Pan's Flute

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “Let the impure belly be opened.”

  The red knife lowered. Dehva uttered a soft and feeble plaint.

  She was suffering in her flesh, but without fear. She did not cry out when her mouth was sliced and her eyes punctured. She was not unhappy for her own pain: she was dying in Dionys as she had lived in him. And she said again with her bloody mouth: “I know my crime toward you, Dionys.”

  Meanwhile, the executioner opened the arteries of the wrist, and the priest Aulei prayed for the last time.

  “You are avenged, profound Goddess; thus perish and will perish all those who offend you. Protect this people who protect your holy rules; may our wheat be blessed, and the beasts of our pastures, the vines that grow on our hills, and the generation that will be born of ours.”

  With a gesture, he dissipated the crowd. And until morning, the hill remained forbidden.

  When they sensed that they were alone in their agony, Dehva said softly: “I have been fatal to you, and you cannot forgive me.”

  Somber and fraternal, he said: “There is no rancor in the profound earth...”

  Lassitude prevented him from saying any more. Their blood, drop by drop, carried away their life.

  They departed toward a dream ever more obscure, which dissipated their thought and their suffering. And they had no longer felt alive for a long time when their hearts stopped, almost at the same time.

  SETNE’S WOMEN

  PART ONE

  I

  Setne’s palanquin stopped in front of a pylon reddened by the sunset. It was the month of May, near Thebes; the waters of the Nile was flowing at a low level; the land of Egypt, hard, dry and miserable, was waiting for the flood. Setne rapped twice. A Kushite slave led him though profound and admirably cool gardens; the fountains, the odorous flesh of flowers, the rustle of foliage, the elegance of the wading and swimming birds among the lotuses on the blue ponds, and the long avenues of sycamores, invited abundant sensualities and disdainful idleness. The young man perceived granaries, warehouses and stables, with immense provisions of barley, fruits, beans, onions, dates, olives and oil, for Egypt was living in the tradition of wealth and nature, the mere sight of which reassures souls.

  Going past the portico and the pylons where the guards stood, Setne saw the interior courtyards. The central one contained the family habitation; it was the least luxurious. The young chief of the phalanx entered the third, where the reception apartments were. He heard clear adolescent voices and a harmony of musical instruments.

  Through the open door, the great sun was visible, setting over a sea of copper.

  “Salutations to you, Setne, son of Raneferka, your presence honors this house,” said a young man, the son of the master of the house, as he introduced the leader of the phalanx into an enameled chamber.

  A slave filled a syenite vase with pure water and began washing Setne’s feet, while he contemplated a red hind fleeing between two sycamores. painted on the wall in a simple style.

  When he was purified, Setne went into a spacious room where lamps were already burning for the evening. He went to salute the host and hostess, sitting on high seats encrusted with ebony. Everywhere, there were ingenious tables, ornamented with enamels, curtains woven in Nineveh or Thebes, familiar statuettes, small forms sparkling with color or gilt, and on the ceiling, light and lively lines whose rhythm was as soft as the song of a flute.

  After a pause, the chorus and the harmony resumed at the back of the room. The invited guests were gathered around little tables, the men with thick, square ceremonial beards, the women wearing vast wigs strewn with pearls. Young naked slaves were offering wine, cervoise and fresh fruits like fountains. One of them approached Setne and wove gladioli into his hair. A girdle of byssus cloth brightened her loins. She wore no other garment except for long blue-tinted tresses thrown to one side like a mare’s mane. Fate had ornamented her for the beds of princes and priests, perfecting her limbs, her small arched feet and her pert bosom, giving her long eyes the menacing softness that dissolves the will of men. She did not seem to have served for amour as yet. Setne shivered with pleasure while she put flowers in his hair. Dreams rose up tumultuously at the friction of the young breasts against his shoulder and her agile fingers, fixing the gladioli.

  When she had finished, her eyes could not avoid those of the young man; there was a kind of exchange of youth, energy and beauty. In a voice that could not surpass the hearing of the slave among the singing and the harmony of the music, he said: “Tell me your name and your country?”

  “I am Gaila, daughter of Rub,” she said. “I was born in the tribe of the Bene-Asher, on the far side of the Red Gulf.”

  She had a singular voice, a voice that was simultaneously clear and hollow, caressant, anxious and sensual, which harmonized with her gaze. With a shiver, fearful of annoying her, even though she was merely a servile object, he said: “You’re a virgin, are you not?”

  She replied with simplicity: “I’ve served many men.”

  He felt discontented; he was one of those men, rare in those days, who preferred virgin girls to those who had been prepared for amour. However, his ill humor disappeared before the slave’s troubling smile. He went on, softly: “May your fate, daughter of the Gulf, be as pleasant as your luminous youth.”

  “May Aoth heap you with wisdom and renown, Lord, and Païr shield you from ambushes.”

  He listened to the strange names,14 which did not displease him. Already, the slave was moving away to ornament a new guest. The sad young chief strove to listen to the harmony of harps, flutes, citharas and a song celebrating wine.

  Red as somber fire

  Wine is the blood of Osiris

  The strength of the body and the mysterious movement of the soul.

  Voyager of the earth,

  Drink the impetuous liquor,

  Rejoice in your works.

  Following the advice of the singer, Setne emptied his cup; happy images floated around him.

  What is the spirit of courage that dwells in wine? he wondered.

  The song was interrupted, and the master of the house proclaimed: “Dear guests, sent by the gods to fill my dwelling with a joy more brilliant than the acacias and the nelumbos, some like to respire in the gardens before the meal, others prefer tranquil games; let everyone follow the desire of his heart!”

  Setne preferred the gardens, by inclination and in the hope of finding the slave from the Gulf there, for she had disappeared.

  A violet veil was thickening over the tall trees, the pale paths and the fish-ponds. Resin torches were lit, while adolescents sang in a bush to the vivid languor of the nascent stars. The slight turbulence of the wine made life strange and magnificent for Setne. Amid the pretty bodies of the slaves bearing torches, he searched for young Gaila.

  A man he did not know spoke to him.

  “By Apis, the freshness is good that falls from the stars of Nut!”

  They were on the edge of a pool, where ibises and geese were awake in the torchlight, and large vaporous fish drifted under the diaphanous water. Babylonian trees bathed their elegant and plaintive tresses. The odor of balms, precious woods and flowers that loved darkness accompanied the youthful singing voices ardently.

  “In truth,” Setne replied. “Ankhi, our host, is expert in feasts. His wine is warm in the heart, his slaves as beautiful as the star of Osiris.”

  “But above all, he has harmonies of musical instruments that are incomparable from the cataracts to the sea, and singers who could sing before the Pharaoh.”

  Setne saw then that the stranger was wearing the ornaments of a priest. His false beard was a cubit long, and his face had the disquieting immobility that the habitude of sanctuaries gives.

  “Yes, the music is beautiful,” said Setne, who was savoring it without really listening to it.

  “It’s the speech of the world,” replied the priest. “It dwells in all the soil and all science. The young woman who is singing to us is a feeble, though ve
ry beautiful, part of it. If our hearing were delicate enough, we would hear the rocks and the grass singing.”

  Setne listened without astonishment, accustomed to the company of priests and their singular discourse.

  “That must be true,” he said, gravely. But he was still searching for the daughter of the Gulf.

  The priest continued: “Be assured that no flower opens without a mysterious song, and that young women are more beautiful who were conceived after a harmony like the one we are hearing now.”

  Setne, motionless and searching the garden with his gaze, seemed attentive to those words.

  “Although you wear the costume of a warrior,” said the priest, “you seem to listen with pleasure to a good scribe...”

  “She who engendered me was the daughter of a priest,” Setne replied.

  The other, under the agreeable fire of the wine, rejoiced in those words. “I am Knoum, son of Seba,” he declared. “My family have served Ammon for six generations.”

  Young men came to interrupt them. There was a companion of Setne among them, the leader of a phalanx, with thick lips and burnt eyes, who exclaimed: “Come on! Ankhi is permitting us to hunt the beautiful slaves all the way to the bottom of the garden!”

  Setne recognized, by virtue of a feverish chagrin, that he was jealous of Gaila. An ardor like the one that bore him to battles inflamed his temples.

  “I’ll go with you!” he said, in a harsh voice.

  “What!” said the priest, who, being full of discourse, had been counting on the young man to listen to him. “Are you like these others, then?”

  Setne had already launched forth, like a young horse among onagers. The priest sighed; he served his speech to the herons.

  The young men reached the tall turpentine trees, where the moon, scarcely nascent, slid a milky shadow into the darkness. Without having made any agreement, the fell silent. The impalpable presence of the young slaves gave a voluptuous anguish to the mystery. Suddenly, there was a fleeting frisson, and something white glistened.

  “There they are!”

  They all ran, sensual and furious, their faces colliding with branches. The moon showed itself amid the columns, vast, bloody and as grim as a Ninevite furnace ignited for a sacrifice. The agile slaves ran toward it; one might have thought that they wanted to hurl themselves into it; but the young men were faster. Setne was the first to reach the fugitives.

  They stopped then, fearfully, surrounded. In the ruddy light, their bright procession was the emblem of terrestrial pleasures; their pale veils, descending from one shoulder and only covering a corner of the body, complicated desire. Lust, the hateful spur of amour, breathed in the male breasts.

  “Your choice!” said the young men to Setne.

  Setne observed the women’s faces. Not recognizing the daughter of the Gulf, he remained indecisive. For, simultaneously, vibrant youth sang within him, and, like a mist, the memory of Gaila tarnished his pleasure. The shady sky, the soft earth, the song of the cicadas and the perfume of acacias seemed to fuse within his being and counsel him to sensuality. His thought collided like the confluence of rivers, sands in the wind and ferocious wasps; his desire roared like a lion hidden behind the dunes…again he saw the slave lowering her beautiful sacred eyes toward him.

  However, the fear of only pursuing Gaila ravaged his mind. It was in dread of mockery that he said to the nearest of the women: “Follow me.”

  At first he walked in silence. Then he stopped to examine his captive. She was a Syrian girl with the eyes of a heifer, almost pretty, heavy, with a stupid expression. Se displeased him.

  “Have no other slaves been delivered to the men than those who accompanied you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Lord. I think there was one who escaped. She ran faster than us. She’s a daughter of the Gulf named Gaila.”

  They had resumed walking. Between the colonnettes, the glimmer of torches sprang forth, mingling with the moon’s rays over the fish-ponds.

  “She’s not here,” said the slave.

  He moved her aside gently, and started running toward the turpentine trees. A pale form fled before him. He heard the patter of light feet on the ground. Several times he almost seized a byssus-cloth girdle. Silvery laughter burst firth; he only saw hanging branches or undergrowth. He finally sat down, weary and chagrined, at the end of a pathway, in front of the plain of Thebes.

  Then the laughter rang out close by. Raising his eyes he saw Gaila, who was standing next to him. Turned toward the Orient, she had the whiteness of an alabaster Isis; her hair cast a sparkling shadow. He was filled with a tender desire. He tried to draw the slave toward him.

  “You didn’t catch me,” she said. “I came. You don’t have any right.”

  She had leapt back. Already, she was out of range.

  “I don’t have any right!” he shouted. “Come back.”

  She came back, and smiled at him. He contemplated her with a sort of dread. He respired her hair, as odorous as the confines of the desert where the first grains advertise the divine pastures.

  Then a quiver of jealousy ran through him. “Why don’t you want to be mine,” he asked, “when you’ve known so many men?”

  “It’s my right not to be yours. If you had caught me, I wouldn’t have put up any resistance. No one has had me yet with my own consent.”

  He threw his arms round her abruptly. “And if I wanted you now?”

  She laughed, but her laughter was no longer silvery; it was troubled, mysterious and grim.

  “What could I do? I’d yield to force once again.”

  “But that would annoy you?”

  “Why should such an expected thing annoy me? I’m not free. So what does it matter?”

  He tightened his grip, inflamed by the temptation of the rape. Then, astonished, he dropped his arms. A violent intoxication was throbbing in his flesh. Dominated by Gaila’s eyes, he hesitated.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “The signs didn’t lie to me. Our lives are linked. I knew it the moment I had woven the flowers into your hair; the amulet you wear on your breast is the image of my father; the lines of your face are favorable. Your projects will be accomplished and you will be a great war leader.”

  He shivered. A superstitious credulity invaded his soul. He remembered that the women of the Red Gulf, Egyptian or Arab, have the gift of prophecy.

  She saw that she could take a risk. “I’m to be sold in eight days’ time,” she said, vehemently. “Buy me. I’ll render difficult things easy for you. The man who wants to master life needs a woman. She can slip in everywhere, where he would be noticed. A woman is invisible; she can hide like a little insect. I’ll also be a concubine devoid of jealousy, for I’ve been violated by so many men that I can love my master like a mother and be a source of pleasure to him without envying him the joy he takes in other loins...”

  He listened, fascinated by an obscure force.

  “If I’m no use to you,” she said, “you can sell me again; I’m beautiful; I’ll become even more beautiful. In any case, you won’t sell me again, because I know secrets that are worth twenty times my price. You’re the first man that I’ve wanted for a master; you’ll also be the first that I’ll serve, not only with my body and my labor, but with my soul. Fate has spoken.”

  He believed her, either because he was prepared by subtle instincts or because he was driven by the violent desire that he had for her. And that was a great thing in his life. Everything was transformed. His destiny was taking a strange route, of which he had a presentiment henceforth.

  “I’ll buy you,” he said.

  He was a man of his word, as much by virtue of innate honor as because he had a need to believe the word of others.

  “You won’t repent of it,” she retorted, lying down at his feet.

  The silent softness of the stars filtered between the palms. A heron was perceptible, asleep on one foot, and, sometimes, a fugitive animal, a bird with soft wings, or hairy nocturnal insects; in the d
istance, the shadow of a pyramid, a pale temple, a papyrus hut and date palms were outlined on the olive plain.

  Suddenly, she said: “It’s also necessary to ransom my brother, who is a child. I saved him from my family’s disaster and I’ve succeeded in keeping him through my servitude. The stars are in his favor; his presence brings good fortune.”

  The Egyptian made a sign of assent. It was a trivial matter for him to pay the additional price of a small boy; but he wanted to know more about Gaila’s origin.

  “Who were your people and how did they perish?”

  She darted a profound gaze ahead of her.

  “My father descended from countless chiefs who all had command of the tribe of Bene-Asher. Our pastures extended from the Orient to the Occident. A river traversed them. There was a plenitude of livestock, forage and grain. We possessed gold, silver, necklaces, pendant earrings, dyed and embroidered wools. The men of Daour came with bronze chariots and horses faster than the southerly wind; they came in the evening, guided by traitors from our tribe. My mother was raped thirty times in front of her sons and daughters. Then her belly was opened and her entrails thrown to the jackals. My father’s legs were broken with blows of a hammer; his breasts were torn away with pincers; he perished in the furnace, with his descendancy. Since then, the men of Daour have kept our herds, our weapons and our pastures, and the Bene-Asher live miserably in the desert. My brother will avenge us.”

  She spoke in a hollow and ferocious voice. The mildness had fled her splendid visage. All the fury of her race was shining in the magnificent flame of her eyes. Setne considered her silently and rejoiced in sensing that she was full of strength. He took her in his arms and collected from her red lips a wrathful kiss that bound him more tightly, and asked: “Is it still to force that you’re yielding?”

  “No! My submission will be voluntary.”

  “Will you not take any pleasure in your master’s kisses?”

  “I will surely take no pleasure in them now…but what does it matter to my master? He ought not to desire to know....”