The King wipes off the perfumes from his visage with his hand. He eats from the sacred vessels, and then breaks them, and he enumerates, mentally, his fleets, his armies, his peoples. Presently, through a whim, he will burn his palace, along with his guests. He calculates on rebuilding the Tower of Babel, and dethroning God.
Antony reads, at a distance, on his forehead, all his thoughts. They take possession of himself — and he becomes Nebuchadnezzar.
Immediately, he is satiated with conquests and exterminations; and a longing seizes him to plunge into every kind of vileness. Moreover, the degradation wherewith men are terrified is an outrage done to their souls, a means still more of stupefying them; and, as nothing is lower than a brute beast, Antony falls upon four paws on the table, and bellows like a bull.
He feels a pain in his hand — a pebble, as it happened, has hurt him — and he again finds himself in his cell.
The rocky enclosure is empty. The stars are shining. All is silence.
“Once more I have been deceived. Why these things? They arise from the revolts of the flesh! Ah! miserable man that I am!”
He dashes into his cell, takes out of it a bundle of cords, with iron nails at the ends of them, strips himself to the waist, and raising his eyes towards Heaven:
“Accept my penance, O my God! Do not despise it on account of its insufficiency. Make it sharp, prolonged, excessive. It is time! To work!”
He proceeds to lash himself vigorously.
“Ah! no! no! No pity!”
He begins again.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Each stroke tears my skin, cuts my limbs. This smarts horribly! Ah! it is not so terrible! One gets used to it. It seems to me even ...”
Antony stops.
“Come on, then, coward! Come on, then! Good! good! On the arms, on the back, on the breast, against the belly, everywhere! Hiss, thongs! bite me! tear me! I would like the drops of my blood to gush forth to the stars, to break my back, to strip my nerves bare! Pincers! wooden horses! molten lead! The martyrs bore more than that! Is that not so, Ammonaria?”
The shadows of the Devil’s horns reappear.
“I might have been fastened to the pillar next to yours, face to face with you, under your very eyes, responding to your shrieks with my sighs, and our griefs would blend into one, and our souls would commingle.”
He flogs himself furiously.
“Hold! hold! for your sake! once more! ... But this is a mere tickling that passes through my frame. What torture! What delight! Those are like kisses. My marrow is melting! I am dying!”
And in front of him he sees three cavaliers, mounted on wild asses, clad in green garments, holding lilies in their hands, and all resembling one another in figure.
Antony turns back, and sees three other cavaliers of the same kind, mounted on similar wild asses, in the same attitude.
He draws back. Then the wild asses, all at the same time, step forward a pace or two, and rub their snouts against him, trying to bite his garment. Voices exclaim, “This way! this way! Here is the place!” And banners appear between the clefts of the mountain, with camels’ heads in halters of red silk, mules laden with baggage, and women covered with yellow veils, mounted astride on piebald horses.
The panting animals lie down; the slaves fling themselves on the bales of goods, roll out the variegated carpets, and strew the ground with glittering objects.
A white elephant, caparisoned with a fillet of gold, runs along, shaking the bouquet of ostrich feathers attached to his head-band.
On his back, lying on cushions of blue wool, cross-legged, with eyelids half-closed and well-poised head, is a woman so magnificently attired that she emits rays around her. The attendants prostrate themselves, the elephant bends his knees, and the Queen of Sheba, gliding down by his shoulder, steps lightly on the carpet and advances towards Antony. Her robe of gold brocade, regularly divided by furbelows of pearls, jet and sapphires, is drawn tightly round her waist by a close-fitting corsage, set off with a variety of colours representing the twelve signs of the Zodiac. She wears high-heeled pattens, one of which is black and strewn with silver stars and a crescent, whilst the other is white and is covered with drops of gold, with a sun in their midst.
Her loose sleeves, garnished with emeralds and birds’ plumes, exposes to view her little, rounded arms, adorned at the wrists with bracelets of ebony; and her hands, covered with rings, are terminated by nails so pointed that the ends of her fingers are almost like needles.
A chain of plate gold, passing under her chin, runs along her cheeks till it twists itself in spiral fashion around her head, over which blue powder is scattered; then, descending, it slips over her shoulders and is fastened above her bosom by a diamond scorpion, which stretches out its tongue between her breasts. From her ears hang two great white pearls. The edges of her eyelids are painted black. On her left cheek-bone she has a natural brown spot, and when she opens her mouth she breathes with difficulty, as if her bodice distressed her.
As she comes forward, she swings a green parasol with an ivory handle surrounded by vermilion bells; and twelve curly negro boys carry the long train of her robe, the end of which is held by an ape, who raises it every now and then.
She says:
“Ah! handsome hermit! handsome hermit! My heart is faint! By dint of stamping with impatience my heels have grown hard, and I have split one of my toe-nails. I sent out shepherds, who posted themselves on the mountains, with their bands stretched over their eyes, and searchers, who cried out your name in the woods, and scouts, who ran along the different roads, saying to each passer-by: ‘Have you seen him?’
“At night I shed tears with my face turned to the wall. My tears, in the long run, made two little holes in the mosaic-work — like pools of water in rocks — for I love you! Oh! yes; very much!”
She catches his beard.
“Smile on me, then, handsome hermit! Smile on me, then! You will find I am very gay! I play on the lyre, I dance like a bee, and I can tell many stories, each one more diverting than the last.
“You cannot imagine what a long journey we have made. Look at the wild asses of the green-clad couriers — dead through fatigue!”
The wild asses are stretched motionless on the ground.
“For three great moons they have journeyed at an even pace, with pebbles in their teeth to cut the wind, their tails always erect, their hams always bent, and always in full gallop. You will not find their equals. They came to me from my maternal grandfather, the Emperor Saharil, son of Jakhschab, son of Jaarab, son of Kastan. Ah! if they were still living, we would put them under a litter in order to get home quickly. But ... how now? ... What are you thinking of?”
She inspects him.
“Ah! when you are my husband, I will clothe you, I will fling perfumes over you, I will pick out your hairs.”
Antony remains motionless, stiffer than a stake, pale as a corpse.
“You have a melancholy air: is it at quitting your cell? Why, I have given up everything for your sake — even King Solomon, who has, no doubt, much wisdom, twenty thousand war-chariots, and a lovely beard! I have brought you my wedding presents. Choose.”
She walks up and down between the row of slaves and the merchandise.
“Here is balsam of Genesareth, incense from Cape Gardefan, ladanum, cinnamon and silphium, a good thing to put into sauces. There are within Assyrian embroideries, ivories from the Ganges, and the purple cloth of Elissa; and this case of snow contains a bottle of Chalybon, a wine reserved for the Kings of Assyria, which is drunk pure out of the horn of a unicorn. Here are collars, clasps, fillets, parasols, gold dust from Baasa, tin from Tartessus, blue wood from Pandion, white furs from Issidonia, carbuncles from the island of Palæsimundum, and tooth-picks made with the hair of the tachas — an extinct animal found under the earth. These cushions are from Emathia, and these mantle-fringes from Palmyra. Under this Babylonian carpet there are ... but come, then! Come, then!”
She pulls Saint Antony
along by the beard. He resists. She goes on:
“This light tissue, which crackles under the fingers with the noise of sparks, is the famous yellow linen brought by the merchants from Bactriana. They required no less than forty-three interpreters during their voyage. I will make garments of it for you, which you will put on at home.
“Press the fastenings of that sycamore box, and give me the ivory casket in my elephant’s packing-case!”
They draw out of a box some round objects covered with a veil, and bring her a little case covered with carvings.
“Would you like the buckler of Dgian-ben-Dgian, the builder of the Pyramids? Here it is! It is composed of seven dragons’ skins placed one above another, joined by diamond screws, and tanned in the bile of a parricide. It represents, on one side, all the wars which have taken place since the invention of arms, and, on the other, all the wars that will take place till the end of the world. Above, the thunderbolt rebounds like a ball of cork. I am going to put it on your arm, and you will carry it to the chase.
“But if you knew what I have in my little case! Try to open it! Nobody has succeeded in doing that. Embrace me, and I will tell you.”
She takes Saint Antony by the two cheeks. He repels her with outstretched arms.
“It was one night when King Solomon had lost his head. At length, we had concluded a bargain. He arose, and, going out with the stride of a wolf ...”
She dances a pirouette.
“Ah! ah! handsome hermit! you shall not know it! you shall not know it!”
She shakes her parasol, and all the little bells begin to ring.
“I have many other things besides — there, now! I have treasures shut up in galleries, where they are lost as in a wood. I have summer palaces of lattice-reeds, and winter palaces of black marble. In the midst of great lakes, like seas, I have islands round as pieces of silver all covered with mother-of-pearl, whose shores make music with the beating of the liquid waves that roll over the sand. The slaves of my kitchen catch birds in my aviaries, and angle for fish in my ponds. I have engravers continually sitting to stamp my likeness on hard stones, panting workers in bronze who cast my statues, and perfumers who mix the juice of plants with vinegar and beat up pastes. I have dressmakers who cut out stuffs for me, goldsmiths who make jewels for me, women whose duty it is to select head-dresses for me, and attentive house-painters pouring over my panellings boiling resin, which they cool with fans. I have attendants for my harem, eunuchs enough to make an army. And then I have armies, subjects! I have in my vestibule a guard of dwarfs, carrying on their backs ivory trumpets.”
Antony sighs.
“I have teams of gazelles, quadrigæ of elephants, hundreds of camels, and mares with such long manes that their feet get entangled with them when they are galloping, and flocks with such huge horns that the woods are torn down in front of them when they are pasturing. I have giraffes who walk in my gardens, and who raise their heads over the edge of my roof when I am taking the air after dinner. Seated in a shell, and drawn by dolphins, I go up and down the grottoes, listening to the water flowing from the stalactites. I journey to the diamond country, where my friends the magicians allow me to choose the most beautiful; then I ascend to earth once more, and return home.”
She gives a piercing whistle, and a large bird, descending from the sky, alights on the top of her head-dress, from which he scatters the blue powder. His plumage, of orange colour, seems composed of metallic scales. His dainty head, adorned with a silver tuft, exhibits a human visage. He has four wings, a vulture’s claws, and an immense peacock’s tail, which he displays in a ring behind him. He seizes in his beak the Queen’s parasol, staggers a little before he finds his equilibrium, then erects all his feathers, and remains motionless.
“Thanks, fair Simorg-anka! You who have brought me to the place where the lover is concealed! Thanks! thanks! messenger of my heart! He flies like desire. He travels all over the world. In the evening he returns; he lies down at the foot of my couch; he tells me what he has seen, the seas he has flown over, with their fishes and their ships, the great empty deserts which he has looked down upon from his airy height in the skies, all the harvests bending in the fields, and the plants that shoot up on the walls of abandoned cities.”
She twists her arms with a languishing air.
“Oh! if you were willing! if you were only willing! ... I have a pavilion on a promontory, in the midst of an isthmus between two oceans. It is wainscotted with plates of glass, floored with tortoise-shells, and is open to the four winds of Heaven. From above, I watch the return of my fleets and the people who ascend the hill with loads on their shoulders. We should sleep on down softer than clouds; we should drink cool draughts out of the rinds of fruit, and we gaze at the sun through a canopy of emeralds. Come!”
Antony recoils. She draws close to him, and, in a tone of irritation:
“How so? Rich, coquettish, and in love? — is not that enough for you, eh? But must she be lascivious, gross, with a hoarse voice, a head of hair like fire, and rebounding flesh? Do you prefer a body cold as a serpent’s skin, or, perchance, great black eyes more sombre than mysterious caverns? Look at these eyes of mine, then!”
Antony gazes at them, in spite of himself.
“All the women you ever have met, from the daughter of the cross-roads singing beneath her lantern to the fair patrician scattering leaves from the top of her litter, all the forms you have caught a glimpse of, all the imaginings of your desire, ask for them! I am not a woman — I am a world. My garments have but to fall, and you shall discover upon my person a succession of mysteries.”
Antony’s teeth chattered.
“If you placed your finger on my shoulder, it would be like a stream of fire in your veins. The possession of the least part of my body will fill you with a joy more vehement than the conquest of an empire. Bring your lips near! My kisses have the taste of fruit which would melt in your heart. Ah! how you will lose yourself in my tresses, caress my breasts, marvel at my limbs, and be scorched by my eyes, between my arms, in a whirlwind — — ”
Antony makes the sign of the Cross.
“So, then, you disdain me! Farewell!”
She turns away weeping; then she returns.
“Are you quite sure? So lovely a woman?”
She laughs, and the ape who holds the end of her robe lifts it up.
“You will repent, my fine hermit! you will groan; you will be sick of life! but I will mock at you! la! la! la! oh! oh! oh!”
She goes off with her hands on her waist, skipping on one foot.
The slaves file off before Saint Antony’s face, together with the horses, the dromedaries, the elephant, the attendants, the mules, once more covered with their loads, the negro boys, the ape, and the green-clad couriers holding their broken lilies in their hands — and the Queen of Sheba departs, with a spasmodic utterance which might be either a sob or a chuckle.
CHAPTER III.
The Disciple, Hilarion.
WHEN she has disappeared, Antony perceives a child on the threshold of his cell.
“It is one of the Queen’s servants,” he thinks.
This child is small, like a dwarf, and yet thickset, like one of the Cabiri, distorted, and with a miserable aspect. White hair covers his prodigiously large head, and he shivers under a sorry tunic, while he grasps in his hand a roll of papyrus. The light of the moon, across which a cloud is passing, falls upon him.
Antony observes him from a distance, and is afraid of him.
“Who are you?”
The child replies:
“Your former disciple, Hilarion.”
Antony — ”You lie! Hilarion has been living for many years in Palestine.”
Hilarion — ”I have returned from it! It is I, in good sooth!”
Antony, draws closer and inspects him — ”Why, his figure was bright as the dawn, open, joyous. This one is quite sombre, and has an aged look.”
Hilarion — ”I am worn out with constant
toiling.”
Antony — ”The voice, too, is different. It has a tone that chills you.”
Hilarion — ”That is because I nourish myself on bitter fare.”
Antony — ”And those white locks?”
Hilarion — ”I have had so many griefs.”
Antony, aside — ”Can it be possible? ...”
Hilarion — ”I was not so far away as you imagined. The hermit, Paul, paid you a visit this year during the month of Schebar. It is just twenty days since the nomads brought you bread. You told a sailor the day before yesterday to send you three bodkins.”
Antony — ”He knows everything!”
Hilarion — ”Learn, too, that I have never left you. But you spend long intervals without perceiving me.”
Antony — ”How is that? No doubt my head is troubled! To-night especially ...”
Hilarion — ”All the deadly sins have arrived. But their miserable snares are of no avail against a saint like you!”
Antony — ”Oh! no! no! Every minute I give way! Would that I were one of those whose souls are always intrepid and their minds firm — like the great Athanasius, for example!”
Hilarion — ”He was unlawfully ordained by seven bishops!”
Antony — ”What does it matter? If his virtue ...”
Hilarion — ”Come, now! A haughty, cruel man, always mixed up in intrigues, and finally exiled for being a monopolist.”
Antony — ”Calumny!”
Hilarion — ”You will not deny that he tried to corrupt Eustatius, the treasurer of the bounties?”
Antony — ”So it is stated, and I admit it.”
Hilarion — ”He burned, for revenge, the house of Arsenius.”
Antony — ”Alas!”
Hilarion — ”At the Council of Nicæa, he said, speaking of Jesus, ‘The man of the Lord.’“
Antony — ”Ah! that is a blasphemy!”
Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert Page 380
