Part 4

Now you see the result of five or six months of living in a civilization of which I have not been a part. Certainly, I have never been foolhardy and I prefer to flee from blows to having the blows scathe me; but nonetheless, I would never have trembled, in the old days, like a hare at the shadow of my ears. Could it be the reading of your newspapers which has distracted me? I think so. An honest man—at least, I have the appearance of one—can no longer sit facing and smiling at the playful affectations of two little girls without having his ears tingle with the baying of a pack of hounds.

Yet these young lasses with hair down their backs are pretty; but since this foolish adventure, I detest them. Ah! how I suffer through my cowardice and faithfulness. Cydalise, always Cydalise! Does she imagine that, because I love her, I can love no one but her?

Alas! I am enchained. After having broken my bonds, I have myself rewelded them. I fear lest she grumble, I fear lest she ridicule, I fear her eyes, especially, her eyes in which I see and tremblingly await the dawning of suspicion.

Is it thus you love, you others? With such laceration and an equal submissiveness? Do you feel within you the roarings of an impatient and obedient animal? Perhaps, at bottom, men and gods are formed of the same elements, with the exception that the fauns have a more energetic leaven? This might easily be the case, since in all times the gods have mingled with your women and, to please and serve them, have occasionally abdicated their divinity. We all are children of destiny and our immortal life is, after all, but a succession of human lives badly joined to each other by the confused mortar of recollection. What matters the past to me, today? I easily perceive that there is only a present, for the present effaces every other instant of time. There is such a difference between the being I was yesterday and the being I am today that it is only with difficulty that I can establish any logical connection. Duration, or what you call by this name, is only an illusion of the passage of time. But it is motionless for me, who am ever the same and whose life is always recommencing, rather than continuing, since duration is time. Do you understand? My dear, I have read the metaphysicians and have concluded that life means nothing to mortals, since it has an end, and nothing to the gods, since it has none. All things are equal in absurdity. Yet, I still have a vague reminiscence of pleasures I knew as a free animal. I did not act the animal every day, but neither do I do so every day with Cydalise. By Jupiter! if I came to such a pass that I loved no longer, what would I become between these four walls, or outside, among those swarming Yahoos!

I want Cydalise to take me with her to the people she delights with her art. I must familiarize myself with external movement and speech. Have I not everything needful to please? Yes, I am satisfied with myself when I gaze into my darling’s mirror. Besides, since she looks upon me with pleasure, why should others be startled? I had no doubts concerning myself in the woody dells when my limbs were plastered with dried mud, with moss and leaves clinging to my hairy body; and never did woman flee long before me without bringing on an opportune fall. It is true that everything seemed good to me at that time and that I have since become more fastidious. I am even astounded by the number of ugly and unattractive women we meet in our walks. I jest so loudly about it to Cydalise that she scolds me, but she holds my opinion and often softly murmurs: “What figures?”

I did not wish to relate my experiences with the young girls to Cydalise. I have changed my mind. I want her to know of it. I even want to exaggerate the dangers—almost imaginary—which I risked among these Yahoos, so that she may see the necessity of familiarizing me with the world.

Yahoos! That is the feeling you all give me. Do not be offended! There are women, there are men among the Yahoos.

ANTIPHILOS, _Satyr._

VIII

FENNEL WATER

VIII

Toulon, April 1.

Friend, I thank you for your advice which I found to the point. Everything has succeeded beautifully. My chagrin has touched Cydalise. It was real. I had but to feign an excess of feeling and simulate despair. A week of high comedy has reduced her to acquiescence. How easy it is to deceive women! I came to this conclusion long ago with the naive nymphs of my fatherland; women, just a little more subtle, fall into the same snares. Occupied with themselves more than with anyone else, and totally confident of the power of their charms, they do not know that one can deprive oneself of them for a week, merely to acquire that superior thing,—liberty. Creatures of instinct, they are superior in the conflicts of instinct, but the exercise of intelligence puts them to rout, because they never think of crediting their adversaries with this quality. Cydalise understood but one thing, that I might escape her tenderness; ever since, she redoubles her cajoleries. Mine reassure her and, as I have been well received by the society she frequents, we are more than ever united.

I secretly made preparations for my new mode of life. From the very first, I found myself at my ease. I owe it to myself, I said, to the antiquity and divinity of my race, and I assumed the disillusioned attitude of a superior person exiled among the Scythians. I converse little, save when Cydalise is near enough to nudge me with her elbow or knee, and by degree I am acquiring the reputation of a contemptuous or indifferent man.

“Some gentleman’s son, some solid country squire,” I have heard people remark.

Cydalise, to whom I repeated this, laughed heartily.

“Isn’t it true!” she kept on saying.

She informed me that a country squire signifies a nobleman of the country who has remained slightly rustic. Stroking my beard, she kissed me before everybody. This brought queer little cries from many of the women present. It took place in the café de l’Amirauté, where I made my debut in the career of a man of the world, of the vast world.

Women gaze at me intently. This does not astonish me, for I must seem supernatural to them, but hardly any one of them has yet pleased me, and Cydalise sees her anxieties dissipated from day to day. She has entrusted me to one of her friends, an old naval officer who has known human nature of every kind and who tells me, from morning to night, of his sea voyages and experiences. He is very proud of having known a girl named Rarahu who was inconsolable, like Calypso at the departure of Ulysses, and whom he, notwithstanding, consoled.

“I have never seen my equal,” he tells me, “in consoling mulatto girls abandoned by the whites.”

This inferior love inspires me with some pity, but I am glad to know of his function in love. If I ever leave Cydalise to follow my destiny, which is unlimited, besides, I shall place her in the hands of this fine fellow.

A crony came to see him and they began to recount what they term their lucky fortunes. This comrade is very agreeable, but a trifle of a bore.

What a poverty of recollections and sensations! From their recitals there emanates an indefinable odor of smutty talk which sickens. As for myself, love never made me laugh. It was to me the most serious, the most profound thing in the world. I have always found a savor of infinity even with the coarse farm girl, smelling of cow dung.

Besides, I really believe that love gives us what we already possess and that it can give us this alone. That is why, to natures like mine, the quality of the adversary matters little, allowing for youth and strength. Yet beauty has always been a fountain wherein my forces increased, and where I have ever found my desires renewed as soon as I abandoned myself to the secret of the waters.

But beauty is so rare! I can confess to you that even the immortal nymphs are sometimes a little flat-nosed, and there is a common quality in their eyebrows which are too close together, and their hair which falls too far down. Like myself, before the transformation, they are redolent of the earth, dead leaves and flowers crushed by thighs. Do not dream of those loves which are beautiful only by reason of their unconsciousness. They can still delight me, I can still renew my original essence with them and the vigorous youth of my Phrygian desires, but your Cydalises, so precious through their very fragility, surpass the deliciousness of the immortal creatures, and it is their skin which is fragrant with the odor of violets.

My two sailors drank a sort of grass-colored water with the aroma of fennel. Their complexion took on richer hues and, playing with some little bones, like Sicilian shepherds, they exchanged no speech save for a few words whose meaning I could not seize. They had forgotten the women and I was not at all sorry, for I hardly relish the insane conversations of which they are the pretext.

I was free to gaze at those who now filled the café and who seemed to be paying no attention to me. Yet I noticed that two eyes, apparently straying listlessly, were fixed on my figure from time to time, and vanity caused me to smile. A smile answered me. I, who was not drinking any of the fennel water, felt myself grow redder than my companions, and I suddenly made a movement to rise. My old instincts came to the surface, I was about to run toward my pleasure, as in days past. An instant, I thought I breathed real fennel and the odor of the Cogolin oranges. Had she also risen, had she made a gesture of flight like the wild creatures I once knew, how I would have bounded in pursuit! But she took a newspaper, behind which she concealed her face, and the source of enticement being removed, I remained tranquil. Cydalise approached. It is probable that her arrival, perceived in the mirror, had caused the newspaper to be unfolded. I promised myself to be, henceforth, more a master of myself and to survey the mirrors.

My beloved Cydalise annoyed, then exasperated me by stupidly calling me “her old Tityrus”; this caused the release of a little rusty spring in the old officer who labouriously let fall these words:

“_Tityre tu recubans, recubans_....”

The newspaper did not budge, but I prudently lowered my eyes. Fortunately, the game of bones was ended, the two old men turned towards her and assailed her with gallantries. The one who had arrived last was the most assiduous and Cydalise, amused, recovered a little of her animation. She accepted a glass of grass juice and the gentlemen profited by the occasion to fill their cups, begging me to follow their example.

“Not he, not he!” Cydalise cried. “It makes him wild. He wants some milk.”

The milk was bluish and tasted like old paper, but I preferred it to the fennel. How often, in my wanderings through fields, have I not pressed Io’s drugs to my lips! I wanted to mention this aloud. Happily, the grimace I made, in tasting this strange beverage, removed from my mind this unreasonable piece of confidence.

I kept silent, imbibing the benefits of civilization without a word.

“Well, there are compensations,” I told myself.

We left. On the threshold I turned toward the newspaper. It had been lowered. Cydalise examined the folds of her dress. I foolishly threw a kiss at the face which now was looking at me.

“Are you coming, Tityrus?”

I followed.

Am I beginning to understand?

ANTIPHILOS, _Satyr._

IX

EREBUS

IX

Toulon, June 17.

You now know the manner of my life for the past two months, my dear friend, and although you have not let me hear from you for such a length of time, I am going to tell you something of myself, to call forth your advice. Young persons and the eternally young gods need the remonstrances of the sages, and you are a sage, you who do not scorn satyrs. You know that the manner of their life exposes them to unpleasant adventures among mortals more infatuated with the idea of love than with love itself.

It seems that some sort of Olympic games are being celebrated at Turin and that different representatives from the whole world have come there to dispute for the embossed cups and laurel wreaths. A director of the performances who traveled through this place became enamoured of Cydalise’s face and entreated her to represent the goddesses, in unveiled poses, before the assembled throngs. He supposes that a beautiful body always follows from a fine figure and I must confess to you that he was not deceived, in this instance. Cydalise is like myself; she has no false modesty and she would even consider it criminal obstinately to conceal from the world what the supreme Creator of men and satyrs has formed for the delight of eyes. She therefore accepted,—she has since then laughingly told me that the tyrant of this country, whom I thought more humane, far from wishing to lighten the draperies of goddesses, insists on their being very opaque and heavy; but this is a secondary point in the story, so we will pass it by,—without concealing the fact that there was a question of me; this embarrassed her greatly. She said that she feared all sorts of dangers for her dear Antiphilos, and Antiphilos who preferred to remain at Toulon hastened to reveal a scandalous joy in the idea of the trip. So she has left me here, promising—and her director has agreed to this—to return once a week to spend a day with me.

She faithfully returns, as she has promised, bringing on each trip a quantity of golden money with the most diverse effigies: I would never have supposed that the world contained so many tyrants. If they wage war, as was customary in the old days, in what state must the earth be, O master of Olympus? I am the guardian of this treasure, which steadily increases. I do not yet know very well what can be done with this gold; I have other means of persuasion, but Cydalise knows, and I content myself with fulfilling my office which is to stuff all this gold in a bag, make it fast and be silent.

I have other means of persuasion. They are apparent in the eagerness of my eyes which are not, as the poet says, “hard, brilliant and sad,” but soft, brilliant and joyous, eyes of a lover, eyes of a magnet, eyes which attract hearts and eyes, as the magic stone, sapphires. You have guessed that my conquest of the Admiralty café has fallen into my arms and that she was satisfied to be there. She is far from being as comely as Cydalise and hardly gives me any pleasure outside that of variety. Yet she, too, knows the rules of the game and all its finesse. What especially stimulates her is the idea of deceiving Cydalise, whom she knows and who has never wanted to associate with her. Let us hope, O god of the winged heel, that she proceeds not to boast of her good fortune! I will make a sacrifice to Harpocrates so that he may place a seal on her lips. I have called her Erebus; why, she does not know. Her body is like those gilded flambeaux, smudged with black, that I remember having seen at Ephesis after the conflagration. As we were strolling on the wharf the other day, a sailor sang:

Elle est un peu brunette, Ce sont les plus belles gens.

She began to listen and laugh:

“Is that so, Satyros?”

“Yes, Erebus.”

I have not confided anything to her, but she has beheld, carved on the poop of a Greek vessel, a satyr’s head that resembled me; and a sailor spelled for her the name with which she calls me. All this amuses me. The Phrygian Oreads used to call me this name for the fun of provoking me, and they would stamp a figure on the ground, telling of my victory. O sweet land of Phrygia!

All the same, I have entreated her to keep this name for our intimacy, for the satyrs have more and more acquired a bad reputation in this country and it maddens me. Did not Erebus have the idea, the other day, to buy and read aloud a newspaper proudly called _The Journal of Satyrs_:

“Ah! Ah! there is the paper for you! The only thing it lacks is your picture.”

By Apollo! What incoherencies! What nonsense! What idea, anyway, have the slaves who write these pages, of a satyr? Despite my debonair attitude of mind, I grew angry both against the journal and against the archons who have thrown, it seems, the slaves into prison. They are but fools. They hardly merit the punishment with which Priapus threatens plunderers of the orchards: _inrumabo!_ I explained all this to Erebus: she became serious. We began to speak of other things.

This is to what you expose your satyr, Cydalise, in letting him stroll through the streets, while the Olympic youths drain the enchased cups, filled with a dark wine, in your honor. Erebus only likes champagne. I am always faithful to my milk with the paper taste and, when Erebus is astonished at this, I tell her that milk is the wine of satyrs. She quickly assumes a smiling expression: it is her manner of intimating that she has understood.

When Cydalise returns, we pass every minute at our home, the days as well as the nights. Thus I avoid chance meetings and explanations, which would cause me to lose my head, for my only diplomacy consists in taking to flight and in concealing myself behind a tree trunk. How fettered I feel myself with your civilization and how unreasonable women are! This they call treason, betrayal. But I love them all. Do they not all belong to me, since I can satisfy them all? Neither they, nor you perhaps, yet know what it is to be a satyr, the quality of that force of nature unchained by desire. Cydalise will have to make a decision and admit that satyrs are not formed for constancy and that caprice is a divine thing.

O caprice, diversity of forms under the eternal law, caprice with changing eyes!

Caprice, slender maiden with breasts of brass, matron where autumn and its colors are enthroned!

Caprice, nymphs stained with blackberries, with argil backs, with cheeks cut by brambles, pure or impure like the earth,—and dry leaves rustle in their entangled tresses!

Caprice, the young shepherds run towards the cot, and the shepherdesses takes each other by the hand, crying like fowl surprised by a fox, and turning round to laugh between their cries!

Caprice, pungent odor of ferns, odor of shoulders under willows and of limbs in streams still white with the foam of the daughter of Latona bathing there!

Caprice!

Let not this flight of fancy surprise you. The summer has mounted to my head.

ANTIPHILOS, _Satyr._

X

DIOGENES

X

Toulon, July 15.

Joyful, indeed, and happy is my lot since I became a domesticated faun. No longer do I experience hunger or cold, absence of love, hostility of mankind, the bites of dogs. But with my happiness there mingles a vague sense of shame, an indescribable feeling of being cramped. I have the sensation of diminishing divinity: the man grows in me, subtly and gradually stifling my primitive nature, which was Desire. I have the nostalgia of desire. Once I desired fruits, leaves, women; and now that these things have come to me, I dream only of being naked and famished in a desert. Oh! what attractions solitude has for him who lives in the midst of humanity!

The Phrygian Aesop—I knew his brothers, who were handsome and stupid—has written a fable to prove that liberty is the chief blessing. I heard it in the Greek of my infancy, and young girls learned it by heart on my knees. It is true and false, like every human invention. Liberty is a burden which one desires to throw on the ground, when one knows nothing else, and in the slavery of the happiest of civilizations there is a bitterness that oppresses the heart. Once my very sadness was a sort of joy that caused my life to expand flower-like and become glorious. My sadness was a momentary transformation of the forces of my being and when, by chance, I encountered someone with whom to share this mood, it bourgeoned in the voluptuous silence of nights until it equalled the very immensity of the world. Now and then I suffered, but I never experienced ennui. What is this new distemper whose existence I learned at the same time that I knew its name? One day I observed that things around me were becoming colorless and that the eyes of women were fading at my approach, like a metal mirror. I no longer interested myself in anything, I dreamed of lands that were inexistent. My past itself, so rich in adventures, no longer sufficed to fix memory on any single point of my history, and my dormant desire stirred not at the prospect of future loves.

This only lasted several days, but I am still affected by it and I feel that I shall never be cured. Cydalise’s return brought a temporary recovery; since her second departure, I support my life without extracting much pleasure out of it. Erebus has forsaken me, I am alone, and it is in vain that Déidamie, a little Greek girl, puts herself in my way when I go to see my friends who drink the green water. She is a friend of Erebus, who has also bequeathed me an old dealer in syllables who used to write love letters for her in return for the pleasure her visits gave him. She had a habit of tossing her dark hair at him, while letting fall a medley of words that were sharp and peppery. Erebus called him her secretary and I address him as Diogenes. I have often heard their quarrels and debates, one wishing to clothe the secret thoughts of Erebus in fitting diction, the other hurling them forth at random, as naked as Aphrodite emerging from the waves, and much less chaste. How comical my old Diogenes seemed in this struggle. But I was hurt to learn that Erebus trafficked in her charms, with the same unconsciousness as Destiny. The manner of my breaking with her is an insignificant episode. Several days afterwards, I learned that she had left with an English traveler who had no desire to view sunny sites without a companion. Diogenes was in tears when he told me the news. He attends when I dress and awaits my morning talk, but it is I who make him speak.

His discourse is pleasant and bitter. At first I was immensely amused, but his disillusioned words soon made me reflect on myself and on life more than he would have wished, and I think it is perhaps this that has made me ill. It is not surprising to find him disenchanted, for he is old and poor, reduced to associate with a circle of people that goes against his instincts and habits. I have perhaps erred in calling him Diogenes, for he is more melancholy than cynical, more resigned than depraved. Little as I am versed in apparel and styles, he seems to me to be garbed with a sort of old-fashioned refinement. His hair has the color of hemp one sees steeping in the ponds of fields; it is as discolored as his soul. His linen is always immaculate, his complexion is rosy, his hands fine, his eyes gentle and vague; and his fleshy lips give him an air of goodness and innocent sensuality.

There are priests of Jupiter here with this appearance, but some Greek phrases he let fall have revealed to me the old professor of eloquence or philosophy. Now I listen to his explanations of life without dismay and I even experience the pleasures of the initiate. Sometimes I seem to hear a Bacchant, sometimes a Mithriac, and sometimes again, a man in his cups. Wine, which makes me wild and which I like only in the grape, makes him bold. When he visits me, I always order a flagon the color of amber or of new roses, the sight of which is pleasant to my eyes, and I hearken to his wisdom while brushing my hair or polishing my horns, for I keep no secrets from him.

Like Erebus, he familiarly calls me Satyros, and I find this quite natural. She was the subject of our first conversation, or rather of his first discourse: