"Bah! Monsieur," the old mountebank said to me; "it is a matter of
exercise and habit, that is all! Of course, one requires to be a little
gifted that way and not to be butter-fingered, but what is chiefly
necessary is patience and daily practice for long, long years."
His modesty surprised me all the more, because of all performers who
are generally infatuated with their own skill, he was the most
wonderfully clever one I had met. Certainly I had frequently seen him,
for everybody had seen him in some circus or other, or even in
traveling shows, performing the trick that consists of putting a man or
woman with extended arms against a wooden target, and in throwing
knives between their fingers and round their heads, from a distance.
There is nothing very extraordinary in it, after all, when one knows
THE TRICKS OF THE TRADE, and that the knives are not the least sharp,
and stick into the wood at some distance from the flesh. It is the
rapidity of the throws, the glitter of the blades, and the curve which
the handles make toward their living object, which give an air of
danger to an exhibition that has become commonplace, and only requires
very middling skill.
But here there was no trick and no deception, and no dust thrown into
the eyes. It was done in good earnest and in all sincerity. The knives
were as sharp as razors, and the old mountebank planted them close to
the flesh, exactly in the angle between the fingers. He surrounded the
head with a perfect halo of knives, and the neck with a collar from
which nobody could have extricated himself without cutting his carotid
artery, while, to increase the difficulty, the old fellow went through
the performance without seeing, his whole face being covered with a
close mask of thick oilcloth.
Naturally, like other great artists, he was not understood by the
crowd, who confounded him with vulgar tricksters, and his mask only
appeared to them a trick the more, and a very common trick into the
bargain.
"He must think us very stupid," they said. "How could he possibly aim
without having his eyes open?"
And they thought there must be imperceptible holes in the oilcloth, a
sort of latticework concealed in the material. It was useless for him
to allow the public to examine the mask for themselves before the
exhibition began. It was all very well that they could not discover any
trick, but they were only all the more convinced that they were being
tricked. Did not the people know that they ought to be tricked?
I had recognized a great artist in the old mountebank, and I was quite
sure that he was altogether incapable of any trickery. I told him so,
while expressing my admiration to him; and he had been touched by my
open admiration and above all by the justice I had done him. Thus we
became good friends, and he explained to me, very modestly, the real
trick which the crowd do not understand, the eternal trick contained in
these simple words: "To be gifted by nature and to practice every day
for long, long years."
He had been especially struck by the certainty which I expressed that
any trickery must become impossible to him. "Yes," he said to me;
"quite impossible! Impossible to a degree which you cannot imagine. If
I were to tell you! But where would be the use?"
His face clouded over, and his eyes filled with tears. I did not
venture to force myself into his confidence. My looks, however, were
not so discreet as my silence, and begged him to speak; so he responded
to their mute appeal.
"After all," he said; "why should I not tell you about it? You will
understand me." And he added, with a look of sudden ferocity: "She
understood it, at any rate!"
"Who?" I asked.
"My strumpet of a wife," he replied. "Ah! Monsieur, what an abominable
creature she was--if you only knew! Yes, she understood it too well,
too well, and that is why I hate her so; even more on that account,
than for having deceived me. For that is a natural fault, is it not,
and may be pardoned? But the other thing was a crime, a horrible crime."
The woman, who stood against the wooden target every night with her
arms stretched out and her finger extended, and whom the old mountebank
fitted with gloves and with a halo formed of his knives, which were as
sharp as razors and which he planted close to her, was his wife. She
might have been a woman of forty, and must have been fairly pretty, but
with a perverse prettiness; she had an impudent mouth, a mouth that was
at the same time sensual and bad, with the lower lip too thick for the
thin, dry upper lip.
I had several times noticed that every time he planted a knife in the
board, she uttered a laugh, so low as scarcely to be heard, but which
was very significant when one heard it, for it was a hard and very
mocking laugh. I had always attributed that sort of reply to an
artifice which the occasion required. It was intended, I thought, to
accentuate the danger she incurred and the contempt that she felt for
it, thanks to the sureness of the thrower's hands, and so I was very
much surprised when the mountebank said to me:
"Have you observed her laugh, I say? Her evil laugh which makes fun of
me, and her cowardly laugh which defies me? Yes, cowardly, because she
knows that nothing can happen to her, nothing, in spite of all she
deserves, in spite of all that I ought to do to her, in spite of all
that I WANT to do to her."
"What do you want to do?"
"Confound it! Cannot you guess? I want to kill her."
"To kill her, because she has--"
"Because she has deceived me? No, no, not that, I tell you again. I
have forgiven her for that a long time ago, and I am too much
accustomed to it! But the worst of it is that the first time I forgave
her, when I told her that all the same I might some day have my revenge
by cutting her throat, if I chose, without seeming to do it on purpose,
as if it were an accident, mere awkwardness--"
"Oh! So you said that to her?"
"Of course I did, and I meant it. I thought I might be able to do it,
for you see I had the perfect right to do so. It was so simple, so
easy, so tempting! Just think! A mistake of less than half an inch, and
her skin would be cut at the neck where the jugular vein is, and the
jugular would be severed. My knives cut very well! And when once the
jugular is cut--good-bye. The blood would spurt out, and one, two,
three red jets, and all would be over; she would be dead, and I should
have had my revenge!"
"That is true, certainly, horribly true!"
"And without any risk to me, eh? An accident, that is all; bad luck,
one of those mistakes which happen every day in our business. What
could they accuse me of? Whoever would think of accusing me, even?
Homicide through imprudence, that would be all! They would even pity
me, rather than accuse me. 'My wife! My poor wife!' I should say,
sobbing. 'My wife, who is so necessary to me, who is half the
breadwinner, who takes part in my performance!' You must acknowledge
that I should be pitied!"
"Certainly; there is not the least doubt about that."
"And you must allow that such a revenge would he a very nice revenge,
the best possible revenge which I could have with assured impunity."
"Evidently that is so."
"Very well! But when I told her so, as I have told you, and more
forcibly still; threatening her as I was mad with rage and ready to do
the deed that I had dreamed of on the spot, what do you think she said?"
"That you were a good fellow, and would certainly not have the
atrocious courage to--"
"Tut! tut! tut! I am not such a good fellow as you think. I am not
frightened of blood, and that I have proved already, though it would be
useless to tell you how and where. But I had no necessity to prove it
to her, for she knows that I am capable of a good many things; even of
crime; especially of one crime."
"And she was not frightened?"
"No. She merely replied that I could not do what I said; you
understand. That I could not do it!"
"Why not?"
"Ah! Monsieur, so you do not understand? Why do you not? I have I not
explained to you by what constant, long, daily practice I have learned
to plant my knives without seeing what I am doing?"
"Yes, well, what then?"
"Well! Cannot you understand what she has understood with such terrible
results, that now my hand would no longer obey me if I wished to make a
mistake as I threw?"
"Is it possible?"
"Nothing is truer, I am sorry to say. For I really have wished to have
the revenge which I have dreamed of, and which I thought so easy.
Exasperated by that bad woman's insolence and confidence in her own
safety, I have several times made up my mind to kill her, and have
exerted all my energy and all my skill to make my knives fly aside when
I threw them to make a border round her neck. I have tried with all my
might to make them deviate half an inch, just enough to cut her throat.
I wanted to, and I have never succeeded, never. And always the slut's
horrible laugh makes fun of me, always, always."
And with a deluge of tears, with something like a roar of unsatiated
and muzzled rage, he ground his teeth as he wound up: "She knows me,
the jade; she is in the secret of my work, of my patience, of my trick,
routine, whatever you may call it! She lives in my innermost being, and
sees into it more closely than you do, or than I do myself. She knows
what a faultless machine I have become, the machine of which she makes
fun, the machine which is too well wound up, the machine which cannot
get out of order--and she knows that I CANNOT make a mistake."