Then we went into a third and last studio. More than a hundred painters were crowded into it, covering canvases of all dimensions with colors. Their works resembled one another, as if they had been copied from one another: the same jarring forms, the same crudity of tones, and the same vulgar aspect. The corrector, the illustrious Eutomon, came twice a week. He only occupied himself with a single canvas, and that correction was applied to all the others.
When I expressed astonishment at that poverty, Constantin said to me in a low voice: “Unfortunate young men are attracted here by the renown of the school and the recompenses it is awarded. Their reason is obliterated by falsified doctrines. The directors of this Institute claim to possess the veritable tradition. Entirely to the contrary, they are impoverished, corrupted and betrayed. They are the legislators of false art. But have no fear, their method will soon be scorned by everyone. Those of their pupils who open their eyes go away angrily, bemoaning their most precious years wasted in simulacra of study.”
IX. The Glorious Forty
Three days later, Constantin came to find me at the hour when I awoke. His ordinary calm had deserted him.
“Monsieur,” he said to me, beside himself, “I’ve learned that the Glorious Forty are holding a public session this evening.”
“The Glorious Forty?” I said. “Doubtless you’re talking about a troupe of actors or expert conjurers?”
“What are you saying!” cried Constantin, offended. “It’s the assembly of the greatest geniuses of the time. All the excellent men of letters that Atlantis counts have the honor of figuring therein, and are not always admitted. The people venerate it considerably, calling its members the Sublime or the Eternals.
“Excuse me,” I said. “If I’ve sinned against them, it’s by virtue of ignorance. I’ll go without fail to visit them this evening, if there’s no difficulty in doing so.”
“There’s none for us,” Constantin went on. “I’ve obtained tickets from one of my friends, a dancer who is now the mistress of one of the great men.”
Well before the hour of the spectacle, Constantin took me to the palace of the Glorious Forty. The edifice had all the allure of a temple to Glory. Crowned by the most illustrious cupola of all, it’s said, it directs a majestic façade toward the river. An innumerable crowd was gathered in the square and everyone was brandishing a piece of blue or pink cardboard. We plunged into the crowd, using our elbows to reach the front row. A triple rank of mounted hoplites was immobile at the foot of the steps.
While we waited for the doors to open, Constantin informed me.
“The Assembly of the Glorious Forty,” he said, “was instituted three centuries ago by the greatest of our Ministers of State. In truth, he was also an execrable writer, the author of ridiculous tragedies. That’s unimportant. He redeemed a thousand times over the wrong that he did to the Atlantidean language, heir to the Greek, in assembling by that foundation, under this sacred vault, all those men of science and inspiration, those workmen of God who toil every day on the purity, the nobility and the beauty of the language.
“And with what to those fine minds occupy themselves in their meetings?” I asked.
“You shall see,” said Constantin, with a mysterious smile.
At that moment, a tumult rose up outside one of the doors, above which one read: Entrance reserved for Members of the Assembly. Guards were occupied in repelling a number of well-dressed individuals.
“It’s nothing,” my companion explained. “That slight scandal is produced frequently. Those are people who want desperately to be seated among the Eternals. They don’t have the right, and are driven away.”
In fact, the hoplites were driving them back with great blows of the wooden shafts of lances on their backs, while the intruders were protesting, not about the blows but because they had been refused entry. The people heaped them with insults, and a clamor rose up, after which a stout usher decked out in silver appeared at the top of the steps and shouted, in a grave voice: “Silence! Silence! Don’t wake the Eternals!”
Then, like a sea appeased when the wind drops, the crowd became so calm and silent that one could hear the tock-tock of the large clock mounted in the fronton of the edifice. It was now marking the hour of the session. The door opened. We were the first admitted, thanks to the color of our tickets. A man in livery forced people to take of their shoes, and presented them with slippers.
These are very demanding lackeys, I thought.
We were conducted through long corridors and crossed the marble steps. Carpets stifled the noise of footsteps everywhere.
We went into boxes overlooking a hall. The spectacle I beheld astonished me greatly. On gilded armchairs turned toward a platform, the Eternals were sitting in a semicircle. The greater number remained motionless and silent; their heads, with eyes closed, sometimes tilted to the right, sometimes to the left, or even forwards or backwards. But by virtue of a slight sound escaping from their open mouths I knew that they were asleep like veritable Eternals, imitators and possessors of Olympian traditions and privileges. They wore a gracious uniform. The torso, naked to the waist, was striped by a crimson sash. On the flesh, to the right and left, blossomed green palms, skillfully tattooed. From the belt, a violet robe fell all the way to their feet, which were shod in cothurnes with golden soles. Military helmets gleamed on their heads, or were gallantly carried in the hands of the least bald. I learned subsequently that their costume was completed by a red cloak and a sword, which they left in the vestry.
My attention turned to those who were not asleep. I saw a devil of a man, rather old, with an anxious expression, plying a razor over a notebook. Soon I discerned, scattered in front of him, a certain number of hairs of different colors. He was striving, with a meticulous care and infinite study, to cut into them and divide them in the direction and totality of their length. From time to time, he set down his razor and sat up straight on his chair, mopped his forehead and shouted, in a desperate voice: “Cruel enigma! Cruel enigma!” and then resumed his scrupulous labor.
Not far from him I perceived an individual with a prominent hooked nose, before whom stood a small cage. On his left fist a strange bird was perched. Examining it attentively, I found a resemblance to an eagle—I mean an eagle barely emerged from the nest, still covered with a little down, as large as a long-eared owl at the most. Soon, I was convinced that the bird also had something of the parrot about it, for it began to recite verses in long tirades, of which I understood very little. I nevertheless admired the astonishing aptitude of the animal, and gladly pardoned its ridiculous appearance.
The man with the hooked nose opened the cage. Then an admirable and monstrous beast emerged. The head and neck resembled those of a cock; the rest belonged exactly to the nature of a duck.35 Fluttering noisily, the bird came to perch on its master’s hat. There, solidly planted on its webbed feet, it remained motionless for a few moments. Its neck undulated; the monster was about to utter its cry; I listened. But from the open beak of the fowl emerged a mighty: “Coin! Coin! Coin!”36 Doubtless you are familiar with the thunderous voice of the ducks of out poultry-yards; it was that, but more nasal and more heroic, a frightful howl of which the cupola end back the echo for a long time. A few Eternals woke up.
Nudging Constantin with my elbow. I asked him: “Who is the man with the two birds?”
“Lower your voice,” he said. “He’s a great poet. I’ll list his merits for you later. He invented the line with thirteen feet. He has brought to perfection another prosodic form known before him, the lame iamb. He’s the most popular of all the Eternals. He married a distant princess, Cameliande, a poet of equal merit to her spouse. A son has been born to them, who adds to their glory. As soon as he quit his mother’s womb he emitted harmonious sounds. Scarcely was he laid in the cradle, as the paternal lyre was within his reach on the night-table, he touched it and caused incomparable chords to resonate. He’s now in his ninth year. He hasn’t ceased to frequent the Muses. His poems
already form forty-eight volumes, all equally sublime.
“The modesty in which that trinity of genius takes pleasure forces universal admiration. They are never heard to talk about themselves except to under-appreciate their value. Oh, such minds are thrice or four times great! Sometimes, at nightfall, at the foot of the southern mountains where the three poets reside, one sees them taking a leisurely stroll. The wife follows her husband and the son follows his mother. Their words unite in a sublime chorus, and the animals flock to hear them, as to the voice of Orpheus.”
My gaze settled on a man with a scarlet face. Was he asleep or not? In truth, I couldn’t say. His compatriots, I was told, didn’t know either. He was a somnolent hero. May Heaven forgive me, but, contemplating that colorful face, I took it for that of a drunkard. That consideration, in any case, does not give me a poor opinion of people. I have a mortal hated of water drinkers, vegetarians and other hypocrites. Later, I discovered that his somnolent appearance had made our man suspected of profundity of mind. His sole text only had a dozen lines; by a fatal coincidence, its publisher was declared bankrupt just as the work was about to appear; heartless creditors had it pulped. No one had read it; but as the author was assumed to have eminent merits, justice constrained the Glorious Forty to open their doors to him.
He participated in an analogous society recruited from the princes of the Fine Arts. He knew nothing about music, sculpture, painting or architecture but he frequented the banquets of known artists assiduously—they hold banquets in Atlantis at least as much as they do here—with the result that when he placed his candidature before the august company there as no one among the elect who did not owe him some gratitude for taking him home on one of those days when the earth trembles and spins more forcibly and more rapidly than usual.
I saw other astonishing individuals. One Eternal seemed to be mortally bored, but, thinking that people were looking at him, struck majestic poses that made me think of our first emperor. Many were passing the time catching flies.
One of the men stood up and climbed the steps of the platform painfully. He sat down in front of a pulpit and agitated a bronze hand-bell three times. He spoke, and spoke, in a sad voice that was scarcely audible. In any case, I can say nothing about his speech; almost as soon as he stated speaking I fell asleep myself, involuntarily. I know that the entire audience did the same, not by chance but out of habit.
Shortly afterwards I found myself outside, dazed, like a man who has taken a narcotic and who is obliged to get up and walk. Having returned home, I went to bed and remained in a complete lethargy for three days and four nights.
X. The Voyager’s Recriminations
Thus I explored the city, instructing myself more and more in the study of its institutions, its inhabitants and its government. I found few subjects of admiration. The preceding epochs had left noble debris, but the destructive generations had tried to annihilate it. A rabble of agitators sponged on the people, exciting them in the name of reason against everything reasonable. Hatred separated the nation’s three castes.
The first comprised the bourgeois, the people enriched by trade, a vulgar race, avid for gain and animated by a monstrous pride.
Functionaries formed the second class; the least of them lived meagerly on tedious labor. In the evening one encountered them in the streets, covered in the dust of their offices, as thin as men who do not eat their fill, humbly saluting surly chiefs with the faces of pedants. But character varies with hierarchy; the important functionary is obese. Incapable of work, he unloads it on to his subordinates. He is idle and well-considered. The most cunning devote themselves to various speculations, sometimes serving the police by denouncing the secrets of people whose secrets their profession allows them to discover, sometimes closing their eyes to what they ought to see, and enriching themselves by extortion. Sometimes a highly-laced functionary lends his support to some politician, and his recompense is not long in coming.
The army participates in all the castes, some of its generals are functionaries like any other, or even politicians ready for treachery.
The third class, the people, insouciant, capable of anything, stupid or noble, turns to all winds and believes what it is told, provided that it is promised the impossible.
Not long ago a swarm of loquacious individuals born in the southern provinces descended upon Atlantopolis and started to preach to idlers. Their pronunciations, ringing but devoid of sense, captivated the people. They said that they wanted to change the order of things and give the populace the wealth of the rich. They were made senators, and became great men; they no longer cared about keeping their promises.
Other men from the same region then came to harangue the crowd, and showed themselves in speech to be more terrible than their predecessors. They affirmed the necessity of killing everyone, burning and destroying, wanting to edify a new city on the ruins of this one, in which everything would be communal. The indigent and the workers were in accord on that. The later preachers replaced in the Senate those whose promises had not been kept; but, seeing themselves honored, the newcomers turned their coats and no longer talked about pillage. And the poor people were astonished to see that things remained the same, the rich still being rich and the ragged still in rags.
Unfortunate individuals tried to put into action the principles of their teachers. They set fire to houses, cut bridges, and attacked rich businessmen, believing that they would bring about an era of fraternity by those means, but the poor fools saw themselves ignominiously slain by order of their elect.
Parliament was not occupied with the affairs of the nation; it played at overturning ministers. The latter, governors for a day, tried to content those who shouted loudest, but they fell nevertheless after a few hours, consoled by seeing their enemies tear one another apart in the hope of seizing power. Everything seemed to be dragged into that confusion. The state was regulated by contradictory laws. The directors, corrupt and incapable, resembled blind and one-armed pilots. They were, for the most part, drawn from the men I mentioned, impelled to important employments by their southern loquacity. The King of the Brigands had described them to me with exactitude.
Everything lacked nobility: the State, Art and Science were encumbered by charlatans. So, people of good sense desired a change of regime and wanted to restore the descendant of the Kephalides to the throne. A dubious descendant of Phoberos also accumulated some support. Dangerous theoreticians wanted to pass into government, and live as they pleased without paying taxes.
All reasonable minds, however, were in accord on two points. Firstly, it was necessary to expel the lees of parliamentarians, insupportable parrots who repeated meaningless words in their assemblies and pretended to fight. The second point consisted of the necessity of putting out the eyes, tearing out the beards, and cutting off the noses, tongues, ears and all the limbs of all the members of the sect of Devourers.
A religious society to begin with, which had become by virtue of the malignity of time a political association, the Devourers formed a deadly brotherhood. It was joined by all petty ambitious individuals despicable enough to share their views and stupid enough to submit to their savage rites.
They wanted the state to belong to them, in order to share its authority, thinking that the nation was a big farm on which they ought to live, milking the cows till they bled, drinking the wine without letting it age and selling the wheat to the highest bidder. They succeeded in all points. They exiled the competing religions and appropriated their wealth. They had laws passed that flattered the people while ruining them. Above all, they had recourse to underhanded means, spying on and deceiving everyone, so much and so well that they became the secret masters, the bad shepherds of the nation.
They held strange meetings in which they devoted themselves to ceremonies less spiritual than those of cannibals. They worshiped saucepans, geometrical figures and other appropriate objects. That would have been unimportant if they had not formed, on the other hand, the most evil co
ngregation imaginable. Having become all-powerful, they carried out great ravages, sucking the country dry, spoiling everything and sticking their dirty claws everywhere.
One day, I said to Constantin: “Poor comrade, you deceived me the other day when we arrived in sight of the city. You promised me a thousand marvels and you painted me a picture of strength and labor. What have I seen? An unhappy people tormented by agitators, like a thoroughbred horse devoured by lice, a king who cannot command, ministers enslaved by a filthy sect, and insensate senators. What are your art, your literature and your present government worth, Constantin, if I compare them to what they were in the past?
“Master,” sighed Constantin, “you possess good eyes and good ears, but you have only seen and heard those who show off and shout loudly. We know other people. But the gods do not give everyone the same gifts. One has talent, another has honors. Who has the better share?
“You talk about our art. It has never shone more brightly. However, you find nothing in our exhibitions of paintings but an infinity of execrable canvases. Know that the same exhibitions refuse remarkable works every year. I’ll enable you to see them. But there is a sect of the genre of the Devourers everywhere. Here and there, the mediocre unite and triumph over people of value. Then too, the favor of the people goes first to false thoughts. Later, it will be revised, bear to the Pantheon those whom it scorns today and castigate the conspiracy of vainglorious incapables.
“Yes, yes, we posses great men today. No one sees them, no one knows them. They hide, for fear of ill-treatment. When they die, their work will impose itself, while the glories of the present will vanish. I don’t take back any of what I said the other day. Yes, a strong thought lives and works here. It concentrates and struggles quietly. It is awaiting its hour. The victory is certain. The pontiffs know it, so their hearts are anxious.”
Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions Page 40