Locus Solus

by Raymond Roussel

  Dazzled by such success, Canterel repeated the experiment at various intervals, submerging the cat beforehand and accustoming him to swallow a carelessly thrown capsule of erythrite, which he snapped up in the water as it sank.

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  Dreaming of some further application of the aqua-micans, the professor conceived the notion of making, for the great diamond’s interior, a collection of Cartesian divers capable of rising to the surface automatically by means of an air pocket in each of them in which a portion of the oxygen so abundantly diffused in their environment would gradually be accumulated — then, when the gas collected in this way was suddenly released, they would descend again to the bottom.

  A cunning mechanism, adapted to each aquatic figurine, was to be set in motion by the abrupt discharge of oxygen in order to produce movement or any other phenomenon — or, again, a short, characteristic sentence written in fine, graphically arranged air bubbles.

  After searching his memory, Canterel selected a variety of episodes likely to provide him with curious subjects to depict.

  1. An adventure from the life of Alexander the Great narrated by Flavius Arrian.

  In 331 bc, at the time of his victorious march through Babylonia, Alexander had greatly admired an enormous and magnificent bird with green plumage belonging to the satrap Seodyr, who kept it permanently beside him in his room with its foot imprisoned in a long golden thread fixed to the wall. The King appropriated the marvelous fowl, retaining its name, Asnorius, to which it answered very well. Guzil, a young, still-adolescent slave, was specially assigned to look after the bird, with the duties of feeding it attentively and seeing that it came to no harm.

  Shortly afterward, while the conquering army was stationed at Susa, the bird was installed in the apartment of Alexander, who greatly appreciated the decorative effect of its splendid plumage. The end of the golden thread was secured to the wall not far from the royal couch and Asnorius used to wander about the room all day, within the limits imposed by the length of his fetter, sleeping at night on a perch a few paces from his master. But the bird, meanwhile, remained cold and apathetic and displayed no affection for the King, who kept him only for his resplendent beauty.

  There was, at that time, among the Persian chieftains admitted by Alexander into his entourage, a certain Bruces, who nursed deep hatred for his new master while at the same time displaying hypocritical marks of affection. Carried away by patriotism, Bruces considered bribing one of Alexander’s servants, with the object of bringing the invader’s triumphant march to a halt with an assassination in which he would only be indirectly involved.

  The choice fell on Guzil, who used to enter the royal chamber freely at all times by virtue of the position he held at Asnorius’s side; Bruces promised to make the young slave rich for ever if he would bring about the death of Asia’s oppressor. Having agreed to the bargain, Guzil searched for some way to win his reward without compromising himself.

  During the long period in which he had constantly cared for Asnorius, the youth had noticed that he was very obedient and seemed remarkably gifted for any kind of training. He conceived a course of education that would lead the bird to kill Alexander in such a way that his death could not be laid at anyone’s door.

  Whenever he found himself alone in the royal chamber, Guzil lay down on the King’s bed and patiently taught Asnorius the habit of using his beak to make a loose slip knot, all by himself, in the golden thread attached to his foot. When the obedient creature was able to perform this feat, the slave, still lying down, spent many sessions training him to slip the huge noose loosely round his face, laying one side of it on his neck and the other against the top of his head; then, imitating the tossing and turning of a sleeping man, he taught the bird to seize every opportunity of sliding the perilous golden thread gradually beneath the nape of his neck, for it was slender enough to slip easily between the pillow and his hair. Alexander was a notoriously restless sleeper and, when the time came, this would facilitate Asnorius’s task.

  When this stage of the training had been reached, Guzil, seizing his terrible collar with both hands to avoid being strangled himself, accustomed the bird to take flight suddenly in a suitable direction, tugging on the thread with all the might of its immense wings. Given the exceptional force that Asnorius’s terrifying wingspread repre­sented, this procedure, once put into practice, would inevitably lead to Alexander’s instant death; furthermore, everything would transpire in silence — necessitated by the presence of the athlete Vyrlas, a devoted and invincible bodyguard who kept vigil in the next room each night, watching over the King’s repose.

  Guzil had full confidence in the cord’s strength, for it was very firmly braided to prevent the strong-winged fowl from escaping.

  When everything was ready the young slave hastened to carry out his plan. Since the training began he had deliberately lain down each time on the bed, so that the mere sight of a man outstretched became for Asnorius a signal for action. So far he had had no reason to fear that the task entrusted to the bird would be even partially attempted, as the latter always slept soundly for the whole duration of the night. On the chosen date, the youth simply gave Asnorius a drug to keep him awake, in the certainty that, with Alexander sleeping on the couch, he would sooner or later act in accordance with the plan hatched in secret.

  As became evident later, everything occurred just as Guzil had foreseen. When the King fell into his first slumber, Asnorius skillfully made his slip knot, succeeded in passing it round the sleeper’s neck and took flight exactly as required, beating his wings and tugging strongly at the cord. However, in an agonized convulsion, Alexander unconsciously dealt a backhanded blow at a nearby metal cup, still filled with a potion that was prepared for him every night — and at the shock it emitted a ringing sound.

  The athlete Vyrlas immediately rushed into the chamber, feebly illuminated by a night lamp, and saw the purple face of the King, whose limbs were arching convulsively on the point of death. He leapt straight at Asnorius and promptly subdued him, then, with his strong fingers loosened the lethal knot gripping Alexander and at once administered a treatment that proved successful.

  An inquiry led to Guzil’s arrest as the only person who could have taught the bird the intricacies of such a performance. On being closely questioned the slave confessed and named the instigator of the murder. But Bruces, who had learnt of the failure of his attempted homicide hastily fled, leaving no trace.

  At Alexander’s command, Guzil was put to death — along with the dangerous Asnorius, for he would always have been capable in future of making criminal attempts upon the life of any sleeping person.

  2. An assertion by Saint John according to which Pilate, after Jesus’s crucifixion, suffered throughout his life from a terrible affliction and was unable to enjoy the solace of peaceful, sleep-bringing shade.

  According to the evangelist, when evening fell, Pilate experienced a frightful burning on his forehead, growing more painful as the light diminished, which originated in a phosphorescent mark representing Christ crucified, with the Virgin and Mary Magdalene kneeling beside him. Its contours became progressively brighter, and in the darkness of the night this strange attribute was so intensely blinding that it seemed traced by the sun. The sufferer, meanwhile, was subjected to real torture, like that of some hellish roasting endlessly renewed.

  To the physical pain was added moral torment, for Pilate was perfectly aware of this flaming image, the counterpart of his obsessive remorse. The fiery mark, occupying the center of his forehead, extended as far as his eyelids, where Mary Magdalene’s garment ended on one side, symmetrically with the Virgin Mary’s on the other.

  Thereafter, the only course left open to the wretched man was to expose himself to bright lights, for then both the burning and the luminous emblem immediately disappeared. Yet that perpetual light in itself constituted an atrocious torment, and Pilate was scarcel
y able to achieve a few moments of shallow and feverish sleep. When, during these fugitive states of repose, he made some involuntary effort to avoid the tiring radiance by covering his forehead and eyes with his hand, at once the terrible igneous motif returned, on account of the shadow created, and the sharp, burning pain was renewed. Even by day the accursed man was constantly forced to confront the brightest lights, for whenever he turned by chance toward the darkened corner of a room the glowing impression instantly arose and laid a veritable brand of infamy upon him for all to see.

  In the end the situation became intolerable. Almost deprived of sleep, his eyes ruined by the uninterrupted glitter they had to face, Pilate would have given anything to be able to plunge into thick shadows for a moment. But when he yielded to his irresistible desire to surround himself with darkness, the stigmata suddenly shone forth with its richest coruscation and gave him such a roasting that he hastily resorted again to the bright, detested light.

  Until his dying day the condemned man suffered without respite from this same incurable malady.

  3. An incident recorded by the poet Gilbert in his Rêves d’Orient vécus.

  About 1778, Gilbert traveled extensively in Asia Minor as a dilettante prompted by curiosity and a lofty appetite for artistic sensations. To this end he had devoted long months to the study of Arabic.

  After visiting various secondary sites and towns, he arrived at the ruins of Baalbek, the principal goal of his wanderings. The chief attraction of the illustrious dead city lay for him in the memory of Missir, the satirist and poet whose works had once appeared when Baalbek’s glory was at its height, and have, in part, come down to us. Gilbert was himself a satirist and a fanatical admirer of Missir, whom he rightly considered as his spiritual ancestor.

  The very first day the traveller had himself guided to the public square where, according to tradition, Missir used to come on certain fixed dates to recite his new-fledged verses to the reverent and attentive crowd, measuring his rather chanting declamation with the incessant jingle of an uneven sistrum.

  In Missir’s various commentators, Gilbert had read many violent and passionately argumentative pages occasioned by the widely held popular belief crediting the great poet with an unusual sistrum. Some declared such a thing impossible on the grounds that, in all the ancient sistra reproduced in drawings or documents, the transverse, vibrating metal rods were either four or six in number; they referred, in addition, to the testimony of excavations, which had never brought an uneven sistrum to light. Others held that, in spite of all this, one must bow to the voice of authority and allow that Missir had craved the distinction of using an instrument unique of its kind.

  Sending his guides away to wait for him at a distance, Gilbert remained to ponder alone upon the scene sanctified by the venerable shade of his long-dead master. In the ruins about him he tried to conjure up again the populous magnificence of the ancient city, moved by the thought that he was undoubtedly treading in Missir’s footsteps.

  Evening came, and Gilbert went on dreaming, oblivious of time, seated motionless now among the ancient scattered stones that had once formed part of the buildings. Only when night had fallen did it finally occur to him to leave the enchanting spot. As he rose, a light shone before his eyes close by, a slender, moving beam that was peeping out through a vertical crack, with its origin in some deep cave.

  Gilbert went toward it, advancing several paces across the ancient flagging of a palace now destroyed. The moving light was shining through the gap between two slightly separated flagstones. Gazing down into the illuminated crack, the poet glimpsed a vast hall where two unknown men, one of them holding a lit lamp, were walking about between strange piles of objects, stuffs and finery.

  By listening to the two companions — both local men — Gilbert unraveled from their conversation all the details of a plot. The younger speaker had discovered all sorts of antique objects in the depths of some underground apartments whose existence had, until then, gone unsuspected. These had all been gathered into the present hall, made quite secure by its particularly difficult access. The older man, who was a sailor by profession, planned to come each year and remove a portion of this wealth, which he would convey in a cart, by night, as far as the sea; there he would embark with it on his boat and sail far away to sell it for a fabulous sum. The two accomplices were to share the profits, while keeping their business secret so as to avoid the just claims of their compatriots, who possessed the same rights as they over this common treasure.

  As they went through the gallery, the two men selected various objects to carry off in the middle of the night and send away to sea. Once they had made their choice, they left by way of an exit whose nature and location Gilbert was unable to discern. He tried hard to see them emerging somewhere from the ruins, but his efforts were in vain.

  Hearing nothing more, the poet, who was in a frenzy of curiosity, conceived the idea of touching and admiring, alone and before anyone else, the unknown marvels accumulated so near at hand. The moon had just risen and was bathing the two parted flagstones in its beams. Gilbert discovered that one of them seemed to lack all trace of cement; finding a certain purchase in the crack with his hands, he managed to lift the heavy stone and lay it aside.

  Gilbert easily slipped his body through the new-made opening and, with his fingers clinging to its edge, extended his arms to diminish his fall, then gently let himself drop.

  The moonlight was flooding through the cavity in the flagstone, while the poet, filled with inquisitive enthusiasm, gazed with delight on jewels, fine stuffs, musical instruments and statuettes all heaped up in the fascinating museum.

  Suddenly he stopped, trembling with emotion and surprise. Before him, among various knickknacks in the pale light, there stood a sistrum with five rods! He seized it hastily to make a close examination, and when he saw Missir’s name engraved on the handle in authentic characters, he felt certain that he held in his hand the famous uneven sistrum which had stirred up so much controversy. Dazzled by his find, Gilbert was able to make his way back to the hole he had created, by piling up several pieces of furniture.

  Treading again the soil of the square, he came once more to the spot where he had dreamt so late into the night, and there, in an ecstasy of joy, he recited from memory Missir’s finest verses in their original tongue, gently shaking the sistrum once wielded by the great poet.

  Under the intense light of the moon, Gilbert in his exaltation believed he felt Missir’s breath reviving in his breast. He was standing precisely where his idol had melodiously recited his new stanzas to the crowd in bygone days, to the measure of the very instrument that now disturbed the night air with its tinkling.

  After intoxicating himself for a long time with poetry and memories, Gilbert went to rejoin his guides, who learnt from his lips of the existence of the treasures assembled in the subterranean hall, and the gist of the conversation overheard. A trap was laid for the two accom­plices, who were caught that very night at their clandestine activity of trying to corner the hoard.

  Missir’s sistrum was presented to Gilbert as a token of gratitude for the great service he had rendered, and he reverently preserved this incomparable relic ever afterward.

  4. The following Lombard legend, which bears a striking resemblance to the fable of “The Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs.”

  Once, at Bergamo, there lived a dwarf named Pizzighini.

  Each year, on the first day of spring, his pores would dilate under the climatic influence of the season and his whole body would sweat blood.

  According to popular belief, when this bloody sweat occurred pro­fusely, it was the sign of a good season and the pledge beforehand of an abundant harvest. On the other hand, when it was weak and limited in amount, it forecast a long drought followed by scarcity and ruin. Now this belief had always been justified by the facts.

  At the time of his strange malady, accompanied by a
bout of fever serious enough to confine him to his bed, Pizzighini was always watched by a group of farmers; depending on the amount of blood exuded, joy or consternation would spread across all the plains of the land. When the forecast was satisfactory, the country people knew that a splendid harvest would give them a long spell of happiness and repose, and they thanked the dwarf by sending him many presents. In their superstition they made him into a kind of deity. Mistaking a purely meteorological effect for a cause, they thought that Pizzighini decreed the good or bad harvest just as he pleased; and when the forecast was auspicious, they urged him, with the calculated liberality of their presents, to satisfy them again the following year. A very slight sweat, on the other hand, prompted no gifts.

  Pizzighini was a lazy, debauched fellow, who greatly appreciated these profits which cost him so little effort. Whenever his sheets and bed were completely drenched with blood, the handsome presents he received from various parts of the land enabled him to live in peaceful idleness and plenty, but as he was too slack and improvident to save, he fell into extreme poverty each time the sweat was only moderate.

  One year, at the usual springtide, before taking to his bed to suffer his usual periodic, feverish sweat, he hid a knife under the sheets, with the object of giving the phenomenon a helping hand in case of need.