Pharaoh's Wife

by Félicien Champsaur

  “It does not matter. In the universe, time does not exist; a second and a century have the same value. In the same way, in nature, insects—what am I saying? infusoria, microbes—are beings as complete as humans, but their thought differs so much from ours that we do not understand them. All atoms, insects, birds, quadrupeds and humans, have as their primary need the propagation of the species, and the more inferior a being seems, the greater is its fecundity. After propagation is nourishment; and humans, so superior in their intelligence, are forced to sacrifice to these two needs under pain of physical and mental degeneration.

  “We see animals devouring one another, and conclude a supremacy in ourselves that is false, since we only conserve out existence to the determinant of those of plants and animals, not to mention futile wars. Some people do not eat flesh, believing that they do not have a right to kill, but they make no bones about killing the plants that are the principle of flesh, since they are flesh in preparation. Given this principle, that everything that is lives, and that, on our globe, everything lives—transformation being life—it is the duty of the Thinker to extend that viewpoint to the planet, from the planet to the Suns, and from the Suns to the splendid life of all the heavenly bodies.

  “Everything is connected, everything is similar. The atom that divides to give birth to another is as complete in its species as the animals that seem superior to it. Let us add to the formidable quantity of beings existing on our Earth those which live within ourselves as well as in other beings, and let us ask ourselves whether this planet that bear us might also have its soul, a creative will, in order that everything that is, should be?

  “And that myriad of other beings of every form, of every color, of so many kinds—are they useful? Evidently not. Twenty types would have sufficed for general alimentation. What do humans need in order to live? Oxen, wheat, wine—and that is already superabundance, since other creatures have but one invariable aliment. Why, then, that infinity of creatures? Is it the pastime of a Creator seeking a distraction in the variety of species, as the assembly of words expresses thousands of ideas for us?

  “A Provençal, the entomologist Fabre, has devoted his life to the study of insects in the fields of his farm, and one remains wonderstruck at the aspect of all those very tiny mentalities; some have a prescience of what their children, their successors, will be and do, and prepare special nourishment for the day on which they will partake of existence. What is human intelligence, so long in formation, compared with these minuscule ones, which only have a brief existence but are able to prepare so well for their descendants? That is the proof that the notion of time does not exist in nature. Some ephemera, which only live for a day, might perhaps have a duration as full as that of a oak five or six hundred years old.

  “What language do oaks speak, and poplars in the wind? How do ants understand one another? Instinct, people say. In humans, instinct is in competition with the mind. So be it—but it is still that part, the instinct, that guides. We attribute a vitality to plants, but not instinct. Why not? Does the plant not have the intelligence to prepare its seed for reproduction, and sometimes, to associate itself with insects or the wind as a means of transportation? Woe to the mute! A plant does not have the right to intelligence, or even to instinct; however, it exists, it breathes, it is happy, it suffers, it lives, it acts—which is to say, it is transformed.

  “For me, everything has a soul, and universal life extends from atoms to planets, each of which has its particular thought processes and its own intelligence, in its course through the universe, describing uninterrupted spirals, undertaking its career as a planet in a manner indecipherable to us, thus far, but which is a way of life, as is human life.

  “Life! That is the great mystery, and death does not exist. Everything is transformed, but nothing dies. But life—why? With what end? We have been subject to numerous incarnations, and yet, we’re still humans. Some, like us, are making intellectual progress, but have we any assurance that the progress in question will continue? The genius that has been able to acquire the supreme instruction—which is to say, the sum of human knowledge—must, to maintain its progress, escape the everyday, in order that its liberated spirit, fluid, subtle and imponderable, might float through the universe in search of another world, where beings more intelligence than itself understand more, and from step to step, rise all the way to what we call by that incomprehensible word God.”

  “Then you’re not brining certainty,” Diana exclaimed, “but doubt?”

  “To doubt is, for the human mind, to be making progress. It is better to say ‘I don’t know’ than to propagate errors. But consider the fluids! We have found applications for them before formulating the rules that govern them. The fluids are nothing, and that nothing is everything. The initiate can constrain it to be a force that we employ in order to impose our will, nothing and everything, of which we have not yet been able to analyze the causes

  “My psychic fluid can influence an inferior will, can annihilate it or multiply it tenfold, giving astonishing results. But the human brain, that prodigious accumulator, is paltry by comparison with the fluidic forces of the Earth. Perhaps, in a few years, the fluidic forces will replace electricity, as that has replaced steam. What will come after the fluidic forces? Perhaps the Soul of the Earth will yield some of its amazing secrets to us. The souls of planets, the souls of suns, are mysterious figures, of which the Unknowable is perhaps the number.”

  Adsum stopped talking, and everyone was pensive.

  Ormus finally broke the silence. “When, thanks to you, Master, I perceived the mystery of reincarnation, and, remounting the scale of past centuries, I believed, in an extraordinary excitement, that I was one of the elect, I acquired—alas!—only one certainly: the futility of death. But if there is, in that knowledge of the past, a means of domination over others, that prideful sentiment does not satisfy me, Father. To be a leader of men and woman is a sad profession—but there is no objective above and beyond that.”

  “To be at the head of a multitude of the ignorant, my son, is undoubtedly degrading for the leader. A fine business to rule over imbeciles! We, on the contrary, Ormus, aspire to reign over the intellectual elite, and from that mass of intelligences, enlightenment might spring forth.”

  “O Father, who can surpass you?” exclaimed the Duchess.

  “My son, Ormus. He is young; he has been able to profit from my science, and he has long years ahead of him. Alas, a human life is too short, and so many superior minds allow themselves to be drawn away from study by the pride of seeming greater than they really are. Only detachment from all vanities can lead to the truth.”

  “In that case, my Father, you must disapprove of the Egyptian fête we’re preparing?”

  “No, Daughter, for it will bring us new adepts. It is one of the shameful aspects of our work, to be obliged to make a noise in order to attract and command attention, but even God has need of advertisement: of priests, cathedrals, temple, churches and bell-towers.”

  XI. Preparations for the Party

  There was a vast lawn in front to Redge House, and the Duchess had decided that the Egyptian fête would be held there, in winter, thanks to the construction of an immense greenhouse. The gardeners took up expanses of grass and large trees, and subterranean heaters warmed the enormous area. The colossal hothouse occupied the entire length of the façade, the summer gardens having to serve for the arrival of the gusts and their automobiles. The iron pylons supporting the glazed roof, lined with decorated stucco, were reminiscent of the grandiose colonnades of Karnak.

  In the midst of this intense activity, the Duke of Rutland and his shadow, the stout Shakespeare, were wandering back and forth chatting.

  “I’ll give the Egyptian fête credit for the amusement there is in preparing it,” said Will, “inasmuch as the Duchess, entirely devoted to her psychic studies, scarcely pays any heed to it and is leaving it to us. What do you think of the other one, Adsum?”

  “C
ut from same cloth as the young mage, and sturdier. Between those two doctors, my wife can’t resist, so I shan’t get in the way of her plans. I might as well try to stop the sun. Close the door on a woman’s mind and it’ll escape through the window; close the window and it’ll fly up the chimney, with the smoke it resembles.”

  “Yes, but all the dust of this construction-yard is giving me a thirst.”

  “You don’t say! Will, don’t you think that obelisk would look better if it were more isolated? But here comes the Duchess—with Ormus, naturally.”

  “You’re not jealous?” The Duke shook his head. “Man of the world, eh! You were born with a money-bag where your heart ought to be.”

  “And you with a sponge, you old soak.”

  “That’ my heart, pieced by the thousand arrows of the malign god that have reduced it to that state. Hey, I’ve got an idea! I’ll ask the Mage who is the most amorous of the three of us, to see what he’ll say in front of your wife.”

  “You’re mad! You’ll make an enemy of the Duchess.”

  “If fools can’t talk about the follies that sane folk commit, I’ll hand in my resignation.”

  The two men went over to Ormus and the Duchess, who were watching the work in progress from the top of the front steps.

  “O Mage, my handsome Mage,” sang William, “what news have you brought us?”

  “It seems to me that everything is going well, Master Will.”

  “And your charming pupil?” Shakespeare continued, bowing to Diana. “She believes in science and in sagacity, as in beauty. Permit me, Madame, to ask a question of the Mage. We have three men here, if you will do me the honor of still considering me as one. Which of us is the most amorous?”

  “Will, Will,” said the Duke, “you’re embarking on a dangerous passage.”

  Rutland changed the subject by drawing the Duchess’s attention to a detail of the decoration and drawing her toward the obelisk, leaving the Mage alone with Will.

  “You have a great deal of intelligence, Mr. Shakespeare. Can’t you apply it more seriously? There’s too great a depth of wisdom in your Epicurean philosophy for you to consider my presence here as a danger to your friend. Don’t waste your time with epigrams—it would be the contest of the earthenware pot against the iron pot. There are fatalities against which it’s better not to struggle.”

  “I know—and you’re one of those fatalities. You think it interesting to penetrate the secrets of nature. It’s an occupation like any other. Personally, I think it’s futile, and that nothing will come out of all this occult nonsense, including your fluidic science, from the viewpoint of the mystery of life and death. What’s the point? The carcass of William the Fool will leave behind a skull as empty as that of the handsome Ormus. As for our situation here, you’re a parasite like me, but you’re the strongest, and certainly the cleverest, of the three of us. Be indulgent to George and me—leave us a bone.”

  The Duke returned with Diana. “Well, are you two sages squabbling?”

  “There is always agreement between those in love with beauty.”

  “That lyricism is a mask for your intelligence. Don’t fight us, Mr. Shakespeare. And you, Master, let’s go back in. We’ll discuss less futile questions with our Father.”

  XIII. A Party at Tut-Ankh-Amun’s

  “It’s more than marvelous,” said Robert Molly, the wealthy owner of large International Hotels, “it’s magical—and I reckon that Diana Bering’s spent five million dollars.”

  “What a foolish mania you have for calculating prices, my dear! It’s splendid, that’s all.”

  “But I have to make calculations my dear. Won’t it be necessary for us to throw a party too? So...”

  At that moment, Molly and his wife were approached by a magnificent Egyptian lord, followed by two gigantic soldiers: Thebans with torsos circled in bronze, coiffed with hawk’s-head helmets. It was John Flatsbury and his sons, Ralph and David.

  “Well!” said Papa Flatsbury. “Old Bering’s daughter is putting on quite a show!”

  For all the Yankees, the Duchess of Rutland was still Nathan Bering’s daughter. The Duke was universally considered to be a luxury accessory to which the American billionairess had treated herself. For Americans, the antiquity of a name has no importance, and the nobilities of the Old World are considered as the descendants of brigands and toadies rather than national glories.

  The group passed between the pylons of the temple and climbed the flight of steps giving access to the colonnade. Then, turning round, they contemplated the ensemble of the decoration.

  At their feet was an immense quadrangular plaza, whose gigantic columns terminated in lotus-flower surrounds. Those columns, ornamented with symbolic figures, opened on all sides to perspectives of panoramic paintings, forming a perfect illusion. Here were the banks of the Nile, there the temples of Luxor, and further away, Thebes, its palaces and its temples.

  Even further away, between two rows of columns, which colossal mirrors reflected to infinity, was a further panorama: Philae and its temple, with the first cataract. There, a long avenue of palm-trees injected a hint of verdure, framing the view of the island and the temple of Isis. Through clumps of laurier-roses, the cataract was visible, given life by a thin trickle of water, running incessantly. A narrow basin beneath received the fall, and, by means of a skillfully-obtained effect, gave the illusion of the majestic Nile.

  Between other columns, there were other panoramas: on one side, the desert, with the Sphinx and the pyramids of Giza, illuminated with a blue and pink glow by a beautiful African night. Under the colonnades the lighting changed; thousands of electric lights simulated lamps and torches.

  Behind Molly and his wife, in the room of the feast, hundreds of slaves were setting up and laying tables lined with narrow brass beds. The elevated room would permit the guests to see dancers and acrobats while eating and drinking. A decoration of columns and pylons masked Redge House completely.

  The crowd was numerous; New York had fought over the invitations, and everyone was competing in the splendor of their costumes, copied from the beautiful processions engraved on the walls of the temple of Luxor.

  Diana, her head coiffed in a royal pschent representing a jeweled golden phoenix, whose extended wings descended over her shoulders, had a veritable majesty, seated at the end of a colonnade on a throne of jasper and ivory, whose arms were golden sphinxes with eyes of beryl. By her side, the Duke, as a Pharaoh, cut a rather paltry figure. Made-up and bronzed, with a black wig under his royal pschent, he had painted his eyebrows and lips.

  Only two guests created a stain in that brilliant Egypt: William Shakespeare, as an actor of the Elizabethan era, and Charlie Chaplin, in his habitual costume, with wide trousers, a tight-fitting jacket, his cane and his immense worn-out boots. The celebrated comic was too sure of his success to sacrifice it to an ancient costume that would have rendered him unrecognizable.

  The crowd had arrived at about ten o’clock. Charlie hid his admiration beneath grimaces and bewildered expressions, which made the grave and sumptuous Egyptians writhe with laughter.

  “That animal Chaplin is spoiling the illusion for us,” said Pytor. “But for him. I’d begin to believe that it was real.”

  “Oho! Look—here comes the real Pharaoh.”

  “But that’s the mage, Antal Fodor.”

  “He’s heading for the throne. My God! I wouldn’t want to be in Rutland’s shoes. He looks bad beside Ormus.”

  “And who’s the other one—the old man?” asked Chaplin. “One might think he was the Eternal Father.”

  Meanwhile, the mage Ormus, splendidly costumed as a Pharaoh, coiffed with a hawk’s-head tiara, went forward. Beside him, as the high priest of Helios, was Adsum, clad in white and gold lamé, with a diadem studded with precious stones over his long hair. They were both marching without affectation, simple and magnificent.

  Having arrived before the throne, Ormus climbed the steps and, with an irresistible ges
ture, signaled to the Duke to surrender his place. Nonplussed, the latter hesitated—but, subjugated by the magnificent gaze, he stood up and stood aside.

  Diana had got up. Standing, with his arms folded over his chest, the Pharaoh, motionless in a hieratical pose, seemed a colossus of granite. Diana, with a truly regal gesture, placed her hand on the Pharaoh’s shoulder, while Adsum, his arms majestically raised, seemed to be summoning celestial blessings upon the imperial couple.

  And Charlie Chaplin said: “Look! That takes the biscuit!”

  The Duke hesitated momentarily; he tried to fight that imperative influence, but he did not have sufficient will-power in his overly superficial mind. He retreated from a brawl that would have cost him not only his wife but his fortune. He went down the steps of the throne and, joining Shakespeare, drew away with him, pretending to be laughing at something the other had said to him. The triumphant Mage remained immobile in his hieratic pose next to the Pharaoh’s wife, accepting the consequences of that domination.

  The crowd, mildly astonished at first, yielded to the impression of the moment and the milieu. Charlie, in his grotesque costume, advanced to the foot of the throne and, with an admiring grimace, testified with twirls of his crooked cane to his exuberant enthusiasm. There was a long outburst of laughter, and then frenetic exclamations.

  A suggestive fluid emanated from the three principal actors, imposing itself to such a degree that everyone believed, momentarily, that they were contemporaries of ancient Egypt. Then, returning to reality, they applauded once again the defection of the Duke—that English aristocrat who brought a kind of luster to their young democracy but whom, deep down, they scorned as a useless individual.