The New Moon, page 10
A Stratiote chief who frequented Poequilon’s home took him one day to an Academy of gaming protected by the Governor for the support of a noble family. As they were going there, Poequilon said to him: “So, my dear Monomaque, you sometimes gamble?”
“Yes.”
“But do you always win?”
“No.”
“So then you’re in a bad mood?”
“No.”
“But is the man you’re playing against always of your character?”
“No.”
“Your adversary, in consequence, is sometimes in a bad mood?”
“Yes.”
“And when he’s in a bad mood, he irritates you?”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“But if he dared?”
“I’d kill him.”
“But what if he killed you?”
“I’d be dead; but that can’t happen; I’m the one who kills.”
“Now, you see, my dear Monomaque,” Poequilon added, “that it’s a great misfortune to kill someone, and an even greater one to be killed. A man of honor ought to gamble less than another, because the slightest offense ought to be more sensible to him than another. Any man who loses has difficulty containing himself, and by your estate, you can’t let anything pass; even supposing that you’re a good gambler, you’re often obliged to fight if you play often, and in my opinion, the game, as they say, isn’t worth the candle.”
As he finished this speech they arrived at the fateful tabernacle. Monomaque started to play against a tall phlegmatic stranger, who lost his money with as much composure as if he were threading pearls.
“See how that man loses,” whispered Monomaque to Poequilon. “The fine education he had received! That’s how I lose myself.” And he continued winning.
From time to time he sympathized politely with his adversary, who made no reply.
However, Monomaque eventually lost all that he had won. He lost it like a well brought up man. Then he lost all the money that he had brought to the table, and the education faltered. The he lost his jewelry, to his chagrin, and he reproached his adversary for not consoling him for his loss, as he had done himself. The foreigner replied, with his customary phlegm, that that kind of civility was not included in the rules of the game.
Having nothing more to wager, Monomaque borrowed a lot of money from Poequilon, which he lost. Poequilon went out several times to pick up dust and furnish Monomaque’s losses, but as he wanted to see an end to the scene he finally told him that he could not lend him anymore.
Monomaque offered to play on his word; the laconic stranger replied that he owed a revenge to someone. That was the last straw. Monomaque lost his education, no longer remembering father, mother or preacher; he had the ingratitude to accuse Poequilon of avarice and said that he wanted to stake his blood against the stranger.
“In that case,” the foreigner replied, “We need to play that game somewhere else.”
All three of them went out, and Monomaque received a wound from the stranger which dispensed him of fighting Poequilon.
Monomaque was taken home, having lost his blood, still wanting to lose the rest of his life in the presence of his wife and children, whom he left in destitution, and whom he urged to die of despair like himself.
Poequilon, a witness to that scene, said to him: “As for you, do what you like; although divine law does not permit a man to take his own life, such a resignation is sometimes a great benefit to society, and it’s probably the first act of justice you’ve ever committed in your life. As for your family, I’ll take responsibility for them; be sure in dying that they’ll be happier than they have ever been. My fortune will be their happiness, and your memory their salvation.”
That speech put balm into Monomaque’s blood; he blushed that someone cared so little for his life, and recognized that his vices merited such scorn. He begged Poequilon’s pardon and swore by Selenos that he would not gamble again.
Poequilon said to him: “In that case, you won’t survive your wound; so, adieu. That’s lucky for your children.”
XXXIV. A very generous wish.
When Olympia heard about that adventure she wept for humankind, and recounted the tragic event to her children, whose reason was developing. Shortly afterwards, Poequilon returned to Monomaque’s lodgings. He found him fully recovered, and it appeared to him that he had as much horror of gambling as he had once had passion, but as he placed little trust in such appearances he wished-for the time of wishing had arrived—that Monomaque would remain in that virtuous disposition for as long as he lived. It required nothing less than a special protection from Selenos to bring about such a change, and Poequilon judged the benefit so rare that he did not think it permissible to asked anything more of Selenos on that occasion.
XXXV. A model to follow.
Poequilon had naturally engraved in his heart the principle that the happiness of fortunate men is to make others happy. He sought every opportunity to spread with discernment the favors that he had received from Selenos, and as dust is a powerful motivating force on the Moon, he distributed with artistry and without affectation, to all those who had need of it, whether to live, to reestablish their reputation, to enter into their rights, to escape a glaring oppression or to avenge innocence, all that interest or favor could heap upon them. He discovered hidden merit, and brought it into the light.
All these transformations were as many miracles, which made the charm of life; when he saw someone unfortunate, he did not set out to determine whether or not it was by their own fault; the thought that a man’s duty is to help his brothers, and that it was the sole prerogative of the Divinity to read the depths of their hearts. He regarded with horror the cruel men who seem to take pleasure in seeing a poor wretch palpitate, and pay for their barbaric curiosity with meager alms, the prideful Sermonizers, the supposedly just men whom an unworthy prosperity renders insensible and can only relieve an unfortunate who falls at their feet after “having given the gods their due.”
Selenos saw with pleasure his favorite embracing virtue by choice, without ostentation and often without thinking that he was doing good, so the Genius granted the Fountain of Youth to Olympia, because the tender spouse was growing old, and Poequilon, only occupied with virtue and observing people for a considerable number of years, had not asked Selenos for anything.
Olympia was rejuvenated, and became more beautiful than ever. As for Poequilon, he drank so little of the elixir of Youth on that occasion that the liquid only took him back ten years, with the result that he had the external appearance of a man of fifty. One sees few examples of a husband making a wish to eternalize his wife, and one sees even fewer of a man who remains under the appearance of the chill of age, when he could adorn himself with the riches of Spring.
XXXVI. That will not last long.
That is the way that one ought to make use of treasures, but ordinarily, the rich are not Philosophers, and Philosophers are not rich. Poequilon was much more a rich man than a Philosopher, for while he was cultivating the Fine Arts and putting morality into action, he fell into a trap of voluptuousness as simply as a Publican of Verticephalia might have done.
Spectacles were flourishing then, the Sophocles of the Nation occupied the stage, and a beautiful Actress named Chrysophile sowed charm in the eyes and trouble in the heart. Poequilon was captured, like many others by the enchanting bait; the seductive tones of the Siren distracted him from Olympia and philosophy; our sage made love in the wings. He was fifty years old, but he was preferred to the most brilliant youth, because the beautiful Chrysophile was sometimes obliging, and she found in Poequilon the means to exercise the grandeur of her soul. All the handsome unfortunates of Verticephalia experienced her generosity, and Poequilon was delighted to have encountered a mistress so benevolent. He no longer occupied himself with doing good; Chrysophile did it for him, as she understood it. He gave her a palace, carriage and slaves, but she did not quit for that the career of glory; she was too fond of incense and domination to decide to be nothing other than amour in the depths of her palace. Her beauty and her grace subjugated the great; her talents captivated the Public; her imperious humor governed Authors; her favor tyrannized her troupe; and her virtue….
Let us pass on to the next Chapter.27
XXXVII. A very accurate portrait.
Morality borrows a pleasant voice.
Chrysophile had enabled Poequilon to experience countless sensualities, and her graces were always new to him, her caresses always varied; so Poequilon’s prodigality was proportionate to the love that that Cleopatra inspired in him: feasts, gifts, magnificent presents, little houses, contracts—for one can do little with actresses without contracts—nothing was spared. The courtesan was surprised herself by her lover’s generosity; she could not imagine how Poequilon was able to subsidize all the expenses that she caused him to make, because he did not tell her the secret of his fortune.
I do not know whether he perceived that the beauty was astonished by such a durable prosperity, or whether a Philosophical notion passed through his mind, but he took it into his head to pretend that he was ruined in order to test his mistress’ kind heart.
Poequilon was rather an eccentric Philosopher, to use that stratagem to sound out an Actress; on the Moon there are certain Philosophical maxims regarding Actresses, which are incontestable, among others, one that corresponds to one known on Earth: no money leads to loneliness.
He appeared one day before Chrysophile looking very pensive, and was obstinate for some time in hiding the reason for his melancholy from her; finally, as he could not contain himself any longer, he said to her: “Adorable Chrysophile, you love me and I love you, but I’m ruined, and I no longer have anything but my heart to offer you; I know that you are too tender and too delicate to think that you could forget a man who had laid so much at your feet….”
“What!” said Chrysophile. “You have no more resources? Is it really true?”
“But what do I need, if I still have you?”
“If you still have me…but think about it, Poequilon: at your age, married, with children, what can I do? I’ll talk to someone, see to it that you can get by, but we can’t continue to see one another; that would resemble a marriage of conscience, which would cover me with ridicule. Everyone would say that I’m a model of gratitude, and that I’m returning what you’ve given me—that would be unprecedented in our world, and I don’t want to be the butt of jokes, nor to expose you to it.”
“O Heaven!” said Poequilon. “Are you a Plebicole, Chrysophile?”
“Listen to me for the last time, my dear Poequilon,” said the beauty, “and don’t interrupt. We are Plebicoles before being Actresses, and if weren’t, we would never show ourselves in the Theater—not that the Theater is dishonoring; it’s our mores that seem to have dishonored it; but it’s a business matter, and it only consists, ordinarily, of our accessory. Under the mantle of Thalia, we’re sheltered from the research of petty Judges and we render ourselves necessary, on the one hand, by our talent, in order to acquire Protections on the other, which put us above the pettifogging laws that are the torment of devil-led women. So, when a man comes to bring his amour and his purse to an Actress, he’s doing nothing but coming to a Convent; our brilliant profession gives an illusion to the senses, and we make him pay dearly for that enchantment; we are, in sum, fashionable women, and you know that items of luxury and caprice are priceless; we are, sincerely, the lovers of anyone who pleases us and the Plebicoles of anyone who can pay; you were in the latter category. You’re too old for someone like me, who is young and beautiful, so I couldn’t be your lover; but as you were rich and you wanted from me what are known as the pleasures of love, I was quite willing to be your Plebicole, and apart from my heart, which I couldn’t give to your meager merit, I’ve given all the rest to your large fortune.”
“But cruel woman,” said Poequilon, “haven’t you told me a hundred times that you adored me?”
“What a fool you are, Poequilon. Ought you not to render yourself justice, and at the same time consider that I was only playing a role with you? Do you not know that Plebicoles have their affectations, and that that’s the objective of their art? Have I not sometimes made you happy, by giving you all the appearances of love, and sometimes by making you drink voluptuousness to the brim? You are even very fortunate that our felicity has lasted as long as your fortune, for if I had wearied of you I could have sent you away. We are free and mistresses of our charms, as Merchants are of their shops. Withdraw, then, to a corner of the world, taking these truths to heart, and convince yourself that we have our maxims, and that is to expiate our disorders that young fools and old debauchees are ruined. In all times and all lands, Plebicoles, and Actresses above all, are the living morality of their century; we cause men to return to their duty in spite of themselves, and we regard ourselves as instruments of the vengeance of honest women. Adieu.”
XXXVIII. A frame for the previous picture
One hears the truth when one is poor. Poequilon, convinced of the sentiments of his Chrysophile, went out furiously, because he still loved hr. He was destined for great humiliations. However, Olympia, only too well aware of his misconduct, made him tender reproaches. He promised to be wiser in future, but the project he formed of avenging himself on his impudent Actress closely resembled amour.
He informed Olympia that he was going to rejuvenate himself, and in fact, he gave himself the age of twenty. Handsome and well-built, rich and young, he flattered himself that he would infatuate Chrysophile, and take his revenge on her by passing into the arms of another at the moment when the Actress’ heart was most deeply attained. The plan of an idiot, my dear Poequilon!
In that seductive form he was soon on Chrysophile’s breast; the artful Actress improvised new graces; she lavished the caresses of twenty years upon him, and Poequilon, far from avenging himself, dreaded losing favors so precious. Chrysophile made her new lover the foster father of the entire troupe; she wined and dined all those simian individuals, who paid him in gambols: farces, gross epigrams and the vile make-up of a memory in pawn were collected with care to amuse the young magnificent, and those jesting schoolmasters told Poequilon that they were forming him.
Poequilon knew full well the baseness and ignorance of that entire cortege, but Chrysophile compensated him for it; a lover ought to be obliging. For this time, he believed that he was loved, and was not thinking of testing his mistress, when fate procured him the most fortunate of enlightenments. One day, he came into Chrysophile’s apartment quietly, believing that that Queen of twenty-four hours was resting; how surprised he was when he saw the Princess’s train-bearer substituting for his functions.
“What, Chrysophile!” he cried, “is this the way one carries a train in the dramatic world?”
The train-bearer ran away, and Chrysophile said to the imprudent newcomer: “What! That astonishes you? That poor fellow was pining away with love—should I have let him perish? Do you know that he’s a Gentleman of Verticephalia, who entered my service in order to be near to me? Do you know that he’s better looking than you? Do you know that he’s wittier? Do you know, too, that he has more…but you don’t know anything; go away and let me rest.”
Poequilon, fearing that if he argued, he would get another fine sermon full of morality and evidence, left Chrysophile, firmly resolved never to see her again.
XXXIX. The consequences of debauchery.
“That’s it,” said Poequilon. “Adieu forever, abject race. Oh Olympia, how ungrateful I am. How was I able to prefer that unworthy object to you, whose beauty, tenderness and virtue are incomparable?”
He returned to his wife and children; he sensed his love reanimating and his heart elevating in proportion to his appetite for legitimate pleasures; but Poequilon had to do penance for his debauchery; the infamous Chrysophile had caused Aphrodise to pass into his blood, and the imprudent fellow had borne that tribute into the bosom of chastity.
All Poequilon’s treasures could not protect him from the long and shameful consequences of a depraved amour. Olympia received the poison in her loins and brought into the world a daughter covered with her father’s opprobrium.
Selenos took pity on that faithful spouse and that innocent fruit; he extended his benevolent hand over those two objects of his compassion, but he struck Poequilon with the curse of Job; in vain he implored the clemency of the Genius; he had to wait a year in that frightful condition before being able to make a wish.
The Fountain of Youth did not prevent him from dying, and the Sarcotomes, to arrest the progress of the sores, deprived him of everything that he had employed so much to the prejudice of Olympia.
That year of dolor having finally lapsed, Poequilon asked one morning for a complete cure and obtained it; his body was entirely purified—but what the Sarcotomes had removed did not come back.
He requested it tearfully from Selenos, who caused him to hear these words: “Remember that you cannot make the same wish twice—but if Olympia makes that wish on your behalf, it will be granted, for what you are requesting is more hers than yours; You have been the despoiler of her possession; it was not misfortune that occasioned you that loss, it was vice and a relapse, and destiny has ordered that your regeneration depends on your wife’s wishes.”
Poequilon ran to his wife’s apartment in order to beg her to intercede with the Genius, but he found that she was no longer there. Selenos had removed her, with all her children, and had translocated them to the island of Eutoquia.
It did not take Poequilon long to perceive that he had been abandoned by his family; he regarded himself as a monster, for the protection of Selenos, seemingly accorded to Olympia, did not permit him to suspect that spouse—but the virtuous woman was unaware that Poequilon’s reestablishment was in her power. She had no idea that a prayer could work that miracle; she had no examples of it, and besides which, Selenos, in order to punish Poequilon, might well have distanced it from her thoughts.
