It was Gwynplaine’s laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself.  His face laughed; his thoughts did not.  The extraordinary face which chance or a special and weird industry had fashioned for him, laughed alone.  Gwynplaine had nothing to do with it.  The outside did not depend on the interior.  The laugh which he had not placed, himself, on his brow, on his eyelids, on his mouth, he could not remove.  It had been stamped for ever on his face.  It was automatic, and the more irresistible because it seemed petrified.  No one could escape from this rictus.  Two convulsions of the face are infectious; laughing and yawning.  By virtue of the mysterious operation to which Gwynplaine had probably been subjected in his infancy, every part of his face contributed to that rictus; his whole physiognomy led to that result, as a wheel centres in the nave.  All his emotions, whatever they 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 shoulders of a man—­an everlasting laugh!

An everlasting laugh!

Let us understand each other; we will explain.  The Manichaeans believed the absolute occasionally gives way, and that God Himself sometimes abdicates for a time.  So also of the will.  We do not admit that it can ever be utterly powerless.  The whole of existence resembles a letter modified in the postscript.  For Gwynplaine the postscript was this:  by the force of his will, and by concentrating all his attention, and on condition that no emotion should come to distract and turn away the fixedness of his effort, he could manage to suspend the everlasting rictus of his face, and to throw over it a kind of tragic veil, and then the spectator laughed no longer; he shuddered.