The Magic Couch
The Seine flowed past my house, without a ripple on its surface, andgleaming in the bright morning sunlight. It was a beautiful, broad,indolent silver stream, with crimson lights here and there; and on theopposite side of the river were rows of tall trees that covered all thebank with an immense wall of verdure.The sensation of life which is renewed each day, of fresh, happy, lovinglife trembled in the leaves, palpitated in the air, was mirrored in thewater.The postman had just brought my papers, which were handed to me, and Iwalked slowly to the river bank in order to read them.In the first paper I opened I noticed this headline, "Statistics ofSuicides," and I read that more than 8,500 persons had killed themselvesin that year.In a moment I seemed to see them! I saw this voluntary and hideousmassacre of the despairing who were weary of life. I saw men bleeding,their jaws fractured, their skulls cloven, their breasts pierced by abullet, slowly dying, alone in a little room in a hotel, giving nothought to their wound, but thinking only of their misfortunes.I saw others seated before a tumbler in which some matches were soaking,or before a little bottle with a red label.They would look at it fixedly without moving; then they would drink andawait the result; then a spasm would convulse their cheeks and draw theirlips together; their eyes would grow wild with terror, for they did notknow that the end would be preceded by so much suffering.They rose to their feet, paused, fell over and with their hands pressedto their stomachs they felt their internal organs on fire, their entrailsdevoured by the fiery liquid, before their minds began to grow dim.I saw others hanging from a nail in the wall, from the fastening of thewindow, from a hook in the ceiling, from a beam in the garret, from abranch of a tree amid the evening rain. And I surmised all that hadhappened before they hung there motionless, their tongues hanging out oftheir mouths. I imagined the anguish of their heart, their finalhesitation, their attempts to fasten the rope, to determine that it wassecure, then to pass the noose round their neck and to let themselvesfall.I saw others lying on wretched beds, mothers with their little children,old men dying of hunger, young girls dying for love, all rigid,suffocated, asphyxiated, while in the center of the room the brasierstill gave forth the fumes of charcoal.And I saw others walking at night along the deserted bridges. These werethe most sinister. The water flowed under the arches with a low sound.They did not see it . . . they guessed at it from its cool breath!They longed for it and they feared it. They dared not do it! And yet,they must. A distant clock sounded the hour and, suddenly, in the vastsilence of the night, there was heard the splash of a body falling intothe river, a scream or two, the sound of hands beating the water, and allwas still. Sometimes, even, there was only the sound of the falling bodywhen they had tied their arms down or fastened a stone to their feet.Oh, the poor things, the poor things, the poor things, how I felt theiranguish, how I died in their death! I went through all theirwretchedness; I endured in one hour all their tortures. I knew all thesorrows that had led them to this, for I know the deceitful infamy oflife, and no one has felt it more than I have.How I understood them, these who weak, harassed by misfortune, havinglost those they loved, awakened from the dream of a tardy compensation,from the illusion of another existence where God will finally be just,after having been ferocious, and their minds disabused of the mirages ofhappiness, have given up the fight and desire to put an end to thisceaseless tragedy, or this shameful comedy.Suicide! Why, it is the strength of those whose strength is exhausted,the hope of those who no longer believe, the sublime courage of theconquered! Yes, there is at least one door to this life we can alwaysopen and pass through to the other side. Nature had an impulse of pity;she did not shut us up in prison. Mercy for the despairing!As for those who are simply disillusioned, let them march ahead with freesoul and quiet heart. They have nothing to fear since they may taketheir leave; for behind them there is always this door that the gods ofour illusions cannot even lock.I thought of this crowd of suicides: more than eight thousand fivehundred in one year. And it seemed to me that they had combined to sendto the world a prayer, to utter a cry of appeal, to demand something thatshould come into effect later when we understood things better. Itseemed to me that all these victims, their throats cut, poisoned, hung,asphyxiated, or drowned, all came together, a frightful horde, likecitizens to the polls, to say to society:"Grant us, at least, a gentle death! Help us to die, you who will nothelp us to live! See, we are numerous, we have the right to speak inthese days of freedom, of philosophic independence and of popularsuffrage. Give to those who renounce life the charity of a death thatwill not be repugnant nor terrible."I began to dream, allowing my fancy to roam at will in weird andmysterious fashion on this subject.I seemed to be all at once in a beautiful city. It was Paris; but atwhat period? I walked about the streets, looking at the houses, thetheaters, the public buildings, and presently found myself in a squarewhere I remarked a large building; very handsome, dainty and attractive.I was surprised on reading on the facade this inscription in letters ofgold, "Suicide Bureau."Oh, the weirdness of waking dreams where the spirit soars into a world ofunrealities and possibilities! Nothing astonishes one, nothing shocksone; and the unbridled fancy makes no distinction between the comic andthe tragic.I approached the building where footmen in knee-breeches were seated inthe vestibule in front of a cloak-room as they do at the entrance of aclub.I entered out of curiosity. One of the men rose and said:"What does monsieur wish?""I wish to know what building this is.""Nothing more?""Why, no.""Then would monsieur like me to take him to the Secretary of the Bureau?"I hesitated, and asked:"But will not that disturb him?""Oh, no, monsieur, he is here to receive those who desire information.""Well, lead the way."He took me through corridors where old gentlemen were chatting, andfinally led me into a beautiful office, somewhat somber, furnishedthroughout in black wood. A stout young man with a corporation waswriting a letter as he smoked a cigar, the fragrance of which gaveevidence of its quality.He rose. We bowed to each other, and as soon as the footman had retiredhe asked:"What can I do for you?""Monsieur," I replied, "pardon my curiosity. I had never seen thisestablishment. The few words inscribed on the facade filled me withastonishment, and I wanted to know what was going on here."He smiled before replying, then said in a low tone with a complacent air:"Mon Dieu, monsieur, we put to death in a cleanly and gentle--I do notventure to say agreeable manner those persons who desire to die."I did not feel very shocked, for it really seemed to me natural andright. What particularly surprised me was that on this planet, with itslow, utilitarian, humanitarian ideals, selfish and coercive of all truefreedom, any one should venture on a similar enterprise, worthy of anemancipated humanity."How did you get the idea?" I asked."Monsieur," he replied, "the number of suicides increased so enormouslyduring the five years succeeding the world exposition of 1889 that somemeasures were urgently needed. People killed themselves in the streets,at fetes, in restaurants, at the theater, in railway carriages, at thereceptions held by the President of the Republic, everywhere. It was notonly a horrid sight for those who love life, as I do, but also a badexample for children. Hence it became necessary to centralize suicides.""What caused this suicidal epidemic?""I do not know. The fact is, I believe, the world is growing old.People begin to see things clearly and they are getting disgruntled.It is the same to-day with destiny as with the government, we have foundout what it is; people find that they are swindled in every direction,and they just get out of it all. When one discovers that Providencelies, cheats, robs, deceives human beings just as a plain Deputy deceiveshis constituents, one gets angry, and as one cannot nominate a freshProvidence every three months as we do with our privilegedrepresentatives, one just gets out of the whole thing, which is decidedlybad.""Really!""Oh, as for me, I am not complaining.""Will you inform me how you carry on this establishment?""With pleasure. You may become a member when you please. It is a club.""A club!""Yes, monsieur, founded by the most eminent men in the country, by men ofthe highest intellect and brightest intelligence. And," he added,laughing heartily, "I swear to you that every one gets a great deal ofenjoyment out of it.""In this place?""Yes, in this place.""You surprise me.""Mon Dieu, they enjoy themselves because they have not that fear of deathwhich is the great killjoy in all our earthly pleasures.""But why should they be members of this club if they do not killthemselves?""One may be a member of the club without being obliged for that reason tocommit suicide.""But then?""I will explain. In view of the enormous increase in suicides, and ofthe hideous spectacle they presented, a purely benevolent society wasformed for the protection of those in despair, which placed at theirdisposal the facilities for a peaceful, painless, if not unforeseendeath.""Who can have authorized such an institution?""General Boulanger during his brief tenure of power. He could neverrefuse anything. However, that was the only good thing he did. Hence, asociety was formed of clear-sighted, disillusioned skeptics who desiredto erect in the heart of Paris a kind of temple dedicated to the contemptfor death. This place was formerly a dreaded spot that no one venturedto approach. Then its founders, who met together here, gave a grandinaugural entertainment with Mmes. Sarah Bernhardt, Judic, Theo, Granier,and twenty others, and Mme. de Reske, Coquelin, Mounet-Sully, Paulus,etc., present, followed by concerts, the comedies of Dumas, of Meilhac,Halevy and Sardon. We had only one thing to mar it, one drama by Becquewhich seemed sad, but which subsequently had a great success at theComedie-Francaise. In fact all Paris came. The enterprise waslaunched.""In the midst of the festivities! What a funereal joke!""Not at all. Death need not be sad, it should be a matter ofindifference. We made death cheerful, crowned it with flowers, coveredit with perfume, made it easy. One learns to aid others through example;one can see that it is nothing.""I can well understand that they should come to the entertainments; butdid they come to . . . Death?""Not at first; they were afraid.""And later?""They came.""Many of them?""In crowds. We have had more than forty in a day. One finds hardly anymore drowned bodies in the Seine.""Who was the first?""A club member.""As a sacrifice to the cause?""I don't think so. A man who was sick of everything, a 'down and out'who had lost heavily at baccarat for three months.""Indeed?""The second was an Englishman, an eccentric. We then advertised in thepapers, we gave an account of our methods, we invented some attractiveinstances. But the great impetus was given by poor people.""How do you go to work?""Would you like to see? I can explain at the same time.""Yes, indeed."He took his hat, opened the door, allowed me to precede him, and weentered a card room, where men sat playing as they, play in all gamblingplaces. They were chatting cheerfully, eagerly. I have seldom seen sucha jolly, lively, mirthful club.As I seemed surprised, the secretary said:"Oh, the establishment has an unheard of prestige. All the smart peopleall over the world belong to it so as to appear as though they held deathin scorn. Then, once they get here, they feel obliged to be cheerfulthat they may not appear to be afraid. So they joke and laugh and talkflippantly, they are witty and they become so. At present it iscertainly the most frequented and the most entertaining place in Paris.The women are even thinking of building an annex for themselves.""And, in spite of all this, you have many suicides in the house?""As I said, about forty or fifty a day. Society people are rare, butpoor devils abound. The middle class has also a large contingent."And how . . . do they do?""They are asphyxiated . . . very slowly.""In what manner?""A gas of our own invention. We have the patent. On the other side ofthe building are the public entrances--three little doors opening onsmall streets. When a man or a woman present themselves they areinterrogated. Then they are offered assistance, aid, protection. If aclient accepts, inquiries are made; and sometimes we have saved theirlives.""Where do you get your money?""We have a great deal. There are a large number of shareholders.Besides it is fashionable to contribute to the establishment. The namesof the donors are published in Figaro. Then the suicide of every richman costs a thousand francs. And they look as if they were lying instate. It costs the poor nothing.""How can you tell who is poor?""Oh, oh, monsieur, we can guess! And, besides, they must bring acertificate of indigency from the commissary of police of their district.If you knew how distressing it is to see them come in! I visited theirpart of our building once only, and I will never go again. The placeitself is almost as good as this part, almost as luxurious andcomfortable; but they themselves . . . they themselves!!! If youcould see them arriving, the old men in rags coming to die; persons whohave been dying of misery for months, picking up their food at the edgesof the curbstone like dogs in the street; women in rags, emaciated, sick,paralyzed, incapable of making a living, who say to us after they havetold us their story: 'You see that things cannot go on like that, as Icannot work any longer or earn anything.' I saw one woman of eighty-seven who had lost all her children and grandchildren, and who for thelast six weeks had been sleeping out of doors. It made me ill to hear ofit. Then we have so many different cases, without counting those who saynothing, but simply ask: 'Where is it?' These are admitted at once andit is all over in a minute."With a pang at my heart I repeated:"And . . . where is it?""Here," and he opened a door, adding:"Go in; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the oneleast used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here.""Ah! You call that an . . . annihilation!""Yes, monsieur. Go in."I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort ofgreenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and delicategreen gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing walls.In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms, flowers,especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the Revue desDeuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised me, Vichypastilles in a bonbonniere.As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:"Oh, they often come here to chat." He continued: "The public corridorsare similar, but more simply furnished."In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with creamycrepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of unknownvariety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.The secretary added in a lower tone:"We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which isquite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide's favoriteflower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale itfor a second?""'No, thank you," I said hastily, "not yet . . . ."He began to laugh."Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself severaltimes."I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:"Well, I'll try it.""Stretch yourself out on the 'endormeuse."'A little uneasy I seated myself on the low couch covered with crepe deChine and stretched myself full length, and was at once bathed in adelicious odor of mignonette. I opened my mouth in order to breathe itin, for my mind had already become stupefied and forgetful of the pastand was a prey, in the first stages of asphyxia, to the enchantingintoxication of a destroying and magic opium.Some one shook me by the arm."Oh, oh, monsieur," said the secretary, laughing, "it looks to me as ifyou were almost caught."But a voice, a real voice, and no longer a dream voice, greeted me withthe peasant intonation:"Good morning, m'sieu. How goes it?"My dream was over. I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and,coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with hisright hand touched his kepi braided in silver. I replied:"Good morning, Marinel. Where are you going?""I am going to look at a drowned man whom they fished up near theMorillons. Another who has thrown himself into the soup. He even tookoff his trousers in order to tie his legs together with them."
The Magic Couch was featured as
TheShort Story of the Day on
Fri, Jan 04, 2013
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