France was a wise and fortunate choice. The king and nobles were deeply in debt and ready to pay exorbitant interest for ready cash. The banks were in a dilapidated condition, requiring the hand of a genius for reconstruction.
Meanwhile, Mayer-Anselm proved as honest as he had promised to be. My money, nearly tripled, awaited me wherever I ordered, while my many names were never associated with that of Prince Daniel Petrovich, Member of Russian Royalty, scholar, linguist, traveler, and lover.
Kotikokura and I walked arm in arm along the shore of the Seine. The stars dipped their long fingernails into the cool waters of the river. One flat-bottomed barge emerged silently from under the bridge. A couple, their arms wound about each other’s waists, bent over the rail and laughed.
“Spinoza was right, Kotikokura. The sea is our Mother. From the sea we come. Into the sea we go. Everything changes. The water remains. Where is the Paris through which we rode triumphantly with that strange man whose beard was a frozen cataract of amethysts? There is hardly a pile of stones, a bit of iron which is still intact. The Seine, however, flows on unconcerned. The Seine is like us, Kotikokura. All things about us decay and turn to dust. We remain.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“And yet, is there so colossal a change? Are there not now as then houses, streets, men, women? Now as then, people live by illusion. Then it was the Philosopher’s Stone. Now it is Reason. Always the futile search for happiness.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Then as now, a handful of people ruled the rest of the nation. Then as now, a few managed to live in luxury, while the rest tried to squeeze out of the hard and stony earth the milk of existence. Then as now, the poor hoped to become rich and the rich fought to retain their wealth. Nothing really changes, Kotikokura. Nothing is ever born. Nothing dies.”
I looked at my watch.
“But we are late, Kotikokura. The Marquise is awaiting us. Her food will become unpalatable. A dinner is more important to a hostess than all the truths of life and death. She is right. We live by food and not by melancholy meditation, watching the stars dip their fingertips into rivers.”
Madame la Marquise du Deffand bade me sit next to her. She placed her small ivory fan upon her lap and felt my face with both hands. They were delicate and white, but the knuckles had begun to assert themselves. She touched every part of my face and throat, lingering over my lips and forehead.
“Since I am blind, Prince, I have really begun to see faces. You are very handsome.”
“Madame forces me to acknowledge the truth which I prefer to hear rather than to express.”
She laughed a low guttural sound not unpleasant, but cheerless.
“You Russians learn the art of words so readily. You have much in common with us although it is not evident on the surface. But then, you have been in France before?”
“Long ago, Madame, in my youth.”
The Marquise laughed. “Long ago! How can you know the meaning of long ago, monsieur? But youth, of course, will draw voluptuous pleasure even out of such a thought, however distasteful it may be to those really afflicted with age.”
“How should Madame know the distastefulness of age?”
She struck me lightly with her fan. “Flattery is always delicious—at my age.”
“I insist, madame. You can have no conception of the meaning of age.”
“Let me feel your lips, Prince.”
She felt my lips with the tips of her fingers, perfumed with lavender.
“No,” she said, “you do not grin. You are sincere.”
Her face, half-hidden in her velvet bonnet trimmed with lace, had, if not beauty, at least a daintiness and charm peculiar to so many French women. A few, thinly-drawn, almost imperceptible wrinkles danced about her eyes, tightly shut, and about her lips.
“I do not know what you may have heard about me, Prince. A blind person suspects every whisper.”
“I have heard only praises– —”
“I have not always done what I should have done—that is true. But monsieur, I was bored. I strove to evade the great God Ennui.”
I sighed. “Who has not been smothered by his terrible shadow, madame?”
“Your voice seems different, Prince. I should almost have believed it another man’s. Strange! It sounded far, far off, thousands of miles—or perhaps, thousands of years. I was frightened.”
“I spoke of the god Ennui, madame. One should be realistic.”
She bade me give her my hand which she pressed. “Let me whisper something into your ear.”
I bent until her lips touched and pressed my ear.
“Je vous adore.”
I kissed her fingers. Meanwhile, the Salon became crowded with ladies and gentlemen.
The hearing of Madame la Marquise was very acute.
“The man who is laughing now,” she said, “is Monsieur d’Alembert, a fine genius but rather effeminate. Once,” she sighed, “I thought I loved him. Youth—you know. The lady who speaks now is Madame d’Epinay. Beware of her, Prince! She smiles always, I remember, but it is a false smile, I assure you. But then, it was a man’s fault, as usual. Her husband, Monsieur de la Live, has hardened her heart. Had he only been a little more careful in his faithlessness,—for it is not expected of a man to be a model of virtue. It is enough if one can betray with tact, and charm, and wit.”
“Madame, every country has its own customs. Virtue is a matter of time and space. It partakes neither of infinity nor eternity. Charm, however, seems to prefer France for her habitation.”
She whispered, “The lady who has just sneezed—she takes too much snuff at one time—is Madame Geoffrin, a splendid woman and as virtuous as it is compatible with politeness and humor.”
The Marquise laughed a little. “Mon ami, come nearer, and I shall tell you a comical story about Madame Geoffrin.”
I approached until our legs touched. I understood she desired more the proximity of my thigh than that of my ear. It amused me although the posture was slightly uncomfortable.
Mlle. de Lespinasse, tall, angular, with magnificent eyes and hair, bent and whispered into the ear of the Marquise. One or two other ladies approached. I took the opportunity to rise and walk away. Madame du Deffand motioned to me with her hand to remain, but I made believe I did not see. A little later, I saw her lips stretch into a painful grin. I, too, had disappointed her, I understood, and life was a bore.
Kotikokura, in a corner, wearing his Russian uniform and all his medals, was smothered by the attentions of three ladies, chattering incessantly. I approached and bowed. Kotikokura rose.
“Please do not disturb yourself, Duke, I beg you.”
“Monsieur le Duc is most fascinating,” one of the ladies observed.
“I have long ago discovered it, madame,” I said.
“It is strange. He knows so little French but makes himself understood splendidly.”
“He never uses a verb.”
“That is marvelous, Prince. I must speak to Monsieur Diderot about it. He says that the verbs are the life of a language.”
“Medals—Tsar—Russia,” Kotikokura whispered to one of the ladies who played with his decorations.
“Now isn’t that just charming? Le Duc means these medals have been given him by the Tsar of Russia.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“Splendid!” another lady ejaculated.
“The Duke will reform our language, Monsieur le Prince. I think I shall stop using verbs myself. Duke charming—medals beautiful,” she addressed Kotikokura.
Kotikokura was flustered and uncomfortable. To avoid bursting out into laughter, I snuffed a large quantity of tobacco and sneezed several times.
Kotikokura started to rise again. The ladies pulled him back. “Monsieur le Duc—ici–with us.”
I walked away, leaving him to his delightful discomfort.
The conversation became very noisy, the remarks fragmentary.
A fellow, his face besmirched with tobacco and
mud, wild-eyed, half toothless, shouted back, waving his fist, while his moth-eaten wig toppled to one side like an uncomfortable crown: “Back to Nature, all you wicked and godless creatures!”
“But Monsieur Rousseau, what does it mean?” the first man insisted.
“It means that you throw away all your false books, false habits, false words, false arts.” “Everything is false, naturally, save le Contrat Social by Jean Jacques Rousseau.”
There was general laughter.
“Jean Jacques is charming, n’est-ce-pas?’ one woman observed.
“I think he is the rudest man in the world,” another answered.
“Go back to God!” Rousseau shouted.
“It is too great a journey from Earth to Heaven, and I have a touch of the gout, monsieur,” someone said, and turning to a man who was sitting near the window, “What say you, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, to a visit to God?”
“I say that belief in God is the origin of all follies.”
Rousseau, exasperated, unable to speak, danced about waving his fists.
“Jean Jacques has the St. Vitus dance again,” Madame la Marquise du Deffand remarked, fanning herself.
“The idea of God is necessary to happiness,” Rousseau blurted out.
“Only beauty is necessary to happiness,” Saint-Lambert answered. A lady next to him kissed his cheek.
“Happiness,” Madame du Deffand said, “is the Philosopher’s Stone which ruins those who seek it.”
“There is a God!” Rousseau shouted, “There is a God! Messieurs, there is a God. If any one contradicts me, I go!”
“I contradict!” several voices answered.
“Cochons!” Rousseau blurted out, as if his mouth had been filled with pebbles, and dashed out of the room, his wig upon his neck.
“He is a fool!” Saint-Lambert remarked.
“Voltaire is right about him,” another added.
“He is disagreeable,” Madame du Deffand declared. “His ‘Emile’ is contrary to good sense, his ‘Héloise’ is contrary to good manners, and nothing in the world is quite so dull and obscure as his ‘Contrat Social.’ ”
There was general applause. “Monsieur le Duc, do you believe in God?” one of the three ladies asked.
“Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura answered.
“Magnificent!” they shouted.
“Ca-ta-pha god! Ca-ta-pha god!”
The words became contagious. Everybody repeated and laughed. “Ca-ta-pha god.”
Kotikokura, indignant at the general merriment, rose and exclaimed, making the sign of my godhead, “Ca-ta-pha god!”
The three women kissed his face at the same time. Bewildered, he reseated himself.
The conversation drifted to politics. “Liberty—canaille—the king—equality—la France—treason” bombarded the room like a cannonade.
Madame Geoffrin walked among the people. “I beg you, gentlemen, no politics! Please, I beg you.”
It was becoming very warm. The ladies nibbled at biscuits and fanned themselves, scattering about the scent of many perfumes and stale powder. The gentlemen consumed ices and wines.
“Your husband is a monster, madame, and you are an adorable creature,” one man whispered to a woman. She struck him very gently over the mouth with the tip of her finger and after consulting her calendar, she breathed a date.
Other gentlemen whispered into other ladies’ ears variations of the eternal formula. I was bored. I suddenly felt my age. What had I to do among these children?
Some one pulled gently at the lace of my sleeve. I turned around. A young woman whom I had not noticed until then, whispered to me, “Monsieur le Prince s’ennuie, n’est-ce-pas?”
I nodded.
“Moi aussi.”
I bowed politely.
“I am Herma,” she said. “How shall I call you?”
“Call me Lucifer.”
Her voice was deep and unsuited for her frail body. Her features were irregular but not unpleasant. Almost breastless and hipless in an age which insisted upon exposing its feminine charms, she appeared a pleasurable anomaly.
“Since monsieur is bored and since I am bored, would monsieur care to accompany me to my salon where he may find things and people to interest him?”
I looked at her, knitting my brow a little.
She smiled. “Monsieur need not fear. I do not mean to seduce him.”
I smiled in my turn. “Mademoiselle would have no difficulty.”
“The remark is a trifle banal.”
“It is. Pardon.” I gave her my arm. “I beg you to take me to your salon.”
“We can leave here à l’anglaise,” she said.
“But my friend, the Duke– —?”
“Do not worry about him, Prince. The ladies will take care of him and return him to you when no longer needed. He is perfectly safe.”
“As mademoiselle commands.”
Mademoiselle awoke the coachman who was fast asleep.
“Home,” she ordered.
Our journey was made in silence. I was grateful to the young woman. Every now and then, I glanced at her. There was something strange about her. A curve about her mouth and a soft down upon her upper lip reminded me of someone I could not name.
She had never been introduced to me and I was not certain whether she knew more about me than the fact that I was a Russian Prince who appeared bored.
The horses slackened their pace. We turned into the Boulevard du Temple.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, as we alighted, “I am grateful to you for your silence. I was much in need of it, after the noise made by so many chatterboxes of either sex at Madame du Deffand’s.”
She smiled and nodded.
“My friend, Contessa di Rosacroce, who I hope will visit us tonight, believes that the male is the more garrulous of the species. Among animals and birds, she has discovered the same tendency.”
“La Contessa is very observant, mademoiselle.”
“She is a marvelous woman, Prince. She has traveled the world over, knows many languages, and is remarkably beautiful.” She sighed. “Ah, so beautiful, Prince!”
We had already climbed the steps that led to the door of the house. Mademoiselle raised the knocker, the shape of a coiled snake, and struck three times, slowly, then three times in quick succession.
The door opened. “Has anybody arrived?” she asked the butler, a tall negro dressed like an admiral. “Not yet, mademoiselle.”
“So much the better.”
“Prince, are you interested in paintings?”
“Certainly.”
“I have some canvases which will please you, I hope.”
We walked slowly from one painting to another, praising their merits, discussing the artists. My eye was arrested suddenly by a painting, hanging in an adjoining room.
“Mademoiselle, may I examine that work—là bas?”
“Of course. An ancestor of mine. On my mother’s side, I am Italian. It is for this reason, perhaps, that I have been attracted to Lilith.”
“Who is Lilith?”
“La Contessa. I call her Lilith. I imagine Lilith must have been like her,—so beautiful, so wise, and…”
“So wicked, may I add?”
“Wicked!” she exclaimed. “Prince!”
“Pardon. How otherwise could Lilith be but beautiful, wise,—and wicked?”
“Perhaps you are right, Prince. At least, she is very dangerous. I would not advise you to fall in love with her.”
“I could not.”
“Why not?”
I kissed her hand.
“That is banal,” she answered.
“All truths are truisms and all emotions banal, mademoiselle. It cannot be helped. We live in a world which flows on forever, and forever repeats itself.”
“You speak just like Lilith.”
“May I be—Lucifer, then, for you, mademoiselle?”
She smiled. Her eyes closed a trifle. We approached the painting which had allured m
e so strangely.
“Who is this lady?” I asked.
“Her name, Prince, is—Mona Lisa, La Joconde.”
“I knew her!” I exclaimed.
“It is hardly possible, Monsieur—Lucifer. She has been dead for centuries.”
“No matter. I knew her or one who resembled her phenomenally.”
“She resembles me, they say.”
I looked at her. “Exactly. Your smile. Your lips. Now I remember!”
“Have you also seen me, like Lilith, in a dream?”
“No, no. This was not a dream. I knew her. I loved her. Who is the painter?”
“Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Leonardo da Vinci!”
“Why the surprise? Everybody knows that he painted the Mona Lisa.”
“But where is the ring?”
“What ring?”
“Pardon. My mind was wandering.”
“You are as whimsical as Lilith, monsieur. She ought to like you immensely.”
“Did Mona Lisa have a brother who looked like her? And did Leonardo paint him too?”
“She had a brother who was painted by Leonardo, but he did not transfix his beauty upon a canvas. It was his skin that he painted with gold. The boy died from suffocation. Leonardo’s love unwittingly killed him.”
“What was his name?”
“Antonio.”
“How was Mona Lisa called as a girl?”
“Antonia-Antonia Lisa, but when the boy died in agony, her uncle, who brought her up, called her Mona—the only one. He could not bear to be reminded of the dead boy.”
“It seems strange that I have never heard the story.”
“You have never,” she said astonished, “read the ‘Ballad of the Golden Boy’? The poem relates accurately, except for minor details, the fate of Mona Lisa’s brother.”
“I shall surely read it,” I said absent-mindedly.
Antonio-Antonia—I could see each luminous body walk through the long hall, and approach my bed. I could feel again the delicate texture of their skins. I could hear their stifled moans and the delicate imprint of their kisses.
But Herma, living, distracted me from my reveries. The ghosts disappeared. In a distant corner of the salon, I saw gleaming in the soft candle-light, a marble statue.
“The God of Love,” she sighed, “—Hermaphroditus.”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 48