Count Luna

by Alexander Lernet-Holenia

  “But, good heavens,” cried Jessiersky aghast. “Do you know all about that too? How can you possibly know?”

  “Know?” replied the priest. “I don’t know it. I am just making up a story about your life and your death. I am only expressing myself poetically. For none of this down below here is real. It’s all an invented immortality, nothing more. . . .”

  “Invented?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But then what’s the use of it?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of immortality?”

  “It has no use,” replied the priest. “None. For if a living thing dies, it passes from one situation in which it still is into another in which it no longer is. And once you no longer are, how can you possibly have anything? Then you neither are anything nor have anything. You have simply become nothing and have ceased to be.”

  “And so there really is no immortality?”

  “No. It exists, but only insofar as the nothing you have entered into exists, which is to say that even that which no longer is, still is. If it had never been, it certainly would no longer be. But because it was, it still is. Only that which no longer is can no longer be understood in terms of what still is. We can only infer that this is so, but it is impossible for us, beyond the abyss of death, to picture it.”

  “I heartily agree,” said Jessiersky. “It’s quite impossible to picture it, quite futile to try to imagine the so-called life of the dead.”

  “And what is more,” continued the priest, “we are also misled by the blank nothingness itself, by what has never been and never will be, by negation itself. But nevertheless, I can assure you we will certainly not fall victim to it. For since we once have been, we are. That is to say, we shall never cease to be. We are forever. For through our own being, we also share in the Divine Being: and God, although He is not the world that is (or rather just because He is not the world that He created and which passes, because He is its opposite, the uncreated which, therefore, cannot pass) is everlasting and immutable — like ourselves.”

  “You know,” said Jessiersky after a pause, “I would much prefer it if it weren’t such a complicated business where something that is ‘is not’ and something that is not ‘is.’ If it only had some connection with the immortality of the soul as it used to be and as we learned it. Isn’t the soul per se immortal? Is it really only man?”

  “Yes, only man,” replied the slender priest. “Nothing but man — man as God sees him.”

  “And God Himself?” inquired Jessiersky, “What is God?”

  “Again just man as he sees himself,” replied the priest.

  “Is that so!” cried Jessiersky. “That never would have occurred to me!”

  “But that’s how it is, or at least more or less how it is,” said the stocky priest. As he spoke he looked off to the side.

  “Do you think so?” asked Jessiersky. “I know you are only trying to break it to me gently that there is no such thing as a life after death. For if one could die without passing away, one would not have to be born in order to be. But one thing I really don’t understand. If we no longer exist after we die, if everything is really over, why are we so afraid of death? I myself, at least, have been afraid of it all my life. I was afraid that a single moment might take me away, far away from everything familiar. . . .”

  “And quite rightly so,” said the short priest. “For without fear of death you would have been so careless that you would have been killed even as a child. But are you afraid of it now — of death?”

  “Frankly, I am too exhausted to be very much afraid of anything.”

  “Now, you see! You’re afraid only of nothingness. But there really isn’t much more to death. Although it is a most common occurrence, it is vastly overestimated. For not only every human being, but every dog, every fly must eventually give up the ghost. If there were really anything else to dying, the cattle, who never die a natural death but are always slaughtered, ought to be given a score of medals, like generals. And think of how unimportant the death of creatures that died a hundred or only fifty years ago has become!”

  “But I am still living,” said Jessiersky. “I did not live fifty or a hundred years ago and so I am tremendously interested in knowing whether I am dying, which, by the way, I shall certainly do if you don’t quickly give me something out of that food supply of yours which has kept you so fresh. For, after all, I’ve been down here for eight days and . . .”

  “Fourteen days,” corrected the slender priest, and turning to the short priest he said: “Give Monsieur de Jessiersky something to eat. Do you really regret,” he asked, again addressing Jessiersky, “your evil deeds?”

  “I suppose so,” said Jessiersky. “But I myself was misled. Do hurry up and give me something to eat!”

  Then the stocky priest took a box out of his pocket and with a quick, deft movement, so that Jessiersky could not see what it was, he took something white out of the box and popped it into Jessiersky’s mouth. As he did so he moved his lips almost soundlessly.

  The white object tasted of nothing. “What was that?” asked Jessiersky.

  “Nothing, nothing,” the slender priest said.

  “Is that all?” cried Jessiersky seeing that the short man had put away the box.

  “Yes,” said the slender priest.

  “What, is that all I’m going to get?”

  “You couldn’t stand any more because you haven’t eaten for so long.”

  “But how about something to drink?” inquired Jessiersky, forcing himself to be agreeable. “Something out of a flask.”

  “Are you perhaps related to the Piast kings? I’d never heard that you were!”

  “What do you mean, to the Piast kings?”

  “Or perhaps to the Jagellon kings? But we really didn’t come to meet you in order to talk about all kinds of things about which we really know nothing ourselves. Especially . . .”

  “Did you come to meet me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you knew I would come?”

  “Yes, of course. That is why we’ve been wandering about down here for months.”

  “That is why?” cried Jessiersky. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that you might have made an effort not to come entirely unprepared yourself. You haven’t even got your coat with you any longer.”

  “My coat? Why yes . . . I seem to have lost it. But dragging it around all these days, you know . . . and then I really don’t need it any more. It may be a little damp here, but it’s quite warm, and . . .”

  “Soon it will become quite cold.”

  “Cold?”

  “Yes, cold.”

  “Why?”

  “There is snow on the ground after all.”

  “But how does that happen? Now, in May?”

  “In May you think?”

  “Yes, and in Italy too!”

  “Oh, come along!” said the slender priest, and he and the shorter man took Jessiersky between them, seized him by the arms, and led him away.

  “Where are we going so suddenly?” cried Jessiersky.

  “Up, of course! You talk a great deal and ask a good many questions in your bad French!”

  They had gone only a few steps when the passage came to an end. Light came flooding in. The priests led Jessiersky across a heap of rubble of mummy fragments, into the open.

  “How rude the fellows have become all of a sudden,” said Jessiersky to himself. “I would as soon trust the care of my soul to the horns of the moon as to these two horns of salvation!”

  “Come, come!” shouted the priests, dragging him along.

  “You act as though you were taking me to the scaffold!” protested Jessiersky.

  “Which is where you really belong!”

  But by that time they were already up above. Th
ey were in the midst of a snowy plain and not far away a sleigh was waiting.

  But this can’t be the Roman plain, thought Jessiersky. How far the catacombs extend under the ground! Where can I be?

  The priests had suddenly vanished, and Jessiersky, while he was glad to be rid of them, felt utterly at a loss. He began walking toward the sleigh. Draped over the back of the carriage was a lap robe of fox fur, and the horses, obviously tall half-breeds, gaily shook their heads with the ornamented, jingling harness.

  Two people in fur coats were seated on the box. One of them immediately jumped down and ran toward Jessiersky. He took off his fur coat and put it around Jessiersky’s shoulders.

  Jessiersky saw that the man was wearing livery. “Where do you come from?” he asked. “Where am I? Why is there snow? Whose sleigh is that?”

  To all these questions the man, who had blunt features, black hair, and extraordinarily coarse hands, replied merely: “Marianowka.”

  Then Jessiersky knew that he was dead.

  “Well, well,” he thought, swallowing hard, “so one does die after all. You refuse to believe that someday you will die. But then you die and you don’t even notice it. And the fact that you don’t is the best thing about dying.”

  As he walked along, he realized that the Jezierskijs had sent the sleigh for him, after all. It had come from the Jezierskijs themselves, not from the Raczynskis or the Szoldrskis. For the Jezierskijs were living in Marianowka, even though they had squandered it away. They were still in Marianowka and Wiazownika, and they had sent the sleigh for him, as they had sent it for his father, Adam Jessiersky.

  After he had climbed onto the sleigh, he again asked some questions of the man who had put the fur coat around him and of the other man who had remained on the box. But they answered him in a language that he did not understand. Probably it was Polish. He tried once more in French, but again they replied in Polish. Perhaps Polish was the language of the dead, or, perhaps, being servants, they spoke Ruthenian. But he could not understand that either.

  As he was settling back on the fox-fur robe, the liveried man, who was apparently a footman, spread over his knees a second lap robe, which had been folded up on the floor of the sleigh. Then he leaped up onto the box beside the coachman. The horses began to pull, and at once the sleigh was skimming across the snow with the speed of lightning.

  The bells were jingling, and the fox tails, which were sewn onto the sleigh robe, were fluttering in the icy wind. Then from the distance came music. Jessiersky noticed that it was a Fantaisie by Chopin. . . . Hadn’t Chopin also provided the music for Adam Jessiersky’s ride with the Uhlan squadrons? This time he was playing the Fantaisie in F minor. He kept playing it over and over, for by modern standards he did not play particularly well — apparently he was trying to improve his playing by repetition. . . . And they rode on beneath a sky holding the threat of snow, but from which no snow fell, over rolling hills and endless plains covered with old snow; and through gloomy woods and again over plains and through more woods which became darker and darker as night fell. The howling of wolves became mingled with the Chopin music as they dashed on through the icy night. “Perhaps,” thought Jessiersky, recalling what the slender priest had said, “perhaps this is only the poetic embellishment of death. The snow over which we are riding is not real snow, but the Cocytus; the coachman, if one looks closely, will turn out to be Charon, and the sleigh, his skiff. Perhaps all this, because it is only an embellishment of horror, will soon pass and give place to utter nothingness. . . .” But nothing passed. Everything persisted. Finally lights appeared, dogs barked, and the sleigh swung around and drew up in front of a lighted house.

  This must be Marianowka. . . . But Alexander Jessiersky had no time to look at it. Scarcely had the sleigh stopped under the portico, which was supported by white wooden pillars, when the door of the house flew open. Servants with lanterns came rushing out, helped him from the sleigh, and hustled him into the house. A crowd of people converged upon him from many lighted rooms and spoke to him in French.

  In their midst, Alexander Jessiersky recognized his father.

  “Well, my boy,” cried Adam Jessiersky, “Here you are! I mean you are really here! For this, heaven knows, you have Luna and Spinette to thank and the two simpletons from Zinkeneck who passed through here and told us about you. Otherwise we might have waited for you indefinitely. But now you’re here. How goes your French, by the way?”

  “Le Comte de la Lune est ici?” stammered Alexander Jessiersky.

  “Le Comte de Lune was not ici, but là,” corrected Adam Jessiersky. “Of course he was là, and had been for a long time. Or did you think he wasn’t là? What an idiot you were! But what luck you’ve had!” And he slapped him jovially on the back, as an archduke slaps the back of a member of the general staff.

  He was not wearing the uniform of the general staff, but a uhlan uniform, such as he had never worn in life. What is more, he was no longer emaciated by cancer, but had regained his former stoutness.

  Behind him appeared Witold and Olgerd Jesierskij, Pavel, and the already legendary Alexander, who, as Adam Jessiersky explained, was here only by chance and would soon return to Russia. They all embraced their descendant and kissed him on both cheeks. The Szoldrskis, the Raczynskis, and the Bielskis also came over to speak to him. They were all laughing, not as though he had just died, but as though something extremely amusing had taken place, and they welcomed him heartily.

  “Come on in,” said Adam Jessiersky, “come on in, you will certainly want to greet the ladies.”

  But Alexander Jessiersky asked if it were absolutely necessary to do so that evening. He was dead tired from wandering around under the earth and from the long sleigh ride, and he very much needed a shave, as anyone could see. Would it not be possible for him to go right to bed and see the ladies tomorrow. He was utterly exhausted from so many impressions and . . .

  “Come, come!” laughed Adam Jessiersky. “Excuses! Nothing but excuses! What you’re really afraid of is suddenly meeting up with Luna, and you think he may possibly be sitting in the parlor making conversation! Isn’t that it?”

  “But where is he really?”

  “He went on, went on long ago! For here is only . . .”

  “What is it only?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Come along now!”

  “But wasn’t he the moon?”

  “Who?”

  “This Luna.”

  “Oh, why should you think that? He was just a starving little sociologist, that’s all.”

  And he drew his son into the big parlor where the ladies were sitting and Alexander Jessiersky had to greet them each in turn. He liked the Bielski girl best of all. She was really charming, and he thought that Pavel Jezierskij had been quite justified in lavishing all that money on her. Wine and liqueurs were passed around and everyone drank his health, and he had to drink everyone’s health until he began to feel quite giddy, for he was drinking on an empty stomach. The few canapes served with the wine didn’t amount to much. He badly wanted to go to bed. But already someone had sat down at the piano and was playing “La Valse Brune” which gave him quite a turn and everyone laughed. But then other pieces were played and everyone began to dance. Alexander Jessiersky danced with his grandmother and above all with his enchanting great-grandmother. Again and again he tried his skill at six-step waltzes, mazurkas, polkas, and polonaises, and this went on until morning. . . .

  “Could this really be the Beyond?” he muttered, confused, exhausted and drunk. “Probably this way of being dead doesn’t exist. One simply imagines it. It is only, as the scrawny priest said, decked out more poetically than the real, ordinary way of being dead. . . .”

  “Be quiet!” scolded Adam Jessiersky. “You’re not supposed to talk like that. You shouldn’t cheat yourself of your illusions. Let’s simply assume, although it certainly isn’t true, that death is j
ust like life, sleep like waking, youth like age, one place like another, and that one never knows exactly where one is. . . . But day is dawning. It is already stealing through the curtains, as they put it so beautifully in novels. Come, we must really go to bed now. The days have little meaning here; the nights are everything.”

  With this he put his beautiful beringed hand, which had emerged from the narrow sleeve of his tunic, around his son’s shoulder, and, yawning, began to mount the stairs leading to the bedrooms. The upper hall, lighted by a few candles, was adorned in the strangest fashion. The walls were entirely papered with faded, brownish photographs. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. They covered the entire hallway like fish scales. What they represented, Alexander Jessiersky could not exactly see in the dim light. They seemed to be pictures of men in uniform and in outmoded civilian clothes, of horses, of dogs — long dead, all of them, countless long-forgotten beings.

  Two servants were waiting in the hall. Alexander Jessiersky recognized one of them as the man who had put the fur coat around him as he came out of the catacombs, the man in livery with the black hair, the blunt features, and the coarse hands. “He is still on duty,” thought Jessiersky. “I should have demanded long hours like that of my own servants! But in eternity . . .”

  “So much work! So many guests!” he muttered, already beginning to speak thickly. But the servant did not seem to understand him. He merely smiled and said a few words to his comrade in a strange language, perhaps it was Ruthenian. In any case Alexander Jessiersky still did not understand the language of the dead. And the two men received him and led him into the bedroom. As he passed the door, he looked about for his father, but he had already gone. Then Alexander Jessiersky went into the room. The servants undressed him and put him to bed, and the moment he lay down he fell asleep and at last lost consciousness.