The Romance of Atlantis

by Taylor Caldwell

  The young men, taking copious notes with great avidity, smiled in approbation of their teacher’s words. Morti began to talk of happiness. “Pleasure should be the one aim of life. No matter how presumably virtuous an act, it is a vice if it inflicts pain on either the doer or the receiver. An act is virtuous only if it gives pleasure. We have a false god among our false gods, and his dark name is Duty. Our teachers, particularly our religious teachers, have taught us that duty, and not pleasure, should be our watchword. They seem to think that duty can be virtuous only when it is unpleasant. They are rather vague as to what constitutes duty; they speak of duty to the state, duty to one’s family, duty to the gods, duty to business. But they fail to speak of duty to oneself. And that is the only virtue. They seem to think duty is synonymous with self-castigation and deprivation. They have confused vice with virtue. Love is a pleasure; if one should deny himself love because of a previous matrimonial error, he is called virtuous by the masses, whereas I call him vicious. He has deprived himself of a great joy, and not only himself hut another. If he longs lot a gay night oi wine and song, to relieve the monotony of an intolerable existence, he is considered virtuous only if he deprives himself of the pleasure in the name of duty, lie, too, is vicious for, by depriving himself of the pleasure, he becomes irritable and unkind and inflicts these shortcomings upon his hapless family and friends.

  “The priest deprives himself of joy and is determined that others so deprive themselves. The greedy statesman desires duty to be taught to the masses, in order that he may the more readily exploit them, lie is like that wolf who taught the sheep to be submissive that he might the more easily devour them. The pedant spends his life amidst skeletons and cannot understand the warmth of life. The emasculated man has vinegar in his veins, instead oi blood; therefore he regards pleasure as unvirtuous. These men have controlled education, and so seduced the average man that they have drowned his reason in a sea of hollow platitudes.”

  “Thou dost speak of the drowning of the average man’s reason,” said a pupil respectfully. “Talius says that the average man hath no reason.”

  Morti considered the question judiciously. His eyes began to dance with the light oi verbal battle. “I am almost in agreement with Talius.” he said at last. “The average man’s organs of thought are still very rudimentary. He cannot think; he is like a drowning man in a vast ocean, and he seizes at straws. We must give him a raft. So far, the raft given to him has been composed of lies and hypocrisies and pious fallacies. Rut he must have a raft, and that raft (for he cannot think straight) must be composed of rules or platitudes. When thought fails his feeble brain, he may always rely upon a platitude. Rut as long, as we must give him a raft, why not a raft of comparative truth, instead of lies? Instead of saying to him: ‘My country—whatsoever she doeth I shall regard as right and just,’ say, ‘My country—I shall love and respect her only so long as she is worthy of my love and respect.’ Instead of saying: ‘Be contented, I say, ‘He thou discontented, for it is by discontent only that the soul grows.’ Instead of saying: ‘Chastity is sexual continence,’ say: ‘True chastity is of the spirit, and the thoughts of the self-repressed arc foul and evil.’ Instead of: ‘Charity is divine and virtuous,’ say: ‘Charity killeth the soul of him who receives, and debauches the one who giveth.’ Instead of: ‘Industry is desirable,’ say, ‘Industry is desirable only when its object is beauty or when the worker is happy in his work.’ Instead of: ‘The rich are not happy,’ say, ‘Poverty is always a source of complete misery and only the rich may truly express themselves and be happy.’”

  The faces of the students were fired by Morti’s eloquence.

  “This man is dangerous,” whispered Signar to Salustra. “Should his platitudes be accepted universally, it would undermine the society that makes gods of us.”

  But Signar was too sure of himself to feel threatened. “Thy philosophy doth attract me most inordinately, great Morti,” said he with a smile. “But tell me, like most philosophers, thou dost cherish the ideal of the truly happy man. Who, in thy opinion, is the happiest of men?”

  Morti smiled sadly. “The truly happy man?” he repeated slowly. “Only a true cynic can enjoy life utterly. He has no regrets, no anticipations, no disappointments. He lives easily, for nothing can disturb him. Hatred, love, wind and sun, adversity and prosperity, health and illness—all pass with time, and nothing is worth desire, regret or sorrow.”

  “In other words, he is without passion, virility, joy and ambition,” said Signar with a curling lip.

  Morti shrugged. “This life is so transient it is not worth the struggle against its manifold ugliness. Better to acquiesce to fate.”

  Signar’s shrewd gaze traveled from the restless eye to the mobile mouth. “Thou art not the true cynic, Morti,” he decided at last, stifling a yawn. “Thou are too impressed by thy own words.”

  They moved on to a neighboring building, a low, round, pearl-like structure surrounded by square marble columns.

  “And this, my lord,” said Salustra, “is my school of arts and sciences. My father established it during the early years of his reign. It has been my pride and pleasure to be its patron.”

  The school stood upon an eminence, commanding a sweeping view of the city on a clear day. The imperial visitors were conducted into the cool interior of the school to the laboratories, where scientists were delving into the different uses of changing matter.

  “Here are the priests of a true religion,” said the Empress. “It postulates no dogmatic faith, but rather seeks truth by experiment and proof. By examining the works, who knows but what we may eventually come upon the Worker?”

  Signar, alert to the practical advantages of such research, entered into a discussion with one of the scientists.

  “We have grown out of the atomic theory,” said the scientist. “For we have discovered that the atom is not a beginning, but is, in fact, a minute but exact solar system in itself. Everything revolves around a common nucleus, and we discover that the nucleus is but a revolving system in itself. The deeper we delve the more we are convinced that there is no definite beginning, but all things ebb and flow into each other.”

  With instruments, he demonstrated the vibration of molecules for the Emperor. “As we know, there is no limit to the energy of these molecules. It is a question of harnessing them without blowing up the world.”

  At this the Empress gave Signar a piercing look, which he affected not to notice.

  “But behind all this apparent, impersonal mechanism, there must be a vital force,” said Signar.

  The scientist looked thoughtful. “Yes, we see its influence, but we have not yet ascertained its character.” His thin face lighted with enthusiasm. “We may yet discover what the Creator is, and how He works! This quest constitutes our religion, and the universe is our church.”

  They went into another laboratory, where men were gravely poring over delicate lenses and moving transparent slides under them. “Here, Sire,” said Salustra, “are our true soldiers, our true generals. One of these gentlemen has been instrumental in eliminating a certain disease that ravaged whole cities. He discovered the organism which caused the disease, and he concocted a specific for it. Hundreds of thousands of lives would have been destroyed had it not been for his discovery. And what have a grateful people offered him? I urged my people to make this hero a substantial award. They gathered a grudging sum and tendered him a gold medal. I remember the day! A modest crowd had come together for the ceremony, and my hero, nervous yet pleased, listened self-consciously to the speeches of praise. After that he rose and, in a trembling voice, expressed his thanks and announced that he would devote his life to further beneficial discoveries. In the very midst of his modest speech, a fanfare of trumpets sounded at a distance, and it was discovered excitedly that a certain noted pugilist was arriving in Lamora. In a twinkling of an eye, the crowd about my hero dissolved, and with one accord, they hastened to greet the boxer. The scientist concluded his speec
h hastily, for there was now only a handful listening to him! Such is the fate of those who serve humanity!”

  Signar laughed. “One hath only to have a strong enough back, and one is crowned with flowers.”

  Their next visit was to the department of biology. “All my school is anathema to the priesthood of Atlantis,” she said. “But this department provokes the greater part of the holy thunder. Here, my beloved clients have dared to assert that man did not spring fully endowed from the eternal gods by a special act of creation. They have dared, in their heroic impudence, to declare that man evolved gradually, painfully, tortuously, from lower species, and that he is but a twig on the great tree of life. By so asserting, according to my holy ones, they have attacked the sacredness of human origin and lowered the dignity of man. I will give the holy ones credit; they like drama. It is much more dramatic to have man leap magnificently from the loins of the gods than it is to have him creep painfully and laboriously and blindly up the stony slope of evolution toward the light of perfection. Thus it is demonstrated again that religion is another expression of man’s astounding and insolent ego.”

  They talked at length to a famous biologist, a thin-faced man with eager eyes. “We have abandoned the theory of suddenly acquired characteristics,” he said. “Thy guess that only intrinsic characteristics are inherited hath been proved correct. This will assist thee in thy hope to eliminate the biologically unfit from propagation.”

  Salustra glanced at Signar with a humorous twinkle. “Blasphemy!” she exclaimed. “My dear Morinus, we must be careful. Thou dost know that the priesthood have asserted that we must put no restriction upon births whatsoever, no matter how inferior the potential progenitors. Those who pay the taxes must continue to suffer for the tax-eaters.”

  Signar found himself thoroughly enjoying himself. “Art thou assured, beyond doubt, of man’s evolution from the ape?” he inquired of Morinus.

  “Much as I desire to refrain from insulting the ape, I must confess that I am so assured.”

  The tour continued up a broad flight of marble steps to the great observatory upon the roof. Here, astronomers with cumbersome instruments were absorbed in penetrating the thick atmosphere so they could continue to observe celestial movements. They surged about Salustra with enthusiasm and conducted her to a huge heavenly map, which lay upon a table. “Just before this curtain of mist fell, we had discovered a new planet, Majesty!” exclaimed the royal astronomer. ‘Thou dost remember I reported to thee that the known planets showed a certain irregularity in their orbits, heretofore unaccounted for. When they should have appeared in a certain position, it was discovered that they lagged alarmingly. So we have labored over the hypothesis that there was a planet yet unknown, near the sun, which was exercising influence over the other planets. And now we have discovered it, the tenth planet, which we shall name Salustra.”

  Salustra gave Signar an amused smile. “Is it not true fame!” she cried, “I shall have my history written in the heavens.”

  She turned to the astronomer with a solemn expression. “What thinkst thou of this cursed fog?” she asked.

  The astronomer pursed his lips and looked wise. “It could very well be caused by the action of sun spots.”

  “Everything is sun spots,” she said, “and when will the sun be felt instead of its spots?”

  “Only a matter of time, Majesty.”

  “We will all be spots by then,” she said with a grimace.

  She showed Signar an odd invention upon the roof of the department of physics. To his surprise, he found it guarded with soldiery. In a glass chamber, cold and unadorned, was an immense crystal disk, which rotated horizontally upon a golden axis. It was fully twelve feet in diameter and rotated so rapidly that the eye could not follow its motion. Though of a clear and translucent crystal, it threw off sparks of radiant light; he saw that its surface was ribbed with flashing crimson and gold, blue and green. So rapidly did the thin ribbons of color appear and depart that it was impossible to catch more than a suggestion of them. As the disk rotated, it gave off a low humming and murmuring sound. It was a fascinating object, with its miniature rivers of radiant colors eternally flashing and disappearing upon its shining surface.

  Beside it, watchful and alert, sat a young man at a small table. He watched the flashes of radiance with an air of resignation. “The messages go out,” he said, “but there is no response. It is as if they were consumed by the atmosphere.”

  “This, my lord,” explained Salustra to the intrigued Emperor, “is a very recent invention. In every large city throughout Atlantis is a similar apparatus. By a method of which I am but vaguely informed, verbal messages can normally leave Lamora and be instantly transformed into print and pictures at other receiving stations.” She shook her head. “But with this infernal mist nothing works.”

  So this is why couriers were sent to her legions and her fleet, thought Signar. “We have nothing like this in Althrustri, lady,” he said. “All our means of sending messages are still barbaric.”

  As they moved along, Salustra’s enthusiasm seemed to increase. “My father spoke often of the inevitable decay of civilizations. I still hope to reverse the traditional process of struggle, growth, prosperity, luxury, then decline.”

  They stepped out onto a colonnade overlooking the city. The school of arts and sciences offered a majestic view, through gaps in the mist. But Signar had no eyes for the city. He was fascinated with the downy hair on the nape of Salustra’s neck, and the merging of her throat into the marble whiteness of her shoulders.

  Apparently unmindful of his gaze, the Empress stretched a languid arm toward the city below. “Look at them, my lord. In the helter-skelter of the streets, one thinks himself important. But looking down, one can’t help wondering why all this feverish scurrying about.”

  Signar had long ago decided such talk was fruitless, but he indulgently fell into her mood. “We look for God in the vast ecliptic of the wheeling planets, and we find only atoms of tortured life floating in boundless space,” he said in a burst of eloquence. “We pursue life down to the smallest-celled creature and up to the most stupendous suns, all in a passionate search for the why and the whither, and we discover we have but opened one more door in the vast corridor of mysteries. Before the great riddle of life our philosophers are chattering simians, our scientists crying babes, our priests senile mumblers.”

  As before, Salustra was impressed by his unexpected depth. “Morti says that life is an individual idea. Each man looks upon a universe that no other man looks upon. It is as though a group stood about a statue at different perspective. How absurd, says Morti, that each should argue that only the angle toward him is the real statue!”

  Signar frowned thoughtfully. “If one pursues Morti’s philosophy to its end, there is no real, solid, objective universe. It is merely the individual idea. Following it still further, one might state that the universe does not exist, that it is pure illusion, and life but fantasy.”

  “Morti would say subjective. He would say that just as the man’s existence is subjective, so his death is subjective. Each man, looking upon a dead man, may have his own distinct idea of what death consists of; one might even deny the man was dead. So, too, it is shown that death is subjective.”

  Signar laughed contemptuously. “Let them leave the body in the sun three days, and they will find how subjective death is.”

  Salustra’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “How long have I waited for a man with whom I might talk and find a reflection of my own thoughts.”

  She spoke impulsively, as though thinking aloud. Not until the words had passed her lips did she realize what she had said. She flushed self-consciously.

  A smile quivered on Signar’s lips. “Thank you, lady,” he said with a bow. “You do me too much honor.”

  24

  Through the cypress trees, Jupia’s A-shaped house gleamed like a naked skull. The glass doors swung open at their approach and showed a bleak interior. Here there w
ere no flowers, no statues of marble or gold. Only a silence so profound that it seemed alive.

  They were met at the door by two eunuchs, robed in black.

  “They are deaf and dumb,” said the Empress. “Jupia has no desire that her private conversations reach the ears of the outer world.”

  To the watchful Signar, it seemed that the slightest whisper of a smile flitted across at least one eunuch’s face at the Empress’ words.

  Along a narrow path they followed two more eunuchs who seemed to emerge from the dimness. The footsteps echoed through the silence as the steps of intruders in a tomb.

  The eunuchs held aside a heavy curtain, and Salustra commanded her courtiers to wait and entered the chamber beyond, attended only by an uneasy Signar. In the center of a bare floor, gleaming with pale lights, sat a large black throne; almost swallowed up in its immensity was the cadaverous figure of the High Priestess. Beside her stood a crystal globe of shimmering crimson, which glowed with inner fires, like a ruby, and cast rainbowed rays into the chamber.

  As the royal pair entered, the High Priestess rose, touched her breast with one emaciated hand, and inclined her head.

  “We are late, Jupia,” said Salustra carelessly, advancing into the chamber with her slow and languid step.

  “Yes,” said Jupia gratingly. “But the honor of this visit compensates for any wait.”

  Jupia’s eyes lingered for a moment on Signar, then moved back to Salustra.

  The Empress, with a glance at Signar, said in a sardonic voice, “I have spoken to my lord of thy matchless ability in soothsaying, and he hath expressed a desire to have thee read the future for him.”

  Signar had expressed no such desire but was amused nevertheless.

  Jupia noted his surprise, and a dull color touched her cheeks. “The future,” she said solemnly, “is no mystery to one who knows the past and the present. The future does not spring, unique, unformed, new, out of the sterile air; it is a continuation, a weaving together from the past of diverse strands.”