Who is this young man, balancing himself upon a fragment of bark, who
dares follow the royal cangia, and is able to contend in a race of speed
against fifty strong rowers from the land of Kush, all naked to to the
waist, and anointed with palm-oil? What secret motive urges him to this
swift pursuit? That, indeed, is one of the many things we are obliged to
know in our character of the intuition-gifted poet, for whose benefit
all men, and even all women (a much more difficult matter), must have
in their breasts that little window which Momus of old demanded.
It is not a very easy thing to find out precisely what a young man from
the land of Kemi, who followed the barge of Cleopatra, queen and goddess
Evergetes, on her return from the Mammisi of Hermonthis two thousand
years ago, was then thinking of. But we shall make the effort
notwithstanding.
Meïamoun, son of Mandouschopsh, was a youth of strange character;
nothing by which ordinary minds are affected made any impression upon
him. He seemed to belong to some loftier race, and might well have been
regarded as the offspring of some divine adultery. His glance had the
steady brilliancy of a falcon's gaze, and a serene majesty sat on his
brow as upon a pedestal of marble; a noble pride curled his upper lip,
and expanded his nostrils like those of a fiery horse. Although owning a
grace of form almost maidenly in its delicacy, and though the bosom of
the fair and effeminate god Dionysos was not more softly rounded or
smoother than his, yet beneath this soft exterior were hidden sinews of
steel and the strength of Hercules--a strange privilege of certain
antique natures to unite in themselves the beauty of woman with the
strength of man.
As for his complexion, we must acknowledge that it was of a tawny orange
color, a hue little in accordance with our white-and-rose ideas of
beauty; but which did not prevent him from being a very charming young
man, much sought after by all kinds of women--yellow, red,
copper-colored, sooty-black, or golden skinned, and even by one fair,
white Greek.
Do not suppose from this that Meïamoun's lot was altogether enviable.
The ashes of aged Priam, the very snows of Hippolytus, were not more
insensible or more frigid; the young white-robed neophyte preparing for
the initiation into the mysteries of Isis led no chaster life; the young
maiden benumbed by the icy shadow of her mother was not more shyly pure.
Nevertheless, for so coy a youth, the pleasures of Meïamoun were
certainly of a singular nature. He would go forth quietly some morning
with his little buckler of hippopotamus hide, his _harpe_ or curved
sword, a triangular bow, and a snake-skin quiver filled with barbed
arrows; then he would ride at a gallop far into the desert, upon his
slender-limbed, small-headed, wild-maned mare, until he could find some
lion-tracks. He especially delighted in taking the little lion-cubs from
underneath the belly of their mother. In all things he loved the
perilous or the unachievable. He preferred to walk where it seemed
impossible for any human being to obtain a foothold, or to swim in a
raging torrent, and he had accordingly chosen the neighborhood of the
cataracts for his bathing place in the Nile. The Abyss called him!
Such was Meïamoun, son of Mandouschopsh.
For some time his humors had been growing more savage than ever. During
whole months he buried himself in the Ocean of Sands, returning only at
long intervals. Vainly would his uneasy mother lean from her terrace and
gaze anxiously down the long road with tireless eyes. At last, after
weary waiting, a little whirling cloud of dust would become visible in
the horizon, and finally the cloud would open to allow a full view of
Meïamoun, all covered with dust, riding upon a mare gaunt as a wolf,
with red and bloodshot eyes, nostrils trembling, and huge scars along
her flanks--scars which certainly were not made by spurs.
After having hung up in his room some hyena or lion skin, he would start
off again.
And yet no one might have been happier than Meïamoun. He was beloved by
Nephthe, daughter of the priest Afomouthis, and the loveliest woman of
the Nome Arsinoïtes. Only such a being as Meïamoun could have failed to
see that Nephthe had the most charmingly oblique and indescribably
voluptuous eyes, a mouth sweetly illuminated by ruddy smiles, little
teeth of wondrous whiteness and transparency, arms exquisitely round,
and feet more perfect than the jasper feet of the statue of Isis.
Assuredly there was not a smaller hand nor longer hair than hers in all
Egypt. The charms of Nephthe could have been eclipsed only by those of
Cleopatra. But who could dare to dream of loving Cleopatra? Ixion,
enamoured of Juno, strained only a cloud to his bosom, and must forever
roll the wheel of his punishment in hell.
It was Cleopatra whom Meïamoun loved.
He had at first striven to tame this wild passion; he had wrestled
fiercely with it; but love cannot be strangled even as a lion is
strangled, and the strong skill of the mightiest athlete avails nothing
in such a contest. The arrow had remained in the wound, and he carried
it with him everywhere. The radiant and splendid image of Cleopatra,
with her golden-pointed diadem and her imperial purple, standing above a
nation on their knees, illumined his nightly dreams and his waking
thoughts. Like some imprudent man who has dared to look at the sun and
forever thereafter beholds an impalpable blot floating before his eyes,
so Meïamoun ever beheld Cleopatra. Eagles may gaze undazzled at the sun,
but what diamond eye can with impunity fix itself upon a beautiful
woman, a beautiful queen?
He commenced at last to spend his life in wandering about the
neighborhood of the royal dwelling, that he might at least breathe the
same air as Cleopatra, that he might sometimes kiss the almost
imperceptible print of her foot upon the sand (a happiness, alas! rare
indeed). He attended the sacred festivals and _panegyreis_, striving to
obtain one beaming glance of her eyes, to catch in passing one stealthy
glimpse of her loveliness in some of its thousand varied aspects. At
other moments, filled with sudden shame of this mad life, he gave
himself up to the chase with redoubled ardor, and sought by fatigue to
tame the ardor of his blood and the impetuosity of his desires.
He had gone to the panegyris of Hermonthis, and, in the vague hope of
beholding the queen again for an instant as she disembarked at the
summer palace, had followed her cangia in his boat--little heeding the
sharp stings of the sun--through a heat intense enough to make the
panting sphinxes melt in lava-sweat upon their reddened pedestals.
And then he felt that the supreme moment was nigh, that the decisive
instant of his life was at hand, and that he could not die with his
secret in his breast.
It is a strange situation truly to find one-self enamoured of a queen.
It is as though one loved a star; yet she, the star, comes forth nightly
to sparkle in her place in heaven. It is a kind of mysterious
rendezvous. You may find her again, you may see her; she is not offended
at your gaze. Oh, misery! to be poor, unknown, obscure, seated at the
very foot of the ladder, and to feel one's heart breaking with love for
something glittering, solemn, and magnificent--for a woman whose meanest
female attendant would scorn you!--to gaze fixedly and fatefully upon
one who never sees you, who never will see you; one to whom you are
no more than a ripple on the sea of humanity, in nowise differing
from the other ripples, and who might a hundred times encounter you
without once recognizing you; to have no reason to offer should an
opportunity for addressing her present itself in excuse for such mad
audacity--neither poetical talent, nor great genius, nor any superhuman
qualification--nothing but love; and to be able to offer in exchange
for beauty, nobility, power, and all imaginable splendor only one's
passion and one's youth--rare offerings, forsooth!
Such were the thoughts which overwhelmed Meïamoun. Lying upon the sand,
supporting his chin on his palms, he permitted himself to be lifted and
borne away by the inexhaustible current of reverie; he sketched out a
thousand projects, each madder than the last. He felt convinced that he
was seeking after the unattainable, but he lacked the courage to frankly
renounce his undertaking, and a perfidious hope came to whisper some
lying promises in his ear.
"Athor, mighty goddess," he murmured in a deep voice, "what evil have I
done against thee that I should be made thus miserable? Art thou
avenging thyself for my disdain of Nephthe, daughter of the priest
Afomouthis? Hast thou afflicted me thus for having rejected the love of
Lamia, the Athenian hetaira, or of Flora, the Roman courtesan? Is it my
fault that my heart should be sensible only to the matchless beauty of
thy rival, Cleopatra? Why hast thou wounded my soul with the envenomed
arrow of unattainable love? What sacrifice, what offerings dost thou
desire? Must I erect to thee a chapel of the rosy marble of Syene with
columns crowned by gilded capitals, a ceiling all of one block, and
hieroglyphics deeply sculptured by the best workmen of Memphis and of
Thebes? Answer me."
Like all gods or goddesses thus invoked, Athor answered not a word, and
Meïamoun resolved upon a desperate expedient.
Cleopatra, on her part, likewise invoked the goddess Athor. She prayed
for a new pleasure, for some fresh sensation. As she languidly reclined
upon her couch she thought to herself that the number of the senses was
sadly limited, that the most exquisite refinements of delight soon
yielded to satiety, and that it was really no small task for a queen to
find means of occupying her time. To test new poisons upon slaves; to
make men fight with tigers, or gladiators with each other; to drink
pearls dissolved; to swallow the wealth of a whole province all these
things had become commonplace! and insipid.
Charmion was fairly at her wit's end, and knew not what to do for her
mistress.
Suddenly a whistling sound was heard, and an arrow buried itself,
quivering, in the cedar wainscoting of the wall.
Cleopatra well-nigh fainted with terror. Charmion ran to the window,
leaned out, and beheld only a flake of foam on the surface of the river.
A scroll of papyrus encircled the wood of the arrow. It bore only these
words, written in Phœnician characters, "I love you!"