The Mirror of Present Events

by Brian Stableford

  It is noble, it is great, to fall from so high.

  VII. The Flute-Player

  “Another marriage failed,” said Cornelius to Aglaonice, when the cavaliers had left his apartment. “It’s a pity that I’m over sixty; no one could console me better than you for the annoyances of widowhood. A little vanity leads you to demand extraordinary things. If I read your heart correctly, your desires have the simultaneous objectives of youth, talent and fortune. If you were less pretty, you would not deserve to be pardoned for that excess of ambition. It would be necessary to diminish the extent of your pretentions, removing youth, for example, and the creative spirit so prejudicial to men who have too precipitate a confidence in their discoveries. Fortune is in my power; let it finally be sufficient for you, since you are now convinced that your mechanicians cannot succeed in contenting you.”

  “You would like me to limit myself to the advantages of fortune,” Aglaonice replied. “Pardon me, my dear protector, but I am not sufficiently mistress of myself to stop there, and I believe you to be too generous to demand it of my gratitude. Let me tell you frankly that you have divined the secret of my heart. Yes, I do indeed aspire to everything that you have just explained in three words. But you despair of the accomplishment of my desires, while I have the greatest confidence in their fulfillment. The less one succeeds the more one strives to succeed. Self-esteem, and the desire to be talked about do indeed enter into it for two thirds, but you will allow me the small vainglory of attributing the rest to myself. Come on, agree that I merit grace on that article. You have said such flattering things to me so many times that it would cost me too much to think that you were deceiving me.”

  Aglaonice was not flattering herself without reason. Soon, two new competitors appeared on the scene, whose masterpieces would have caused hesitation over the choice if, when two things are equally admirable, the preference were not due to the one that brings a greater profit.

  Of the two men in question, one, aged fifty, was an honest German, or rather a good Frank, a free man whose forefathers had lived on the banks of the Ister. One might have taken his talents and his politeness for Thamyris of Eritrea, a descendant of the celebrated Thamyris known as the rival of the muses. Our ancestors were not all as amiable.

  As for his name, it resembled all the others, flaying the ears; it was Wak-wik-vauk-an-son-Frankestein. He excelled in the divine art of harmony, without ever having learned music, and furthermore, was a very skillful mechanician. His bearing and his physiognomy did not leave Cornelius without anxiety from the moment he appeared before Aglaonice, tall of stature, clad in a narrow surcoat that, not descending below the knees, showed off the entire framework of that handsome body.

  His homage consisted of a laminated metal statue as tall as a man, dressed in the Sicilian fashion, seated in a rolling armchair and holding a flute in each of its hands, which he announced that it would play at will. The figure could play twenty-two tunes, a list of which Frankestein gave to Aglonice, saying to her: “You shall judge, my lady, whether there is a mortal that can refrain from falling at your feet. Command, and bronze itself will obey.”

  Aglaonice only convinced herself with difficulty that the automaton could fulfill such a fine promise, and Cornelius was even more incredulous, for he had never heard it said that a man had, so to speak, created his fellow. They both approached the statue, which bowed in their presence, and astonished them so much by that beginning, retaining the phenomenon of animal economy, that they took two steps back; they thought it organized by a divine hand, as if there had been something to fear in assuring themselves of the contrary by touch, they recovered their composure, and drew away from it to a certain distance.

  Impatiently, Aglaonice ordered the statue to play one of the advertised twenty-two tunes, which she designated. That air slowly expressed the chagrins of a heart ulcerated by amour. The statue, putting the two flutes to its mouth, far surpassed Aglonice’s expectations; she heard it extract the most varied sounds from the two instruments and execute the two parts marvelously. The prodigy caused her an emotion so keen that she almost fainted, her head leaning on Cornelius’ bosom; he only brought her round by ordering the statue to play a livelier tune.

  The author of that admirable invention had his share of modesty; he was flattered to have interested Aglaonce, but did not have the pride to believe that he would be her husband in consequence.

  “I desire very keenly,” he told her, “to have merited the possession of charms that would make the happiness of my life, but you are too amiable for me to be the last to have attempted prodigies in your favor. I saw, as I came in here, a man who is unknown to me, younger than me, covering with a veil the tribute he has brought you, and who, believing some regard to be due to the maturity of my age, demanded that I go ahead of him. If he is victorious over me, I shall be chagrined, but I shall not display any jealousy; I shall, on the contrary, see with pleasure that he has talents superior to mine; I shall believe that the gods have inspired him expressly to please you and I shall be more certain than ever that beauty can obtain the impossible.”

  It was not the ready-made jargon of an insipid gallantry that emerged from Frankestein’s mouth; it was the expression of truth escaping a sensitive heart. Aglaonice resisted momentarily the invitation of that man, who was doubly interesting, by virtue of his talent and a modesty that increased its value. It is probable that she was composing herself, and secretly interrogating herself as to whether she might not give him her hand; but as the Praetor whispered in her ear that she should distrust her senses, and she reflected that music is only a delightful thing for people who have dined well, she said to him, honestly:

  “Sir, you can dispense with making entreaties on behalf of the person you have announced to us; you must believe that you will not be surpassed by anyone. Your colleague, who is surely not your rival, will only enter if you request it; we shall see him with pleasure render further justice to your talents, and assure you a triumph too modest for such a sublime art.”

  Frankestein insisting, the order was given to introduce the young man in question.

  VIII. Nictator. His masterpiece.

  The marriages of Alglaonice and Bazilide.

  Nictator—that was his name—was a descendant of the shepherds of Chaldea, to whom the system of the heavens was known, almost as to the gods themselves. He had all the enlightenment of his ancestors, but in addition had devoted himself to mechanics, a science in which he had made progress that surpasses the conjectures of the human mind. He was also endowed with a perception that it was difficult for anything to escape, so that, after mature reflection, he had really been able to combine the agreeable and the useful.

  Frankestein’s flute-player had entered the apartment like an invalid who cannot make use of his legs; this time, as soon as the doors opened, a woman was seen to advance clad in the manner of vestals, walking without anyone’s support. It was only when she had taken twenty paces that the handsome young man who was the father, taking her by the hand, presented her to the three individuals making up the company, raising his eyes to look at Aglaonice and lowering them immediately for fear of offending her.

  Aglaonice perceived that, and blushed at the appearance of the new suitor. The nymph that he introduced to her deployed so much grace that she was obliged to suppose infinitely more of the person who had transmitted them. Without knowing what the statue was about to do, already vanquished by the seductive manner of its author, but taking a violent grip on herself in order to hide the sentiment he had made her experience, she said:

  “Do you have enough confidence in yourself not to fear challenging an artist of whom Olympus might be jealous, as we are assured it once was of Prometheus? Still so young, do you suppose that you have talent enough to put your work in parallel with the most extraordinary that they have ever engendered? Listen and judge...”

  Then, in spite of the entreaties of Frankestein, who refused, Aglaonice had the statue play several tunes. Ni
ctator was delighted by it, but the imposing tone of Aglaonice, and that marked predilection for a statue from which such melodious sounds emerged, so powerful upon a woman’s heart, intimidated him to the point that he thought he was dismissed.

  “That masterpiece has a right to please you, beautiful Aglaonice,” he replied. “I thought that an artist more skillful than me would succeed in gaining your heart, and that it was an advantage reserved for experience, the companion of maturity. Music has charms for you... I have reflected a great deal, but that means of pleasing you, which is not foreign to me, has escaped my foresight! If I had been fortunate enough to think of it, perhaps the love that inspired me would not have left me at an extreme distance from my rival; but since, in sum, that victorious idea did not present itself to my mind, forgive me; I leave confused, even making a kind of crime of the hope with which I flattered myself.”

  “Stay,” exclaimed Frankestein, “stay, amiable young man. My lady, if the idea of charming you with sounds has not offered itself to his mind, mine lacked the thought of imitating the laws of nature. I have not given my statue, as he has, progressive moment so natural that it imposed itself on me at first sight, so that an inanimate body appeared to me to be a living being.”

  “Let us see,” said Aglaonice, “what this statue can do...”

  She represented Plenty. She was seen standing up, bearing lightly in her fingertips the orifice of a long horn, artistically sculpted, containing fruits of a ravishing beauty; the other hand supported the curled extremity of the horn; and the motionless statue awaited stimulation. Under her drapery, however, a young child was hidden, who, as if giving in to a surge of impatience, raised the flap of the long robe under which he was buried, and, drawing a little bow, sent forth an arrow, terminated, not by gilded iron but by a rose-bud. That dart, directed at Aglaonice’s heart, did not miss the target at which the mischievous bowman had taken aim.

  A hidden trigger, adroitly brought into play, had caused the arrow to depart; another lowered the drapery under which the child had the appearance of mischievously taking refuge. That entire maneuver had taken place without any jerkiness or mechanical sound—in sum, in a manner so true that Aglaonice saw Amour himself in the little automaton.

  She sensed all the amiability of such a declaration and could not help freeing herself from the cold reserve under which she might still have enveloped herself in order not to respond to it. Nature was the stronger. Aglaonice turned her tender eyes toward Nictator, stood up, extended her arms to him, fell back on to her seat, and let slip a question that laid bare the hasty wishes of her heart:

  “Nictator…will you love me?”

  Nictator remained silent; the statue spoke, saying: “Yes.”

  “What have I heard?” said Aglaonice. “Am I mistaken? It’s your work that replied to me? No, it’s you…it’s you…but you’re so timid that you fear to put yourself forward. Do you believe, then, that you haven’t yet done enough?”

  The statue replied: “No.” At the same time, she took a step forward and offered the beautiful fruits contained in her horn to Aglaonice.

  Aglaonice, deceived by the appearance, broke one, which she thought she could share with the ecstatic old Praetor, but the two lobes, coming apart, let slip into her hand large diamonds and gems of every sort. A second fruit contained Oriental pearls of surprising dimensions.

  The horn was inverted over Aglaonice’s dress, and eventually covered it with more than a thousand gold coins; that river seemed inexhaustible. The beauty thought that she had been transported to a new world,

  Then Nictator threw himself at her knees. “Forgive me,” he said. “A thousand pardons, adorable Aglaonice, if, to the efforts that my art has attempted in order to please you, I have dared to join something more, but which you will agree is truly useful. Blind fortune has, it is said, forgotten you; I am only a shepherd, but if you judge me worthy of repairing a neglect so insulting, come with me to Chaldea.”

  “Go with him,” said the Praetor. “I don’t believe that you’ll find such a handsome fellow, a man as rich and an artist as skillful in the entire world.”

  “Assuredly not,” said Frankestein, in a enthusiastic manner, “and it is not difficult for me to admit it, as if I have told you. But my lady, since my statue was designed for you, deign to accept it, and that I shall at least carry away to my homeland that it has had the approval of a young man of whom, at my age, I would glory in becoming the pupil.”

  Aglaonice, incapable of taking aboard all that struck her eyes and ears at once, remained mute for some time. Finally, she said: “Dear Nictator, my desires are fulfilled beyond my hopes; I will go with you anywhere, I abandon myself to you; but since, by a stroke of fate above my merit, I find myself enjoying a happiness that a queen would envy, listen: I have a sister not as young as me; she is no longer pretty, but she is beautiful and worthy to make the happiness of an amiable man. If I had not given myself to you, Frankestein would have become my husband. I shall not offer him in exchange for his statue the magnificent gifts that I have just received from the hands of Plenty; give me the pleasure of enriching my sister with then, and that she should marry that gallant man. These jewels will be her dowry.”

  At these words, Frankestein, Nictator and the Praetor all began talking at the same time. The last abruptly gave orders for someone to fetch Aglaonice’s sister, and for a magnificent feast to be prepared.

  Frankestein was not unaware that the gravity of his fifty years was ill-fitting with the petulance of seventeen “Take back the jewels,” he said, “and I’ll accept.”

  “No,” said Nictator, “no; and you don’t have the right to refuse them, since it’s not to you that they’re offered. Do you want to wound the pure sentiment emanated by sensibility itself? Aglaonice does not want to be happy alone; she could not be. Be my friend, be my brother...”

  “I shall be both,” replied Frankestein, swiftly, with tears in his eyes, throwing his arms around him. “Young man, you have vanquished me today in everything.”

  Meanwhile, the tables were laid and Bazilide came in. I have no need to depict for you that new scene, in which the most tender sentiments succeeded surprise. The four individuals swore an eternal love in the presence of the Praetor.

  Night was approaching; it was the perfect hour for celebration. Two thousand candles were lit around the palace, spreading a light that rivaled the light of day. In the middle of the island a flaming pyre was distinguished, composed of odorous wood, the symbolic blaze of which announced to the spouses that it was a law for them to maintain the household. The apartments were also embalmed by the perfumes of a hundred cassolettes, the voluptuous furniture of kings, which had never served such a beautiful occasion. The husbands supped with their wives that day, although it was not customary, but it will be remembered that the ladies were orphans, and could consequently do as they liked.

  IX, the Last. The Supper

  The supper was all the more agreeable because there were only five guests and everyone could make themselves heard. The conversation, in consequence, went on long into the night. Each of them talked about the customs of his homeland.

  Aglaonice’s little ship came back to mind—or, rather, she remembered a comparison of sorts that the Praetor had made on the subject of its disappearance.

  “Sir,” she said to Frankestein, “I have a question to ask you. I had an ivory miniature, a charming little ship, which fell prey to polypes in a vase where I had left it. The Praetor told me at the time that the great ship of Lutetia would not have suffered such a fate. I know that Lutetia is a city in the land where you reside; of the remainder I am very ignorant. Give me, I beg you, the key to that enigma.”

  “Madame,” said Cornelius, anticipating Frankestein’s response, “it would have taken me a fortnight to explain that remark to you, which I repented as soon as it had escaped me. If I kept silent thereafter, it was less an impoliteness than an attention on my part. The idea came to me that boredom might ensue;
and that was not too poor an augury at the time, for remember that since then, Cyaxare did not amuse you when he came to talk politics with us. But since, at present, your happiness is assured, one can without displeasing you, entertain you with something other than the sole object that could interest you then. I shall join with you in asking Frankestein to satisfy your curiosity; he will acquit himself better than me in that task.”

  Bazilide also joined forces with her sister in testifying the same urgency.

  “My ladies,” said Frankestein, “you have heard the Praetor; he spoke of nothing less than a fortnight to leave nothing to your desire, and he was not deceiving you. Fourteen days, pass, but not nights, I beg you, or I shall think you have the malign project of abusing your rights. We have all the time we need to understand one another; permit me to abridge.

  “Lutetia is the capital of Gaul and its inhabitants are one of the sixty-four peoples who make up that formidable republic. The coat-of-arms of that city represents a ship, a symbol of the worship it renders to the goddess Isis, who has enriched it with wheat and the fruits that are harvested there in abundance. Isis herself was the pilot of the ship that carried that precious cargo.

  “You can appreciate that gratitude made it a duty to consecrate that floating house as an eternal monument to such a great benefit. But as the vessel had made a long journey, it was not possible to conserve it for very long. Another was constructed, similar in form but of much greater dimension, whose flanks were also more solid. That second vessel, the emblem of the first, has nevertheless been replaced ten times, and the Lutetians always give it more strength and volume every time they construct a new one.

  “That edifice, once afloat, does not cast off its moorings; it is perpetually at anchor between a pastureland surrounded by the waters of the Seine, known as the Isle of Swans, and the muddy island on which the building of Lutetia commenced more than six hundred years ago, from the moment when I am speaking to you. The siege of Troy and the reign of Sesostris are the epochs of its foundation; Rome did not exist and we Germans had not yet penetrated into Gaul.