by Gustave Kahn
The crowd was howling “Télice! Télice!” in front of the palace. People were fighting. The Emperor was only able to reenter sword in hand. He instructed his herald to tell the people that Télice was no longer in his hands.
“But where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
“But he’s no longer in our hands.”
“You’re being deceived, people!” cried a voice. “Télice is lying in some oubliette, where he has been murdered. Let us avenge him.”
And again, the riot seized the throats of the people and soldiers with an iron hand.
Long, agile curtains of flame mocked the somber and sad tone of the tocsin. People murdered one another in the streets.
In the meantime, a barge was slowly making its way downriver.
“Sire King,” said Asverus to Ezra, “I shall come back to this unfortunate city; tomorrow, it will have need of pity. King Balthazar, is this the last time that you will evoke the ship of Solomon? Where is your castle in Sheba, and how many times must we witness dolor?”
And King Balthazar replied: “Dolor and Folly are eternal.”
The Grail illuminated the prow of the ship with a soft light; a tall female form stood at the helm.
PART THREE
Chapter One
THE RETURNS
I
Long years had snowed. They had settled one by one, slowly and majestically, on the desert strand of the world, like sea-birds informed by their scouts that a peaceful sojourn was possible between the sand and the Sun.
After a brief pause, all of them headed for the inhabited Earth, toward vegetation and distant bell-towers, and the white butterfly swarm of the hours rose around them, numerous and icy at first, then sparse and contaminated by dust, until they were lost on the horizon.
The Earth had often changed its four mantles: green, yellow, brown and white. There was always a little old woman trotting alongside time, in spite of the follies of spring and summer, the proud abdications of autumn and the senile and negligent despairs of winter. She always trotted alongside time with equal strides, while despairing of being able to keep up, and ever-ready to faint.
Fashions had often changed. Armor had become lighter, women’s costumes had become more flexible. Armchairs were not as hard. People complained about the decadence of art, and an ever-greater liberty in mores. By way of compensation, philosophers had never had a better mastery of the rapid course of truth. This time, in spite of its subterfuges and volte-faces and the thousand other ruses it employed to escape the hunters, it had come to be clearly mirrored, and the tight mesh of the net of research had fallen upon it. People were often discontented with vintages but always content with wine. Bold ships had deciphered the seas and noted new territories, in which the customs of ancient kingdoms had been immediately and unreservedly implanted.
The Sun shone for everyone. There were still rich and poor, but the nourishment of the poor had been ameliorated by scientific discoveries. It was more expensive, it is true, but that was only temporary—like everything, alas: the mantle of summer, the truth, and even the Sun, which was weary of shining for everyone.
Master Asverus arrived from a distant land, heading for the City. He had crossed the estuary; where he had left a bare bank, he found a quay, and congratulated himself. He got down from his ship—slightly archaic by comparison with the slender masts and elegant hulls he perceived in the harbors of the port. He hesitated among new streets. He had not changed much himself; he was still tall, very stern, very upright, his hair streaked with silver.
He headed toward a palace on the river. Having arrived, he asked to see Comte Télice.
Moments later, in a vastly extended hall hung with decorated shoemaking leather, a lively old man hastened toward him and cried: “It’s you! It’s you! I knew I wouldn’t die without seeing you again, but where have you come from?”
“From far away and everywhere.”
“Good, good, you can tell me all about it. How glad I am to have followed your advice and not left the Empire forever. You told me that life changes, wounds scar over. You know that after that formidable upheaval when the Emperor was searching violently for an imaginary windfall, when the people tried to take possession of an empty prison—blood and flame were expended for nothing on that occasion!—several years of terror weighed upon the land. The Emperor did not recover his composure. ‘I have always been good; people have been hard and secretive with me. I don’t deserve it.’ And he was very cruel, but at the same time vacillating, indecisive and bad-tempered.
“His daughter, Princess Marie, now the Empress, benefited from that in the love of the people. At first she was perfect for the father—who had, we firmly believed, gone astray momentarily. He had been truly good before becoming truly evil. And if you knew what the chroniclers don’t know, the Princess played a role relative to the old despot rather like a new David relative to a resuscitated Saul. When she came from Scania with her husband the king, to watch over the failing health of her husband, he imagined at first that she was coming to take over her future wealth in advance It was known that he had sometimes prepared poison for her, without ever daring to carry it through.
“It’s curious, but the scarcely triumphant escapade of which I was the subject—the pretext, if you will, for his mind, luminous until then, darkened, and if it hadn’t been that occasion, another would have provided a deed—that escapade, as I was saying, that evil victory and, at the same time, if you like, that ridiculous defeat—for he was victorious in the streets by did not triumph in his desire—could not fulfill the inanity of his objective. It rendered him adventurous toward evil, in spirit, but very timid in the application of his projects. I’m sure that he ground his teeth inside, and that people who seem quite well are often on the point of disappearing at that very moment. It was a cruel shame. But I’m rambling, and perhaps you know all this already, for you’ve come back.”
“Yes, among the smoking ruins; but I’ll stay for a little while—long enough, at any rate, to hear about some fine follies.”
“And to do some good, also, I know that—but when your barge carried me away, I was very weak, although cured by Master Ezra. Do you know what’s become of him?”
“No, not for a long time. He left for the Orient, that’s all I know.”
“Well, I was carried to that ship of yours, of whose commercial wanderings I kept track for a while, but fever is a bizarre architect. Guess...”
“It seemed to you that old Ezra, dressed in white, with a large silver necklace of pearls on his breast, mitered in silver and white diamonds, took the tiller from the hands of a tall shadow, or a form with features similar to, but more beautiful than, those of Rizpah, and that the shadow vanished?”
“So you had the same hallucination?”
“Or the same vision—or it was the same true phenomenon that appeared to our eyes.”
“You see, it’s mysterious, very mysterious…fever, fatigue, you were certainly overexcited too...
“In brief, when the Emperor died…I told you that before then, the Princess was the only one who could charm his black moods, by singing him sings and telling him charming little tales full of what we call primal innocence; it was a nasty end. When the Emperor died, the new Empress declared a general pardon, a plea to all those whom the ill-humor and insecurity of the previous reign had banished to return and to work with her, each according to his rank—in his slot, I might say—for the splendor of the Empire.
“I came back, and was well-received. Her Majesty’s grace had the effect of making me forget the old wrongs that had been done to me and which had been largely, generously compensated. I am, as perhaps you now, ennobled, grown in fortune and honor, a chamberlain.”
“Do you still make things as admirable as that clock?”
“Oh no, little things, little things; human wisdom has taught me only to make little things, but very fine, very accomplished, with a grain of surprise in every new creation. They’re to
ys, beautiful toys. Oh, let’s not go too quickly toward perfection; our great-nephews will be resentful of it; we shall not see them, but at the end of the day, I’d rather dream of creating points of departure for them, hypotheses, instead of bequeathing them perfect things. I hope they’ll be very ingenious. Here and now, we pluck the days that hang in gilded clusters on our vines. If you’re going to the Palace, I’ll show you some beautiful things, alongside our rough sketches.”
“But how are things in the Empire?”
“People laugh a little here, chatter a great deal, and most of all sing. They play a great deal of comedy, and also noble tragedy. We don’t act much, but we adore watching acting. For the people, we have marvelous fabricators of tears and also sculptors of laughter, people who know how to grasp that gross good humor of good vintages, and tread it for our populace, and our city also honors the precious artisans of fine language; it’s at their comedy that the palace smiles. The life of the Palace is very distant from that of the City and the Empire. A kind of thick and well-guarded wall defends us from the great cares of State. There are ministers for that. At the palace there are only concerts and masquerades, and admirable songs. I have a certain reputation in dancing performances.”
“And our poets?”
“Excellent—a cheerful tenderness and an amiable sadness that doesn’t go as far as melancholy, charming things! Anacreon22 is their model.”
“All that is perfect!” exclaimed Asverus. “Perhaps I’ll become your fellow citizen again.”
“That’s it, that’s it—stay with us. Come on, come with me to the palace. There are superb new gardens; we’ll walk there, and then I’ll ask for an audience with the Empress—who’ll receive you I’m sure, with all benevolence.”
“I don’t doubt it, my dear friend, but that will be for another excursion, very soon. I have to take care of some business matters, and my ship will bring me back to you. Until then.”
“Until then, my one-time savior, and always my friend.”
And Comte Télice accompanied Asverus to the door with perfect amity.
“There’s a rare courtier,” said Asverus to himself, as he returned to his ship. “Everything slides over people of that sort: men of action, delicate politicians, rare courtiers; wounds scar over quickly. They have a little lively sap, like his city; they age themselves and the city flirtatiously; love of gold and power and good grace in a wise equilibrium!”
“Still savages, these old businessmen,” Comte Télice said to himself. “To come here and not to go immediately to the Palace, the cradle of the arts. He’s always had something extraordinary about him—a visionary, a utopian!”
II
Asverus left the city. His horse followed a narrow path along one of the small tributaries of the river. The waters of the rivulet ran broad and shallow; one might have thought it a large stream. The water rippled over large stones and against branches. Then it spread out into pools; seabirds and herons rose up with plaintive cries. He went through a village. A herd of cattle passed along the road; children fled, laughing. The diners at an inn saluted him. He left the village and pushed the lattice-work gate to a hose set back from the road. He tethered his horse to the inside of the hedge. A short aspen-lined path led to the house. He went along it. The house seemed to be empty. Master Asverus sat down on a bench beside the door, and enjoyed a moment of immense silence.
The silence was almost total; it was heightened by the insignificance of the few perceptible sounds: the heavy tick-tock of some large clock behind the wall to which it had its back; the buzz of insects; the rustle of leaves; a cloud of dancing flies; swallows passing by with a flicker of wings. The house, a few thousand paces distant from the city, seemed lost in some little frequented islet. A lawn of wild grass and herbs extended away from Asverus’ feet. A fawn emerged from one of the corners of the house, looked around and sniffed, as if nervous. Asverus made a movement toward it; the animal leapt away. He followed it for a few paces; it jumped over a small hedge. There as a scintillation of red roses behind the hedge; the fawn went to nestle a woman who advanced briskly toward the visitor.
“It’s you, Master Asverus. Samuel will be very happy to see you again. Look at my roses. They’re as beautiful as the radiant past...”
“Or the flowery future.”
“A future of one summer—we won’t reach another. Look at my hair—it’s white. Winter’s approaching, and its ice. I’ve lived.”
“But you’re still upright, and still beautiful, Rizpah.”
“I’m alive; I’m no longer Rizpah, but someone else. Here’s my garden, here’s my house. Sit down on this verandah. Samuel won’t be long. It’s the time when he wanders for a while along the sunken paths, and watches the butterflies go by. He’s still Samuel.”
“For you and for him.”
“For me most of all, I think.”
“Beautiful flowers,” said Asverus, and his fingers drew a basket of fresh colors toward him.”
“They’re heavy,” Rizpah said. “Their heads bow down beneath pearls of water. They’re lives of a day.”
“You’re happy, Rizpah.”
“Very happy, Master Asverus, but I was even more so in that distant garden where you left us when we departed the city. The dawns were fresher and the sunsets calmer, and I was still Rizpah.”
“And now?”
“I still have the same soul, but the sharp scissors of the years have cut the flowers of my life. I’m an old woman.”
“But Samuel must have aged too.”
“Yes, but I’m less aware of it.”
“And how does he see you?”
“As I am—but here he is. I’ll leave you to talk to him.”
He was all old age—not that his tall stature was more than slightly stooped; his face did not have too many wrinkles, his hair was only silver. Nothing about him was decrepit. But on his vast forehead and in the depths of his large brown eyes, lassitude reigned entire; his hand was devoid of vigor, and his arm discouraged. When he sat down next to Asverus, the latter seemed a young man.
“You’re sad,” Asverus said to him.
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you; the Earth is slipping away from me; I knew I’d see you before escaping. Yes, my desire is to slip out of his existence as one leaves the room of a cherished invalid on tiptoe. And that anxiety not to wake the invalid up arises from the fact that one feels slightly guilty about her suffering. The anxiety also arises from the fear of bringing her back from a fortunate vision of the land of dreams and offering her nothing but the ingrate face of a tired man, a terminated man. I’d rather flee with muffled footsteps, Asverus, from that brightly-lit house, into the darkness I sense out there, since I can make no response to an awakening. An awakening is a fire of hope that is just catching alight, and I have no branch to throw on to it.
“O Master Asverus, the old man who is beside you knows less than the child at whom you once smiled, in the city on the river. I’ve seen the myriads of infinity escape without knowing their form, without knowing their route. I don’t know any longer what the Spirit is. Doubtless I’ve never known, and have mistaken for its invasion within me moments of obscurity and semi-sleep. Oh, when did my error begin? Was I a child, was I an old man? I don’t know. If the Spirit has left me, I never heard it depart. If it never came, in what shadow have I lived? Who has dictated me? Have you brought me the answer?
“Why have I echoed the creation of the reign of Speech to such an extent that I no longer recognize the reign of Silence? Alone and dead, I no longer think. It sometimes seems to me that it has not always been thus, but just now I’m no longer sure of it. Why have I been given a life, in which I have seen misfortune, in which I have penetrated happiness, in which I have been unable to see the clarity of the Spirit—and without that, everything is shadow, everything is…perhaps Death, if death is only the absence of life.
“I don’t understand the gesture of other old men, who cross their arms, content, before the full b
arn in which they’ve amassed the minutes of their past, and I don’t understand their smile of joy before the beehives they have planted. And yet, once I understood everything; Asverus, I shall exit this world feebler than I entered it, more uncertain. That’s not what saddens me, though, but the racket of my departure.”
“Why?”
“Firstly because, if I die, Rizpah’s tears will flow, and her dolor will thunder within her; I shall repay the hospitality of her love, the consolation of her arms, the salvation that her lips have poured over me, and her belief in me, or the appearance of her belief in me...oh, no, I’m not mistaken, and I know the full extent of her generosity…I shall bring down as I fall a temple in her heart, and the falling stones will surely wound her, and profoundly. A temple to the genius that she believed me to be, and that perhaps I appeared, a temple to herself, to the belief that she had in the energy invested in me—what does it matter? It will be nothing but ruins and rubble when I’m gone.
“Secondly for myself. Oh, when the ice begins to expand within my memory, and I see the last leaves of my soul fall at my feet, and my trembling fingers and my entire agitated body strive in vain to serve them, unable any longer to pick them up, and my eyes will search, and no longer distinguish anything in a mist projected everywhere, where there will be nothing but themselves, as I fear the supreme moment, the flame behind knowledge.
“And to begin with—can you see them?—my old futile ambitions, all the childish desires of my life, my immense indolences, file before me, as sad as the vanquished, and after them, that laughter, or those outbursts of grief, that were the strengths that I never awakened, which, on the contrary, I bathed in narcotics. And at the most bitter turning of that last terrestrial dream, I shall see the city of my dreams surge forth: the one I ought to have built, the one whose palaces would have been made in my image; and there will be laughter…whose, I don’t know, but someone’s…that of forces, for there must be witnesses to so much human cowardice, and there will be laughter, as that décor that I possessed and was never able to see slips through my mortal fingers to go toward some new soul; but there will also be weeping, if that city was uniquely mine, if its towers collapse with my strength, if its gardens fade beyond my sight, if its streets and squares sink and dissolve into the darkness, because my fingers have not counted then, my voice has not named them.
