Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois

by Pierre V. Comtois

  Vaughan’s study of logic, semantics, and philosophy made him aware of mankind’s essential inability to understand the universe it occupies; in effect man’s very “humanity” places an insurmountable barrier to his capacity to comprehend reality. Kurt Godel’s monumental work in mathematics, which conclusively proved this limitation, had a devastating effect on Vaughan’s thinking. The playwright now found the doors to his salvation irrevocably shut. To Vaughan, Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem, destroyed the possibility of ultimate “meaning” as surely as Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle had destroyed Newton’s determinate, clockwork universe. Metaphysique, Vaughan’s last play, resonates with this bitter insight. Somnambular figures walk through a blighted landscape, a “Slough of Despond” in which random acts of brutality are performed without reason or explication. It is clear that Metaphysique is an artistic interpretation of the implications inherent in Godel’s Theorem: The existence of the “object” (God, truth, reality, et al.) can never be incontrovertibly proved by empirical methods. All that remains is inexpiable doubt.

  The mystery surrounding the composition of Vaughan’s The King in Yellow is, I fear, insoluble. Most scholars believe that Vaughan based this unfinished, or partially destroyed, play on a fictitious work created by R. W. Chambers, an obscure early-twentieth-century novelist. Others have embraced a theory which states that both Vaughan and Chambers based their creations on a third, presumably lost, work which has come to be known, within certain circles, as the Xanthic Folio, or Yellow Codex. Could it be Vaughan’s final, pitiful attempt at philological deliverance; or merely an earlier, forgotten piece, briefly begun and then discarded, left forever unfinished by Vaughan’s premature death? Unfortunately the surviving fragment is too brief to provide any decisive indications.

  In my initial examination of the manuscript, I discovered a quote written on the reverse of the last page. It was obvious from the diminutive, almost indecipherable nature of the letters, that this was Vaughan’s handwriting. I take this quote to be Vaughan’s adieu and perhaps, his epitaph:

  Thus do I lie,

  Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed

  With all eternal torture,

  And smitten

  By thee, cruelest huntsman,

  Thou unfamiliar—God…

  (Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche/Thus Spake Zarathustra)

  the fete.

  The Pallid Masque

  The Players:

  Chorus: A robed and hooded figure whose face is indistinct.

  Angelique/Cassilda: As Angelique, a woman in her early-thirties who reigns over the Paris art world, confident in her position as a broker of what’s acceptable and what’s not. An extremely attractive woman conscious of her power over men and perfectly willing to use it. As Cassilda, a leading lady of Carcosa, the world as it is revealed in the burning light of Truth, she is equally as beautiful, but revealing of character flaws: vanity, pettiness, fear and cruelty.

  Forsyth: A young man in his early twenties, handsome and an American recently arrived in Paris. As Angelique’s latest infatuation, he has been raised high by her in the literary world and invited to her soiree as he has already been invited into her bed. Although he has been sponsored by Angelique, he is not without genuine talent as a writer and poet. He is a bit naive and completely entranced by Angelique.

  Melbourne: Although Forsyth’s senior, Melbourne is still under thirty years old. A few years before, he had occupied the position Forsyth now holds both in the literary world as well as in the esteem of Angelique, who has grown tired of him. Somewhat of a lush, Melbourne suffers from great melancholy and cynicism arising from a shattering event in the recent past in which Angelique has figured. He hasn’t written a word in years.

  The Scene

  (As the curtain rises, darkness covers the stage area until a single spotlight from directly overhead illuminates a lone figure standing at extreme stage left. It is robed and hooded with its face indistinct.)

  CHORUS: What is the world but a pallid masque? If one compares it with traditional alternatives, does it not pale in contrast? Is there not a heaven after life on earth? Did not Francis Bacon propose a House of the Six Day’s Work, a new Atlantis, to stand apart from the failed civilization he inhabited? Did not the City of Man have Augustine’s City of God? Does not every disappointing reality have its imagined ideal? Is the world a pallid mask? Does it hide the true scheme of nature beneath its flawed surface? Is life a pallid masque, a play, a small drama, played for a time and then ended? If so, then where is its true face? What is its real meaning? When shall it be revealed? How shall it be shown? And if it were, could you accept it? If the Truth were revealed to you in one searing instant, a single blast of revelation, would you know it for what it was? And then what? Would life be as sweet? Could life be as sweet? Or would it be as foul ashes in your mouth? As a world without a sun? Today without tomorrow? If your only choice was madness or the black hole of despair and self destruction, which would you choose?

  (The figure extends a hand toward stage right as a few spotlights come on. The lights illuminate a party scene with the actors frozen in mid-motion.) Behold the masque. Some would call it a suitable representation of life, the real world. But how suitable is it? And how real is the world it represents?

  (The light over the figure goes out as others come on, fully illuminating the entire stage area. There are about twenty people, men and women, standing about in a salon adorned with period furnishings. French doors border stage left, a big fireplace dominates center stage, and well stocked bookshelves fill the corner at stage right. The party-goers stand about, some with drinks in their hands, dressed in evening wear. The typical conversation of salon parties fills the air. The exact year is uncertain, but it could be the recent past. Suddenly, the French doors open and Forsyth enters. He closes the doors behind him as he glances about, then adjusts his bow tie.)

  ANGELIQUE: There is our wayward poet now! (She detaches herself from a small knot of male admirers and approaches Forsyth, a small glass of champagne in her hand.) Clifton, where have you been?

  FORSYTH: (Smiling nervously, but obviously ill at ease.) Sorry Angelique, but there was…

  ANGELIQUE: Do not tell me, the muse hit you and you could not get away until you put those imperishable thoughts on paper? (She smiles and extends her drink.) Well, never mind that. Here have a drink. (Forsyth takes it as Angelique leans forward to give him a chaste peck on the cheek, but instead, bites at his ear.) Tonight? (She whispers.)

  FORSYTH: You mean tomorrow morning don’t you? We’re hardly going to get out of here before two.

  ANGELIQUE: (Shrugging.) Whatever. Just do not get so drunk that you cannot find your way to my room.

  FORSYTH: I could find it in my sleep.

  ANGELIQUE: Hardly an original line coming from a writer.

  FORSYTH: We can’t be brilliant all the time, my dear.

  ANGELIQUE: (As a chorus of male voices entreat her to return to them.) Speak for yourself, Clifton. (She turns and rejoins her admirers.)

  MELBOURNE: She’s a fine looking woman; be careful.

  FORSYTH: (Turning suddenly at the voice behind him. Melbourne holds a glass of champagne with the slightly disheveled look of someone who is just beginning to have too much to drink. He is very pale.) I don’t believe I have had the pleasure…?

  MELBOURNE: (Smiling.) With me or her? (He indicates Angelique with a gesture of his glass.)

  FORSYTH: (Scowling now.) Now see here…

  MELBOURNE: (Still smiling but now bringing his hands up in mock self defense.) Hold on old chap, no offense meant. Just teasing you a little. It’s just that Angelique and I used to be friends too.

  FORSYTH: (Putting his hands in his pockets.) Angelique has had many friends as I understand.

  MELBOURNE: True. And you know what’s the nice thing about her? She treats every one as if he was her first and only. There are very few ladies of her experience willing to put that sort of effort into a relationship.
Sometimes too much effort.

  FORSYTH: She is a remarkable woman. She’s been invaluable in helping me in my career.

  MELBOURNE: (Nodding knowingly.) She’s the best agent any writer could have in this town. Paris tends to eat us alive.

  FORSYTH: You’re a writer too?

  MELBOURNE: Used to be. Not any more.

  FORSYTH: Not any more? How can that be? One just doesn’t shut one’s self down.

  MELBOURNE: (Smiling and downing the rest of his champagne.) Damned stuff doesn’t have any kick at all. It can be, and it is. I don’t write any more. Just don’t. Haven’t set a word on paper for two years now. (Looking around for more liquor.)

  FORSYTH: (Intrigued.) But why? What happened? (Begins to follow Melbourne as he heads for the liquor service.)

  MELBOURNE: Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I mean. It just hit me one day of the absolute uselessness of writing as an art. I mean, w

  FORSYTH: (Perplexed.) I’m not sure what you mean. A man writes because he has to. It’s in him to do it. He must express himself and the written word is a writer’s particular outlet. A writer must write as he must breathe…

  MELBOURNE: (Reaching the liquor service, he takes up a bottle and pours himself a liberal portion.) Tell me, what is the object of the written word?

  FORSYTH: Why to communicate ideas to others…

  MELBOURNE: And would you say that some writers are better at communicating than others?

  FORSYTH: Of course.

  MELBOURNE: And in being better, how is that measured?

  FORSYTH: (Rubbing his chin.) In the ease and clarity in which they’re able to communicate an idea to others.

  MELBOURNE: Will a particular way to express an idea, through words or any other manner, ever be communicated perfectly? I mean, will the written word, for instance, ever reach a point at which a reader is able to grasp perfect understanding of an idea from it?

  FORSYTH: (Pausing to think.) No, I guess it wouldn’t. Every writer is an individual, each with his own unique perspective. And because each reader is also a unique individual, each with his own life experiences, his ability to interpret a writer’s work must necessarily differ from every other reader.

  MELBOURNE: So, can perfection, can the ideal, ever be attained?

  FORSYTH: (Watching as Angelique approaches them from across the room.) No.

  MELBOURNE: Then why bother trying? Lay bricks instead, at least building a house protects you from the rain.

  ANGELIQUE: (Arriving at the liquor service and slipping her arm around Forsyth’s waist.) What is Brian filling your head with now?

  FORSYTH: We were just discussing the uselessness of writing as a matter of fact.

  MELBOURNE: Among other things.

  ANGELIQUE: (Smiling, but with a definite air of menace in her voice.) You’re drinking too much Brian.

  MELBOURNE: Am I? Well what did you expect?

  ANGELIQUE: Poor boy. You used to be so much more fun. Perhaps I ought to give you more attention…

  MELBOURNE: Though your charms are considerable, my dear, even they aren’t enough.

  ANGELIQUE: (Laughing.) Why, Brian, what is Clifton here going to make of that?

  FORSYTH: I’ve sampled your charms, Angelique, and don’t find them lacking.

  ANGELIQUE: There, you see?

  MELBOURNE: You’ve done enough for me already, Angelique.

  ANGELIQUE: But only at your insistence, darling.

  MELBOURNE: (Suddenly earnest.) How do you do it, Angelique? You’ve looked in the book as well, and yet…

  ANGELIQUE: (Craning her neck suddenly.) Oh look, there is Count Orloff; I simply must run off and greet him. (She leaves the two men and moves off stage right.)

  FORSYTH: It seems there was something more than passing between you and Angelique.

  MELBOURNE: (Looking after Angelique and replying almost absentmindedly.) Oh yes, something more.

  FORSYTH: You said something about a book…

  MELBOURNE: (Starting, he downs the rest of his drink and turns back to the liquor service, speaking over his shoulder.) Did I?

  FORSYTH: Yes, was it a book you shared with Angelique?

  MELBOURNE: (Turning slowly.) A book…yes. I say, Clifton is it? Have you ever heard of the Xanthic Folio?

  FORSYTH: (Frowning and shaking his head.) No.

  MELBOURNE: Didn’t think so. (Sighing, he drains his glass.) Damned stuff couldn’t get an old lady tipsy… The Xanthic Folio is named after a Greek philosopher named Xanthes who was forced to drink poison by the Athenian authorities sometime before the fifth century BC. Or at least that’s what I’ve been able to piece together; there’s not much written about him. From what I’ve been able to find out, Xanthes had developed his own school of philosophy, much like Plato and Socrates, but there was something about his teachings that were felt to be subversive by the powers that ruled Athens at the time. All I’ve been able to discover is that it involved a variant theory of mimetics: the Greek idea of the impossibility of attaining perfection because the ideal of everything existed only in the mind, that any three dimensional construct of any idea would necessarily be inferior to its ideal. Anyway, Xanthes was put to death and his school wiped out. Except for the Xanthic Folio, the only source for Xanthes’ theories. Unfortunately, that work has been lost for centuries.

  FORSYTH: How dangerous could a work on mimetics be; it’s studied today in every university.

  MELBOURNE: (Smiling and shaking his head.) If only it were that simple. Xanthes’ theory of mimetics was revolutionary. As an example of its power, I can tell you that the Oracle of Delphi consulted a copy of the Xanthic Folio; how else could it make its predictions?

  FORSYTH: If there was an oracle.

  MELBOURNE: (Shrugging and putting his empty glass on the liquor service. He does not take another.) Believe what you will. But to finish, I’ll say that although the Xanthic Folio vanished sometime in the Roman era, it reemerged in the thirteenth century as the White Codex, a work cited by Thomas Aquinas from written materials only then emerging from Byzantium. That too, if it ever existed, was lost and, I’m not sure about anything from this point, another book came to light. I knew nothing about it, although I turned Paris, London and Berlin, even Rome, up side down trying to. When it was written, by whom and for what purpose, I still haven’t the faintest idea. (His eyes flicker toward Angelique across the room.)

  FORSYTH: What is this book?

  MELBOURNE: (Turning his attention back to Forsyth.) The King In Yellow.

  FORSYTH: I never heard of it.

  MELBOURNE: Thank God, if there is one, that you never have. Whoever wrote it must have been a madman, or a genius, or maybe not even mortal. It’s like a window or…like an x-ray, one reads its exquisite language, its impossible scheme of words and sees the Truth. (Melbourne begins to look past Forsyth, speaking almost to himself.) The world is stripped away and what’s left is the ideal, the blazing, staggering revelation of reality. There’s no room for self-deception or prevarication only blind acceptance or…

  FORSYTH: You’re rambling, man.

  MELBOURNE: (As if awakened from a trance.) Am I? Tell me, Clifton, have you ever read Mallarme?

  FORSYTH: One doesn’t write in Paris and not read Stephen Mallarme.

  MELBOURNE: Then you’re familiar with his ideas on the literal meaning of words? That if it could be attained, the Truth could be revealed? He once said that “having arrived at the horrible vision of the pure work, I have about lost my mind and all contact with the meaning of the most common ways of speaking.”

  FORSYTH: “I am in Truth on a voyage, but in unknown lands, and if I like to evoke cold images in order to escape from torrid reality I should tell you that for a month now I have been in the purest of glaciers of Aesthetics…that after having found nothingness, I have found the beautiful…and that you cannot imagine the lucid altitudes in which I venture.”

  MELBOURNE: (Nodding.) Exactly. You have it. It’s my theory that The King In Yel
low must have been circulating in Parisian poetic circles sometime in the last century. How else to explain Mallarme and his fellow decadents? How else to explain their fates? Suicide, murder, and self-exile. Mallarme came closest to telling us what it must have been like to read those damnably illuminating words. It was literally the last word in the art of writing. In human self-expression itself. After reading it, no writer could possibly ever lift a pen again. Why bother when perfection had already been reached?

  FORSYTH: (Uneasy now.) Are you saying you’ve read this book?

  MELBOURNE: Yes, damn my soul, yes! (His fists clench tightly at his sides as if restraining a great internal struggle.) If you’re a real writer, you know the feeling. Nothing you’ve written is ever exactly the way you want it. No matter how many times you rewrite or polish, you’re never satisfied. Well, that’s the way I felt, and when…Angelique offered to help me, I accepted. She led me in here, this room, one night, took down the book from those shelves, (indicates bookshelves at corner of stage right), and gave it into my hands. She put me in a chair and bade me read. She may have left the room then, I don’t know, the only thing I do know is that I read the book through in a single sitting and when I was finished, dawn was breaking through the windows and Angelique was standing before me, just as she had the night before. But things were not the same. Yes, it all looked the same, but I perceived the world differently. Angelique herself…

  FORSYTH: Go on, what of Angelique?

  MELBOURNE: You think Angelique beautiful, desirable? She is that, oh yes, she is that. But she’s also more…so much more…Clifton, if you could see her the way I do, the way she really is, not the indistinct shadow she appears to you…