Funestine and Other Adventures in Romancia

by Brian Stableford

  It was in the eighth, of aventurine, that the various oratories of the palace were. In the principal chapel, represented in the figure of a rhinoceros sixteen feet tall, carved from a single lodestone, was Xisquinima, the tutelary god of the island; in the others there were twelve hundred one-cubit pagodas, each made of a single diamond.

  The ninth, separated from the other eight by a solid gold balustrade, each baluster of which was a genius clad like a Swiss royal guard, was the courtyard of the palace proper; the pavement was a mosaic of all sorts of precious stones in which Clair-obscur had traced the history of all times in hieroglyphs. The most curious was a singular figure; considered from a certain direction it represented a goat with the feet of a mule, the head of a screech-owl and the maw of a famished mastiff that even bit the hands that fed it; seen from another point of view it was a Japanese bonze holding a cock in one hand and a brazier on the other, from which thick smoke was emerging.

  Twelve amethyst pillars sustained a vast hall of rock crystal, the doors and windows of which were carbuncles. That hall opened over two long enfilades of the same crystal, furnished with even more taste than luxury. To the right was Funestine’s apartment, composed of twenty rooms on the same floor, all fitted with mirrors of a single piece and similarly separated by diamond borders. To the left were her bathrooms; as she liked odors, the tubs and the furniture were ambergris.

  I ought not to forget the library, richer by the quality than the number of books that composed it, although there were nearly three hundred thousand. There were found the originals of the works that were to be made by Aulnoy, Murat, Durand and so many others,56 who were given subsequently to the ridicule of imitating them; one saw the portraits of all the authors, those I have named being crowned by rays of light, and those whose names I have kept silent by bats’ wings.

  The historiographer Albupipargarnos, from whose journal I have faithfully extracted what I have just reported, continues thus:

  “With regard to the gardens, they appeared to me to be so marvelous, so surprising and so far above the palace that, intoxicated with admiration, I did not even imagine that they could be described. I shall not say a word about the fountain of liquid pearls of the most beautiful water in the world, which rounded out in falling into a basin of old Japanese porcelain. I saw three hundred vessels laden with it without the source weakening or diminishing.

  “Those gardens still subsisted in the times of Cyrus, who walked there several times with Araspes. I am not astonished that the author of his voyages made no mention of them; he was too much an enemy of the marvelous to talk about them, but I am surprised that they escaped the sublime Sethos.”57

  When she awoke, Funestine darted distracted and scornful glances in all directions; scarcely touched by the marvels that surrounded her, she contented herself with asking coldly whether the palace in which she found herself was hers, and whether all the people she saw where there to obey her. Her principal maid of honor, clad in a long cape of hummingbird plumes, dropped to her knees and responded, stammering, that she was the absolute mistress of their lives, that she could dispose of them at her whim like toys and dolls; that Clair-obscur had not only given her the palace and all the treasures it contained, but also...

  She was about to make a long speech, when the princess, who did not like them, made her shut up.

  “Dress me; I want to go for a walk.”

  The person responsible for putting on her slippers could not find them, and no one dared trespass on the rights of her charge. The impatient Funestine leapt out of bed barefoot and made an immodest glissade; other ceremonial followed, equally impertinent, to put a little lavender eau-de-vie on a slight scratch she had made on her elbow. Then she was begged humbly to choose between twenty combing-robes that were displayed to her sight one after another.

  “Give me the first that comes to hand,” she said, angrily, “and get on with it.”

  Then she was brought a dressing-table, the same one that the Graces had made for Venus. She tipped it over, adding with a peevish expression that she did not want her hair done and that they were very bold not to wait for her orders. She went into a gallery in which several seamstresses were embroidering some upholstery; she thought it in detestable taste, expelled them and had the fabric thrown on the fire.

  When she had descended into the gardens, and odor of lemon trees and bergamot, delectable for anyone else, threw her into a fury. She summoned he gardener.

  “Wretch!” she said to him, “do you want to make me expire?” Have those trees, which I detest, uprooted immediately and put pots of tuberoses in their place.”

  The simple fellow, not very skillful in his art, not knowing anything of the character of Funestine, represented to her modestly that the odor of tuberoses was even stronger than that of lemon trees, and that it would go to Her Highness’s head with even more violence. It would have been better for him to obey than to reply. “I believe,” she said, “that you’re resisting me. Imprison this old dotard, whose physiognomy displeases me.”

  She made other changes so bizarre, and gave orders so strange, that if the hour for the midday meal had not ended the promenade, she would have turned everything upside-down. Her retinue, although forewarned about her humor by Clair-obscur, were nevertheless frightened by it.

  She passed abruptly through a crowd of courtiers at whom she did not deign to glance, went into the dining room and threw herself precipitately into an armchair placed at a table laden with golden vessels, the work of the Germain of his time.58 Her napkin barely unfolded, she uncovered the first dish that came to hand, lifted the lid of a second, of a third, and successively of all those she could reach, but, only finding millet, she cried: “What! Am I being mocked, or do you take me for a canary?”

  The maître-d’hôtel of the quarter, taking off his head a large hat of almond-bark covered with little bells, an attribute of his responsibility, prostrated himself and said: “Very indulgent, very tranquil and very virtuous sovereign, your humble servants are attentive to their duties, and the sentiments of respectful admiration that Your Highness’s divine qualities inspire in them are too intimately engraved in the depths of their hearts to dare even to imagine the criminal idea of displeasing you. The genius Clair-obscur, wanting this palace to be a fecund source of delights for you, has taken care to remove therefrom anything that might wound your delicacy, and, fearing that the odor or sight of a kitchen might give you some pain, he has banished that disagreeable apparatus; but, his tenderness for you rendering him ingenious, he has communicated to these seeds, humble in appearance, the virtue of becoming the most delicate dishes and he most appropriate to flatter your taste. May the great, the terrible Xisiquinima punish me before your eyes if I impose anything whatsoever upon Your Highness. Millet, change into meringues, tartlets and blancmange.”

  Funestine liked those things very much, but, annoyed by the noise made by the little bells and piqued to the quick because she had not divined the mystery that had just been explained to her, she threw her napkin in the face of the speaker and ran to hide in the most remote corner of her apartment.

  The rest of the day was employed in calming her down. Hunger, more persuasive than the most eloquent discourse, made her listen to reason. She supped without sulking and without getting carried away. For the first time in her life she seemed to have some pleasure. She found the metamorphosis of the millet so amusing that she could not weary of renewing it. Never before had so many tartlets and meringues been seen together, nor have they since, and never had she eaten so many of them. Her physician came to trouble her joy with the grave but unwelcome observation that the excess of the best things is harmful. She was extreme in her passions, but she loved herself, and the fear of an indigestion was capable of containing her. She distributed to her pages personally four hundred bowls of blancmange and left the table.

  After supper she played quinze. She lost with an ill grace, paid up with an even worse grace, and went to bed in a very bad mood
.

  Surrounded by the most beautiful young women, she was not at all jealous of them because, having no idea of ugliness or beauty, when she looked at herself in a mirror, finding herself unique of her species, the good opinion she had of herself made her believe that all those who did not resemble her were monsters, and that for her alone, lavished with charms, nature had exhausted her treasures. How many Funestines does one see every day who, content with themselves, display with complaisance a grotesque face, where Callot would have found models more bizarre that those that remain to us of him?

  The time was approaching when her illusion was to be dissipated. If only it were permitted to me to reveal the future, which is revealed to me at present!—but the god that enlightens me forbids me to communicate his favors. Let us obey his movements, and only inform curious mortals by degrees of the profundity and economy of his designs.

  In the palace there was a certain little man named Quart-d’heure, half-courtier, half-clown, and above all, a prolific teller of tales, which he embellished with all the insipid affectations that passed through his head. The women were mad for him, as they are for everything that amuses them; he was in love with Imaé, a young Circassian whom Funestine loved then as much as she was capable of loving—which is to say that she treated her less harshly than her companions. She was one of those privileged creatures whom the gods in their leisure, sometimes take it upon themselves to render accomplished.

  Quart-d’heure, wanting amour to serve his ambition, made so many intrigues that Funestine learned his name and wanted to hear him. He was sought, he arrived, he was introduced into the princess’s cabinet.

  “It’s claimed,” she said, “that you tell tales agreeably. Commence without preamble, so that I can judge.”

  Quart-d’heure, after a profound bow, which he made with a good enough grace took a seat, for one never tells tales standing up, unless one wants to send one’s listeners to sleep, and commenced in this way:

  “Somewhere in the world there is a kingdom once known by the name of Ulages and now that of Facner,59 a country which, by virtue of its own wealth, could surpass all the others, but which, because of the industry of its inhabitants, takes its commerce to the extremities of the earth. The race of people that occupy it descends from the bellicose peoples whose valor was so deadly to the world’s tyrants. They are accused of inconstancy, but that can only be, at the most, in their fashions. Thirteen hundred years of obedience to their kings show well enough that they do not like change in essential matters. They are brave, lively and intelligent. Perhaps they have in their hearts a seed of superiority that makes itself too clearly felt to their neighbors. What renders them the object of their envy is also that of their imitation. They are only jealous of themselves; a spirit of criticism and refinement, as harmful to the arts as to letters, has taken possession of the nation. The man who does most harm to others is the one who finds the most partisans and protectors.

  “If I were not a subject of Your Highness, I would like to be the monarch who governs that happy people. He is a young prince with whom no one finds fault because he has none.60 Virtuous by temperament and by religion, vice is banished from his court because it is banished from his heart, and the example of the master is a living law that is observed of its own accord. He has just concluded gloriously a war that he only undertook in order to secure peace. Unexpected successes have crowned his moderation and rendered him the heart and esteem of his enemies, who supposed foolishly that a long repose had enervated the courage of his soldiers and destroyed the sagacity of his ministers.”

  “Is he married?” asked Funestine, interrupting Quart-d’heure.

  “Yes, Madame,” he said, but his unique son, the amour and hope of his empire, is almost the same age as Your Highness.”

  “Why doesn’t he come to see me?” she continued. “I doubt that he has a palace as beautiful as mine; I’d give him half of it, and enough treasure to subjugate one day all the nations that do not obey his father. Continue.”

  “I have said nothing to Your Highness about the ladies of Facner; she will know them via the continuation of my discourse. Princess Blanche-incarnate,61 who is the heroine of my story, was scarcely out of childhood when, a victim of politics, she was obliged to quit her fatherland in order to go to make the happiness of a foreign realm. I ought, Madame, to give you an idea of her, in order to enable you to understand the felicity of the prince for whom she was destined.”

  Quart-d’heure, carried away by his passion, gazed tenderly at Imaé, who was present, and whom he believed he could describe without Funestine perceiving it. After a moment of silence, he went on:

  “At fourteen years of age, her figure had a delicacy and an elegance that left nothing to be desired. An enchanting softness that tempered the vivacity of two large dark eyes, whose gleam bore trouble and admiration into hearts; a complexion of lilies and roses, sheltered from the most stubborn insomnia; a nose fashioned by the Graces; a mouth, the work of the same Graces, which only opened to allow a glimpse of admirable teeth and to say witty and obliging things, whose charm was augmented by a flattering smile; breasts, arms hands...”

  Unfortunately, that portrait had too much similarity to Imaé and too little to Funestine.

  “She was ugly, then, this Blanche-incarnate,” she interrupted, emotionally, “since she resembles my slave so closely?”

  “Pardon me, Madame,” said he storyteller, stupidly, “she was the most beautiful person in the world.”

  “And you dare to tell me that!” she added, directing a furious gaze at him.

  He sensed all his imprudence then, and, fearing for his life and that of his mistress, he had recourse to tears. They did not touch Funestine at all, who had them locked up separately in an obscure prison.

  The unfortunate princess, delivered to the most bitter reflections, could not sustain the weight of her dolor, and abandoned herself to the most frightful despair. “It’s true, then,” she cried, striking herself in the fact and rolling on the ground. “It’s true, then, that I’m ugly! I’m ugly, and I know it! I’m no longer astonished by the horror that I inspire in all those who see me. Their distracted and timid gazes ought to have told me that. Cruel gods! Is it necessary that I confess that it is just? Is it necessary that, unsatisfied by my ugliness, which is your work, you make me sense all its deformity? Enjoy your hated; Funestine is crushed by it. What am I saying? It is mistaken, that barbaric hatred; it only serves to redouble mine for you.”

  Then, chancing to cast her eyes upon the mirrors of her apartment, she saw herself; she shuddered; she was no longer mistress of her transports; she broke them into a thousand pieces. Calmed in appearance by their destruction, and no longer finding any object on which she could exercise her fury, she went in search of the slumber that flees far from her burning eyelids, a mollification that she could not find, and for which, perhaps, she could no longer hope.

  The next day she summoned her women; they entered tremulously, and all received an absolute order never to show themselves before her.

  “I no longer want,” she said to them, “to be served by anyone except my squires and my pages; inform them of my will and leave me.”

  Clair-obscur read in his mirror what was happening in the Palace of Eventualities; he came to it, repaired the disorder and went to see Funestine. He found her in the stupid dolor that succeeds great agitations.

  At the sight of the genius, her tears and sobs recommenced with more violence. He exhausted all his rhetoric in vain consolations and even more futile advice; she was incapable of hearing anything. Weary of inveighing against the gods, who even refused her death, she addressed the genius and demanded the torture of Quart-d’heure and Imaé. More embittered than humiliated by his refusal, she reproached him for being the fatal author of all her disgrace, and shut her eyes in order not to see him.

  It would not have taken much for him, annoyed in his turn by the waste of his eloquence and the injustice of the little Megaera, to dest
roy the palace from top to bottom and to take her back instantly to Australia. The goodness of his heart made him change his design; he knew that one almost always repents of precipitate resolutions, and that it is necessary not to resort to extreme remedies until all the others have been employed. By dint of meditating on the most efficacious, an idea occurred to him that flattered him so much that, regarding it as infallible, he wasted no time realizing it.

  At the commencement of the world he had loved a young person as charming as she was ambitious; more touched by the power of the genius than sensible to his tenderness, she had only appeared to respond to the latter in order to draw upon the former. In one of those unexpected moments when the mind of a coquette employs the language of the heart adroitly she had said to him: “I love you, and the confession of my weakness costs you nothing but the desire to triumph over it. I want in vain to occupy entirely the good fortune of pleasing you; two equally vexing ideas trouble me and agitate me. I fear your inconstancy, because I dread the end of my charms; I lament your lack of delicacy, if one can lament something one adores. You can reassure your lover, you can render her happy, and you’re waiting for me to beg you!”

  Clair-obscur, clever as he was, or believed himself to be, was less so than his mistress; he swore to her by the Deluge—a sacred oath among the genii—that he loved her madly and was ready to give her whatever proofs of it she might demand.

  “Well,” she said, without giving him time for reflection, “make me a fay; you can see by that request that I am thinking more about you than about myself; your felicity will be the prize of the gift you accord me. Sure of my heart you will be of my beauty.”

  The genius, taken for a dupe, did with a good grace what he could not refuse; he only put one tiny mental restriction on it, the effect of which she did not think of anticipating. When one obtains more than one hopes for, one only looks at things from the flattering side. A short time later she gave birth to a little fay who was the mother, grandmother and great-grandmother of another, and from that emerged the innumerable immortals who have made so many marvels of good and evil in the world.