life in travelling?"
"Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be able
to accomplish it," said the unknown with a singular smile; "and I made
some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season." Although
Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes gave forth
gleams of extraordinary ferocity.
"You have suffered a great deal, sir?" said Franz inquiringly.
Sinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied, "What makes you
suppose so?"
"Everything," answered Franz,--"your voice, your look, your pallid
complexion, and even the life you lead."
"I?--I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am
king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I get
tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like
one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by
delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I
have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or
appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you had
tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never return
to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish there."
"Revenge, for instance!" observed Franz.
The unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate
into the depth of the heart and thoughts. "And why revenge?" he asked.
"Because," replied Franz, "you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by
society, has a fearful account to settle with it."
"Ah," responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh which displayed
his white and sharp teeth. "You have not guessed rightly. Such as you
see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I shall go to
Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the little man in the blue cloak."
"And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?"
"Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you
that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long--it will happen one
day or the other."
"And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?"
"I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain
arrangements."
"I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor
to repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality
displayed to me at Monte Cristo."
"I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure," replied the host,
"but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability,
incognito."
The supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the
unknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to
which his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or
rather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them on
the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with
a silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table
roused Franz's curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of greenish
paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was perfectly
unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the cup
contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting his
eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment. "You
cannot guess," said he, "what there is in that small vase, can you?"
"No, I really cannot."
"Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia which
Hebe served at the table of Jupiter."
"But," replied Franz, "this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through
mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human name;
in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which, to tell
the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?"
"Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed," cried Sinbad; "we
frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without regarding
it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing it. Are you
a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste this, and the
mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you. Are you a man
of imagination--a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of possibility
disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you advance free in
heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of unfettered revery. Are
you ambitious, and do you seek after the greatnesses of the earth? taste
this, and in an hour you will be a king, not a king of a petty kingdom
hidden in some corner of Europe like France, Spain, or England, but king
of the world, king of the universe, king of creation; without bowing at
the feet of Satan, you will be king and master of all the kingdoms of
the earth. Is it not tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy
thing, since it is only to do thus? look!" At these words he uncovered
the small cup which contained the substance so lauded, took a
teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his lips, and swallowed
it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent backwards. Franz did
not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite sweetmeat, but when he
had finished, he inquired,--"What, then, is this precious stuff?"
"Did you ever hear," he replied, "of the Old Man of the Mountain, who
attempted to assassinate Philip Augustus?"
"Of course I have."
"Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the
mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were
magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens
isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect,
and there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which
transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs,
ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took
for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous,
so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave
it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck
down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing
that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life of
delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a slight
foretaste."
"Then," cried Franz, "it is hashish! I know that--by name at least."
"That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish--the purest and
most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria,--the hashish of Abou-Gor, the
celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a
palace, inscribed with these words, 'A grateful world to the dealer in
happiness.'"
"Do you know," said Franz, "I have a very great inclination to judge for
myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies."
"Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin--judge, but do not confine yourself
to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a
fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle
in nature against this divine substance,--in nature which is not made
for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat, the
dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme, then
the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what changes
occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with the joys
of the assumed existence, that you would desire to live no longer, but
to dream thus forever. When you return to this mundane sphere from
your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a
Lapland winter--to quit paradise for earth--heaven for hell! Taste the
hashish, guest of mine--taste the hashish."
Franz's only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous
preparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and lift
it to his mouth. "Diable!" he said, after having swallowed the divine
preserve. "I do not know if the result will be as agreeable as you
describe, but the thing does not appear to me as palatable as you say."
"Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the
substances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea,
porter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did you
like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their pheasants
with assafoetida, and the Chinese eat swallows' nests? Eh? no! Well, it
is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in the world
will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which now appears
to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the adjoining chamber,
which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us coffee and pipes." They
both arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad--and whom we have
occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some title by
which to distinguish him--gave some orders to the servant, Franz entered
still another apartment. It was simply yet richly furnished. It was
round, and a large divan completely encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling,
floor, were all covered with magnificent skins as soft and downy as the
richest carpets; there were heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas,
striped tiger-skins from Bengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted
beautifully, like those that appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia,
fox-skins from Norway, and so on; and all these skins were strewn in
profusion one on the other, so that it seemed like walking over the most
mossy turf, or reclining on the most luxurious bed. Both laid themselves
down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes and amber mouthpieces
were within reach, and all prepared so that there was no need to smoke
the same pipe twice. Each of them took one, which Ali lighted and then
retired to prepare the coffee. There was a moment's silence, during
which Sinbad gave himself up to thoughts that seemed to occupy him
incessantly, even in the midst of his conversation; and Franz abandoned
himself to that mute revery, into which we always sink when smoking
excellent tobacco, which seems to remove with its fume all the troubles
of the mind, and to give the smoker in exchange all the visions of the
soul. Ali brought in the coffee. "How do you take it?" inquired the
unknown; "in the French or Turkish style, strong or weak, sugar or none,
cool or boiling? As you please; it is ready in all ways."
"I will take it in the Turkish style," replied Franz.
"And you are right," said his host; "it shows you have a tendency for an
Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know how
to live. As for me," he added, with one of those singular smiles which
did not escape the young man, "when I have completed my affairs in
Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me
again, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan."
"Ma foi," said Franz, "it would be the easiest thing in the world; for I
feel eagle's wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those wings I
could make a tour of the world in four and twenty hours."
"Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings,
and fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over
you; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we
are here to ease your fall." He then said something in Arabic to Ali,
who made a sign of obedience and withdrew, but not to any distance. As
to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the bodily
fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the events of
the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the first approach
of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be aware of the
coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his
perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses seemed to
redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it was not
the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen before he
slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all the blue of
the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of the summer
breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his sailors,--songs so clear
and sonorous, that they would have made a divine harmony had their notes
been taken down,--he saw the Island of Monte Cristo, no longer as a
threatening rock in the midst of the waves, but as an oasis in the
desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, the songs became louder, for an
enchanting and mysterious harmony rose to heaven, as if some Loreley had
decreed to attract a soul thither, or Amphion, the enchanter, intended
there to build a city.
At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without shock,
as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued strains
of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to descend,
several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that which may be
supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from such perfumes
as set the mind a dreaming, and such fires as burn the very senses; and
he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from Sinbad, his singular
host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed to fade away and
become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows of the magic
lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the chamber of
statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps which watch
in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure. They were the
same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, with eyes of
fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair. They were
Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated courtesans. Then
among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian angel in the midst
