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might have been, augmented his strange face of joy, or to speak more
correctly, aggravated it. Any astonishment which might seize him, any
suffering which he might feel, any anger which might take possession of
him, any pity which might move him, would only increase this hilarity of
his muscles. If he wept, he laughed; and whatever Gwynplaine was,
whatever he wished to be, whatever he thought, the moment that he raised
his head, the crowd, if crowd there was, had before them one
impersonation: an overwhelming burst of laughter.
It was like a head of Medusa, but Medusa hilarious. All feeling or
thought in the mind of the spectator was suddenly put to flight by the
unexpected apparition, and laughter was inevitable. Antique art formerly
placed on the outsides of the Greek theatre a joyous brazen face, called
comedy. It laughed and occasioned laughter, but remained pensive. All
parody which borders on folly, all irony which borders on wisdom, were
condensed and amalgamated in that face. The burden of care, of
disillusion, anxiety, and grief were expressed in its impassive
countenance, and resulted in a lugubrious sum of mirth. One corner of
the mouth was raised, in mockery of the human race; the other side, in
blasphemy of the gods. Men confronted that model of the ideal sarcasm
and exemplification of the irony which each one possesses within him;
and the crowd, continually renewed round its fixed laugh, died away with
delight before its sepulchral immobility of mirth.
One might almost have said that Gwynplaine was that dark, dead mask of
ancient comedy adjusted to the body of a living man. That infernal head
of implacable hilarity he supported on his neck. What a weight for the
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