One of Cleopatra's Nights (23 page)

These wise remonstrances did not cure Candaules, whose passion augmented
in inverse ratio to the coldness shown him by the queen. And it had at
last brought him to that point that he could no longer keep the secrets
of the nuptial couch. A confidant became as necessary to him as to the
prince of a modern tragedy. He did not proceed, you may feel assured, to
fix his choice upon some crabbed philosopher of frowning mien, with a
flood of gray-and-white beard rolling down over a mantle in proud
tatters; nor a warrior who could talk of nothing save ballista,
catapults, and scythed chariots; nor a sententious Eupatrid full of
counsels and politic maxims; but Gyges, whose reputation for gallantry
caused him to be regarded as a connoisseur in regard to women.

One evening he laid his hand upon his shoulder in a more than ordinarily
familiar and cordial manner, and after giving him a look of peculiar
significance, he suddenly strode away from the group of courtiers,
saying in a loud voice:

"Gyges, come and give me your opinion in regard to my effigy, which the
Sicyon sculptors have just finished chiselling on the genealogical
bas-relief where the deeds of my ancestors are celebrated."

"O king, your knowledge is greater than that of your humble subject, and
I know not how to express my gratitude for the honor you do me in
deigning to consult me," replied Gyges, with a sign of assent.

Candaules and his favorite traversed several halls ornamented in the
Hellenic style, where the Corinthian acanthus and the Ionic volute
bloomed or curled in the capitals of the columns, where the friezes were
peopled with little figures in polychromatic plastique representing
processions and sacrifices, and they finally arrived at a remote portion
of the ancient palace whose walls were built with stones of irregular
form, put together without cement in the Cyclopean manner. This ancient
architecture was colossally proportioned and weirdly grim. The
immeasurable genius of the elder civilizations of the Orient was there
legibly written, and recalled the granite and brick debauches of Egypt
and Assyria. Something of the spirit of the ancient architects of the
tower of Lylax survived in those thick-set pillars with their
deep-fluted trunks, whose capitals were formed by four heads of bulls,
placed forehead to forehead, and bound together by knots of serpents
that seemed striving to devour them, an obscure cosmogonic symbol
whereof the meaning was no longer intelligible, and had descended into
the tomb with the hierophants of preceding ages. The gates were neither
of a square nor rounded form. They described a sort of ogive much
resembling the mitre of the Magi, and by their fantastic character gave
still more intensity to the character of the building.

This portion of the palace formed a sort of court surrounded by a
portico whose architecture was ornamented with the genealogical
bas-relief to which Candaules had alluded.

In the midst thereof sat Heracles upon a throne, with the upper part of
his body uncovered, and his feet resting upon a stool, according to the
rite for the representation of divine personages. His colossal
proportions would otherwise have left no doubt as to his apotheosis, and
the archaic rudeness and hugeness of the work, wrought by the chisel of
some primitive artist, imparted to his figure an air of barbaric
majesty, a savage grandeur more appropriate, perhaps, to the character
of this monster-slaying hero than would have been the work of a sculptor
consummate in his art.

On the right of the throne were Alcæus, son of the hero and of Omphale;
Ninus, Belus, Argon, the earlier kings of the dynasty of the
Heracleidæ, then all the line of intermediate kings, terminating with
Ardys, Alyattes, Meles or Myrsus, father of Candaules, and finally
Candaules himself.

All these personages, with their hair braided into little strings, their
beards spirally twisted, their oblique eyes, angular attitudes, cramped
and stiff gestures, seemed to own a sort of factitious life, due to the
rays of the setting sun, and the ruddy hue which time lends to marble in
warm climates. The inscriptions in antique characters, graven beside
them after the manner of legends, enhanced still more the mysterious
weirdness of the long procession of figures in strange barbarian garb.

By a singular chance, which Gyges could not help observing, the statue
of Candaules occupied the last available place at the right hand of
Heracles; the dynastic cycle was closed, and in order to find a place
for the descendants of Candaules it would be absolutely necessary to
build a new portico and commence the formation of a new bas-relief.

Candaules, whose arm still rested on the shoulder of Gyges, walked
slowly round the portico in silence. He seemed to hesitate to enter into
the subject, and had altogether forgotten the pretext under which he had
led the captain of his guards into that solitary place.

"What would you do, Gyges," said Candaules, at last breaking the silence
which had been growing painful to both, "if you were a diver, and should
bring up from the green bosom of the ocean a pearl of incomparable
purity and lustre, and of worth so vast as to exhaust the richest
treasures of the earth?"

"I would inclose it," answered Gyges, a little surprised at this brusque
question, "in a cedar box overlaid with plates of brass, and I would
bury it under a detached rock in some desert place; and from time to
time, when I should feel assured that none could see me, I would go
thither to contemplate my precious jewel and admire the colors of the
sky mingling with its nacreous tints."

"And I," replied Candaules, his eye illuminated with enthusiasm, "if I
possessed so rich a gem, I would enshrine it in my diadem, that I might
exhibit it freely to the eyes of all men, in the pure light of the sun,
that I might adorn myself with its splendor and smile with pride when I
should hear it said: 'Never did king of Assyria or Babylon, never did
Greek or Trinacrian tyrant possess so lustrous a pearl as Candaules, son
of Myrsus and descendant of Heracles, King of Sardes and of Lydia!
Compared with Candaules, Midas, who changed all things to gold, were
only a mendicant as poor as Irus.'"

Gyges listened with astonishment to this discourse of Candaules, and
sought to penetrate the hidden sense of these lyric divagations. The
king appeared to be in a state of extraordinary excitement: his eyes
sparkled with enthusiasm; a feverish rosiness tinted his cheeks; his
dilated nostrils inhaled the air with unusual effort.

"Well, Gyges," continued Candaules, without appearing to notice the
uneasiness of his favorite, "I am that diver. Amid this dark ocean of
humanity, wherein confusedly move so many defective or misshapen beings,
so many forms incomplete or degraded, so many types of bestial
ugliness, wretched outlines of nature's experimental essays, I have
found beauty, pure, radiant, without spot, without flaw, the ideal made
real, the dream accomplished, a form which no painter or sculptor has
ever been able to translate upon canvas or into marble—I have found
Nyssia!"

"Although the queen has the timid modesty of the women of the Orient,
and that no man save her husband has ever beheld her features, Fame,
hundred-tongued and hundred-eared, has celebrated her praise throughout
the world," answered Gyges, respectfully inclining his head as he spoke.

"Mere vague, insignificant rumors. They say of her, as of all women not
actually ugly, that she is more beautiful than Aphrodite or Helen; but
no person could form even the most remote idea of such perfection. In
vain have I besought Nyssia to appear unveiled at some public festival,
some solemn sacrifice, or to show herself for an instant leaning over
the royal terrace, bestowing upon her people the immense favor of one
look, the prodigality of one profile view, more generous than the
goddesses who permit their worshippers to behold only pale simulacra of
ivory or alabaster. She would never consent to that. Now there is one
strange thing which I blush to acknowledge even to you, dear Gyges.
Formerly I was jealous; I wished to conceal my amours from all eyes, no
shadow was thick enough, no mystery sufficiently impenetrable. Now I can
no longer recognize myself. I have the feelings neither of a lover nor a
husband; my love has melted in adoration like thin wax in a fiery
brazier. All petty feelings of jealousy or possession have vanished. No,
the most finished work that heaven has ever given to earth, since the
day that Prometheus held the flame under the right breast of the statue
of clay, cannot thus be kept hidden in the chill shadow of the
gynæceum. Were I to die, then the secret of this beauty would forever
remain shrouded beneath the sombre draperies of widowhood! I feel myself
culpable in its concealment, as though I had the sun in my house, and
prevented it from illuminating the world. And when I think of those
harmonious lines, those divine contours which I dare scarcely touch
with a timid kiss, I feel my heart ready to burst; I wish that some
friendly eye could share my happiness and, like a severe judge to whom a
picture is shown, recognize after careful examination that it is
irreproachable, and that the possessor has not been deceived by his
enthusiasm. Yes, often do I feel myself tempted to tear off with rash
hand those odious tissues, but Nyssia, in her fierce chastity, would
never forgive me. And still I cannot alone endure such felicity. I must
have a confidant for my ecstasies, an echo which will answer my cries of
admiration, and it shall be none other than you."

Having uttered these words, Candaules brusquely turned and disappeared
through a secret passage. Gyges, left thus alone, could not avoid
noticing the peculiar concourse of events which seemed to place him
always in Nyssia's path. A chance had enabled him to behold her beauty,
though walled up from all other eyes. Among many princes and satraps she
had chosen to espouse Candaules, the very king he served; and through
some strange caprice, which he could only regard as fateful, this king
had just made him, Gyges, his confidant in regard to the mysterious
creature whom none else had approached, and absolutely sought to
complete the work of Boreas on the plain of Bactria! Was not the hand of
the gods visible in all these circumstances? That spectre of beauty,
whose veil seemed to be lifted slowly, a little at a time, as though to
enkindle a flame within him, was it not leading him, without his having
suspected it, toward the accomplishment of some mighty destiny? Such
were the questions which Gyges asked himself, but being unable to
penetrate the obscurity of the future, he resolved to await the course
of events, and left the Court of Images, where the twilight darkness was
commencing to pile itself up in all the angles, and to render the
effigies of the ancestors of Candaules yet more and more weirdly
menacing.

Was it a mere effort of light, or was it rather an illusion produced by
that vague uneasiness with which the boldest hearts are filled by the
approach of night amid ancient monuments? As he stepped across the
threshold Gyges fancied that he heard deep groans issue from the stone
lips of the bas-reliefs, and it seemed to him that Heracles was making
enormous efforts to loosen his granite club.

On the following day Candaules again took Gyges aside and continued the
conversation begun under the portico of the Heracleidæ. Having freed
himself from the embarrassment of broaching the subject, he freely
unbosomed himself to his confidant; and had Nyssia been able to overhear
him she might perhaps have been willing to pardon his conjugal
indiscretions for the sake of his passionate eulogies of her charms.

Gyges listened to all these bursts of praise with the slightly
constrained air of one who is yet uncertain whether his interlocutor is
not feigning an enthusiasm more ardent than he actually feels, in order
to provoke a confidence naturally cautious to utter itself. Candaules at
last said to him in a tone of disappointment: "I see, Gyges, that you
do not believe me. You think I am boasting, or have allowed myself to be
fascinated like some clumsy laborer by a robust country girl on whose
cheeks Hygeia has crushed the gross hues of health. No, by all the gods!
I have collected within my home, like a living bouquet, the fairest
flowers of Asia and of Greece. I know all that the art of sculptors and
painters has produced since the time of Dædalus, whose statues walked
and spoke. Linus, Orpheus, Homer, have taught me harmony and rhythm. I
do not look about me with Love's bandage blind-folding my eyes. I judge
of all things coolly. The passions of youth never influence my
admiration, and when I am as withered, decrepit, wrinkled, as Tithonus
in his swaddling bands, my opinion will be still the same. But I forgive
your incredulity and want of sympathy. In order to understand me fully,
it is necessary that you should see Nyssia in the radiant brilliancy of
her shining whiteness, free from jealous drapery, even as nature with
her own hands moulded her in a lost moment of inspiration which never
can return. This evening I will hide you in a corner of the bridal
chamber ... you shall see her!"

"Sire, what do you ask of me?" returned the young warrior with
respectful firmness. "How shall I, from the depths of my dust, from the
abyss of my nothingness, dare to raise my eyes to this sun of
perfections, at the risk of remaining blind for the rest of my life, or
being able to see naught but a dazzling spectre in the midst of
darkness? Have pity on your humble slave, and do not compel him to an
action so contrary to the maxims of virtue. No man should look upon what
does not belong to him. We know that the immortals always punish those
who through imprudence or audacity surprise them in their divine nudity.
Nyssia is the loveliest of all women; you are the happiest of lovers and
husbands. Heracles, your ancestor, never found in the course of his many
conquests aught to compare with your queen. If you, the prince of whom
even the most skilful artists seek judgment and counsel—if you find her
incomparable, of what consequence can the opinion of an obscure soldier
like me be to you? Abandon, therefore, this fantasy, which I presume to
say is unworthy of your royal majesty, and of which you would repent so
soon as it had been satisfied."