Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert

by Gustave Flaubert

  They speak in low voices about their families, or communicate to one another remedies for their diseases. Many of them are going to embark at the end of the day, the persecution having become too severe. The Pagans, however, are not hard to deceive. “They believe, the fools, that we adore Knouphis!”

  But one of the brethren, suddenly inspired, places himself in front of the column, where they have laid a loaf of bread, which is on the top of a basket full of fennel and hartwort.

  The others have taken their places, forming, as they stand, three parallel lines.

  The inspired one unrolls a paper covered with cylinders joined together, and then begins:

  “Upon the darkness the ray of the Word descended, and a violent cry burst forth, which seemed like the voice of light.”

  All responding, while they sway their bodies to and fro:

  “Kyrie eleison!”

  The inspired one — ”Man, then, was created by the infamous God of Israel, with the assistance of those here,” — pointing towards the medallions — ”Aristophaios, Oraios, Sabaoth, Adonai, Eloi and Iaô!

  “And he lay on the mud, hideous, feeble, shapeless, without the power of thought.”

  All, in a plaintive tone:

  “Kyrie eleison!”

  The inspired one — ”But Sophia, taking pity on him, quickened him with a portion of her spirit. Then, seeing man so beautiful, God was seized with anger, and imprisoned him in His kingdom, interdicting him from the tree of knowledge. Still, once more, the other one came to his aid. She sent the serpent, who, with its sinuous advances, prevailed on him to disobey this law of hate. And man, when he had tasted knowledge, understood heavenly matters.”

  All, with energy:

  “Kyrie eleison!”

  The inspired one — ”But Jaldalaoth, in order to be revenged, plunged man into matter, and the serpent along with him!”

  All, in very low tones:

  “Kyrie eleison!”

  They close their mouths and then become silent.

  The odours of the harbour mingle in the warm air with the smoke of the lamps. Their wicks, spluttering, are on the point of being extinguished, and long mosquitoes flutter around them. Antony gasps with anguish. He has the feeling that some monstrosity is floating around him — the horror of a crime about to be perpetrated.

  But the inspired one, stamping with his feet, snapping his fingers, tossing his head, sings a psalm, with a wild refrain, to the sound of cymbals and of a shrill flute:

  “Come! come! come! come forth from thy cavern!

  “Swift One, that runs without feet, captor that takes without hands! Sinuous as the waves, round as the sun, darkened with spots of gold; like the firmament, strewn with stars! like the twistings of the vine-tree and the windings of entrails!

  “Unbegotten! earth-devourer! ever young! perspicacious! honoured at Epidaurus! good for men! who cured King Ptolemy, the soldiers of Moses, and Glaucus, son of Minos!

  “Come! come! come! come forth from thy cavern!”

  All repeat:

  “Come! come! come! come forth from thy cavern!”

  However, there is no manifestation.

  “Why, what is the matter with him?”

  They proceed to deliberate, and to make suggestions. One old man offers a clump of grass. Then there is a rising in the basket. The green herbs are agitated; the flowers fall, and the head of a python appears.

  He passes slowly over the edge of the loaf, like a circle turning round a motionless disc; then he develops, lengthens; he becomes of enormous weight. To prevent him from grazing the ground, the men support him with their breasts, the women with their heads, and the children with the tips of their fingers; and his tail, emerging through the hole in the wall, stretches out indefinitely, even to the depths of the sea. His rings unfold themselves, and fill the apartment. They wind themselves round Antony.

  The Faithful, pressing their mouths against his skin, snatch the bread which he has nibbled.

  “It is thou! it is thou!

  “Raised at first by Moses, crushed by Ezechias, re-established by the Messiah. He drank thee in the waters of baptism; but thou didst quit him in the Garden of Olives, and then he felt all his weakness.

  “Writhing on the bar of the Cross, and higher than his head, slavering above the crown of thorns, thou didst behold him dying; for thou art Jesus! yes, thou art the Word! thou art the Christ!”

  Antony swoons in horror, and falls in his cell, upon the splinters of wood, where the torch, which had slipped from his hand, is burning mildly. This commotion causes him to half-open his eyes; and he perceives the Nile, undulating and clear, under the light of the moon, like a great serpent in the midst of the sands — so much so that the hallucination again takes possession of him. He has not quitted the Ophites; they surround him, address him by name, carry off baggages, and descend towards the port. He embarks along with them.

  A brief period of time flows by. Then the vault of a prison encircles him. In front of him, iron bars make black lines upon a background of blue; and at its sides, in the shade, are people weeping and praying, surrounded by others who are exhorting and consoling them.

  Without, one is attracted by the murmuring of a crowd, as well as by the splendour of a summer’s day. Shrill voices are crying out watermelons, water, iced drinks, and cushions of grass to sit down on. From time to time, shouts of applause burst forth. He observes people walking on their heads.

  Suddenly, comes a continuous roaring, strong and cavernous, like the noise of water in an aqueduct: and, opposite him, he perceives, behind the bars of another cage, a lion, who is walking up and down; then a row of sandals, of naked legs, and of purple fringes.

  Overhead, groups of people, ranged symmetrically, widen out from the lowest circle, which encloses the arena, to the highest, where masts have been raised to support a veil of hyacinth hung in the air on ropes. Staircases, which radiate towards the centre, intersect, at equal distances, those great circles of stone. Their steps disappear from view, owing to the vast audience seated there — knights, senators, soldiers, common people, vestals and courtesans, in woollen hoods, in silk maniples, in tawny tunics with aigrettes of precious stones, tufts of feathers and lictors’ rods; and all this assemblage, muttering, exclaiming, tumultuous and frantic, stuns him like an immense tub boiling over. In the midst of the arena, upon an altar, smokes a vessel of incense.

  The people who surround him are Christians, delivered up to the wild beasts. The men wear the red cloak of the high-priests of Saturn, the women the fillets of Ceres. Their friends distribute fragments of their garments and rings. In order to gain admittance into the prison, they require, they say, a great deal of money; but what does it matter? They will remain till the end.

  Amongst these consolers Antony observes a bald man in a black tunic, a portion of whose face is plainly visible. He discourses with them on the nothingness of the world, and the happiness of the Elect. Antony is filled with transports of Divine love. He longs for the opportunity of sacrificing his life for the Saviour, not knowing whether he is himself one of these martyrs. But, save a Phrygian, with long hair, who keeps his arms raised, they all have a melancholy aspect. An old man is sobbing on a bench, and a young man, who is standing, is musing with downcast eyes.

  The old man has refused to pay tribute at the angle of a cross-road, before a statue of Minerva; and he regards his companions with a look which signifies:

  “You ought to succour me! Communities sometimes make arrangements by which they might be left in peace. Many amongst you have even obtained letters falsely declaring that you have offered sacrifice to idols.”

  He asks:

  “Is it not Peter of Alexandria who has regulated what one ought to do when one is overcome by tortures?”

  Then, to himself:

  “Ah! this is very hard at my age! my infirmities render me so feeble! Perchance, I might have lived to another winter!”

  The recollection of his little garden moves him
to tears; and he contemplates the side of the altar.

  The young man, who had disturbed by violence a feast of Apollo, murmurs:

  “My only chance was to fly to the mountains!”

  “The soldiers would have caught you,” says one of the brethren.

  “Oh! I could have done like Cyprian; I should have come back; and the second time I should have had more strength, you may be sure!”

  Then he thinks of the countless days he should have lived, with all the pleasures which he will not have known; — and he, likewise, contemplates the side of the altar.

  But the man in the black tunic rushes up to him:

  “How scandalous! What? You a victim of election? Think of all these women who are looking at you! And then, God sometimes performs a miracle. Pionius benumbed the hands of his executioners; and the blood of Polycarp extinguished the flames of his funeral-pile.”

  He turns towards the old man. “Father, father! You ought to edify us by your death. By deferring it, you will, without doubt, commit some bad action which will destroy the fruit of your good deeds. Besides, the power of God is infinite. Perhaps your example will convert the entire people.”

  And, in the den opposite, the lions stride up and down, without stopping, rapidly, with a continuous movement. The largest of them all at once fixes his eyes on Antony and emits a roar, and a mass of vapour issues from his jaws.

  The women are jammed up against the men.

  The consoler goes from one to another:

  “What would ye say — what would any of you say — if they burned you with plates of iron; if horses tore you asunder; if your body, coated with honey, was devoured by insects? You will have only the death of a hunter who is surprised in a wood.”

  Antony would much prefer all this than the horrible wild beasts; he imagines he feels their teeth and their talons, and that he hears his back cracking under their jaws.

  A belluarius enters the dungeon; the martyrs tremble. One alone amongst them is unmoved — the Phrygian, who has gone into a corner to pray. He had burned three temples. He now advances with lifted arms, open mouth, and his head towards Heaven, without seeing anything, like a somnambulist.

  The consoler exclaims:

  “Keep back! Keep back! The Spirit of Montanus will destroy ye!”

  All fall back, vociferating:

  “Damnation to the Montanist!”

  They insult him, spit upon him, would like to strike him. The lions, prancing, bite one another’s manes. The people yell:

  “To the beasts! To the beasts!”

  The martyrs, bursting into sobs, catch hold of one another. A cup of narcotic wine is offered to them. They quickly pass it from hand to hand.

  Near the door of the den another belluarius awaits the signal. It opens; a lion comes out.

  He crosses the arena with great irregular strides. Behind him in a row appear the other lions, then a bear, three panthers, and leopards. They scatter like a flock in a prairie.

  The cracking of a whip is heard. The Christians stagger, and, in order to make an end of it, their brethren push them forward.

  Antony closes his eyes.

  He opens them again. But darkness envelops him. Ere long, it grows bright once more; and he is able to trace the outlines of a plain, arid and covered with knolls, such as may be seen around a deserted quarry. Here and there a clump of shrubs lifts itself in the midst of the slabs, which are on a level with the soil, and above which white forms are bending, more undefined than clouds. Others rapidly make their appearance. Eyes shine through the openings of long veils. By their indolent gait and the perfumes which exhale from them, Antony knows they are ladies of patrician rank. There are also men, but of inferior condition, for they have visages at the same time simple and coarse.

  One of the women, with a long breath:

  “Ah! how pleasant is the air of the chilly night in the midst of sepulchres! I am so fatigued with the softness of couches, the noise of day, and the oppressiveness of the sun!”

  A woman, panting — ”Ah! at last, here I am! But how irksome to have wedded an idolater!”

  Another — ”The visits to the prisons, the conversations with our brethren, all excite the suspicions of our husbands! And we must even hide ourselves from them when making the sign of the Cross; they would take it for a magical conjuration.”

  Another — ”With mine, there was nothing but quarrelling all day long. I did not like to submit to the abuses to which he subjected my person; and, for revenge, he had me persecuted as a Christian.”

  Another — ”Recall to your memory that young man of such striking beauty who was dragged by the heels behind a chariot, like Hector, from the Esquiline Gate to the Mountains of Tibur; and his blood stained the bushes on both sides of the road. I collected the drops — here they are!”

  She draws from her bosom a sponge perfectly black, covers it with kisses, and then flings herself upon the slab, crying:

  “Ah! my friend! my friend!”

  A man — ”It is just three years to-day since Domitilla’s death. She was stoned at the bottom of the Wood of Proserpine. I gathered her bones, which shone like glow-worms in the grass. The earth now covers them.”

  He flings himself upon a tombstone.

  “O my betrothed! my betrothed!”

  And all the others, scattered through the plain:

  “O my sister!” “O my brother!” “O my daughter!” “O my mother!”

  They are on their knees, their foreheads clasped with their hands, or their bodies lying flat with both arms extended; and the sobs which they repress make their bosoms swell almost to bursting. They gaze up at the sky, saying:

  “Have pity on her soul, O my God! She is languishing in the abode of shadows. Deign to admit her into the Resurrection, so that she may rejoice in Thy light!”

  Or, with eyes fixed on the flagstones, they murmur:

  “Be at rest — suffer no more! I have brought thee wine and meat!”

  A widow — ”Here is pudding, made by me, according to his taste, with many eggs, and a double measure of flour. We are going to eat together as of yore, is not that so?”

  She puts a little of it on her lips, and suddenly begins to laugh in an extravagant fashion, frantically.

  The others, like her, nibble a morsel and drink a mouthful; they tell one another the history of their martyrs; their sorrow becomes vehement; their libations increase; their eyes, swimming with tears, are fixed on one another; they stammer with inebriety and desolation. Gradually their hands touch; their lips meet; their veils are torn away, and they embrace one another upon the tombs in the midst of the cups and the torches.

  The sky begins to brighten. The mist soaks their garments; and, as if they were strangers to one another, they take their departure by different roads into the country.

  The sun shines forth. The grass has grown taller; the plain has become transformed. Across the bamboos, Antony sees a forest of columns of a bluish-grey colour. Those are trunks of trees springing from a single trunk. From each of its branches descend other branches which penetrate into the soil; and the whole of those horizontal and perpendicular lines, indefinitely multiplied, might be compared to a gigantic framework were it not that here and there appears a little fig-tree with a dark foliage like that of a sycamore. Between the branches he distinguishes bunches of yellow flowers and violets, and ferns as large as birds’ feathers. Under the lowest branches may be seen at different points the horns of a buffalo, or the glittering eyes of an antelope. Parrots sit perched, butterflies flutter, lizards crawl upon the ground, flies buzz; and one can hear, as it were, in the midst of the silence, the palpitation of an all-permeating life.

  At the entrance of the wood, on a kind of pile, is a strange sight — a man coated over with cows’ dung, completely naked, more dried-up than a mummy. His joints form knots at the extremities of his bones, which are like sticks. He has clusters of shells in his ears, his face is very long, and his nose is like a vulture’s beak. H
is left arm is held erect in the air, crooked, and stiff as a stake; and he has remained there so long that birds have made a nest in his hair.

  At the four corners of his pile four fires are blazing. The sun is right in his face. He gazes at it with great open eyes, and without looking at Antony.

  “Brahmin of the banks of the Nile, what sayest thou?”

  Flames start out on every side through the partings of the beams; and the gymnosophist resumes:

  “Like a rhinoceros, I am plunged in solitude. I dwelt in the tree that was behind me.”

  In fact, the large fig-tree presents in its flutings a natural excavation of the shape of a man.

  “And I fed myself on flowers and fruits with such an observance of precepts that not even a dog has seen me eat.

  “As existence proceeds from corruption, corruption from desire, desire from sensation, and sensation from contact, I have avoided every kind of action, every kind of contact, and — without stirring any more than the pillar of a tombstone — exhaling my breath through my two nostrils, fixing my glances upon my nose; and, observing the ether in my spirit, the world in my limbs, the moon in my heart, I pondered on the essence of the great soul, whence continually escape, like sparks of fire, the principles of life. I have, at last, grasped the supreme soul in all beings, all beings in the supreme soul; and I have succeeded in making my soul penetrate the place into which my senses used to penetrate.

  “I receive knowledge directly from Heaven, like the bird Tchataka, who quenches his thirst only in the droppings of the rain. From the very fact of my having knowledge of things, things no longer exist. For me now there is no hope and no anguish, no goodness, no virtue, neither day nor night, neither thou nor I — absolutely nothing.

  “My frightful austerities have made me superior to the Powers. A contraction of my brain can kill a hundred kings’ sons, dethrone gods, overrun the world.”

  He utters all this in a monotonous voice. The leaves all around him are withered. The rats fly over the ground.

  He slowly lowers his eyes towards the flames, which are rising, then adds:

  “I have become disgusted with form, disgusted with perception, disgusted even with knowledge itself — for thought does not outlive the transitory fact that gives rise to it; and the spirit, like the rest, is but an illusion.