“And yet, Salome, how seldom did I discover a great mind in woman! What feminine Spinoza, what Bacon, what Apollonius have you encountered?”
“Woman considered herself the inspirer of man. She has preferred to remain behind the throne and whisper into his ear. She is forgotten. His name is carved in gold.”
“Is it merely that, O beautiful Princess?”
“That and her biological tragedy. That and the tyranny of the moon and the greater tyranny of childbirth.”
We walked silently between the rows of strange flowers and animals.
“Homuncula, however, overcomes both the moon and the horror of birth.”
I looked at her, expecting to see the crazy glint of Bluebeard’s eyes. But the eyes of Salome were as cool as the shadows of the roses.
“Is anyone interested in a new humanity in Europe or in America, Cartaphilus?”
“The last one who mentioned it was Goethe, the German poet. I visited him at the termination of the French Revolution, which broke out as you surmised, not long after your departure. Alas, he was as garrulous as an old woman and much more interested in the medal which Napoleon had pinned upon his chest and court intrigues than in Homunculus.”
“Homuncula, Cartaphilus. It would be futile to create a man…”
“Goethe shared your opinion, Salome:
“Goethe understood,” Salome remarked.
“He was blinded by his sexual nature. If he had been true to his own philosophy he would have concluded Faust:
Man is the creative principle!”
“Man is critical, not creative! Woman is the dark, the terrible Mother!” Salome exclaimed proudly.
“Goethe anticipates this, though he senses the horror of the Dark Mother… ‘Muetter—schreckliches Wort!’ ”
“ ‘Schrecklich’ in the sense of ‘tremendous.’ He is right,” Salome explained. “Over all mythologies hover the Norns, dark feminine creatures, mistresses of life and death. Goethe’s mind caught a glimpse of the truth!”
“The truth, perhaps, is the union of the Eternal Feminine and the Eternal Masculine—Salome and Cartaphilus!”
She smiled. “Perhaps. What more did Goethe tell you?”
“He was too elated over Napoleon’s colored ribbon which hung upon his chest to indulge in philosophy.”
“Who is this Napoleon, seducer of poets?”
“It is true,—you have been here for a century and a half…”
“During which time I refused to remember the rest of the world,” she interrupted.
“Napoleon became the emperor of France after the revolution proved a futile gesture.”
“As it was bound to prove.”
“We have seen so many revolutions, Salome, and so many emperors…”
I plucked a beetle which unfolded its hard wings, becoming a violet as blue as if a bit of Italian sky had been torn off and made more luminous by long polish.
“Napoleon, not taller than this shrub, galloped across Europe, his hand thrust into his uniform, his lips pouting, his brows knit, one curl—the last remnant of his hair—in disarray upon his forehead. Kings, princes, emperors, dismayed, dashed precipitously, leaving their thrones and their countries to the mercy of the Upstart. The vacant thrones he refilled with the members of his family; the treasures and museums he looted and transferred to Paris; the poets he corrupted by pinning medals on their chests. He passed through the world like a thunder-storm.”
Salome smiled.
I laughed heartily. “Il fait gémir le monde parce qu’il est incapable de faire gémir la paillasse. This is what a Polish Countess related to me. Napoleon had taken a great fancy to this lady who at first snubbed him, preferring me. His Majesty was infuriated. The countess was pretty, but not unusually so. ‘A splendid animal,’ Napoleon had called her. I pleaded with her. It was madness to refuse an Emperor and it might prove disastrous to her country. She consented to share the imperial couch.”
Salome smiled. “Cartaphilus must have felt thrilled to think of his own magnanimity, relinquishing his mistress to the emperor.”
“After all, he was only a mortal!… Well, Madame la Comtesse reappeared the next day, shaking with laughter. Mais, ma chère, qu’y a-t-il? When she managed to restrain her convulsions, she said: ‘Napoleon est un très grand empereur mais un très petit homme.’
“For two days and two nights, I had to quench the fires which His Majesty had kindled but was unable to quell.”
“What happened to this grand empereur?”
“He was finally defeated by all the monarchs combined who imprisoned him upon an island where he died, poor fellow, devoured by vermin and vanity.”
“Stupid mankind!” Salome exclaimed. “Is the New World different from Europe?”
“The New World, ma très chère, imitates the old. It has copied its vices perfectly and its virtues clumsily.”
“Ah, by the way, did you see Dr. Benjamin Franklin, Cartaphilus, as I suggested in my letter?”
“I saw Franklin.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“He looked like a debauched woman, was as practical as a Jewish peddler, had the imagination of a dray horse, uttered advices like a successful grocer—except once.” I laughed. “He told me not to get married but choose an elderly lady for a companion. It was cheaper, safer, her body was generally much younger than her face, and above all, she was grateful!”
Salome laughed. “Rather clever. And did you give him the money?”
“Certainly. But it was a bad investment. The Americans were so inconceivably sentimental that they considered a debt incurred for the sake of their liberty in the nature of a gift. The politicians could not conceive that any man desired to recover his money after such a splendid victory and the establishment of a democracy. I did not insist. America appeared as too profitable a field for future investments. Indeed, at present, I rule the world from the world’s new center—New York…”
“Le grand Empereur!” Salome laughed ironically.
“L’homme encore plus grand!” I added.
“Vanity, thy name is Cartaphilus!” she exclaimed.
Kotikokura reclined underneath a palm tree. A half dozen monkeys were playing about him. One of them, perched upon his knee, shrieked. Kotikokura answered him. There was a general noise like a tumultuous laughter.
Kotikokura began to play on his flute. The monkeys made a circle about his feet and listened, enraptured. The peacocks approached, spreading their tails. Small birds alighted and remained motionless. The swans stretched their necks, opening and shutting their bills. A squirrel, his tail in the air, dropped the nut which he had held in his forepaws, and did not budge. The tortoise approached, its head in the air like a priest at prayer. Several servants emerged from various parts of the house, open-eyed and open-mouthed. The major-domo stood in the distance, his large hands upon his enormous belly, his flat feet beating time.
Salome appeared on the balcony.
I threw her a kiss. She threw me a rose.
“Today you shall see the Homuncula, Cartaphilus,” Salome whispered. “Come.”
Salome locked and unlocked several iron doors. We walked through corridors, halls, rooms, turned in strange mazes, climbed and descended stairs.
“Why the secrecy, ma chère?” I ventured to ask.