She explained to me at length that she was a woman of letters. She had, she said, acquired a great notoriety with a recent work entitled Thisbe; or, The Amorous Ass.
She asked me countless questions that were quite bizarre.
“That’s enough!” I cried. “I’m dying tomorrow morning. Leave me in peace until the time I must perish. I don’t want this night to serve for your amusement. Your curiosity is exasperating me. Have you no pity?”
Desolate, she persisted. “At least do me the favor of answering one last question,” she said. And she added, in a learned tone: “How many ways of making love to the people of your homeland count?”
I replied gravely that we knew of an infinite number. That caused her to marvel.
“By Zeus,” she said, “we only know twelve, and even some of those are very uncomfortable and reserved to voluptuous acrobats.”
I smiled scornfully. “Truly,” I said, “That’s a very savage people.”
She stood up, and murmured, with simplicity: “My confusion is great, my dear seigneur, in being ignorant of so many beautiful things. I have a marvelous thirst to learn better ways.”
At this point I have to draw a thick curtain over my cell; prudish hypocrites demand it; but the reader will divine the lesson that my pupil received. What doubtless astonished her, and by which I was very surprised, is that the beautiful child knew more about it than I did.
VII. The High Priest
I awoke suddenly, struck by rough hands. When they opened, my eyes contemplated the faces of jailers. Memory returned to me. I thought I saw the phantom of Death: a skeleton with transparent bones, crouching in a corner, he was modestly drawing the flaps of his shroud over his knees and silently sharpening a rusty scythe. His hollow orbits were staring at me.
I sat up on my bed and, addressing the judges who had come to preside over my decease, I cried: “Seigneurs, yesterday you gave me a choice between hanging and drowning. Neither of them pleases me, but, in truth, I can only accept being hanged. I’ve always held water in scorn and hatred, and I don’t want to belie the sentiment of my entire life in my final hour.”
The magistrates shook their heads benevolently.
“Good,” said one. We’ll grant you that. Moreover, the reason is excellent. It’s regrettable to kill a man of such judgment. But we’re not here for nothing, and I beg you not to see us as anything but the instruments of the law, intermediaries between it and the gallows.”
A bizarre individual advanced toward me, lowering his eyes. The men of law immediately stood aside and looked up in the air, as if they were studying the trajectories of flies.
The odd fellow was clad in a long orange robe. In his complexion and his bearing he resembled the sellers of elixirs in our public squares, individuals with a talent that is sometimes very estimable, and whose eloquence has give birth to that of our political orators. But he spoke with unction, and I realized that he was a priest.
“Dear son,” he said, “rejoice in what is happening to you. Think of the calamities of existence. Contemplate from now on the blissful realm of souls where you will soon be. Would you dare to complain about no longer suffering? You will not have had the time, at the end of your rope, to count to twelve, and already your body will be calm, almost cold, insensible, careless of the wind, the rain, the sun and the snow. O bliss! You will have every right to dwell in a beautiful star, where all the dead lead a joyful live eternally. You will see the gods in their glory and speak to them in familiar terms, for they are not as proud as you might think. You will dwell in the company of all the virtuous people of previous centuries. As for them, they have become honest up there, I assure you. Oh, my child, bless this execution that is taking you so soon to the agreeable cities of death, and thank the divinities who are welcoming you still young, while they often wait to deliver mortals for a long and disastrous series of days.”
“Oh, my father,” I said, “for I understand that I am your son, my heart is magnanimous, be sure of it. Very close to enjoying that felicity, I suffer in leaving a pious person like you in mortal ambushes, despairs and miseries. I propose a treaty to you by which you would know the bounty of my soul. I permit you to be hanged in my place, and cede that step to you as the more worthy. Do not let any shame hold you back. As for me, I prefer to live and suffer still, and to merit by my virtues to come an eminent place in the star of the dead.”
“Alas, my child, I would like that. It has, moreover been predicted for me that I shall end my days between heaven and earth; but, I believe that it will only be as late as possible, and it is a matter here of a substitution inoperable in fact, fraudulent in law and most horribly heretical.”
“Hey,” said a guard, “the sun’s rising. Hurry up.”
“It’s done,” relied the priest. “My pious duty is accomplished. This young man, thanks to my cares, will be able to die in a befitting manner. I wish you all as much.”
Who will believe me? At that horrible moment, I was only thinking about the night’s adventure. Was it a dream? At the moment of the final departure, an uncertainty is more unnerving than ever.
As I rose to my feet, however, I put my hands on the bed for support, and pricked the right one with a golden pin. Furthermore, I saw several blonde hairs on the sheet, which I would have collected piously in order to keep them if I had not been assured of perishing immediately.
I heard noises in the corridor. Four men with shaven heads came in, clad in orange surplices, and arranged themselves to the right and left of the door. A fifth, of a more consequential appearance, speared then and announced in a grave voice: “The Very Venerable High Priest Katodipsa is here.”32
The guards and the men of law remained in a silent immobility, and my preacher knelt down and waited, his head bowed.
Then a marvelous old man penetrated into my prison, entirely clad in crimson silk. He was supporting himself with one hand on a scepter and the other on the shoulder of a young priest. His creased forehead was supporting a miter sparkling with rubies, amethysts and emeralds. A long white beard, long curly hair, a slender and straight nose, very bright eyes and narrow, pale lips: such were the features of his fine face, in which gravity, nobility, determination and power were legible. Everyone bowed.
“Where is the governor?” he said.
One of the two magistrates advanced and said: “Here I am.”
“A grave event,” said the High Priest, “troubled my repose last night. Listen. The twelfth hour had just elapsed. While asleep, I heard a noise similar to that of big waves battering cliffs. The eyes of my soul were filled with a blue light and my god appeared in front of me. While dazzled and prostrate, I was worshiping him and singing his praises, and this is what my ears heard: ‘I want you, O my priest, at the hour when I shall make the sun rise tomorrow, to go to the prison. You will find a man there whom I have sent to Atlantis, and whom the judges want to put to death. Tell them to do no such thing, under pain of perishing soon themselves, with their wives and children. Let that man be sacred to all men, for I have destined him to accomplish secret designs.’
“I woke up with a start and said to myself: These are crazy figments of imagination. But then, being outside slumber, I heard a terrible voice shouting: ‘Obey!’ Then there was a great clap of thunder, which you might have heard as well as me.
“So here I am, before you, in order to acquit my divine mission. The law gives me the right to liberate prisoners. But I have said enough, and I beg you to incline, like me, before the will of the god.”
In fact, everyone looked at one another, going pale, frightened by the miracle. It seemed to me that things were looking up.
I was handed over to the High Priest. He testified to me all the respect due to a messenger from Heaven. I climbed up with him into his large carriage, drawn by four horses.
When we were some distance from the prison, he put his miter on his knees and, holding his sides, burst into powerful and prolonged laughter. Then patting me amicably in th
e midriff, he said: “You see, my child, we should never speak ill of the gods; they sometimes come in handy.”
VIII. Helena
I had not finished rendering thanks to the pontiff when we arrived at his dwelling. It was a very fine palace dominating the city, from which one could see the sea. An ancient park surrounded it. An avenue of centenarian elms led to the central building.
The carriage stopped in front of the perron. A young woman was leaning over the balustrade whom I recognized very well. It was the visitor of the previous night. I understood that she was the operator of my salvation. It’s true, then, I thought, that a good deed never goes to waste.
She came all the way to the vehicle and, as soon as the High Priest had set foot on the ground she kissed him three times, very religiously. Then she said to me: “Yesterday evening, while going about my meager affairs the city, I heard the sound of a mob and I perceived a multitude of people in agitation. I saw you; I was told about your adventure, and I wanted to save you. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the great generosity and omnipotent amity of the good father.”
I thanked her, and was careful to speak to her as if I had never seen her before. She smiled.
She was obviously the mistress of the High Priest. The servants of the gods have delicate tastes. The ecclesiastics of the majority of religions are supposed to abstain from the joys of the flesh, but when, in exceptional circumstances, they infringe that commandment, it is always for an object that compensates them in advance for the tribulations of Hell. They do not damn themselves on credit.
My benefactress, in a Catholic country, would have been judged worthy of the bed of a cardinal-archbishop, not to say a pope; she was blonde, with blue eyes surmounted by horizontal eyebrows very far apart. The nose and mouth were small and the teeth regular and shiny. She walked with a harmonious sway of the hips. Under her blue tunic it was easy to divine firm, beautiful breasts. Precise and charming memories came back to me in a host.
“By all the sacred tribe of the gods,” said the High Priest, “Let’s go! Can’t you see, Helena, that this child is dying of thirst and hunger? We’re keeping him standing here as if he desired nothing else. Let’s go restore ourselves.
He had spoken, and we turned out backs on the house. Katodipsa directed us through the park. We arrived in an agreeable arbor, a huge tunnel clad in clusters of grapes. We sat down. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but numerous servants immediately surged forth, laden with a quantity of delectable things. Some were carrying holy and dusty bottles respectfully, others supporting silver trays on which roasted fowl were fuming. Glasses of large capacity were placed in front of us, which were filled immediately.
“That,” I said, after having drunk, “is a very delicious wine, such as I’ve never drunk before.”
“It’s the product of the vines of the Great Temple,” replied the pontiff. “The King himself only tastes it once a year, for I offer him a bottle for his New Year celebration. But our sovereign is of low birth; he has neither science not finesse, and wouldn’t be able to appreciate the merits of such a noble vintage. However, he’s so miserly that he accepts my little present with joy, and so vulgar that he hides it in order to drink it all himself. Now try a little of this white, my son, and tell me what you think.”
He poured me a full glass, as vast as a helmet in the time of Homer.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “This is a glorious liquid! I sense my soul being enriched, lightened and swelling as I drink it. That is certainly the emperor of all beverages. You must certainly possess an opulent collection of excellent spirits in this land, for my travels have assured me that, wherever one finds good wine, one is sure of seeing incomparable men, of high mind, great heart and profound sensitivity. Where the vine only produces insipid juice, I’ve only known ordinary souls. Stop in a city where the juice is adulterated, rancid in its nature, criminally diluted with water and poisons, and believe me, you’ll only encounter men of unhealthy, perverted understanding, as vicious and counterfeit as the liquid they drink Now go among beer drinkers, go to Germany—although that land is fortunately unknown to you—and consider the people. Nothing human about them; they’re bears, masses of hairy flesh, slow of movement and incapable of thought, sentiment of imagination. In truth, what was the Creator thinking the day when he placed men on those deadly terrains where he had forgotten to plant vines?”
“My child,” said my savior, “Don’t talk to me about the Creator. I’ve never seen him, or any other god, so I scarcely believe in the celestial powers. Talk to me instead about Creation, which I adore devoutly. Admire with me the amiable richness of its gifts in all of nature, and how lightly we dispose of them for the short time that we live. Consider a little the beauty of women, the sweetness of good wines and the great, sublime and inestimable imbecility of people. The last point ought to be the dearest to us; it is the basis of our felicity and the keystone of our powerful political edifice. Everywhere that the vulgar are left for a while to turn away from its laws, the result is always a universal calamity. Every time revolutions have been seen fomenting in the populace, massacres, terrors and superhuman horrors have arrived at the same time, the lamentations of those living well, the suffering of the religious and the upheaval of kingdoms.
“Our country has suffered from that, but we’ve put in good order. We’ve said to the people: ‘You are the master, the king; we obey, love and adore you. We’ll build temples to you. We are all brothers, all free and all equal. Leave it to us to make the laws that you want, employ your money and render you the worship that is due to you. We are your servants.’ After which the people allow themselves to be led with the best will in the world. We extract more taxes from them than ever. They’re submissive to frightful military charges. When they’re dissatisfied, the national militia, which they revere, gives them a few blows with a stick. But they’re happy, because we call them sovereign, and they applaud when shrewd governors come to them and say: ‘We’ve consented to carry on our shoulders the ingrate burden of political affairs, for love of you!’ O marvelous principle of creation! The unshakable foundation of the order of the world. Worthy and idle popular stupidity, without which we, the great, would be nothing!”
Thus the conversation roamed, at hazard, over a thousand various subjects. The High Priest, a jovial and sage seigneur, burst out laughing continually, and my dear Helena gently leaned her feet on mine.
The devout old man emptied his glass three more times. Suddenly, he leaned forward, folded his arms on the table, and on that pillow, went to sleep, snoring.
Helena withdrew her sandals from above mine. She went very pink, looked me in the eyes and said to me, smiling: “He’s profoundly asleep, and for a long time. That’s his custom, after breakfast. The temple bells don’t wake him up.”
The invitation troubled me. I don’t like putting horns on people when they’re not away traveling. But a refusal would have covered me with shame, and I served the lady with the master’s beard.
After an hour and a half, the sleeper awoke. He considered us with an anxious eye. Motionless in my armchair, holding my half-full glass, I pretended to be studying the transparent color of its contents. Helena, on the lawn, was modestly picking red sunflowers.
“By all the gods!” exclaimed the High Priest. “I’ve just had a very strange dream: I dreamed that you cuckolded me!”
We all laughed heartily. Katodipsa poured himself a drink. Then we clinked glasses, for people clink glasses in Atlantis exactly as we do.
“But it’s necessary to take stock,” said the pontiff. “What do you want to do now.”
“Live,” I replied. “The manner is of scant importance. I’ve nearly perished twice this week, I don’t want to risk it a third time. It might be without recourse. So I only ask to live in peace, health, leisure and security.”
“I understand,” said the priest. “With regard to your life, no one will touch it, since I’m protecting you, and I’ll give you a good safe
conduct, which will render you sacred for everyone.”
“But the young man is devoid of resources,” said Helena.
“That,” sighed Katodipsa, “is the delicate question. I don’t want to do things by halves. The child pleases me. But you know how my finances stand, my dear Helena. I spend my income before I receive it, not by virtue of lightness of mind but prudent reflection. For if I were to die tomorrow leaving my coffers full of coins and my heirs a culpable joy, would people say that I was a man of common sense and good order? Quite the contrary, I apply myself to enjoying everything enormously, at great expense, affirming and demonstrating that the present moment is the unique reality. In brief, I rarely have a hundred drachmas in my house. I don’t know what I can do, except wait until I receive some money.”
“Do better,” said Helena. “Tomorrow is the great festival of the god Demos. All the hypocrites in the Archipelago are meeting up on that day in the Great Temple. When you’re in the pulpit, tell some fine tale to your congregation. Describe your dream to them. Astonish them with admiration for the envoy of the gods. Then order a great collection in support, promising the Elysian Fields to those who give a great deal and perpetual suffering in Hades to all the rest.”
The excellent man clapped his hands. “Helena, my love,” he said, kiss me. What a glorious idea! I’ll do it. The collectors can travel the city to the sound of trumpets. I can hear—hear, I tell you—the sound of the money raining down on the bronze platters. Oh, my friend how rich you’ll be!”
“Good father,” I exclaimed, “how can I ever thank you? To save an unknown man, isn’t that already too much? And now you’re welcoming me, comforting me and enriching me! Divine man!”
“Let’s leave it there,” he said. “The prayers of this dear child can’t remain sterile. I promised to save you; I won’t let you die of hunger and poverty.”
Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions Page 32