THE CHOICE OF A GOD
And now for the election of a new god.
A vast amphitheatre-like space accommodates all the inhabitants of the
city. There are four tiers of seats, supported by silvered copper
columns, the capital of each column ending in a bird's head, from which
an intoxicating liquid flows through a silver pipe into a circumambient
basin below. The myriad of glistening jets, which descend in spray from
a height of one hundred and twenty feet, give the whole interior space
an enchanting appearance. The people, as they make their way into the
galleries, hold up their heads and imbibe this intoxicating rain with
abandoned good humour, while the hideous half-human, half-bestial
monsters wallow in the basin below and take in the heady draught that
way. Whoever cannot drink any more holds his head under the downward
trickling juice till it soaks him through and through. Not unfrequently,
the injurious liquid sets some of these creatures on fire by spontaneous
combustion, and, roaring and bellowing, they plunge madly through the
mob vomiting forth flames of fire.
A daïs in the centre is occupied by children, who have been brought
hither to be taught to follow a good example and to participate in a
festival which cannot even be described without a shudder.
On the top of a still higher platform, reached by twelve golden steps,
stand the three hundred and sixty-five priests, whilst on the lowest
steps sit the musicians with long silver trumpets and glass flutes,
whose sweetly tender notes go to one's very heart and intoxicate the
soul. At each of the four corners of the platform burns a fragrant
censer--huge basins of chased gold--which envelop the whole concourse in
a stupefying cloud of fragrant vapour.
At a signal from the high priest the trellis doors of the amphitheatre
fly open, and just as formerly at ancient Rome the condemned gladiators
were led forth to die in the circus, so now two men are introduced, one
of whom the people must choose as a god, in order that they may
sacrifice to him for a whole year the most precious of their treasures,
the honour of their daughters.
Two pre-eminently worthy candidates had been found. One had been
discovered by the priest of the megatherium, the other by the priest of
the ichthyosaurus, and the people have now to choose betwixt the twain.
Both men were carried up to the top of the platform wrapped round with
thick veils. The inferior priests then withdrew; only the two high
priests remained behind with their _protégés_.
The uproar of the people sinks into a low murmur. With rapt attention
every one regards the two veiled figures who stand in the midst of the
blue clouds of the four censers.
And now the priest of the ichthyosaurus advances and draws away the veil
from the figure of the first man.
"Behold and admire!"
A terrible shape, seven feet high at the very least, the face rather
that of a wild beast than of a man; the strong, stubbly beard, the
connected eyebrows, the flat nose, the broad projecting lips and the
huge shapeless muscles, which run along the broad shoulders and the
thick arms, indicate enormous brute strength. The whole shape is
terrifying. Nevertheless, gorgeous garments make this sinister
apparition a splendid one. His mantle is lined with orient pearls and
embroidered with gold; the thick bristly hair is held together by a
golden helmet, the crest of which sparkles with diamonds and topazes.
His left hand holds a broad shield, hanging down from the rims whereof
are the scalps of the enemies whom he has vanquished in battle, while
his right hand rests upon a sword five feet long, the broad blade of
which is covered with symbols of magic potency. This weapon weighs half
a hundredweight.
No sooner was the man unveiled than a shout of joy burst from the
people, a shout which died away in the bestial bellowing of the human
caricatures below.
Then the priest of the megatherium approaches the second shape, and
slowly removing the veil from it exclaims to the people: "Behold and
adore!"
The shape of the second man is bright with neither gold nor precious
stones. The stranger wears a simple white robe, which displays his
stately figure as it really is, without attempting to improve it by
exotic finery. The only decoration of his bare head are his luxuriant,
down-flowing locks, and the sole armament of his loins consists of a
short sword, which requires the foe who has anything to say for himself
to come to very close quarters.
And now the priest spoke to the people.
"Lo! here is a strange man from a distant land beyond the sea, who has
been drawn to our shores by Triton's mighty arm. In his eyes burns a
fiercer fire, in his veins flows a warmer blood than ours. Before the
expression of his visage the face of every man born on our shores quails
and blanches. I say no more. You have eyes to see. Make your choice."
Then the other priest cried: "Who will have this hero?"
At this invitation only a poor couple or so of wreaths fluttered down
from the crowd, wreaths which certain women of vicious taste had taken
from their heads and cast at the feet of the half-savage Hercules below.
But when the priest of the megatherium cried: "Who will have this
stranger for a god?" there was a veritable tempest of falling wreaths.
The women tore the flowers from their hair and bosoms and threw them
with shouts of joy towards the stranger, so that the floor of the
amphitheatre resembled a garden in a rain of flowers. "Him only!" they
cried, "him only, and none other!"
The diamond-garnished, gold-embroidered hero of many fights rose in
disdainful wrath with his priest, and throwing his glittering sword over
his shoulder, descended the steps of the platform and sat down moodily
on its lowest step.
The stranger remained alone upon the platform with his priest, who
twined a fragrant wreath of roses among his locks and cried joyfully--
"Hail thou god Tetzkatlepoka! hail in the name of the fair dispensers of
bliss, thou elect of the people! Take thine own, thou king of all
beauty, thou prince of women! Take the flowers which bloom for thee, the
lips which smile at thee! Hail, thou god Tetzkatlepoka!"
The people responded with a loud shout; but, in a dark corner of the
amphitheatre, sat a trembling woman, with a sorrowful countenance,
holding in her hands the Ark of the Covenant of the one true God, and
groaning and sighing, she cried in the bitterness of her heart--
"Oh, Bar Noemi! Bar Noemi!"
Bar Noemi did not hear the feeble sound. The music of the glass flutes,
the soft harmony of the silver trumpets, mingled in his bosom with the
choruses of the children into an enchanting, intoxicating harmony, which
Byssenia's voice failed to penetrate. Seductive, sylph-like forms danced
before him in fluttering garments. Their dishevelled tresses waved
wildly in the air. Their flashing eyes shone brighter than the sun. Who
would not have lost his reason at the sight of so much beauty, so much
bliss?
And again the plaintive, sobbing sound was heard--
"Oh, Bar Noemi! Bar Noemi!"
And the young man seemed to feel a light shudder run through all his
limbs. What was that?
Hast thou eyes? Hast thou a heart? Where are thy senses that thou
shouldst hesitate a moment? If a hundred years were thine allotted span
wouldst thou not give them all away for such glances, and forfeit thy
very soul's salvation in the next world for the possession of such an
earthly paradise? Thousands and thousands of fairy forms dance round him
in a bewitching, ensnaring circle, ever nearer, ever more lovely and
more numerous; their breath fans his cheeks; their eyes burn into his
very soul, their melodies take possession of his heart. It needs but one
word from his lips, and he will sink into this sea of sweetness, die the
most delicious of deaths, a death which is nought but a long, long kiss.
The music, the singing, grows more and more enchanting; the odours of
the censers fill the air with a sweet intoxication; the snow-white arms
already touch the shoulders of the deified man, when again, for the
third time, and still more mournfully, still more appealingly resound
the words--
"Oh, Bar Noemi! Bar Noemi!"
Suddenly he starts like one just awakened from sleep, a wondrously deep
sleep which has benumbed all his limbs. He makes a snatch at his head,
tears off the chaplet of roses, and, rending it in twain, throws it to
the ground, exclaiming, with a threatening voice--
"I am no god! Jehovah is God alone!"
Instantly the music, the singing is dumb as when the strings of a lyre
are cut asunder by the stroke of a sword. The enchantment is broken; the
features of the seductive sylphs are distorted into the faces of Furies;
the sweet harmony vanishes in a deafening uproar; curses, gibes, mocking
laughter and the howling and bellowing of the men-beasts fill the vast
arena.
But though the earth tremble beneath the hideous hubbub, Bar Noemi's
heart trembles not. He has found the name which gave him strength in the
midst of the raging elements, and drawing his sword, he stands in the
midst of the furious mob, like a god, or rather like a true man amongst
men who have lost every spark of manhood.
And as they rush upon him, he speaks fearlessly to the people, speaks in
a voice which rises above their screams and curses--
"Ye inhabitants of the City of Triton! Ye coward worshippers of idols!
Ye living, painted coffins abandoned by your own souls even while still
in the flesh, listen to my words! My name is Bar Noemi. My strength is
the one true God, whose countenance no human eye has ever gazed upon.
I'll show my courage by my good sword, which no one has ever yet
despised. And I tell you, ye who make a mock of God and His noble image,
man, that I despise you all, and that there is not a youth nor an old
man within your walls before whom I tremble!"
Shame and wrath made white the features of all who heard him. Everywhere
else, red is the colour of shame and wrath, but here, in Triton's City,
it was white. For Bar Noemi had spoken the truth, in the whole of that
great city, in the city of delight, not a man was to be found who dared
to raise his hand against the stranger! And there he stood on the daïs,
with a terrible countenance, and his naked sword in his hand, like an
avenging angel who had come not to fight with men, but to chastise them.
The warrior with the long broadsword, the herculean frame, and the
helmet set with diamonds, was sitting all this while on the lowermost
step of the daïs, and did not once turn his head towards his rival.
The priests and elders, filled with despair, rushed towards him and
urged him to arise and wipe away the insult thus offered to a whole
people. But the man moved not. The paralyzing, voluptuous draught he had
just partaken of still held captive both soul and body. The wise
pleasure-mongers of Triton's city had introduced this overpowering
potion into their mysteries to their own confusion, for it unnerves a
man, enfeebles his heart, divests him of his manhood, and pours into his
heart a sickly craving after pleasure so that Hercules himself becomes
the willing slave of the bright petticoat and the whirring spindle.
At last they brought him another drink which they were wont to give to
those who went forth to battle. It was a strong, stimulating cordial,
prepared from the froth of wild beasts and the fruits of poisonous
trees, filling the heart with an inextinguishable thirst for blood. The
fiery drops of this battle potion stung the warrior's nerves. He arose
and stared around him with frenzied, bloodshot, rolling eyes. His
protruding lips were covered with a yellow foam and his dusky cheeks
seemed to be wrapped in burning flames.
"Who calls?" he cried, in a voice of thunder, like the roar of a
ravening beast; and, expanding his bulky chest, he swung his ponderous
sword, like a reed, above his head whilst his eyes flashed green fire
and his trampling feet crushed the heavy stones into the hard earth.
"Kill him! the accursed, hideous stranger, the despiser of the people!"
resounded from the galleries, and every hand pointed at Bar Noemi as he
stood on the topmost step of the platform which only a few moments
before they had covered with wreaths.
With a frenzied howl, the giant swung his sword aloft and shaking his
shapeless head, rushed, like a bloodthirsty lion up the steps of the
daïs.
"Help, Triton!" roared the mob. Only one soft, almost expiring voice
behind one of the columns of the amphitheatre sighed: "Help, Jehovah!"
Bar Noemi fell back not a single step. Motionless as a molten statue, he
awaited his antagonist on the top of the platform and avoiding his
furious blow, raised his own arm to strike.
The two weapons clashed together in the air. The huge broadsword of the
giant split in two at the hilt, and after describing a wide circle fell
into the arena, while the sword in Bar Noemi's right hand did not even
take a scratch.
The whole multitude was instantly dumb with astonishment. In that land
iron was unknown, every weapon was made of copper only, and the thin,
bluish-shimmering unknown metal had split in two the shining red sword
at the very first blow.
"Woe to Triton, woe!"
The terrified giant tried to protect himself with the broad silver
shield, from which the scalps of so many conquered enemies hung down.
The descending sword hissed, the uplifted shield groaned, and at the
second stroke the people saw the silver buckler split into two pieces
for all its potent magic symbols.
"Woe to Triton, woe!"
The stroke brought the giant to his knees. He could now only shield
himself with his huge strong arm; but Bar Noemi, with his left hand,
grasped his wrist so that the joints cracked, and dealt him, with his
right, a last tremendous blow.
The diamonds and topazes scattered sparks beneath the swift glancing
steel which fell upon them like a thunderbolt, and as if struck by
lightning the corpse of the savage giant rolled down the steps of the
golden daïs, his glazed eyes stupidly staring at the horror-stricken
multitude. The terrified mob fell with their faces to the ground while
the priests rent their clothes and flung themselves at Bar Noemi's feet.
With meekly bowed head, the priest of the megatherium crawled towards
him, and asked with a trembling voice--
"Thou God from a strange land who dost carry thunderbolts in thy hand,
what dost thou require of us?"
"My wife, whom you have taken from me, my Ark of the Covenant wherein
are the laws of Jehovah, and then I will leave the city."
At these words Byssenia, with tears of joy in her eyes, stepped forth
from behind the pillar which had concealed her, and covered the hands of
Bar Noemi, the strong, the irresistible Bar Noemi, with hot kisses.
"Oh, how blessed is this woman!" cried the women of Triton's city, for
it had never been their blissful lot to be able to say: "I am the wife
of one husband."
None dared to molest Bar Noemi with gibes and taunts as he left the
city. The escort they gave him did not even venture to raise their eyes
to his face.
"He is not a man," said the priests, "but the god of a strange people,
on whom no human hand has any power. A sinister, wrathful, and austere
divinity who has no place in Triton's city. Rejoice that he has quitted
you for ever!"