– Balderdash! Mr Midas said at this point. Take a look at the present city, and tell me the bourgeoisie is in third place!
– What? Schultz asked. Do you find it placed in another position?
– Right up there in first place.
– That’s what I was driving at! the astrologer then exclaimed. If the third estate is now the first, it means that, in the course of History, a double usurpation has been committed.
Schultz recounted to me later that only at this point did the man with the crown look at him with some respect.
– Fine, Mr Midas said. Tell me with grace, concision, and brevity the story of both usurpations.
– It is known, expounded the astrologer, that Brahma (be he a thousand times praised!) arranged humanity in four classes, estates, or hierarchies. The first is that of Brahmin the metaphysician, who, because he knows the eternal truths, exercises the very subtle function of leading all men in the ways of earth and heaven. The second is the estate of Kshatriya the warrior, whose vocation is for worldly government and military defence. The third is that of adipose Vaishya, the bourgeois, who has the function of creating and distributing material wealth. And fourth in the hierarchy is the estate of sweaty Shudra, who was born at the feet of Brahma (be he a thousand times praised!). When all four classes remain faithful to their vocation and stay in their place in the hierarchy, human order rules, and justice assumes the form of a bull firmly planted upon his four pins.
– Whoa there, mister! said Midas. Spare me the metaphorical ballistics!
– But alas! continued Schultz. Errare humanum est. Et nunc, reges, intelligite: erudimini qui judicatis terram.69
– Sir, I beg you! Midas reprimanded him again. State your case in straightforward language. Have you forgotten you are addressing the general public?
– I was saying, said Schultz sententiously, that all good things come to an end. Just when the going looks good, somebody’s gotta upset the applecart, because there’s always one bad egg, and that’s just the way the cookie crumbles . . . Anyway, let’s imagine the four classes in their proper hierarchy and in peace – O fruitful Harmony! O even-keeled Jubilation! But, then what happens all of a sudden? The battle-hardened Kshatriya throws the stone of scandal.
– What? How do you mean?
– Kshatriya’s essential virtue, answered the astrologer, is that of worldly governance and defence of the state. His corresponding vice is the sensuality of power, the pride of arms, the thirst for conquest. That’s why he is subordinate to Brahmin the metaphysician, who gives him prudent advice: “Don’t be getting out of line now,” and “You went a little overboard there,” and “Don’t forget you’re going to have to answer to the good Lord up above for the shenanigans you get up to here below.” But the time comes when Kshatriya just can’t help himself any longer. Fed up with the old man’s scolding, he decides to bushwhack him. So he goes ahead and rebels against Brahmin, robbing him of the top spot. And to pull it off, he’s had the help of Vaishya the bourgeois, who also had it in for Brahmin, because the old codger had become a real pain in the neck with his boring sermons about greed and so on.
– Accurate in substance, approved Mr Midas, though vulgar in form.
– Don’t forget I’m addressing the general public, Schultz reminded him venomously.
– So be it. We now have Kshatriya in the first position. What happens next?
– Alas! replied Schultz. With nothing holding him back now, and in thrall to his evil inclinations, Kshatriya soon shows his dark side. He started out as a hero of noble and amorous chivalry, and he ends up as an unjust conqueror; from an equitable king, he goes to being a despot; his former austerity gives way to overweaning pride; and his heroic nudity is at last clothed in the rich and heavy overcoat of worldly vainglory. Of course, all that luxury costs a mint! And where does Kshatriya turn for money, if not to the affluent Vaishya? But Vaishya the bourgeois professes a tender love for his doubloons; teary-eyed, he watches the increasing haemmorrhage from his pockets. And he weepily says to himself: “That’s what I get for helping out that tinpot general!” Time goes by, and Vaishya stops crying and thinks to himself: “If Kshatriya, with my help, could pull a fast one on Brahmin, couldn’t I do the same to him, if Shudra helped me out a bit?” It’s a tempting idea, and the more he turns it over in his mind, the more Vaishya gets to like it. Finally he enters into talks with sweaty Shudra, promising him all the tea in China; and when he sees he’s convinced, he waits for the right occasion. Meanwhile, pardner, you oughta see what a sorry pass Kshatriya has come to! Sick and tired of battles and honours, he lives now in his palace. He’s turned into a night owl, a party animal, a pretty-boy. What with champagne and women all the time, he’s completely lost it. Instead of a military helmet, he’s got a curly wig on his head. Wars don’t mean a thing to him any more; instead, he’s crazy about dances and carnivals. In short, my friend, a pathetic shell of a man! And Vaishya never takes his eye off him; as soon as he sees him weak and effeminate, he starts by needling him, then gets him riled up, and ends up cutting his throat just like that. Since then, Vaishya has been master of the situation and grows fat in the first rank of the hierarchy, quod erat demonstrandum.
– Not bad, said Mr Midas at this point.
Then he added venomously:
– Though your account seems influenced by recent readings of a certain Gallic metaphysician . . .70
At those words, the astrologer turned visibly red, not with embarrassment, as he told me later, but out of righteous indignation.
– Look here, sir, he stammered. If I used someone else’s schema, and nothing more than a schema, I have on the other hand fleshed it out in quite an original fashion. Moreover, my own contribution is coming up.
– Hmm! said the crowned man. There’s more to come?
– I have yet to get to the heart of the matter, replied Schultz. Do you really think I would have taken on Vaishya if that slob of a bourgeois had limited himself to hogging the community’s nickels and dimes?
– What other offense do you hold against him?
– That he has universally imposed his gross mystic cult.
– Explain youself, sir, explain yourself, grunted the man with the crown.
– Old Brahmin alone, Schultz explained, possesses the true mysticism, the one all men should follow, each according to his limitations. But Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra all have there own mystic cult as well, a private cult that each derives from his own inner inclinations. Thus, for example, Kshatriya worships the heroic as figured in its two values: honour and valour. The mysticism of Vaishya is an acute pragmatism that tends to glorify matter and the material in its single cypher – gold. Shudra, for his part, worships the manual work of trades and their techniques. When the four classes are in their proper order and act in fairness, the three particular mystic cults, responding symbolically to the universal mysticism, are three different human attitudes or forms of prayer addressed to the same Absolute. It is then that Brahma, in satisfaction, smiles a ninety-degree smile.
– Amazing! Mr Midas practically yawned.
– But, concluded Schultz, as soon as an inferior class usurps the first place in the hierarchy, it imposes its particular mystic cult on the world, universalizing that cult and thereby traducing all values accordingly.
– For example?
– During the reign of Brahmin, emphasis is placed on the religious aspect of life, and the scale of human values is constructed on a spiritual basis. When Kshatriya rules, emphasis shifts to the political, and man is measured by his nobility, honour, and valour. Now that Vaishya has taken over, the economic aspect is all-important, and man is measured by his cheque book. Brahmin used to say: “In the beginning is Being.” Then Kshatriya said: “In the beginning is Action.” Now Vaishya says: “In the beginning is Matter.” Brahmin waged wars that were religious crusades, and Kshatriya waged imperial wars. Now Vaishya makes war for economic reasons. As for the domain of art . . .
&
nbsp; – That will suffice, interrupted the crowned man. If my memory serves, we left Vaishya in charge of the situation. Now describe for me how he imposes his mysticism.
– As I said before, obeyed Schultz, Vaishya’s mysticism tends to glorify gold. But Vaishya is not totally bereft of theological notions, and when it comes time to impose his mystic cult, he says to himself: “Gold is my god, and because it is a god, it must be made invisible.” Just like that, Vaishya shuts up his gold in underground vaults and steel-plated chambers. But then he muses: “Since the faithful won’t see my god, they should at least see him in images.” So he creates banknotes and offers them to the parishioners for their veneration. Vaishya still isn’t satisfied; he turns to the respectable Dame Architecture and tells her: “Thou who hast raised cathedrals for Brahmin and fortresses for Kshatriya, build thee now a temple to my god.” Respectable Dame Architecture obeys and builds a monumental Bank over the grave where Vaishya has buried his gold. Then Vaishya the bourgeois declares himself Supreme Pontiff of his god, and between his god and the faithful he inserts an army of priests in lustrous sleeves. Finally, recalling that Brahmin had a sacred liturgy and Kshatriya a chivalric liturgy, Vaishya, not to be outdone, invents an elaborately detailed banking rite, of which you are no doubt aware.
– No, unfortunately! said the examiner. And believe you me, I’d give half my crown to see that animal Vaishya officiating at his rituals.
– It wouldn’t be so easy to see him, answered Schultz. Because Vaishya, as pontiff, reigns in a Vatican of cement; there, cigar in mouth, he is pleased to dictate financial encyclicals to stenographer priestesses as beautiful as the houris of paradise. Having envied the splendours of Brahmin and Kshatriya, the rascal hasn’t come up short when its comes to ostentation. But in his fundamental vulgarity, he makes profane use of everything. For example, he had his dining room chairs upholstered with the old and gilded chasubles of Brahman. Envying Kshatriya’s crowns and noble coats-of-arms, Vaishya now has them engraved as trademarks on his manufactured goods – bars of soap, toilet bowls, woollen goods, and other trinkets. On Vaishya’s desk can be seen two rare incunabula, luxuriously bound, but if you open them you will find that pages have been cut out to create hollows where Vaishya hides his cigars and bottle of whisky. With the parchment from a medieval antiphonary, Vaishya had lampshades made for his bedroom. And . . .
– Okay, enough! said Mr Midas at this point, laughing for the first time.
And Schultz later recounted that only after that moment did the crowned man put aside the stiff demeanour of the examiner. But he spoke again:
– It seems to me unlikely that Vaishya the bourgeois could have imposed his mysticism merely by deifying his gold, raising a temple in its honour, and giving it a liturgy.
– Don’t forget, retorted Schultz, that Vaishya is a born producer of material wealth, and that ever since he has risen to power, he has absolute discretion as to how wealth is distributed. It wasn’t long before courtiers and sycophants came crowding round him. And Vaishya, who has held his tongue for centuries, now gives it free rein: “Gentlemen, for my part, I confess I’ve never swallowed Brahmin’s metaphysical chatter. He’s been frightening us with that bogeyman of a God. But we’re grown men now, so enough of the smoke and mirrors. As for the immortal soul, the doctor who takes care of my stomach tells me he’s searched for it in vain, scalpel in hand. What are we left with, then? We’re left with one single world, one single existence, and one single body to make use of. Let us sit down, then, at the banquet of life. But remember, my god alone pays the bill, and I am the Supreme Pontiff of so amiable a god. And as for Kshatriya, don’t believe a word he says: his cult of living dangerously is unhealthy and goes against the principles the goddess Reason has recently dictated to us. But, if the military type obstinately persists, let’s leave him be: he may come in handy some day when our competitors challenge us for market advantage somewhere.” Thus speaks Vaishya, the bourgeois.
– I can just hear him! exclaimed the man with the crown.
– Afterward, Schultz concluded sadly, there will be philosophers, political theorists, and economists to give Vaishya’s ideas a literary style. And so will be spawned endless varieties of naive realism, historical materialism, hedonism, and so on and so forth.
– And what end lies in store for Vaishya? asked the examiner.
– I’m no prophet, answered the astrologer. But his end may come in two possible ways. Recall that Vaishya, when he needed Shudra, promised him the earth. Well, then, far from keeping his promise, Vaishya has subjected him to a regime of servitude such as Shudra had never experienced before. So it would be no surprise if Shudra were to rebel and bushwack Vaishya in turn. It’s also possible that Kshatriya, reformed through penitence, may remember his vocation and restore the primary order of things. However it may turn out, Brahma will decide, and that is well.
With this pious reflection, the astrologer Schultz concluded his examination. And, as he still tells anyone who will listen, Mr Midas warmly congratulated him. Then, again with great warmth, the man with the crown enjoined the two raving lunatics to give the gentleman awake (Schultz) and the entity asleep (me) an honourable exit from that circle of hell. The two raving lunatics obeyed the order no less warmly.
And if I’ve added this long examination to my account, it is because Schultz, in his infinite modesty, has assured me it sums up the greatest wisdom ever uttered in the philosophy of history.71
IX
Reader, my friend, if I had to justify the drowsiness that came over me in the fourth circle of Schultz’s inferno, I should remind you of a hundred illustrious precedents recorded in as many infernal excursions. Alighieri, being who he was, slept quite a bit in the descent he made. If the metaphysical character of his journey allows us to assign a symbolic value to that bard’s siestas, we can say that Alighieri slept in the proper place at the proper time. Less fortunate than he, I made an infernal descent without theological projections. I didn’t sleep when I should have, but rather when it was humanly possible to do so. How lucky are you, reader! For, having no metaphysical obligations or any cares whatsoever, you can cop a snooze on any page at all of this, my true story!
When Schultz finally shook me awake, and after I’d observed the ritual of yawns announcing our resurrection into this three-dimensional world, I found myself at what must have been the threshold or vestibule of the fifth circle of hell. I remembered then the enterprise in which Schultz had embroiled me, and I could not hide my dismay.
– What a pity! I said, turning to the astrologer. I dreamed Franky Amundsen and I were in the basement of the Royal Keller, drinking a nice big glass of Moselle. So vivid was my dream, I’m not sure which has more reality – this ludicrous Helicoid or that glass of wine I was savouring in the cellar.
– They’re two planes of one and the same reality, answered Schultz. And you, through one of the many manifest forms available to your being, really did drink that glass of wine in the cellar. Consider it drunk. Now let’s see what we can do about this doggone dragon.
Alerted by his last words, I stifled the objection already on the tip of my tongue, whose parched state was the strongest possible argument against the astrologer’s theory. And since the nap I’d just emerged from had restored my corporeal strength and refreshed my senses, I took a look around, determined to explore every nook and cranny of what remained to be seen in Schultz’s Helicoid. We were in front of a greyish wall, of uncertain height and bathed in a kind of watery light as in a wood or a grotto. The first thing that attracted my attention was a revolving door with three leaves, like the ones they use in big stores in wintertime. It was set into the wall and probably led from the hall where we were now to enter the fifth circle of hell. I must say that such a door, so extraordinarily situated, looked to me at the time to be out of place and even ridiculous. But I didn’t have time to voice this observation, for I was suddenly startled to discover an unusual animal standing beside the door and watching us
closely. It was shaped like a dragon, but a dwarf dragon, pleasant to look at and without the trappings of terror we usually attribute to that species of beast. Its body was clean of the legendary sliminess and stench; instead it shimmered in cool, lustrous shades of majolica. Moreover, its body was covered with eyes all the way to the tip of its tail, not in some parodic imitation of Argos, but rather as the expression of some decorative penchant. The most noteworthy aspect of the monster, however, was its snout. It was enlightened by two little eyes quite without cruelty, though they sparkled mischievously, and by a large mouth smiling toothless and fang-free from ear to ear. All of which, in my judgment, showed this was a happy dragon, a decent sort. So, the animal was watching us and smiling at us; at the same time it was gently wagging its tail, not without jiggling a bunch of olive-green faecal marbles tinkling like glass beads as they bounced against one another. Now, one thing I knew for sure was that every good dragon is meant to guard some forbidden portal; and this dragon, I knew too, was Schultz’s totemic animal.72 In a state of indecision, I turned to the astrologer to ask him:
– What are we supposed to do with this creature?
– If you’d paid more attention to your classics, he answered, you’d know that in cases like this, facing a dragon, you’ve got to make it fall fast asleep.
He looked around, suddenly anxious:
– Son of a bitch! he groaned. Where did I put my arsenal of hypnotics?
He dashed off toward a corner of the vestibule. Before long, he was back with an armful of fat books, pamphlets, and newspapers, which he dumped on the ground. From the pile he picked out the material he thought most apt, then squared off in front of the dragon and started to read aloud excerpts from what I recognized straightaway as Argentine literature. But the beast (it must be said in fairness) showed every sign of taking the punishment very well and didn’t so much as bat an eye. Observing which, the astrologer told me:
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 59
