Lucifer

by Maurice Magre

  When the dancer had finished her dance, she scarcely bowed two or three times, descended the steps of the stage with an extreme rapidity and went to fall on the floor at the feet of a sinister hirsute individual who was sitting cross-legged and had watched her dance with a distant indifference, smoking a cigarette. With a delectably amorous gesture, the dancer placed her arms around his neck, murmuring in a sigh; “Oh, Miguel!”

  Then the man, placing his hand on the nape of the woman’s neck, plastered his lips to hers brutally, by way of recompense.

  That little scene in the drunken sailors’ tavern, was gripping. I turned to Lord Portman. His eyes were almost bulging out of his head; his lips were fatter; he looked by turns at Miguel and me, with an envious expression in his features. He leaned toward me and I nearly fainted because of the impression his proximity gave me, while he said to me: “I envy that man. I’d like you to dance before me, and put your arm around my neck afterwards. Tell me that that will happen one day.”

  “Never,” I said, trying to laugh and consider it as a joke.

  “I always succeed in getting what I want,” he said. “I swear that you’ll dance for me, that you’ll come to put your head on my shoulder as that dancer did, calling me by my first name, and that with my hand on the nape of your neck, I’ll kiss your lips as forcefully.”

  I started to laugh more loudly, and furthermore, as he often joked with great seriousness, I thought that perhaps he did not attach any importance to those words. But he had reminded me of them a little later, and they returned to my memory now.

  “That tower you can see over there is the most ancient of all,” said Prince Vanini, and he embarked on archeological explanations, to which I only listened distractedly.

  “That’s the place, on the edge of the pool, where we’re going to dine,” said Lord Portman. “I hope that you’ll be satisfied by my installation.”

  His face, turned toward me, expressed such a puerile fear of displeasing me, a solicitude so affectionate, that it suddenly changed the orders of my thoughts.

  I perceived servants clad in white; some were in the process of extending mosquito nets, others were running around a laden table. They were numerous and would doubtless remain close by. Were not my three companions, in any case, showing the most respectful courtesy in my regard? How could three men belonging to the highest aristocracy, having a name and a rank in Madras society, infringe the laws of gallantry with regard to a woman who was their guest? Would not their number paralyze their evil intention, in the hypothetical case that they had one?

  It was true that they had some rancor to satisfy. I might have inspired their spite. But I ought not to exaggerate the importance of my refusals. All three were seekers of amorous adventures who made attempts on all the women they met and were accustomed to refusals as well as victories. They had classified me in the category of women one has for a friend and not a mistress, that was all. I had, on the contrary, acquired an absolute authority over them. Comtesse Aurelia had a veritable headache and, supposing that they had not invited Mir and they had deceived me on that subject, that was only a petty jealousy of aging men with regard to a very young man.

  Night gradually fell and my apprehensions dissipated as I saw torches illuminated alongside the pool, on the side where the dinner was prepared. Their flames made large red circles in the green tints of the dead waters. They danced and flared up before dying down, and reappeared as if with the insouciance of the twentieth year and the love of pleasure.

  Several connected rooms that preceded the sanctuary of an abandoned temple had been entirely covered with carpets, striped fabrics and Bengal veils. Champaca and jasmine flowers spread an insipid and relaxing odor.

  “This will be the smoking room,” said Lord Portman. “There’s the stage for the dances. This room is the one where the musicians are and this is the room where I’ve had the chest placed that contains your robes, and where you can dress without being disturbed.”

  I saw at a glance that the door of that room had been recently fitted and that there was a brand new bolt that would permit me to lock myself in. I was sensible of the delicacy of that attention and that took away my final fears.

  I also noticed that there were six places set at the table and I heard Lord Portman, after having looked at his watch, give the order to remove two of them. He added, in the most natural tone in the world: “There’ll be time to reset them if they arrive.”

  My fears changed into remorse. Was I not naturally inclined only to see the bad side of things? How many times had I spoiled my existence with futile suspicions? That flock of birds, those dominos, and the Brahmin with the squint were the cause of it all. What ridiculous superstitions!

  “It’s time for cocktails,” said the Prince, holing out a glass to me in which the colors of the inflamed sky and the emerald pool between the porticoes were condensed.

  The Prince’s hand was much less angular that I had thought. It was an honest hand, only a little too hairy. The Rajah was gazing silently into space with an expression of immense mildness. Lord Portman seemed timid and embarrassed, like someone afraid of not having done enough things to receive his gusts.

  How foolish I am! I thought.

  But I almost dropped the glass that I had just emptied. A howl, or rather a low, heart-rending, terrible mewl had resounded, and its echo reverberated under the profound vaults and in the sonority of the stone temples.

  My eyes must have expressed fear.

  “It’s nothing,” said Lord Portman, laughing. “It’s my panther, who needs to be given his dinner.”

  The Smoking Room

  My security increased during the meal, where the frankest camaraderie reigned. Lord Portman drank enormously, but his gaze did not have the impressive emptiness that was customary to him and caused me such a disagreeable sensation. Only for a few moments did his large eyes recover that expression.

  There was talk about amour, naturally, and women. The three men found that they had the same tastes. They could not tolerate the resistance that women thought themselves obliged to put up at a first encounter. They were in accord in thinking that what was delectable was consent, and in unanimously criticizing brutes who took women by force.

  “Do you remember,” Lord Portman said to me, “that dance-hall for the use of sailors to which we went together one evening in Madras?”

  I made a vague gesture that signified that I scarcely remembered it.

  “Well, I don’t know anything more mysteriously troubling than the gesture of abandonment with which the woman who danced offered her lips to a frightful Portuguese named Miguel. I can’t imagine any greater joy in the world that that of seeing the woman I love come to sit at my feet as that dancer did that evening.”

  It was then that his eyes reflected the infinity of the void. Scarcely had he spoken those words than the Rajah and Prince Vanini burst out laughing and pronounced two or three phrases in English, in spite of the fact that I did not understand that language and it had been agreed that they would only express themselves in French in my presence.

  They apologized immediately for those involuntary exclamations. I had almost understood their meaning, or thought I understood.

  The Rajah had said something that signified: “You have one chance in three, no more.”

  And the Prince had added a phrase in which there as mention of the Atharva Veda and a magical operation. I knew the name of Atharva Veda from my husband, who had told me once the Prince Vanini amused himself studying magic with a Bengali physician in that ancient Hindu book.

  But I did not attach any importance at the time to those incomprehensible allusions. I was penetrated by a physical wellbeing what went from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, and to that wellbeing was added a sentiment of amity and perfect mental tranquility.

  Dinner concluded and we went into the smoking room. Mats and leather cushions were disposed in a circular fashion around a little silver lamp with a red-painted glass set on
a tray. Curiously, I handled the ivory pipes, needles and little metal pots containing a dark paste that I sniffed, but was disappointed by the absence of perfume.

  “Opium is a hidden genius,” the Rajah told me, “which needs fire to reveal the infinite powers that it contains. It is similar to our soul, which is almost always dormant and silent; but if one warms it up with the magical warmth of amour, it spreads perfumes and allows treasures of dream to flow that one did not suspect that one possessed.”

  Lord Portman had just emptied a large glass of fine champagne in a single draught, and he was holding the bottle in his right hand in order to pour himself a second glass.

  “I don’t like this wine,” he said, “although it’s the best one can find in all India. The whisky is far superior.” He turned in my direction with his most fearful smile and, as if he were addressing a prayer to me, he said: “It’s better if you put on your bayadere’s robe right away. They you won’t have to disturb yourself again and we can admire you in the costume for longer. You can dance whenever you wish, either before or after the intoxications to which our friends will initiate you; for myself, I’ll remain faithful to the only intoxication that doesn’t deceive.”

  He emptied his glass of champagne, made a grimace and went it exchange the bottle he was holding for a bottle of whisky.

  I found that program very wise and I headed for the door. Lord Portman called to my attention with a gesture the fact that I could lock myself in, in order to be tranquil while I dressed, and I was surprised to hear him say: “We’ll take advantage of your absence to play a hand of cards.

  “I won’t be very long,” I said.

  “A single hand will suffice,” said Vanini.

  He had taken a pack of cards out of his pocket and my surprise increased when I saw Lord Portman and the Rajah moved closer to Vanini eagerly, and prepare to play. I even remarked an unusual gleam of passion in their eyes. I thought that they were keener gamblers that I had supposed, and I left them. I thought there was no need to bolt the door.

  My costume was the classic costume of the bayadere of southern India. It was composed of a short, tight corselet around the bosom, with a colored veil over the shoulders, and bright transparent silk trousers embroidered with silver, with a bright silk skirt above them, also transparent, embroidered with gold. As the corselet was high and the trousers low, a part of the body below the breasts was bare, but the ensemble of the costume remained modest nevertheless. I rolled up my hair and enclosed it beneath a broad headband of gold and diamonds which descended over my temples. I put the rings around my ankles whose metallic clink is indispensable to the rhythm of the dance, and light golden rings on my toes.

  When I had finished I darted a satisfied glace into the large mirror that formed the back of the narrow room, which was illuminated by a high lamp, and I admired the ingenuity and the comfort that had presided over the organization of the improvised dressing-room, where nothing was lacking.

  These Englishmen are extraordinary, I thought.

  And I rummaged through the rouges, the creams and the perfumes.

  Suddenly, I heard a cry of triumph from the next room. It was Prince Vanini who had uttered it. “It’s me! It’s me!” he repeated. “I’ve won!”

  His voice was followed by a kind of dull groan uttered by Lord Portman.

  I was amazed and slightly annoyed to think that my companions, who had come to Chillambaram to smoke opium in my company, were putting such ardor into a game of cards commenced a few minutes before.

  I opened the door slightly, and it made no sound as it swung.

  I perceived the Rajah at the extremity of the smoking room, lying on a mat. He had just picked up a pipe and was dipping a needle into a little pot. In the slope of his massive shoulder and the inclination of his wooly head there was something suggestive of ill luck and resignation to destiny.

  Lord Portman and the Prince had their backs to me. Lord Portman had taken the Prince by the arm and as speaking to him in a low voice. He was insisting on something that seemed to impassion his heart. The Prince shook his head to say no.

  “Well, ten thousand pounds!” said Lord Portman.

  “Well, if you put that price on it...,” Vanini replied. “But it’s much more than it’s worth.”

  “You accept?” said Lord Portman, feverishly.

  “I accept,” said the Prince, “but I don’t guarantee the efficacy off the Atharva Veda.”

  An extraordinary grunt of satisfaction was the Lord’s response.

  “I’ll take charge of that,” he said.

  I was confounded by astonishment. They turned round and I put on a semblance of making my entrance without having heard anything.

  There was a concert of exclamations regarding my beauty and my costume.

  “What can you have been playing for,” I said, “to bring so much passion to your game?”

  “A diamond—that was our stake.”

  “A marvelous diamond!”

  “It’s the Prince who won,” said the Rajah.

  “No,” said Lord Portman, in a peremptory tone, “I’ve bought the diamond. It belongs to me.”

  And everyone installed themselves on the mats around the little silver lamp.

  I had hardly touched the cocktails and had drunk very little during the meal, sensing the necessity of maintaining all my presence of mind. How is it that I accepted one pipe, and then another, and gazed with an infinite satisfaction at the swirls of smoke that I launched at the ceiling? Perhaps it was because of the words that the Rajah pronounced, perhaps because one is impelled ineluctably to certain acts, and because the events that were about to be accomplished were written in the book of my destiny.

  “I smoke every day, just as I gaze at the sunlight every day,” said the Rajah slowly, punctuating his words with the little gestures that the confection of a pipe requires, “because opium, which is the spirit of plants, brings us the wisdom of the vegetal realm, the wisdom of nature, the sentiment of fraternity, and impels us to conform, with neither revolt nor sadness, to the laws of the world. Opium lifts us above ourselves and I deem that one can only comprehend amour by means of it. The most sublime sensation that one can known on earth is that of smoking in the arms of a woman one loves. Life is so complicated, and everyone strives so hard to complicate it, people are so separated from one another by their stupidity, their passions or their prejudices what I’ve never been able to realize that ideal. I have, however searched for it ardently and I’ve come so close to the realization once or twice that, when I think about it, I can’t help trembling with emotion.”

  I noticed then that the bronzed hand of the Rajah, which was suspending a droplet of opium above the flame of the lamp on the tip of a needle, was agitated by a slight tremor, with the consequence that it bumped into the glass regularly, so as to make a music as light and sad as a regret.

  “Those who believe in God can say that opium brings us closer to God, in the sense that it enables us to communicate by means of a more subtle comprehension with the soul of things. Those who believe in amour find, with reason, that opium is the sole path that permits two human creatures avid for closeness to embrace one another intimately and veritably, for the embrace of bodies only gives an incomplete possession that leaves us unsatisfied. With opium we awaken an unknown faculty, we provide an aliment that our invisible double animates, and there is then above the caress of the lips another caress, that of our subtle bodies, which is the last word and the highest state of amour.”

  I watched him while he was speaking, examining the wrinkles of his face, the thickness of his neck, and the vastness of his torso, and I imagined in his place the regular oval, the sloping shoulders and the slim waist of his son Mir. The mental creation that I made was so vivid that, driven by an irresistible sympathy, I made a movement of the hand in order to take the hand of the absent young man.

  The Rajah must have read my thought, for he had a melancholy smile and I heard him murmur, while he handed
me the pipe that he had just finished: “Yes, I’m old and I’ve lost my last chance.”

  “We only know some of the resources of nature,” said Prince Vanini, “that permit us to rise above ourselves and attain unknown joys. Opium and hashish are all very well, but Panya, my Bengali physician, claims that there are many other plants, charged with secret powers, the knowledge of which might perhaps make us equal to gods. What does the Soma used by the Brahmins in their secret rites contain? What is the peyote plant of the priests of the ancient Mexican religion? What did the knights of the Holy Grail drink from the sacred cup? There are herbal juices that contain mental virtues and we can, by absorbing them, acquire courage, clairvoyance, and even the science of the laws of the universe.”

  The Rajah lowered his eyelids in approval, and handed me another pipe. I smoked it in a single draught. I was possessed by an extraordinary sentiment of light wellbeing, and had the sensation that my blood was pulsing more rapidly in my veins. My imagination was more rapid. I was surrounded by charming friends of an intelligence greater than I had known thus far. The world was filled with harmony. And a time that it is impossible for me to evaluate went by in that softness.

  “Personally,” said Vanini, again, “I take the Gurago that Panya prepares for me. It’s a complex mixture into which a little hashish also enters and a little pulverized tobacco, for there are in simple tobacco, in addition to the poisons it contains, many fecund forces of which people do not know how to make good use. Gurago transforms dreams into reality. When one has taken a sufficient dose, the light imaginary tableau of thought becomes the veritable life: the illusion of life, but an illusion so clear, accompanied by so many sensations, and embellished with such magnificence, that I find that illusion more real than reality. Gurago will be useful to me this evening.

  Lord Portman uttered a burst of disdainful laughter and shrugged his shoulders. He lifted a full glass and said: “Even if I were offered Soma or the cup of the Holy Grail, I’d trade it for a glass of whisky with as much pleasure as I’ve traded ten thousand pounds for...”