He stopped suddenly, and then continued, raising his empty glass again.
“I have a particular horror for your Gurago. Personally, I’m in favor of the real reality, not the illusion. The only pleasures that exist are material pleasures, those one perceives with one’s nostrils or one’s palate, those one touches with one’s hands. My philosophy is that there is no spirit, nothing but material forms, avid with the desire for enjoyment. What I love in a woman is the diversity of splendid matter, the ivory of the teeth, the tissue of the hair, the velvet of the skin, sanguine warmth, and the movement of the form. Outside of the possession of that physical wealth, everything else is lies.”
While he was speaking his eyes were bulging from his head and his mouth was almost making the motions of eating. At that moment he appeared to me more repulsive than ever
“I only desire,” he said again, “one single manifestation of spirit in a woman: her consent.”
He suddenly started laughing, and cried as he fell backwards: “And one can even substitute for that, thanks to the Atharva Veda.”
I was about to ask why there was such frequent mention of the Atharva Veda when Lord Portman, who, while drinking, had the attitude of a man waiting impatiently, remarked that the moment had come to take advantage of the orchestra that was in the next room, as well as the dancing girl from Madras that he had brought.
“You can dance when you please,” he said to me, “but it seems to me that it will be better for us to contemplate that which is imperfect before that which is perfect, and that we remain for the remainder of the night under the impression of your beauty.
I nodded my head. He got up and went out, but from the doorway he darted a glance of intelligence at his two friends and addressed a remark to them in English in which I thought I understood that there was mention of an oath. But my bliss was too great and I was no longer capable of astonishment.
The Magical Dance
I almost uttered a cry of surprise when I saw the dancer from Madras climb the steps of the stage. She wore exactly the same costume as me, with the same embroideries of silver and gold, the same shade of shawl, the same rings and the same headband descending over the temples, and as she was the same height as me, with something analogous in the carriage of the head, I thought for an instant that it was me, and that I was about to watch my double dance.
Lord Portman was watching my face for the impression I experienced.
“That’s the dancer we saw together in Madras,” he told me. “I noticed, that evening, that she had some of your movements. So I had the costume of the bayadere Cammatatchi, which is yours, copied exactly.
“What costume can a bayadere wear here,” said Vanini, closing his pill-box, “except that of the unfortunate Cammatatchi?”
“Why unfortunate?” I asked. “You didn’t finish your story.”
“That’s true,” said Vanini. “Well, the terrible ancestor of our placid friend took pleasure in making the marvelous Cammatatchi dance in the same place where we are. I told you that the capricious creature had refused the Rajah, out of pure coquetry, for experience informs us that the majority of women have neither appetite nor disgust, and if they affect to make a choice it isn’t by virtue of their elective preference, as they would like to make people believe, but by virtue of interest, whimsy or, often, for no reason at all.”
I protested, for form’s sake, having been familiar with Vanini’s paradoxes for a long time.
“So, it as the day of the festival of Sidambara—but isn’t it the day of the festival of that god today?”
“Precisely,” said the Rajah. “But the old customs have fallen into desuetude, and Sidambara has ceased to be honored.
“Having watched Cammatatchi dance, the Rajah made thereafter the gesture of taking her in his arms. She turned away, laughing, as was her habit. Instead of persisting, the Rajah told her to return to the habitation of the sacred dancers, which was situated on the other side of the pool. When Cammatatchi had gone out, the Rajah had a ferocious panther released behind her. The bayadere fled along the stairways that you can see over there....”
“And then?”
“The bayadere was eaten,” said the Rajah, tranquilly, “and my ancestor watched the scene through a loophole.”
“That’s a frightful story.”
“Such was the punishment of coquettish women in that distant epoch,” said Vanini. “Impunity is unfortunately assured to them nowadays.”
Lord Portman leaned toward me and murmured, as gently as a lamb: “I hope that you won’t hold it against me for having revived the evening in Madras and having made that dancer a poor imitation of you?”
At any other moment I would have found that pleasantry absurd and out of place, but in spite of the story of Cammatatchi, a river of benevolence and tranquility was flowing through my soul. I made a sign that I did not hold it against him.
The Massalchi, or torch-bearer, who illuminates a bayadere while she dances, had came to take his place behind her, in accordance with custom. The musicians’ talam and mahatalam resonated at a signal from Lord Portman with a muted tonality, and the bayadere commenced her dance.
From the start, she gazed with the fixity of a magnetized bird at Lord Portman, and never took her eyes off him. The dance is an amorous coming and going, and alternation of approach and retreat, accompanied by undulations of the arms and movements of the legs, miming by turns hope, regret or the pleasure of amour. Only Lord Portman existed for that bayadere.
I made the interior reflection that that was scarcely polite for the Lord’s guests, and I was about to make that reflection to the Prince, who was beside me, when I experienced a singular sensation. It was of myself that I was about to make a criticism, it was me who was gazing exclusively at Lord Portman, me who as dancing for him alone. Without my knowledge, I had identified myself with the dancer dressed like me; I was her.
I smiled at the absurdity of the sensation, of which I was fortunately conscious. By virtue of a curious duplication, however, I continued to watch the bayadere dance as if I were gazing at myself in a mirror, criticizing myself for certain faults in the dance, certain movements of the body that I found unseemly, certain thrusts of the breasts accompanied by passionate gazes fixed on a single man, which I judged as eloquent as a direct invitation to amour. I would have liked, above all, to retain the sort of chant commenced in a shrill tone, which ought to have been gentle on the ear, taking exception the dance continued because the bayadere from Madras mingled with it passionate accents like appeals, as voluptuous as gasps of pleasure.
Suddenly, the dance concluded.
Then I saw the dancer descend the steps of the stage lightly, bound rather than run toward Lord Portman, and with the same spontaneous enthusiasm that she had had in Madras for a certain Miguel, she threw her arms around his neck, placed her head on his shoulder and said, sighing: “Oh, George!”
George was Lord Portman’s forename, of which I never made use because it was antipathetic to me, without my knowing why.
Its resonance was as disagreeable to me as if I had pronounced it myself.
But I understood, or thought I understood, Lord Portman’s intentions. In spite of my refusals he had had a dancer dress like me in order to have the illusion that it was me in his arms. And the words of the three friends that I had not understood came back to my mind, as well as the meaning of their card game. They had played for the dancer from Madras!
But how young they had remained to be able to be impassioned for the possession of a woman that could be had so easily in the port of Madras! I was invaded by an immense disgust for men, at the same time as a little anger. So only one thing existed for them: physical possession. They could not spend a single evening in pure amity, with conversation and ideal speculations. We had convened for amicable hours of dreaming and smoking. That had not been sufficient for them. They had still required the perspective of a whore, whose paid caresses one or other of them would possess.
The fears that I had had were completely dissipated, to be sure! They had been replaced by a sharp ill humor. I experienced the need to exteriorize that ill humor, and I spoke to Lord Portman in order to reproach him for his vulgarity and that I would renounce dancing.
But, to my amazement, he had completely changed his attitude in my regard.
He replied to me by a shake of the head and he contented himself with making a little sign with his finger, a sovereignly imperious sign, to express that the moment had come for me to dance.
I sensed a blush of shame cover my face at that inconceivable gesture. Then something even more inconceivable happened, I stood up meekly, and even rapidly; I climbed the steps of the stage and I prepared to dance. At another sign from Lord Portman, the bayadere from Madras disappeared through the door to the left, and while my thoughts reeled, and I made a futile effort to recover myself, the talam caused its metallic sound to ring out, the muted sounds of the mahatalam resonated with an irresistible power, with a magnetic rhythm such as I had never heard, and I began to dance.
I did not know whether it was me who was dancing or whether it was the bayadere from Madras. But as soon as the first step I plunged my gaze into that of Lord Portman and I fixed it there. From the very first step, the chant that I intoned was a plaint of amour, an appeal to the man at whom I was looking, a humble chanted supplication. I was begging him to love me.
I took account of the insensate character of those amorous notes, but I could not prevent them from emerging from my throat.
I saw and judged my folly in a second consciousness. I intimated to myself the order to stop, but my will had abandoned me and I was not capable of going back.
And I did even more. I danced as I had never danced. I extended my arms with a bewildered vehemence, to fold them again suddenly with tenderness as upon a beloved individual. I mimed the poem of desire with the thrust of my breasts, I caused the nude part of my body to protrude with an abandoned immodesty, I offered myself in the inclination of my torso, I delivered myself in the reversal of my hips.
An interior and distant voice cried as if through a fog: “Stop, fool!” But it seemed to come from a consciousness that was foreign to me. I was still looking into Lord Portman’s eyes, bewildered and fascinated.
And suddenly, the talam and the mahatalam expired. The massalchi lowered his torch; the dance was over. The final note had not finished vibrating when I bounded with an incredible lightness, I fell at Lord Portman’s feet, I enlaced his neck with my arms, and I said, with a sigh of my extended lips: “Oh, George!”
Then Lord Portman leaned toward me, I felt the palm of his hand on the nape of my neck and he stuck his mouth to mine.
The Stone Cavalier
I don’t know how many seconds or how many minutes I remained against Lord Portman’s shoulder. I don’t know whether or not it was him who, with the hand with which he was pressing my neck, inadvertently released the little chain by which the minuscule golden box was suspended.
After the intoxication of the pipes and the fatigue of the dance I was in a state of languorous torpor. I was awakened by the sensation of the chain opening and the box sliding between my breasts, over the naked skin.
I wondered at first what it was, and then I remembered that Comtesse Aurelia had given it to me that morning.
Mechanically, I seized the box, and opened it with my fingernail. A little object, of very ancient gold, fell into the palm of my hand. By the vague light that reigned in the room, I did not distinguish at first what that fragment of gold represented. Then I threw it away in disgust. It was a lingam, a minuscule obscene symbol of Mammaden, the southern Indian goddess of amour,
I had Lord Portman’s head against my breast and I perceived his even and profound respiration, which attested his delight, and a clear reckoning of things returned to me.
The three men, in collusion with Comtesse Aurelia, had set a vile trap for me. They had used against me a magical operation learned from the Atharva Veda, the ancient Hindu book filled with extraordinary and absurd recipes for bewitchment, some of which must be authentic. The little gold box had been the point of departure, the talisman. Then there had been the dancer similar to me. I had heard it said that in certain conditions, a human being cannot prevent themselves from reproducing exactly the actions that they see accomplished by an individual like them, acting in their resemblance, who thus succeeds thus in exercising a power of suggestion over them. I had heard it said that a king of I know not what Indian country had been thus led to hang himself by a sorcerer clad in a royal costume who had hung himself before his eyes. The requisite condition had been fulfilled, in my case, by the opium that had weakened my will, and had permitted the singular duplication of which I had been the victim.
I saw all the elements successively combined, and how I had been duped. It was me for who they had played cards. I had been won by Vanini, who had ceded me for ten thousand pounds, finding that that price exceeded the value of the purchased object! I felt anger invade me. Fortunately, it was not over. Lord Portman had only obtained a kiss. So long as the three men were united they were not to be feared. I would tell them what they had done and demand that they take me back to Pondicherry without delay.
I stood up and took two or three steps, energetically and ostentatiously wiping my mouth with the gauze of my robe. I darted a glance around. But the room was empty, Vanini and the Rajah had disappeared, taking away the tray, the little lamp and the pipes.
“They’ve gone to smoke somewhere else,” said Lord Portman, “in a room at the other end of the pagoda. I have their word. We’re alone for the rest of the night.”
He smiled triumphantly and moved his jaws, making his teeth click, doubtless with the thought that he was about to bite my flesh.
He too was standing, and as I took a step toward the door he added: “Our solitude is absolute. The servants and musicians had orders to quit the pagoda, and my panther has been released around the temple that we occupy, in order that no one will disturb us. Above all, don’t take it into your head to go out. Remember the story of Cammatatchi!”
I saw that his eyes had lost all light. He was trembling with desire. My presence against him had thrown him into a kind of physical ecstasy, into which he wanted to plunge again. He did not doubt, moreover, that I was ready to obey him. With his two extended hands he made the gesture of capturing me as one captures an inoffensive moth blinded by the light.
Perhaps I might have been able to make him ashamed, to threaten to divulge his conduct. It’s improbable that that would have done any good. He believed himself to be too close to the realization. He could, in any case, have replied to me that society would hold at fault a woman who had had the imprudence to render herself nearly naked, under the pretext of dancing as a bayadere, in front of three men in a solitary pagoda.
I looked at my costume. I measured the transparency of the trousers and the skirt, the tightness of the corselet, the nudity of my arms and a part of my body, and the sentiment of the folly that I had committed in delivering myself without defense to a man who was repulsive to me caused me to lose all prudence and sacrifice the only chance that might have remained to me, which was to appeal to his good sentiments.
My anger redoubled when I saw the gesture of his arms, which he was holding out with a tranquil certainty of success and a basely lustful cynicism imprinted in his features.
With all my strength I slapped his face, and the blow that I truck was so forceful that I felt a pain in my hand and wondered whether I had not sprained the fingers or the wrist.
Lord Portman had never received such a slap in the face in his entire life. His immense fortune, the cares with which he had surrounded himself, must have set aside from an early age any possibility of combat. Something so new left him completely stupefied. He had the expression on his face of a man witnessing an action that tends to prodigy.
He remained motionless for a few seconds, gazing with his enormous eyes at the cause of t
he prodigy. But the prodigy was painful and humiliating. His chest swelled, the expression of stupefaction gave way to an expression of hatred terrible to behold.
It was my instinct that dictated my conduct. I was impelled, so great was my anger, to give him another slap similar to the first. A struggle would have followed of which the outcome as certain.
Almost without reflection, I launched myself toward the only candelabrum whose lighted candles were illuminating the room, I lifted it up and turned it upside-down. Then, with the same bound I ran into the dressing room and bolted the door.
But that would only give me a few seconds. He did not negotiate. I sensed that he was hurling himself toward the door in order to break it down. I darted a circular glance around me; there was no door that would permit me to flee, and no window. I had a moment of despair. Without having any fixed plan, I moved the tall mirror in which I had looked at myself before with such dangerous complaisance, and I hid behind it. Perhaps I thought about letting it fall on Lord Portman when he rushed me. But as I moved it I felt a violent current of air that refreshed me and inclined the flames of the expiring candles by which the room was illuminated. The mirror had been set up against a tunnel, the masking of which had been completed by pieces of fabric. That tunnel did not seem to be very long, and I distinguished a vague lunar light at its far end. As the fragile bolted door cracked under a new pressure, I blew out the candles rapidly and launched myself into the tunnel.
I traversed it in a few seconds. A prodigious lunar fresco appeared before me. The green pool, the sacred pool, was reflecting a luminous trail of moonlight in its immobile waters. I had before me an immense sheaf of widespread, shiny, animated gold spangles. In the midst of the enchantment of columns, domes and porticoes, the moon had negligently placed over the pool that living bouquet of magic crystals, which seemed to end at my feet at the moment when I surged forth from the interior of tenebrous stones, beneath the yellow and green light of the world.
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