Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) (32 page)

The sage interrupted.

“Satyrs and fauns, hippocentaurs and sirens, have existed, as have salamanders and the Phoenix.”

We all laughed, but through the peals of laughter there rose, irresistible, enchanting, the notes of Lesbia’s, whose lovely flushed face seemed to beam with glee.

“Yes,” the sage went on, “what right have we moderns to deny those facts asserted by the ancients? The gigantic dog seen by Alexander, as tall as a man, is as real as the Kraken that lives at the bottom of the seas. When St. Antony went at the age of ninety in search of the old hermit Paul, who lived in a cave—Lesbia, don’t laugh—he found himself one day making his way through the barren waste, leaning on his walking stick, not knowing where to find the man he was searching for. And after walking for so many days, do you know who told him what road it was he should follow? A centaur, ‘half man and half horse,’ says St. Jerome, who has told us of this wonder. The creature spoke as though it was angry; it fled with such speed that soon it was out of sight—galloping away, the monster, ‘its hair blowing in the wind and its belly low to the ground.’ On that same journey, St. Antony saw a satyr, ‘a little man of strange figure, beside a streambed; he had a hooked nose, a harsh, wrinkled forehead, and the extremities of his misshapen body ended in goat’s feet.’ ”

“A perfect description,” Lesbia whispered to me, “of that charming M. de Cocureau, future member of the Institute!”

The sage went on:

“This, as I say, is attested to by St. Jerome, who in the times of Constantine the Great led a live satyr into Alexandria, its body being preserved when it died. It was seen, too, by the emperor in Antioch.”

Lesbia had refilled her glass with
crème de menthe,
and she was wetting her tongue in the green liqueur like a feline might.

“Albertus Magnus says that in his day two satyrs were captured in the mountains of Saxony. Enrico Zormano declares that in the lands of Tartary there were men with a single foot, and a single arm in their chest. Vincencio saw a monster brought to the king of France; it had the head of a dog (Lesbia laughed), but its thighs, arms, and hands were as smooth and hairless as our own (Lesbia squirmed like a little girl being tickled); it ate cooked meat and drank wine like water.”

“
Colombine
!” cried Lesbia. And Colombine entered, a little lap dog that looked like a cotton ball. Its mistress picked it up, and amid the explosions of the guests’ laughter, said “Did you hear that, my love? A monster with your head!”

And she kissed the dog on the mouth, while the animal wriggled and flared its nostrils as though filled with voluptuousness.

“And the first-century historian Philegon,” the sage concluded elegantly, “affirms the existence of two species of hippocentaurs, one like elephants.”

“Enough erudition,” said Lesbia. And she finished her
crème de menthe.

So far I had not opened my mouth, but I was gay.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Give me nymphs! I should like to gaze upon their nakedness in the woods and groves and around pools of water, even if, like Actaeon, I were torn to pieces by dogs. But there are no such things as nymphs!”

That happy concert ended in an exodus of sparkling laughter, and of guests.

“So you say,” Lesbia said to me, her faun’s eyes burning into me, her voice low, so that only I could hear. “Nymphs exist. You’ll see them for yourself!”

 

It was a spring day. I was wandering through the castle’s park-like grounds, looking no doubt like a confirmed dreamer. The sparrows were shrieking among the new lilacs, attacking the beetles that defended themselves from the birds’ beaks with their shells of emerald, their armor of gold and iron. Among the roses, carmine, vermilion, the penetrating fragrance of their sweet perfumes; farther on, the violets, in large masses, with their peaceful color and their odor of virginity. Farther yet, the tall trees, the thick foliage filled with the buzzing of bees, the statues in the shadows, the bronze discus throwers, the muscular gladiators in their superb gymnastic postures, the perfumed gazebos covered with twining vines, the porticos, lovely
faux
-Ionic, caryatids all white and lascivious, and vigorous telamons of the Atlantic order, with broad backs and gigantic thighs. I was wandering through the labyrinth of these enchantments when I heard a sound, there in the obscurity of the woods, by the pool where there are white swans like alabaster carvings, and others half of whose long neck is ebony, like a white leg in a black stocking.

I drew closer. Was I dreaming? Oh, Numa! I felt what you felt, when you saw Egeria in her grotto the first time.

In the center of the pool, among the disturbed and restless stirring of the startled swans, there was a nymph, a real nymph, her rosy body bobbing in the crystalline water. Her thighs and maidenly girdle sometimes appeared gilded by the dull light that managed to penetrate the leafy canopy. Oh! I saw lilies, roses, snow, gold; I saw an ideal with form and body, and I heard, among the echoing burbling of the wounded water, a burlesque and musical laughter that stirred my blood.

Suddenly the vision fled—the nymph emerged from the pool, much like Cytherea on her wave, and, gathering her hair, which cascaded diamonds, she ran through the rose bushes, behind the lilacs and violets, past the leafy glades, and was concealed from my sight, ay!, by a turning in the path. And there stood I, lyric poet, eluded faun, watching the grand alabaster fowl sport as though mocking me, stretching out toward me their long necks, on the end of which gleamed the burnished agate of their beaks.

Later, we friends of that night at Lesbia’s lunched. Among us, triumphant, with his shirtfront and his magnificent dark cravat, the obese sage, future member of the Institute.

And suddenly, while everyone chatted about Frémier’s latest bronze at the Salon, Lesbia exclaimed in her bright Parisian voice:

“Tea! As Tartarin says: the poet has seen nymphs! . . .”

Everyone looked at her in astonishment, and she was looking at me, looking at me like a cat, and laughing like a little girl being tickled.

THE BLACK SOLOMON

Then—as Solomon is about to go to his last rest, and in a hall of crystal weary groups of satans sleep—one evening he is suddenly puzzled: before his eyes, like a statue wrought of iron, there arises an extraordinary figure, a djinn or prince of darkness. What djinn, what shade-born prince is unknown to him? In the presence of this apparition, the power of his ring is rendered useless. He asks:

“Thy name?”

“Solomon.”

Yet greater surprise and bewilderment for the wise king. He then notes the rare beauty of his face, his mien, his eyes—all so like his own. He would venture that it is his own person, sculpted in rarest jet.

“Yes,” said the wondrous black Solomon. “I am thy likeness, thy equal, save that I am in all things thy opposite. Thou art the master of one side of the earth’s disc, but I possess the other. Thou lovest truth; I rule in falsehood, whose existence is the only reality. Thou art beautiful as the day, and handsome as the night. My shadow is white. Thou receivest thy understanding of things from the illuminated side of the sun; I, from the side that is hidden. Thou read’st in the visible moon, I in the unseen. Thy djinni are monstrous; mine shine in splendor among the prototypes of beauty. Thou hast in thy ring four stones, given thee by the angels; the demons set in mine a drop of water, a drop of blood, a drop of wine, and a drop of milk. Thou believest that thou hast understood the language of the animals; I know that thou hast understood only the sounds, not the arcana of their tongue.”

Solomon, mute thus far, exclaimed:

“By God Who is great! Maleficent spirit, which against Him and His greatest creation doth so blaspheme, how darest thou assert such a thing? Men may be polluted by error, but the animals of the Lord live in purity. How could their innocent thoughts have deceived me?”

And the black Solomon replied:

“Call up,” he said, “that angel in the form of a whale that gave thee the stone on which is written
Let all creatures praise the Lord.
”

Solomon placed the ring against his head and the misshapen angel appeared.

“What is thy real name?” asked the black Solomon.

And the angel replied:

“Perhaps.”

And it came unmade. Solomon called all the animals, and he said to the peacock:

“What were thy words to me?”

And the peacock replied:

“Judge not, lest thou be judged.”

And he asked the same of all the beasts. And these were their replies:

THE NIGHTINGALE: “Moderation is the greatest good.”

THE TURTLE-DOVE: “It would have been better for many beings had they not seen the light of day.”

THE FALCON: “He who hath no pity for others shall find none for himself.”

THE BIRD NAMED SYRDAR: “Sinners: convert to the love of God.”

THE SWALLOW: “Do good, and thou shalt be rewarded.”

THE PELICAN: “Praised be God in heaven and on earth.”

THE DOVE: “All things pass; God alone is eternal.”

THE BIRD NAMED QATA: “He who remains silent is more certain of speaking true.”

THE EAGLE: “However long our life is, it comes always to an end.”

THE CROW: “One lives one’s life best far from men.”

THE COCK: “Think on God, frivolous men.”

“There, you see!” exclaimed the black Solomon. “You, peacock, you lie. And among the animals, as among men, trust leads lambs into the embrace of wolves. You, nightingale, you lie. Nothing triumphs save the exercise of power. Moderation is called mediocrity, or cowardice. Lions, great cataracts of falling water, tempests, are not moderate. You, turtle dove, you lie, for you do not speak of the weak. Weakness is the only crime, joined with poverty, on the face of the earth. You, falcon, lie seven times over. Pity can be imprudence. Woe to the pitying! Hatred is powerful; hatred is what saves us. Smash the small; put the wounded out of their misery; give no bread to the hungry; cut the legs off any man who limps. It is thus that the world may be brought to perfection. You, syrdar, lie. You are a bird of hypocrisy. God is named X; he is named Zero. You, swallow, lie. You are the falcon’s lover. You, pelican, lie. You are the syrdar’s brother. And you, dove, lie. You are the pelican and syrdar’s mistress. You, qata, lie. The creature who roars or thunders, should not keep quiet; that creature is always right. Eagle, crow, and cock: I shall lock you all into the cage of unreason. That is as certain as that Solomon in his glory cannot overpower me, and that the cock’s eye cannot penetrate the surface of the earth to find springs of water.

 

The beasts disappeared. The satans, now awake, peered through the crystal walls of their hall. Solomon, with vague anxiety, contemplated his own dark likeness in that Other who had spoken and whom he was unable to dominate with his spells. And the Black One was about to depart, when he asked again:

“What didst thou say thy name was?”

“Solomon,” the Other answered smiling. “But I have another name as well.”

“Yes?”

“Friedrich Nietzsche.”

The sage grew desolate, and prepared to ascend, with the angel of infinite wings, to contemplate the truth of the Lord.

The Simurg flew in on rapid wing.

“Solomon, Solomon: thou hast been tempted. But rejoice, and beest thou consoled. Thy hope lies in David!”

And Solomon’s soul melted into God.

THUS SPAKE AHASUERUS

In a land whose name I do not wish to remember, and which likely appears in none of the cartographic atlases in any library, the inhabitants wished to know what the best form of government might be. These inhabitants were so rational in their pursuit that despite the many gray-haired wise men and illustrious politicians in their land, they went off to consult a poet, who answered them in the following way:

“Although I am terribly occupied just now, composing an epithalamion to a jasmine, a salutation to a nymph, and an epigram for the statue of a faun, I shall think about this, and soon I shall suggest how you might best continue. I ask for but three days before I give you my reply.”

And since this poet was more of a poet than King Solomon himself, he spoke and understood the language of the stars, the plants, the animals, and all the beings in nature. And so, on the first day, he went off to the country, meditating on what the best form of government might be. Under a leafy oak tree he found a lion, resting before lunch, like Charlemagne under his pine tree.

“King,” the poet said to him, “I know that Your Majesty might almost be Pedro de Braganza with a mane, and so I ask you—What is the best form of government for a nation?”

“Ingrate!” the lion answered. “I never thought that since the day Plato cast you humans so cruelly from your republic, you poets might doubt the advantages of a monarchy! Without the pomp and majesty of royalty and all its grandeur, you would have neither purple nor crimson nor gold nor ermine to deck your verses. Unless, that is, you prefer the bloody red of revolutions, the silver leaf of constitutions, and the white of Monsieur Carnot’s shirt front, for example. Long-haired Numen has forbidden men to speak the word ‘democracy’ within his empire. Republics are bourgeois, and someone has said that democracy smells bad. For their dryness, Monsieur Thiers would have all Hymetus’ bees routed. The honorable George Washington, or the equally honorable Abraham Lincoln, can be hymned only by a splendid savage like Walt Whitman. Victor Hugo, who heaped such praise on that immense and terrible Hydra called ‘the people,’ has been, nonetheless, the most aristocratic spirit of this century. So far as I’m concerned, the happiest countries are those that are respectful to tradition—and since the world was born, there is nothing that gives greater majesty to jungles than the roar of lions. And there you have my opinion, Mister Poet—absolute monarchy.”