कहानी - रेगिस्तान की माया / ओनोरे द बाल्ज़ाक Story - A Passion in the Desert / Honore De Balzac
कहानी - रेगिस्तान की माया
ओनोरे द बाल्ज़ाक
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Story - A Passion in the Desert
Honore De Balzac (Translated by Ernest Dowson)
“The whole show is dreadful,” she cried coming out of the menagerie of M. Martin. She had just been looking at that daring speculator “working with his hyena,”—to speak in the style of the programme.
“By what means,” she continued, “can he have tamed these
animals to such a point as to be certain of their affection for——”
“What seems to you a problem,” said I, interrupting, “is
really quite natural.”
“Oh!” she cried, letting an incredulous smile wander over
her lips.
“You think that beasts are wholly without passions?” I asked
her. “Quite the reverse; we can communicate to them all the vices arising in
our own state of civilization.”
She looked at me with an air of astonishment.
“But,” I continued, “the first time I saw M. Martin, I
admit, like you, I did give vent to an exclamation of surprise. I found myself
next to an old soldier with the right leg amputated, who had come in with me.
His face had struck me. He had one of those heroic heads, stamped with the seal
of warfare, and on which the battles of Napoleon are written. Besides, he had
that frank, good-humored expression which always impresses me favorably. He was
without doubt one of those troopers who are surprised at nothing, who find
matter for laughter in the contortions of a dying comrade, who bury or plunder
him quite light-heartedly, who stand intrepidly in the way of bullets;—in fact,
one of those men who waste no time in deliberation, and would not hesitate to
make friends with the devil himself. After looking very attentively at the
proprietor of the menagerie getting out of his box, my companion pursed up his
lips with an air of mockery and contempt, with that peculiar and expressive
twist which superior people assume to show they are not taken in. Then, when I
was expatiating on the courage of M. Martin, he smiled, shook his head
knowingly, and said, ‘Well known.’
“‘How “well known”?’ I said. ‘If you would only explain me
the mystery, I should be vastly obliged.’
“After a few minutes, during which we made acquaintance, we
went to dine at the first restauranteur’s whose shop caught our eye. At dessert
a bottle of champagne completely refreshed and brightened up the memories of
this odd old soldier. He told me his story, and I saw that he was right when he
exclaimed, ‘Well known.’”
When she got home, she teased me to that extent, was so
charming, and made so many promises, that I consented to communicate to her the
confidences of the old soldier. Next day she received the following episode of
an epic which one might call “The French in Egypt.”
During the expedition in Upper Egypt under General Desaix, a
Provencal soldier fell into the hands of the Maugrabins, and was taken by these
Arabs into the deserts beyond the falls of the Nile.
In order to place a sufficient distance between themselves
and the French army, the Maugrabins made forced marches, and only halted when
night was upon them. They camped round a well overshadowed by palm trees under
which they had previously concealed a store of provisions. Not surmising that
the notion of flight would occur to their prisoner, they contented themselves
with binding his hands, and after eating a few dates, and giving provender to
their horses, went to sleep.
When the brave Provencal saw that his enemies were no longer
watching him, he made use of his teeth to steal a scimiter, fixed the blade
between his knees, and cut the cords which prevented him from using his hands;
in a moment he was free. He at once seized a rifle and a dagger, then taking
the precautions to provide himself with a sack of dried dates, oats, and powder
and shot, and to fasten a scimiter to his waist, he leaped on to a horse, and
spurred on vigorously in the direction where he thought to find the French
army. So impatient was he to see a bivouac again that he pressed on the already
tired courser at such speed, that its flanks were lacerated with his spurs, and
at last the poor animal died, leaving the Frenchman alone in the desert. After
walking some time in the sand with all the courage of an escaped convict, the
soldier was obliged to stop, as the day had already ended. In spite of the
beauty of an Oriental sky at night, he felt he had not strength enough to go
on. Fortunately he had been able to find a small hill, on the summit of which a
few palm trees shot up into the air; it was their verdure seen from afar which
had brought hope and consolation to his heart. His fatigue was so great that he
lay down upon a rock of granite, capriciously cut out like a camp-bed; there he
fell asleep without taking any precaution to defend himself while he slept. He
had made the sacrifice of his life. His last thought was one of regret. He
repented having left the Maugrabins, whose nomadic life seemed to smile upon
him now that he was far from them and without help. He was awakened by the sun,
whose pitiless rays fell with all their force on the granite and produced an
intolerable heat—for he had had the stupidity to place himself adversely to the
shadow thrown by the verdant majestic heads of the palm trees. He looked at the
solitary trees and shuddered—they reminded him of the graceful shafts crowned
with foliage which characterize the Saracen columns in the cathedral of Arles.
But when, after counting the palm trees, he cast his eyes
around him, the most horrible despair was infused into his soul. Before him
stretched an ocean without limit. The dark sand of the desert spread further
than eye could reach in every direction, and glittered like steel struck with
bright light. It might have been a sea of looking-glass, or lakes melted
together in a mirror. A fiery vapor carried up in surging waves made a
perpetual whirlwind over the quivering land. The sky was lit with an Oriental splendor
of insupportable purity, leaving naught for the imagination to desire. Heaven
and earth were on fire.
The silence was awful in its wild and terrible majesty.
Infinity, immensity, closed in upon the soul from every side. Not a cloud in
the sky, not a breath in the air, not a flaw on the bosom of the sand, ever
moving in diminutive waves; the horizon ended as at sea on a clear day, with
one line of light, definite as the cut of a sword.
The Provencal threw his arms round the trunk of one of the
palm trees, as though it were the body of a friend, and then, in the shelter of
the thin, straight shadow that the palm cast upon the granite, he wept. Then
sitting down he remained as he was, contemplating with profound sadness the
implacable scene, which was all he had to look upon. He cried aloud, to measure
the solitude. His voice, lost in the hollows of the hill, sounded faintly, and
aroused no echo—the echo was in his own heart. The Provencal was twenty-two
years old:—he loaded his carbine.
“There’ll be time enough,” he said to himself, laying on the
ground the weapon which alone could bring him deliverance.
Viewing alternately the dark expanse of the desert and the
blue expanse of the sky, the soldier dreamed of France—he smelled with delight
the gutters of Paris—he remembered the towns through which he had passed, the
faces of his comrades, the most minute details of his life. His Southern fancy
soon showed him the stones of his beloved Provence, in the play of the heat
which undulated above the wide expanse of the desert. Realizing the danger of
this cruel mirage, he went down the opposite side of the hill to that by which
he had come up the day before. The remains of a rug showed that this place of
refuge had at one time been inhabited; at a short distance he saw some palm
trees full of dates. Then the instinct which binds us to life awoke again in
his heart. He hoped to live long enough to await the passing of some
Maugrabins, or perhaps he might hear the sound of cannon; for at this time
Bonaparte was traversing Egypt.
This thought gave him new life. The palm tree seemed to bend
with the weight of the ripe fruit. He shook some of it down. When he tasted
this unhoped-for manna, he felt sure that the palms had been cultivated by a
former inhabitant—the savory, fresh meat of the dates were proof of the care of
his predecessor. He passed suddenly from dark despair to an almost insane joy.
He went up again to the top of the hill, and spent the rest of the day in
cutting down one of the sterile palm trees, which the night before had served
him for shelter. A vague memory made him think of the animals of the desert;
and in case they might come to drink at the spring, visible from the base of
the rocks but lost further down, he resolved to guard himself from their visits
by placing a barrier at the entrance of his hermitage.
In spite of his diligence, and the strength which the fear
of being devoured asleep gave him, he was unable to cut the palm in pieces,
though he succeeded in cutting it down. At eventide the king of the desert
fell; the sound of its fall resounded far and wide, like a sigh in the
solitude; the soldier shuddered as though he had heard some voice predicting
woe.
But like an heir who does not long bewail a deceased
relative, he tore off from this beautiful tree the tall broad green leaves
which are its poetic adornment, and used them to mend the mat on which he was
to sleep.
Fatigued by the heat and his work, he fell asleep under the
red curtains of his wet cave.
In the middle of the night his sleep was troubled by an
extraordinary noise; he sat up, and the deep silence around allowed him to
distinguish the alternative accents of a respiration whose savage energy could
not belong to a human creature.
A profound terror, increased still further by the darkness,
the silence, and his waking images, froze his heart within him. He almost felt
his hair stand on end, when by straining his eyes to their utmost he perceived
through the shadow two faint yellow lights. At first he attributed these lights
to the reflections of his own pupils, but soon the vivid brilliance of the
night aided him gradually to distinguish the objects around him in the cave,
and he beheld a huge animal lying but two steps from him. Was it a lion, a
tiger, or a crocodile?
The Provencal was not sufficiently educated to know under
what species his enemy ought to be classed; but his fright was all the greater,
as his ignorance led him to imagine all terrors at once; he endured a cruel
torture, noting every variation of the breathing close to him without daring to
make the slightest movement. An odor, pungent like that of a fox, but more
penetrating, more profound,—so to speak,—filled the cave, and when the
Provencal became sensible of this, his terror reached its height, for he could
no longer doubt the proximity of a terrible companion, whose royal dwelling
served him for a shelter.
Presently the reflection of the moon descending on the
horizon lit up the den, rendering gradually visible and resplendent the spotted
skin of a panther.
This lion of Egypt slept, curled up like a big dog, the
peaceful possessor of a sumptuous niche at the gate of an hotel; its eyes
opened for a moment and closed again; its face was turned towards the man. A
thousand confused thoughts passed through the Frenchman’s mind; first he
thought of killing it with a bullet from his gun, but he saw there was not
enough distance between them for him to take proper aim—the shot would miss the
mark. And if it were to wake!—the thought made his limbs rigid. He listened to
his own heart beating in the midst of the silence, and cursed the too violent
pulsations which the flow of blood brought on, fearing to disturb that sleep
which allowed him time to think of some means of escape.
Twice he placed his hand on his scimiter, intending to cut
off the head of his enemy; but the difficulty of cutting the stiff short hair
compelled him to abandon this daring project. To miss would be to die for
CERTAIN, he thought; he preferred the chances of fair fight, and made up his
mind to wait till morning; the morning did not leave him long to wait.
He could now examine the panther at ease; its muzzle was
smeared with blood.
“She’s had a good dinner,” he thought, without troubling
himself as to whether her feast might have been on human flesh. “She won’t be
hungry when she gets up.”
It was a female. The fur on her belly and flanks was
glistening white; many small marks like velvet formed beautiful bracelets round
her feet; her sinuous tail was also white, ending with black rings; the
overpart of her dress, yellow like burnished gold, very lissome and soft, had
the characteristic blotches in the form of rosettes, which distinguish the
panther from every other feline species.
This tranquil and formidable hostess snored in an attitude
as graceful as that of a cat lying on a cushion. Her blood-stained paws,
nervous and well armed, were stretched out before her face, which rested upon
them, and from which radiated her straight slender whiskers, like threads of
silver.
If she had been like that in a cage, the Provencal would
doubtless have admired the grace of the animal, and the vigorous contrasts of
vivid color which gave her robe an imperial splendor; but just then his sight
was troubled by her sinister appearance.
The presence of the panther, even asleep, could not fail to
produce the effect which the magnetic eyes of the serpent are said to have on
the nightingale.
For a moment the courage of the soldier began to fail before
this danger, though no doubt it would have risen at the mouth of a cannon
charged with shell. Nevertheless, a bold thought brought daylight to his soul
and sealed up the source of the cold sweat which sprang forth on his brow. Like
men driven to bay, who defy death and offer their body to the smiter, so he,
seeing in this merely a tragic episode, resolved to play his part with honor to
the last.
“The day before yesterday the Arabs would have killed me,
perhaps,” he said; so considering himself as good as dead already, he waited
bravely, with excited curiosity, the awakening of his enemy.
When the sun appeared, the panther suddenly opened her eyes;
then she put out her paws with energy, as if to stretch them and get rid of
cramp. At last she yawned, showing the formidable apparatus of her teeth and
pointed tongue, rough as a file.
“A regular petite maitresse,” thought the Frenchman, seeing
her roll herself about so softly and coquettishly. She licked off the blood
which stained her paws and muzzle, and scratched her head with reiterated
gestures full of prettiness. “All right, make a little toilet,” the Frenchman
said to himself, beginning to recover his gaiety with his courage; “we’ll say
good morning to each other presently;” and he seized the small, short dagger
which he had taken from the Maugrabins.
At this moment the panther turned her head toward the man
and looked at him fixedly without moving. The rigidity of her metallic eyes and
their insupportable luster made him shudder, especially when the animal walked
towards him. But he looked at her caressingly, staring into her eyes in order
to magnetize her, and let her come quite close to him; then with a movement
both gentle and amorous, as though he were caressing the most beautiful of
women, he passed his hand over her whole body, from the head to the tail,
scratching the flexible vertebrae which divided the panther’s yellow back. The
animal waved her tail voluptuously, and her eyes grew gentle; and when for the
third time the Frenchman accomplished this interesting flattery, she gave forth
one of those purrings by which cats express their pleasure; but this murmur
issued from a throat so powerful and so deep that it resounded through the cave
like the last vibrations of an organ in a church. The man, understanding the
importance of his caresses, redoubled them in such a way as to surprise and
stupefy his imperious courtesan. When he felt sure of having extinguished the
ferocity of his capricious companion, whose hunger had so fortunately been
satisfied the day before, he got up to go out of the cave; the panther let him
go out, but when he had reached the summit of the hill she sprang with the
lightness of a sparrow hopping from twig to twig, and rubbed herself against
his legs, putting up her back after the manner of all the race of cats. Then
regarding her guest with eyes whose glare had softened a little, she gave vent
to that wild cry which naturalists compare to the grating of a saw.
“She is exacting,” said the Frenchman, smilingly.
He was bold enough to play with her ears; he caressed her
belly and scratched her head as hard as he could. When he saw that he was
successful, he tickled her skull with the point of his dagger, watching for the
right moment to kill her, but the hardness of her bones made him tremble for
his success.
The sultana of the desert showed herself gracious to her
slave; she lifted her head, stretched out her neck and manifested her delight
by the tranquility of her attitude. It suddenly occurred to the soldier that to
kill this savage princess with one blow he must poniard her in the throat.
He raised the blade, when the panther, satisfied no doubt,
laid herself gracefully at his feet, and cast up at him glances in which, in
spite of their natural fierceness, was mingled confusedly a kind of good will.
The poor Provencal ate his dates, leaning against one of the palm trees, and
casting his eyes alternately on the desert in quest of some liberator and on
his terrible companion to watch her uncertain clemency.
The panther looked at the place where the date stones fell,
and every time that he threw one down her eyes expressed an incredible
mistrust.
She examined the man with an almost commercial prudence.
However, this examination was favorable to him, for when he had finished his
meager meal she licked his boots with her powerful rough tongue, brushing off
with marvelous skill the dust gathered in the creases.
“Ah, but when she’s really hungry!” thought the Frenchman.
In spite of the shudder this thought caused him, the soldier began to measure
curiously the proportions of the panther, certainly one of the most splendid
specimens of its race. She was three feet high and four feet long without
counting her tail; this powerful weapon, rounded like a cudgel, was nearly
three feet long. The head, large as that of a lioness, was distinguished by a
rare expression of refinement. The cold cruelty of a tiger was dominant, it was
true, but there was also a vague resemblance to the face of a sensual woman.
Indeed, the face of this solitary queen had something of the gaiety of a
drunken Nero: she had satiated herself with blood, and she wanted to play.
The soldier tried if he might walk up and down, and the
panther left him free, contenting herself with following him with her eyes,
less like a faithful dog than a big Angora cat, observing everything and every
movement of her master.
When he looked around, he saw, by the spring, the remains of
his horse; the panther had dragged the carcass all that way; about two thirds
of it had been devoured already. The sight reassured him.
It was easy to explain the panther’s absence, and the
respect she had had for him while he slept. The first piece of good luck
emboldened him to tempt the future, and he conceived the wild hope of
continuing on good terms with the panther during the entire day, neglecting no
means of taming her, and remaining in her good graces.
He returned to her, and had the unspeakable joy of seeing
her wag her tail with an almost imperceptible movement at his approach. He sat
down then, without fear, by her side, and they began to play together; he took
her paws and muzzle, pulled her ears, rolled her over on her back, stroked her
warm, delicate flanks. She let him do what ever he liked, and when he began to
stroke the hair on her feet she drew her claws in carefully.
The man, keeping the dagger in one hand, thought to plunge
it into the belly of the too confiding panther, but he was afraid that he would
be immediately strangled in her last convulsive struggle; besides, he felt in
his heart a sort of remorse which bid him respect a creature that had done him
no harm. He seemed to have found a friend, in a boundless desert; half
unconsciously he thought of his first sweetheart, whom he had nicknamed
“Mignonne” by way of contrast, because she was so atrociously jealous that all
the time of their love he was in fear of the knife with which she had always
threatened him.
This memory of his early days suggested to him the idea of
making the young panther answer to this name, now that he began to admire with
less terror her swiftness, suppleness, and softness. Toward the end of the day
he had familiarized himself with his perilous position; he now almost liked the
painfulness of it. At last his companion had got into the habit of looking up
at him whenever he cried in a falsetto voice, “Mignonne.”
At the setting of the sun Mignonne gave, several times
running, a profound melancholy cry. “She’s been well brought up,” said the
lighthearted soldier; “she says her prayers.” But this mental joke only
occurred to him when he noticed what a pacific attitude his companion remained
in. “Come, ma petite blonde, I’ll let you go to bed first,” he said to her,
counting on the activity of his own legs to run away as quickly as possible,
directly she was asleep, and seek another shelter for the night.
The soldier waited with impatience the hour of his flight,
and when it had arrived he walked vigorously in the direction of the Nile; but
hardly had he made a quarter of a league in the sand when he heard the panther
bounding after him, crying with that saw-like cry more dreadful even than the
sound of her leaping.
“Ah!” he said, “then she’s taken a fancy to me, she has
never met anyone before, and it is really quite flattering to have her first
love.” That instant the man fell into one of those movable quicksands so
terrible to travelers and from which it is impossible to save oneself. Feeling
himself caught, he gave a shriek of alarm; the panther seized him with her
teeth by the collar, and, springing vigorously backwards, drew him as if by
magic out of the whirling sand.
“Ah, Mignonne!” cried the soldier, caressing her
enthusiastically; “we’re bound together for life and death but no jokes, mind!”
and he retraced his steps.
From that time the desert seemed inhabited. It contained a
being to whom the man could talk, and whose ferocity was rendered gentle by
him, though he could not explain to himself the reason for their strange
friendship. Great as was the soldier’s desire to stay upon guard, he slept.
On awakening he could not find Mignonne; he mounted the
hill, and in the distance saw her springing toward him after the habit of these
animals, who cannot run on account of the extreme flexibility of the vertebral
column. Mignonne arrived, her jaws covered with blood; she received the wonted
caress of her companion, showing with much purring how happy it made her. Her
eyes, full of languor, turned still more gently than the day before toward the
Provencal, who talked to her as one would to a tame animal.
“Ah! mademoiselle, you are a nice girl, aren’t you? Just
look at that! So we like to be made much of, don’t we? Aren’t you ashamed of
yourself? So you have been eating some Arab or other, have you? That doesn’t
matter. They’re animals just the same as you are; but don’t you take to eating
Frenchmen, or I shan’t like you any longer.”
She played like a dog with its master, letting herself be
rolled over, knocked about, and stroked, alternately; sometimes she herself
would provoke the soldier, putting up her paw with a soliciting gesture.
Some days passed in this manner. This companionship
permitted the Provencal to appreciate the sublime beauty of the desert; now
that he had a living thing to think about, alternations of fear and quiet, and
plenty to eat, his mind became filled with contrast and his life began to be
diversified.
Solitude revealed to him all her secrets, and enveloped him
in her delights. He discovered in the rising and setting of the sun sights
unknown to the world. He knew what it was to tremble when he heard over his
head the hiss of a bird’s wing, so rarely did they pass, or when he saw the
clouds, changing and many colored travelers, melt one into another. He studied
in the night time the effect of the moon upon the ocean of sand, where the
simoom made waves swift of movement and rapid in their change. He lived the
life of the Eastern day, marveling at its wonderful pomp; then, after having
reveled in the sight of a hurricane over the plain where the whirling sands
made red, dry mists and death-bearing clouds, he would welcome the night with
joy, for then fell the healthful freshness of the stars, and he listened to
imaginary music in the skies. Then solitude taught him to unroll the treasures
of dreams. He passed whole hours in remembering mere nothings, and comparing
his present life with his past.
At last he grew passionately fond of the panther; for some
sort of affection was a necessity.
Whether it was that his will powerfully projected had
modified the character of his companion, or whether, because she found abundant
food in her predatory excursions in the desert, she respected the man’s life,
he began to fear for it no longer, seeing her so well tamed.
He devoted the greater part of his time to sleep, but he was
obliged to watch like a spider in its web that the moment of his deliverance
might not escape him, if anyone should pass the line marked by the horizon. He
had sacrificed his shirt to make a flag with, which he hung at the top of a
palm tree, whose foliage he had torn off. Taught by necessity, he found the
means of keeping it spread out, by fastening it with little sticks; for the
wind might not be blowing at the moment when the passing traveler was looking
through the desert.
It was during the long hours, when he had abandoned hope,
that he amused himself with the panther. He had come to learn the different
inflections of her voice, the expressions of her eyes; he had studied the
capricious patterns of all the rosettes which marked the gold of her robe.
Mignonne was not even angry when he took hold of the tuft at the end of her
tail to count her rings, those graceful ornaments which glittered in the sun
like jewelry. It gave him pleasure to contemplate the supple, fine outlines of
her form, the whiteness of her belly, the graceful pose of her head. But it was
especially when she was playing that he felt most pleasure in looking at her;
the agility and youthful lightness of her movements were a continual surprise
to him; he wondered at the supple way in which she jumped and climbed, washed
herself and arranged her fur, crouched down and prepared to spring. However
rapid her spring might be, however slippery the stone she was on, she would
always stop short at the word “Mignonne.”
One day, in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed
through the air. The man left his panther to look at his new guest; but after
waiting a moment the deserted sultana growled deeply.
“My goodness! I do believe she’s jealous,” he cried, seeing
her eyes become hard again; “the soul of Virginie has passed into her body;
that’s certain.”
The eagle disappeared into the air, while the soldier
admired the curved contour of the panther.
But there was such youth and grace in her form! she was
beautiful as a woman! the blond fur of her robe mingled well with the delicate
tints of faint white which marked her flanks.
The profuse light cast down by the sun made this living
gold, these russet markings, to burn in a way to give them an indefinable
attraction.
The man and the panther looked at one another with a look
full of meaning; the coquette quivered when she felt her friend stroke her
head; her eyes flashed like lightning—then she shut them tightly.
“She has a soul,” he said, looking at the stillness of this
queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, solitary and burning
like them.
“Well,” she said, “I have read your plea in favor of beasts;
but how did two so well adapted to understand each other end?”
“Ah, well! you see, they ended as all great passions do
end—by a misunderstanding. For some reason ONE suspects the other of treason;
they don’t come to an explanation through pride, and quarrel and part from
sheer obstinacy.”
“Yet sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look
is enough—but anyhow go on with your story.”
“It’s horribly difficult, but you will understand, after
what the old villain told me over his champagne. He said—‘I don’t know if I
hurt her, but she turned round, as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth caught
hold of my leg—gently, I daresay; but I, thinking she would devour me, plunged
my dagger into her throat. She rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart;
and I saw her dying, still looking at me without anger. I would have given all
the world—my cross even, which I had not got then—to have brought her to life
again. It was as though I had murdered a real person; and the soldiers who had
seen my flag, and were come to my assistance, found me in tears.’
“‘Well sir,’ he said, after a moment of silence, ‘since then
I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in Russia, in France; I’ve certainly
carried my carcase about a good deal, but never have I seen anything like the
desert. Ah! yes, it is very beautiful!’
“‘What did you feel there?’ I asked him.
“‘Oh! that can’t be described, young man! Besides, I am not
always regretting my palm trees and my panther. I should have to be very
melancholy for that. In the desert, you see, there is everything and nothing.’
“‘Yes, but explain——’
“‘Well,’ he said, with an impatient gesture, ‘it is God
without mankind.’”
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