched that door swing partly open on an immense looking-

glass where a beautiful naked girl was reflected in a provocative pose!

... Mother, looking-glasses are deep pits where women's virtue and

men's peace of mind founder together.

MOTHER: Shut your mouth! I do not wish to hear you any more.

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Seizing her arm and rising to his feet.) Mother, have

you ever come across those soliciting mirrors that grab you by the sleeve

in the streets of great cities? Or those that drop down on you suddenly

like cloudbursts? Or the mirrors in shop windows encased in frames dis-

gustingly sham, as creatures for sale are in rouge and tinsel? Have you

seen them offer you their resplendent flanks where each and every

passer-by has slept in quick succession? Infernal mirrors! But they

molest us on all sides. They spring up from oceans, rivers, streams! By

drinking out of my glass, I confirm my own hideousness. The neighbor

who thinks that he has only one ulcer always has a second! ... Mirrors

personify the art of the informer, and they transmute a slight annoyance

into infinite despair. They lurk in the dewdrop to change the heart of a

flower into a heart swollen with sobs. By turn, full of lying promises of joy

or replete with secrets shameful (and sterile as prostitutes), they retain

neither impress nor color. If she has slipped into the arms of another in

front of the mirror which I contemplate, I always see myself in the place

of the other! (Furious.) They are infamous torturers who remain insen-

sible, and yet, endowed with Satan's power, if they saw God, mother,

they would look just like him! ...

MOTHER: (In a suppliant tone.) Sylvius! The moon has reached the corner of

the wall. Go fetch a lamp, I want to see in there ...

TERROR-STRICKEN: (In a voice grown once again sepulchral.) Oh! I tell you

these things because you force me to it! I truly lack all qualities to be-

come the fatal voice of revelation, but it is fitting that blind women, quite

by chance, learn to appreciate the terrifying situation that they create for

men who see, even in the shadows. Sumptuously you install those relent-

less jailors in our quarters, for love of you we must tolerate them. And in

return for our patience they slap us in the face with our own image, our

own vileness, our own absurd gestures. Ah! Curses upon your doubles,

for this once at least! Curses upon our rivals! Between you and them

there exists a diabolic pact. (In a desolate tone of voice.) Have you ever

noticed, on a snowy winter morning, those birds circling above the trap

that glitters and leads them to believe in a miraculous pile of silvery oats

or golden wheat? Have you seen them, as they fall, fall, one by one, from

the heights of heaven, wings shattered, beak bloody, their eyes all the

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 while still dazzled by the splendors of their delusion! There are two

kinds: mirror for skylarks and mirror for men, the one that lies in wait at

the dangerous turning point in their obscure existence, the one that will

watch them die, forehead pressed against the glazed crystal of its enig-

ma ...

MOTHER: (Clinging desperately to him.) No! I can bear no more! I am al-

ready suffering too much! Your voice is killing me! Anxiety grips me by

the throat! Have you no pity left for your mother, Sylvius? I wanted to

know, I was wrong. Pardon me! Go fetch the lamps, I beg you! (She goes

down on her knees, clasps her hands together.) I feel as though I was

paralyzed.

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Staggering.) I am afraid, the mirror, concealed in the

dark, your huge psyche, mother...

MOTHER: (Exasperated.) Coward! Do you suppose that I am not still more

afraid than you! Will you do as I tell you or not!

TERROR-STRICKEN: (Getting to his feet, beside himself.) Very well, so be it!

I am going to get the light for you!

(He rushes violently in the direction of the psyche, behind which the living

room door is located. For an instant, he raced through a deep night... All of

a sudden, the terrible overturning of a huge piece of furniture, the ringing

sound of shattering glass and the pitiful howl of a man whose throat has

been cut...)

END

? Translation copyright 1981 by Daniel Gerould.

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