Pan's Flute

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  IV

  Setne followed the avenue of sphinxes with profound smiles toward the great temple of Ammon. The sun, already in the middle of its course, was violent and terrible; the sphinxes were slowly extending their violet shadows. After the propylon there was a further avenue of sphinxes, a further extent of silence, enigma and anguish. At the second portal, having spoken to the guard and shown a papyrus, Setne crossed the formidable threshold; he found himself in the hypostyle hall. It was comparable to the temple of the Liban that ancient nature had constructed with cedars six thousand years old, but the trees were made of granite. Countless slaves had hauled them along the river and rolled them over the plaintive ground; subtle and patient artists had eternized therein the impassive figures of gods and pharaohs, or caused their sacred flower to surge firth. The light floated, stirring and cold, mystical, motionless and sacred. A man appeared, as thin as a scarab among fig-trees, and Setne recognized Knoum, son of Seba. His linen garment, dyed crimson, shone between the columns; he advanced with long strides.

  “You have come,” he said. “May the benediction of Ammon, illuminator of space, destroyer of shadows, cover your heart and your race.”

  “Priest, equal of the brilliant manes that have triumphed in the Amenti, as knowledgeable as Thoth, the divine scribe, my respect lies before you like the shadow before the palm tree.”

  Thus they greeted one another, in the fashion of the ancestors, and then the priest, in a familiar tone said: “You shall hear men learned in the secret sciences; you shall see beautiful you women, as befits your sparkling eyes. You may first, if you wish, request the favor of the god; he is more propitious in his temple, the finest that the kings have erected. It pleases him to dwell here and to lend an ear here to the prayers of men.”

  They approached the sanctuary, but it was only permitted to the young man to perceive the darkness from which the god descended. On the edge of the shadow he said: “Triple sovereign of the world, divine son of your own works, father and mother of the astonishing power sustaining the sky over the nurturing earth, vanquisher of time, space and death, resplendent voyager, issue of Nut, who is reborn every day on the sacred horizon, listen to the cry of my soul, aid me toward the mountains of the eternal life.”

  He prayed, and the priest listened, with approval.

  “My son, you have said the things that it is necessary to say. You may now savor in peace the wine, hydromel and good nourishment that are appropriate to rejoice the heart, and the wise words that fortify the mind.”

  They went along shady corridors. They passed through pylons, went along the edge of the sacred lake, traversed avenues and reached a house in which human voices could be heard. In a large hall, well guarded against the violence of the daylight, figures could be seen rendered more venerable by large wigs and square beards. Almost all the men wore sacerdotal costume; their mild severity was illuminated by the presence of young women, the brightness of cups, blue tables, enamels and opened stones.

  A young priest who had returned from a voyage was recounting the prodigies of the land of Kush.

  “Beyond the mountains of Haru there are men with manes. They have the feet of onagers, the strength of a lion and the voice of a buffalo. They nourish themselves on the bark of trees, the fur of bears and black stones as hard as iron. They are afraid of water, which they do not cross; they make alliance with those who know the words that it is necessary to say, which destroy the dragons that no Kushite dares to resist...”

  The narration charmed the audience. The naïve face of the young priest increased their credulity. None was desiccated by study, even those who doubted their own science, for the marvel of the world, the unknown of the habitable world, had no precise figure for their imagination.

  “Have you seen these dragons, of which it is said that they can strangle a hippopotamus?”

  “I have seen a dragon pass by, in a hamlet, in the evening twilight. The howling of the dogs and the fear of the camels had altered us to its approach. We were enclosed in the chief’s house; we perceived the monster through a gap in the wall. It was as stout as a cedar, two hundred cubits long. It walked on a thousand feet and exhaled smoke; its ardent mouth was open; two men could have stood within it. The earth dried up as it passed...”

  “The work of Nun is prodigious,” remarked an aged priest. “It is said that there is a land of flame beyond the three gulfs. The beasts there are as large as pyramids; they devour the clouds that come from the sea. My father saw a thousand red elephants pass by there, which rose up all the way to the sky.

  Knoum spoke in his turn.

  “Men only live by the benevolence of the gods. One day, perhaps, when impiety has increased, the monsters will be unleashed and will destroy our descendants.

  The old priest went on: “Words are stronger than the monsters. It is by means of the formulae that men enchant the entire earth. With the formulae, one can reach as far as the gods. A few words set an army on the march; others expel the plague or cause the wind to blow over dormant waters. A phrase inscribed by a hierogrammat transmits testimony to posterity. There is an arcanum hidden in the necropolis of Sais; the men who can discover it will know the significance of the sea and the mountains, will command the migratory birds, cause the mysterious beasts to come that dwell in the depths of the abyss. The symbols are full of force and give empire to men who are able to make use of them...”

  Everyone looked at him, avidly, for they believed, mutually, that they possessed secret sciences. Apart from legends learned in common, they only set out enigmatic phrases full of ingenious appearances, only bold regarding the news brought by travelers, the reports of men of war and foreigners.

  The old priest added: “It is by means of words that the world emerged from Nu, and the power of the gods consists of knowing the language appropriate to all things. All things can be understood. The most immobile and the most inert have an understanding that awakens when one intermingles the figures and the words that correspond to their soul. In the same way that it is sufficient to know the horizon and the signs of the route to direct oneself in the terrible desert, so, in order to secure the obedience of the grass, the furious ocean, the wind burned by the sands, the divine waters that flow from the mountains, ferocious beasts, gulfs and darkness, it is sufficient to know the formula.”

  Everyone approved. A pale man, whose cheeks were hollow and his ardent eyes red—for he had lost his eyelashes—replied in a dull voice: “Father, equal of the sages who found the art of sculpting stone, your discourse is worthy of your great renown. Nevertheless, is it true that it is speech that is endowed with these great virtues—or, at least, that alone? Does a word have a power of its own, or only a power that has come to it by delegation, like the command delegated by the master to a slave? It is true that a word sets an army on the march, but note that the word in question is Assyrian for a Ninevite, Kushite for a man of Kush. The word, in truth, follows the knowledge, but does not precede it; with the consequence that the arcana for enchanting the ocean, the earth and the mountains can only exist if one knows what the ocean, the earth and the mountains are.”

  Everyone was astonished by this speech, imagining its mistrust. The old priest replied, severely: “Do you doubt the power of formulae?”

  The pale man darted a sharp glance at the assembly. Dread and challenge strayed over the bold mouth. “I venerate the power of formulae; an ignorant man can succeed in doing astonishing things by following a precept that he does not understand. If the gods wish it, they can give us arcana above our intelligence and put in our hands a power whose source is inconceivable to us. But I believe that the gods themselves only create arcana regarding things are first known to them. Given that, it is dangerous to believe that we can find words capable in themselves of governing mystery; it is first necessary to penetrate the mystery. If not, we will speak at hazard.”

  “Son of Sakar,” said the old priest, in a solemn voice, “it is written that the word created the world. If
you are raising yourself above the sacred science of the old scribes, who transmitted it for a thousand generations, you are wandering in darkness, like the traveler who penetrates without a torch the land of caverns that is said to open at the sources of the Nile, which descend for ten thousand cubits under the mountains, and where men dwell whose eyes project their own light before them.”

  “I will be silent if you command it, venerable father, but I cannot believe that speech is the origin of things, any more than that a child is not the issue of a father.”

  “A father can be engendered by a son. It is sufficient that, in the world of proofs, the shadow of a son returns to incarnation before the shadow of the father.”

  Setne listened in silence. His mind was no stranger to such things; he had once learned, among the scribes, to savor a subtle reasoning, a tortuous hypothesis and an unexpected argument. But formulae, more often than not, had appeared to him to be empty and tedious. He gazed sympathetically at the priest with the bald eyes.

  “In truth,” he said, “I believe that speech is only the link to knowledge.”

  The men nurtured on the wisdom of the temples turned to the stranger; a discreet disdain appeared on their faces. But Heth, the son of Sakar, chagrined not to encounter any soul that wanted to understand him, smiled mildly at the soldier.

  The old priest cried: “Chief with the keen eyes, fear speaking lightly about the art of words, fear being similar to the imprudent laborer who claims to be imitating the sculptors in stone.”

  “I am not entirely a stranger among you, divine sage, for I was nurtured in the sanctuaries, and Kebr, son of Rous, priest of Isis, taught me to trace signs and read secret things. Nevertheless, I incline before your wisdom.”

  At that moment the slaves brought silver cups, and Setne, turning round, saw a young woman clad in white wool at the back of the room, who was looking at him. Then he breathed more rapidly; he no longer had any difficulty in being silent, having fallen back into the same disturbance that Gaila and the princess of Thebes had thrown into his soul. And while he raised his cup, astonished by the burning softness that enchanted the world for him, he felt a slight frisson run over his skin, and feared being the victim of the gods who sow furious amour and envelop young women in an excessively desirable beauty.

  The voice of the son of Sakar interrupted him in his reverie.

  “Young chief, I wish you renown and victory! That wish comes at its time, for we know that King Thutmose is about to resume the war against Nineveh.”18

  Setne shivered violently. His soul retraced the awakenings under the tent, the long marches along rivers or in steppes as interminable as the sea, the resonance of trumpets, the noise of dromedaries, and the formidable uncertainty of the morning of battles. He also perceived the bliss of halts, in which fatigue becomes a mildness, the charm of springs and their sensuality, the joyful howls of victory, the forgetfulness of oneself amid the flight of arrows and the clash of swords.

  “Is that true, scribe equal to Thoth? Shall we see the king’s enemies fleeing over the resounding plain again?”

  “The news will be proclaimed tomorrow in the camps of Thebes, and borne by messengers all the way to the lands of Kush.”

  Setne rejoiced in his heart; his eyes were resplendent.

  “Do you like war, my son?”

  “If they had not liked war, would our ancestors not be bending their knees to the Shous? I like wars that disperse those who lie in wait for Egypt and who, without the strength of our hands, would fall upon her like a mongoose on a cobra.”

  Heth replied: “If you would like to come to my house, I can enable you to read a papyrus on the art of combat; one can take account therein of the character and the armament of various peoples. The man who wrote it, Reben, son of Thouai, was fortunate in his enterprises; he led a fleet on the Red Sea, merited the favor of Hatsheput the Great, and died young without having known defeat. May your fate be similar to his, save for the brevity!”

  Setne felt a great desire to see the book; he replied softly: “Your generosity touches my heart. I will rejoice in seeing Reben’s book and listening to your words.”

  At that moment, a shadow slid toward them. Setne saw the young woman clad in white wool. She stared intently at the young man, and disappeared at the back of the room.

  “She is as beautiful,” said Setne, “as the nascent flower of the nelumbo.”

  “She is the daughter of a priest of Abydos,” Heth replied. “She is knowledgeable, gentle and pious. She lives her beauty!”

  His eyes still fixed on the door, Setne was thinking less of war and fearing the departure. Amour resounded within him more loudly than the clamors of battle. He knew the delightful emotion of ambushes, the sensuality of dread expelled by wrath, the frenetic pleasure of all bounding together, with the same courage, toward peril. But he sensed the superior sweetness of confounding himself with women; their beautiful eyes dissolved his strength, he palpitated in the soft pride that they exhale, as agreeable as vanquishing the soldiers of Nineveh.

  “If you want to come one day,” the priest added, “I will send a slave to fetch you, for the route that leads to my dwelling is tortuous.”

  Setne accepted. He stayed for a while longer listening to the words of the scribes. Although he was distracted by his memories, he was interested by the discussions, for he had the soul that is often found among conquerors, little made for philosophical invention, but apt to understand many things and to be animated for them.

  When he withdrew, the moon had risen over Thebes. It was passing slowly over the temples and obelisks, like a nacreous wheel. Setne’s flesh was vibrant with an insupportable desire. Gaila, in particular, excited his senses, for the obstacle that separated him from her was not invincible; but the memory of Aoura added a magical languor to his disturbance.

  He was marching impatiently when he heard a clear voice calling to him. At first he only saw a shadow in front of a papyrus hut among the fig-trees. Advancing into the light, however, a young woman appeared, clad in white wool, tightly sculpted by her robe. Her forms were as vibrant as the voice of flutes in the young rice-fields, her hips troubling. A strange smile stimulated the softness of her face, sheltered beneath a diaphanous pshent. Her small feet were shiny, cared for by skillful slaves.

  With a tremor, he recognized the daughter of the priest of Abydos.

  “Are you calling me?” Setne asked.

  “Yes, I called to you,” she said, “but don’t imagine that it was at hazard; I know you well. Before encountering you among the priests, I saw you commanding your phalanx near the great pylon; I was avoiding the baking sun thereunder. I can invite you into my dwelling without shame. If you’re submissive to the laws of Hathor you will want to adore the goddess in her servant. I’m beautiful. My bosom is as soft as a nelumbo flower, my loins very well made, the kiss of my mouth more intoxicating that the wine of Mageddo. Come! You will see me—slowly, if you know the harmony of amour, or springing in a flash from my garments if your ardor is more impetuous than refined. What you do not know yet, I can teach you, and what you know will appear new to you with me. In the temple of Abydos there is an arcanum that teaches the divine caresses; I have seen that arcanum and you will take me for several women. Come in! The night is ardent, the moon amorous!”

  He hesitated momentarily, but then he was frightened by his solitary bed and followed the courtesan. She led him silently into the papyrus house. A door opened to an embalmed chamber. A slave lit three lamps. Vases shone like beautiful fish in the moonlight. He perceived, on a table, pots of antimony, powder, henna and perfumes that add the sensuality of plants to that of a woman.

  “Would you like fruits, cervoise or my lips?” the woman asked.

  She leaned forward. He tasted a young mouth that melted against his own.

  “Sit down, if you prefer the spectacle of my person first.”

  She took off her pschent; her face appeared in the full light, painted with delicacy, the eyes s
parkling with kohl, the fresh lips like the roses of fire and water that open in the matinal hills. Then she showed her rounded cleavage and her beautiful arms polished like onyx. Her breasts sprang forth like lovely vases with amber tones.

  She fled. “Wait!” she said.

  And she reappeared in a tunic of byssus, as transparent as the vapors that descend by night over the Nile. All of the mystery of her body was visible, and yet she remained enigmatic and irritating. She mimed amour in accordance with the rites; she sketched a naïve and tender appeal that went back to the times of King Menkaure.

  Desire immediately agitated Setne. Once again he wanted to know the mystery of the woman. Closing his eyes, he held the courtesan against his heart. He thought of Gaila and the sister of Thutmose while the supple body yielded to his embrace.

  The caress left him sad.

  “There is a shadow over you,” said the courtesan.

  He admitted that he was troubled by memories.

  “I feel sorry for you,” she said. “Slavish amour is a miserable malady. It links us to another like a condemned man to the stake. Men who are young and strong, like you, brought up for war, ought to taste all mouths. They are diminished in being fixed. Their desire ought to be as changing as their stride. They should go from woman to woman and live in triumph. And the woman too is wiser who, like me, has known thousands of men....”

  “Are you not the slave of the passer-by?”

  She began to laugh. “Make no mistake, soldier; I can choose. No man penetrates here who has not excited my desire or my curiosity. My needs accommodate to circumstances. I’m a patient and resolute huntress. If I happen to take an old man or a poorly made man, it’s because they have some singularity in them. There are old men whose education is inappreciable, and infirm ones full of the god of sensuality. And besides, it makes me better able to love the encounter of men made in your image.”

  He was not listening. He was bitter and chagrined. His soul was suspended between war and amour; he was full of fermentations with no outlet, at the moment of existence when strength becomes a torture because it seems futile. Silently, he put a little turquoise on the courtesan’s table. She smiled.