move me, Messire François. You sound upon my heart-strings a resounding
chord, through your employment of a figure of speech which is always
effective. I do not know why, but any imaginable bit of verse conveying
a statement manifestly untrue can be made edifying and sublime through
ending it with the word ‘stars’. We poets have convinced everybody,
including ourselves, that there is some occult virtue in the act of
looking at the stars. So, when you said just now, ‘Although I lived
perforce in the gutter, yet my eyes were upon the stars’, I was moved
very mightily. I seemed to hear the yearning cry of all human
aspirations, foiled but superb. Yet if you had asserted your eyes to
have been habitually, or at least every clear night, upon the
planets—or, for that matter, upon the comets or the asteroids,—I would
not have been moved in the least.”
“It is sufficient that you were moved without knowing why,” observed
Nero. “That is the magic of poetry. Very often when I recited some of my
best poems, to commemorate the sorrows of Orestes or Canace or Œdipus, I
myself could not quite understand the springs of that terrible misery
which convulsed my hearers. They wept; they fainted; a number of the
women entered prematurely into the labors of childbirth; and I was
compelled to have the doors and windows guarded by my Praetorian
soldiers because so many of the audience invariably attempted to escape
from the well-nigh intolerable ecstasies which my art provoked. Such is
the magic of great poetry, a thing not ever wholly to be explained even
by the poet.”
Then Gerald said: “Yet, you two poets who have traveled through the
Marches of Antan, wherein only two truths endure, and the one teaching
is that we copulate and die,—do you not look to find when you have
reached Antan, which is the goal of all the gods, some third truth?”
And it seemed to him that the faces of the two myths had now become
evasive and more wary.
Nero replied, “For a poet, there exist always just as many truths as he
cares to imagine.”
And Villon remarked: “I would phrase it somewhat differently. I would
say there exist more truths than any poet cares to imagine. But it comes
to the same thing.”
“Yes,” Gerald assented,—“for it comes to an evasion. Yet I, who also am
a poet, I retain my faith in the rather beautiful idea of that third
truth.”
And then Gerald told them that he himself had long dabbled in the art of
poetry. “Indeed,” he added, generously, “I will now recite to you one of
my sonnets which appears appropriate to the occasion.”
“Dog,” Villon replied, taking up his hat, “does not eat dog.”
And Nero very hastily stated that, howsoever unbounded their regret,
they really must be hurrying on to the city of marvels.
So these myths departed, traveling together, with an intimacy somewhat
remarkable in the light of their flatly diverse teachings. And Gerald
warned them to make the most of the present state of affairs in Antan,
because the day after to-morrow the Lord of the Third Truth, a deity
with several not uninteresting aspects, would be descending upon Antan,
to take over all the powers of the Master Philologist, and to deal with
Queen Freydis afterward as his divine inclinations might prompt.
Thereafter Gerald went back to Maya and to his dinner quite jauntily,
now that he knew in his appointed kingdom the true poets of this world
were assembling to purvey his amusement: and he felt himself to be afire
with impatience to reach that city of all marvels, yonder behind him, as
he walked away from Antan, leisurely ascending to the trim cottage of
Maya the wise woman, who went as a crowned queen, and would have none of
his love-making, and yet was such an excellent cook, in her plain way.
PART EIGHT
THE BOOK OF MAGES
“Not Every Good Scholar
is a Good Schoolmaster.”
28.
Fond Magics of Maya
GERALD delayed his departure until Friday, because Gerald was
cordially amused by the fond magics of Maya of the Fair Breasts. He
regarded them, as he did her, through those roseate spectacles which the
wise woman had loaned him to be an unfailing comfort to his eyes: and he
found all very good.
He had known many lovelier and more brilliant women, alike in the
relinquished world of Lichfield and in his journeying through the
Marches of Antan. But Maya contented him: he had really not the heart to
disappoint his Maya by not forcing upon her—after four prolonged and
tender arguments,—those physical attentions which all women seemed to
expect.
After that, she put aside her crown; and Gerald never saw it any more.
And after that, also, the date of his departure from her neat cottage
was postponed until after Sunday, though it was quite understood that,
the very first thing after a particularly early breakfast on Monday, he
would pass on to enter into his appointed kingdom, and to possess
himself of the Master Philologist’s great words, and to reanimate the
Dirghic mythology in which he was a god, and would come to know the
third truth over which he exercised celestial authority.
Meanwhile he stayed upon Mispec Moor, to regard with indulgence, and
even with some pity, his predecessors in Maya’s affection, those
beguiled men whom she had converted into domestic animals. His divine
steed was for the while turned out to graze with those docile geldings
that had once been knights and barons and reigning kings: all wandered
contentedly enough about the neat cottage, along with a number of steers
and sheep and three mules, who, also, had once been noblemen and
well-thought-of monarchs.
Gerald saw that these animals seemed not dissatisfied with their
transfiguring doom. Yet it appeared a bit wanton—even to him, who had
once been a tortoise and a lion and a fish and a boar pig,—that these
gentlemen should have been snatched from positions of responsibility and
worldly honor, from thrones and tournaments and large bank accounts, and
set to eating grass in a field. And Gerald sincerely pitied them for
their ignorance as to the correct way in which to deal with the small
magics of Maya.
The dear woman herself you could not blame. She could not help trying,
out of pure kindliness and affection, to hold men back from daring and
splendid exploits, because she really thought they would be much safer,
and more happy, as domestic animals.
And, in fact, she justified her charitableness with a logic which was
plausible. She argued that all men were better content after they had
become domestic animals. She pointed out that her lovers, in
particular—Why, but Gerald could see for himself how little vexed were
her steers and geldings, now, by affairs of the heart. Upon every
imaginable moral ground they had been made better by their double
transformation. They did not run after lewd females, they were not
bloodthirstily jealous of one another, and they were asleep every night
at a respectable hour. If Gerald had only known them, as she had known
them, when they were gentlemen of high distinction and reigning
monarchs, he would never argue about an improvement so obvious.
Besides, domestic animals were spurred by magnanimity and altruism into
no devastating wars, thrift did not often make them covetous of money,
neither did self-respect induce them to spend money foolishly: religion
did not lead mules to bray in any pulpit, nor did the conscientiousness
of a sheep ever make of him an ever-meddling and pernicious pest. In
fine, the domestic animals were undisfigured by any human virtues, and
were quite easy to get along with. Whereas, if any woman attempted to
have that many men about the house—! Maya, who had lost so many
husbands (at least partially) did not complete the statement. But her
expression made the aposiopesis eloquent.
Gerald had no smallest doubt but that, if he himself had not been divine
and beyond her arts, Maya of the Fair Breasts would long ago, out of
pure kindliness and affection, have transformed him too into a sheep or
an ox or some other useful quadruped, and would thus have held him back
from his appointed inheritance in Antan. And he did not blame her. The
placid, stupid, rather lovable woman simply did not understand that to
be contented was not all: she did not comprehend the obligations which
were upon a god to live with generous splendor and to perform very
tremendous feats in the way of heroism and of philanthropy.
Of course, just as she said, the exploits of a champion who came to
enlighten and improve any place—even to redeem it from what, by the
standards of the United States of America, was iniquitous and backward
and probably undemocratic,—did of necessity upset the routine to which
the inhabitants had grown accustomed. Antan, as Gerald looked down upon
it from the porch of Maya’s cottage, seemed a contented and tranquil
realm. No matter by howsoever un-American standards people might be
living there, to redeem the place from those standards would bring
upsetment and confusion. And it did seem almost a pity—just as Maya
said,—to be bothering people who were contented enough, when you too
were contented.... Even so, there was an obligation upon a god. To be
contented, to have no cares to worry you by day, to lack for nothing by
day, and every night to induce decorously through connubial affection a
profound and refreshing slumber,—that was not everything a god desired.
Yonder there was a third truth. Yonder was Gerald’s appointed kingdom,
and not here upon Mispec Moor.
Besides, Gerald had begun to wonder more and more about Freydis. By all
reports, it was she who really ruled those hills and lowlands yonder,
which to-morrow—or at least, next week,—would be Gerald’s hills and
lowlands; and it was she who controlled in everything the Master
Philologist, whom Gerald was appointed to overthrow. It had not been
prophesied, however, so far as Gerald knew, how he would deal with
Freydis. That, to every appearance, was a matter left to his divine
election. Well, one would not be over-harsh with any woman whom rumor
declared so beautiful, Gerald decided, half drowsily, as he sat there so
utterly comfortable in the spectacles and the dressing-gown and the
brown carpet slippers which Maya had provided, and so pleasantly replete
with Maya’s excellent cooking.
29.
Leucosia’s Singing
AND upon another day, as Gerald sat by the roadside beneath his
chestnut-tree, and waited for supper to be ready, three persons passed
toward Antan, traveling together. They were all notable looking men; and
Gerald greeted them with the sign which is known only to supreme mages.
They returned his greeting, but they shaped signs that were of an older
magic than any which was familiar to Gerald.
And then the first of these men said, “I was Odysseus, Laertes’ son.”
Gerald thus knew that before him stood yet another of his discarded
personalities. But Gerald made no comment.
And Odysseus continued: “I had wisdom. My prudent wisdom was to men of
every calling an object of considerable attention, and the fame of it
reached Heaven. I ruled in Ithaca, an island kingdom, well situated
toward the west. I went unwillingly with the other well-greaved Greeks
to besiege Ilion: the enterprise to me seemed rash, and unlikely to be
remunerative: yet, being engaged, I dealt prudently, and in the end,
where so many merely brave persons had failed, it was through my
prudence that the enterprise succeeded. For ten years Ilion defied the
strength of Achilles and of Ajax; Ilion derided all the endeavors of
auburn-haired Menelaus and of godlike Agememnon: but the cunning of
Odysseus felled Ilion in one night. I took my share of the spoils; I
left the glory to them that wanted it. I returned across the world to
that which I more prudently desired, toward the quiet comforts of my
home in craggy Ithaca. The prayer of the blinded Cyclops, the wrath of
earth-shaking Poseidon, the white thunder of offended Zeus, and the
twelve winds of Æolus, all fought against me. I prevailed. The sea-witch
Scylla, an exorbitant lady with twelve arms, a ravening monster whom
none might pass and live, I passed. Charybdis, which devoured all, did
not devour me, for I clung prudently to a fig-tree.”
“Indeed,” said Gerald, “the leaves of that tree are very often a great
protection,—O much-enduring and crafty Odysseus,” Gerald added hastily,
as became a Greek scholar.
“Moreover, the sun’s daughter, fair-haired Circe, and bright Queen
Calypso, the divine one of goddesses, these also detained me rather more
amiably. I embraced them; they did not find me slothful in their beds.
For they were goddesses, as quick in anger as they were in lust. It is
not prudent to deny a goddess. From the fond arms of these immortals I
passed on toward my desired goal. Yet nobody is always prudent. When my
ship approached the island of the man-devouring Sirens I caused the ears
of my sailors to be stopped with wax; but I caused myself to be bound to
the mast, so that I might hear the song which Leucosia sang in the while
that Parthenopê and Ligeia made a sweet music. I desired to hear without
any hurt that song which was so lovely that it drew less prudent men to
the arms of its singer, wherein, as they well knew, dark death awaited
them. I heard that song. It did not matter to me that I saw how the low
beach about those music-makers gleamed, like silver, where a thin
sunlight fell upon the scattered bones of many men whom they had slain.
I struggled to cast myself into the gray sea-water, so that I might go
to Leucosia. But my bonds held me. I was bound, both my hands and feet
were bound, with very strong cables. The black ship passed onward,
whitening the water with its polished blades of fir-wood; and I wept as
I too passed onward, away from my own ruin, and drawing nearer to the
goal which my prudent wisdom had desired.”
“Truly, the enchantment of her singing must have maddened you. Yet such
is the magic of great poetry,” Gerald remarked, “a thing not ever wholly
to be explained even by the poet.... Yet your goal, nevertheless, was
reached, they tell me, O much-contriving Odysseus. Your goal was
reached, as I remember it, in the many-pillared hall of your home in
Ithaca, and in a fine slaughter of those suitors who were pestering your
wife because they believed that she was your widow.”
“Very naturally my goal was reached. I was Odysseus. Very naturally I
made an end of those wasters of my substance who had been eating and
drinking for nine years at my expense. There arose, as one by one their
heads were smitten off, a hideous moaning. The floors ran with blood. It
was wholly plain that Odysseus faced those imprudent persons who had
made over-free with his flocks and his wine jars and his wife and the
other goods of his household. Yet I knew, by and by, that what I now
desired was not to be found in craggy Ithaca nor in the calm embraces of
Penelope nor in the tranquillity of my well-ordered home. I gave laws. I
heard cases. I decided squabbles between one shepherd and another
shepherd. I who had contrived the burning of Ilion now oversaw the
branding of my cattle. War did not trouble Ithaca, of whose king all
other kings were afraid. For I was very famous. I lacked for nothing in
wealth. I lived at ease. But no man hears the singing of Leucosia except
at a great price. I heard Leucosia no more. I heard, instead, the voices
of fools praising my strength and my prudent wisdom, and the voice of my
wife talking sensibly about I never noticed exactly what. I lacked for
nothing which prudent men desire, in my snug, sleek, well-ordered
Ithaca. But I had seen too much in my voyaging about a world which was
more lewd and riotous than I permitted anybody to be in my Ithaca. I
remembered too many things. No, I did not regret Calypso nor Circe nor
that fine girl Nausicaä. I could at will have returned to them. But I
remembered the singing of Leucosia, to whom I dared not return. For no
man hears the singing of Leucosia except at a great price.”
“But of what did she sing, O much-planning Odysseus?”
“She sang of that which haunted me, and which derided the rewards of my
prudent wisdom. She sang of the one way to that which I truly desired.”
“That, O noble son of Laertes, is not a remarkably explicit reply.”
Now the wise Greek regarded Gerald sombrely. Odysseus said, by and by:
“She sang of that which troubles a prudent person’s soul and despoils
his rational living of all fat contentment. Let it suffice that she
sang, I think, of Antan. That is why I must travel to Antan, wherein—it
may be,—is my desire.”
—It was only then that Gerald recollected something. He recollected
that Evadne of the Dusk, that feathery-legged Evadne, who, Horvendile
had said, was called Leucosia in the days of her sea-faring. But Gerald
said nothing about what, after all, was none of his affair....
30.
What Solomon Wanted
AND then the second traveler spoke. He spoke of that which had been
his in the days when all riches and all pleasures and all power had been
accorded to Solomon because of his sixfold wisdom. To no other being
that ever lived among mankind was given such mightiness as was granted
to King Solomon in the time that he reigned over Israel and ruled this
world.
For Solomon had sexanary wisdom. Solomon knew the six words which were
not known to any other men. He understood the speaking of these words.
The word of the beasts. It was spoken, and there assembled in the sight
of Solomon a pair of every creature that walks or creeps upon earth,
from the elephant to the smallest worm. Upon the neck of each was
pressed the seal of Solomon, so that the race of each must henceforth be
subject to him. They revealed to him the wisdom of the beasts that
perish and do not bother about it. He feasted them at a table of silver
and iron which covered four square miles; and at that banqueting Solomon
the King served as the pantler, bringing with his hands to every beast
and reptile its food according to its kind, from the elephant to the
smallest worm.
The word of Morskoï. It was spoken, and all manner of fishes rose to the
surface of the sea’s water near Ascalon. Upon the neck of each was
pressed the seal of Solomon. Then came a hundred thousand camels and a
hundred thousand mules laden with new corn, and all the creatures of the
water were fed, and after that they served King Solomon, and they
revealed to him the wisdom of the Sea Market.
The word of the fowls. It was spoken, and the sky was hidden by the
birds who came to render fealty and to instruct King Solomon in the
wisdom of the Apsarasas. The peewit alone did not come. But he came
afterward, crying, “He that hath no mercy for others, shall find none
for himself.” And it was the peewit who fetched to Solomon wise Balkis,
and who taught Solomon to look through the surface of this earth as a
man peers through a sheet of glass.
The word of the Adversary. It was spoken, and the entire citizenry of
hell kneeled before King Solomon, saving only Sachr and Eblis. The
female Djinns were shaped like dromedaries with the wings of a bat; the
male Djinns were like peacocks with the horns of a gazelle. The Mazikeen
and the Shedeem came also. To the neck of each was pressed the seal of
Solomon: and they revealed to him both the black and the gray wisdom.
The word of Arathron. It was spoken, and there came to King Solomon the
Seven Stewards of Heaven. The eyes of Solomon were closed, and his hand
had shaken a little, as he pressed to the neck of each kneeling Steward
the seal of Solomon, for he was troubled by the exceeding glory of the
supreme Princes of Heaven. Of these the most terrible were Ophiel and
Phul, whose reign is not yet. But these seven Stewards also served King
Solomon; and they revealed to him the white wisdom.
The word of the mirror. It was spoken, and before him stood a wicker
cage containing three pigeons. Beside this cage lay a small mirror three
inches square.
All these six words were known to the wise King. It was the power of
these six words which made him lord over the wild beasts and the birds
of heaven, and over the devils and the elemental spirits and the ghosts
of the dead, and over the sea-depths, and over the cherubim. All
creatures upon earth trembled before King Solomon because of these six
words: no other king withstood Solomon, nor sent forth his chariots
against the army of Solomon. For the soldiers of Solomon were the beasts
of the field and of the wild wood; the birds of prey were his horsemen;
the little birds were his very cunning spies. His admirals were the huge
whales and sea serpents, and Leviathan also served in the navy of King
Solomon. His lieutenants were the overseers of hell; the supreme angels
were his counsellors. He had also his mirror. The power of these six
words was exceedingly great.
Yet there remained one other word, that word which was in the beginning,
and which will be when all else has perished. There stayed yet
unrevealed that word which is spoken by the Master Philologist to all
the gods of men. That word alone was not known to King Solomon. His
little mirror showed him that word, as it showed every other thing; but
the word was written in a language which he could not read.
“What need is there for you to be bothering about that word?” said all
the women who loved and cherished him. He answered, “I do not know.” The
wives and concubines then stated, speaking with nine hundred voices in
unanimity, that no one of them had ever before heard of such nonsense.
And he answered them again, “I do not know....”
For this reason King Solomon must pass down into Antan, to hear the
speaking of the last great word of power.
31.
The Chivalry of Merlin