The Disappearance of Honoré Subrac by Guillaume Apollinaire*

In spite of the most thorough investigation the police have failed to solve the mystery of the disappearance of Honoré Subrac. Since he was my friend and I knew all about his trouble, I considered it to be my duty to inform the law about what had happened. 

The judge's attitude, after listening to my evidence, was one of such extreme politeness that it was quite patent he considered I was out of my senses. I told him so ; and he was all the more polite. Then he rose and pushed me towards the door ; and I saw his clerk get up with clenched fist, ready to jump on me if I began playing the lunatic.

However, since the judge was unwilling to believe me, I wash my hands of it. The case of Honoré Subrac is certainly so strange that even the true facts seem unbelievable. The newspapers had already broadcast Subrac's eccentricities. For instance, in winter as in summer he wore nothing but a cloak and a pair of slippers. I knew he was rich, and being surprised at his dress I asked him one day for an explanation.

“So that in case of need I can get undressed as quickly as possible," he replied. Moreover, one soon gets used to wearing the fewest possible clothes. I manage very well with scanty linen, no stockings and no hats. I have lived like this since I was twenty-five, and I have never been ill." 

Instead of enlightening me, these words had the effect of whetting my curiosity. I could not help wondering why on earth Honoré Subrac wanted to get undressed so quickly. And I lost myself in conjecture. 

* * *

I was going home one night—it might have been one o'clock or a quarter past one—when I heard my name spoken in a low voice. I thought it came out of the wall near which I was walking . I stopped, unpleasantly surprised. 

“Is the coast clear ?” asked the voice . "It is I, Honoré Subrac.” 

Then where are you?" I ventured, without having the slightest idea where my friend could be hiding. I succeeded only in finding his famous cloak lying on the pavement beside his no less famous slippers. 

I thought : This must be a case when Honoré Subrac has been forced to shed his clothes in the twinkling of an eye. At last a fine mystery will be cleared up. So I called out: 

“There's nobody about, my good friend ; you can show yourself. " 

Honoré Subrac instantly came forth in some extraordinary fashion from the wall which had concealed him from my eyes. He was completely naked. The first thing he did was to seize his cloak and put it on as quickly as he could. Then he got into his slippers and accompanied me home, talking to me as naturally as ever.

"You must have been surprised ? " he inquired . But now you understand why I dress so strangely. And yet you cannot make out how it is that I was able to conceal myself so successfully . It's quite simple. It's merely a question of mimetic phenomenon . Dame Nature is a very good mother. To those of her children who are constantly threatened by danger and are too weak to defend themselves, she has assigned the gift of being able apparently to merge themselves into surrounding objects . But you know all about that. You are aware that butterflies resemble flowers, that certain insects are of the same colour as leaves, that the chameleon can adapt itself to whatever colour will procure complete disguise, and that the arctic hare has become as white as the glacial countries it inhabits and where it takes flight almost invisibly, just as cowardly as our own common hare.

" That is how the weaker animals escape from their enemies-through a natural endowment which modifies their outward character.

" Now it happens that I possess the same gift as these animals ; as I am no hero and have a relentless enemy for ever at my heels, and am quite incapable of defending myself in an attack, I am very thankful to be able to disguise myself easily, when driven to it, by becoming part and parcel of my immediate surroundings. . . .

" It was a good many years ago that I first made use of this natural gift. I was twenty-five, and generally found favour with the fair sex. One such member, though married , showed me so much sympathy that I succumbed . Well.. . . One evening I was at her house at a time when her husband was supposed to be absent for several days. Suddenly the door opened, and the husband, with a revolver in his hand, discovered us together. I was indescribably terrified. I had but one desire-coward that I was and am still . Leaning up against the wall I ardently wished that I might disappear into it. And immediately this improbability became an accomplished fact. I assumed the colour of the wallpaper ; my limbs flattened themselves out in a voluntary and inconceivable expansion. It seemed as though I had become part of the wall itself and that no one would ever see me again. The husband looked everywhere for me, thirsting for my blood . He had seen me, and so knew that I could not have escaped. Losing control, he turned his wrath on his wife and emptied all six chambers of his revolver into her fair head. Then he rushed out of the room crying in despair. Following his exit my body instinctively regained its normal shape and colour. I dressed and succeeded in getting away before anyone came.

"Since the husband failed to kill me he has devoted the rest of his life to getting his revenge. He has been pursuing me all round Europe : I thought I had escaped him by coming to live in Paris. But I saw my man again just a few minutes before you passed. My teeth chattered with terror. I had barely time to shed my clothes and mingle myself with the wall . He passed close to me and threw a curious glance at this cloak and these slippers which I had left on the pavement…

" Now, do you not think it wise of me to dress scantily? If I were dressed like everyone else, my mimetic faculty could not function. I should not be able to undress quickly enough to escape my would-be executioner."

I congratulated Honoré Subrac on this faculty, of which I had just had so striking a proof and which I very much envied him.

***

I could think of nothing else during the next few days. I caught myself everywhere trying to force my will to change my shape and colour. I tried to change myself into a motorbus, into the Eiffel Tower, into a member of the Academy, into the fortunate winner of a big race. But in vain. I did not possess the secret. My will-power was not strong enough; and then, you see, there was not this holy terror, this formidable danger which awakened the faculty in Honoré Subrac.

***

I had not seen him for some time, when one day he came running up in utter dismay : 

“That man, my enemy, is hunting me everywhere, I have escaped him three times by disappearing…But I am afraid, so afraid, my friend!”

I noticed he had grown thinner, but I was careful not to tell him so. 

"There is only one thing for you to do," I declared . You must flee at once if you wish to escape the clutches of one so ruthless. Hide away in some remote village. Take the first train at the nearest station, and let me look after your affairs."

He shook my hand, concluding : 

"Come with me, I beseech you . I am so afraid!”

***

We walked along the street in silence, Honoré Subrac constantly looking behind him, anxiously. Suddenly he cried out and took to his heels, and as he did so, began casting off his cloak and slippers…I saw a man coming up behind us, hopelessly out of breath . I tried to stop him, but he dodged me. He held a revolver which he aimed in the direction of Honoré Subrac. Subrac had just reached a long barracks' wall and disappeared as if by magic.

The man with the revolver stopped with an amazed cry of rage and, as though he wished to avenge himself on the wall which had robbed him of his victim, he emptied his revolver into the spot where he thought he had seen Honoré Subrac disappear. The next minute he had run away…

A crowd assembled which the police had to disperse. Then I called my friend . But there was no reply.

I felt the wall . It was still warm ; and I noticed that three of the six shots had struck it on the level of a man's heart. The remainder had grazed the plaster higher up at a spot where I seemed vaguely, very vaguely able to make out the contour of a man's face…

*Note: Translated by Malcolm McLaren, published November 14, 1925 in The Outlook p. 327-328 under title “The Chameleon Man.” I have restored the original title from the French.

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