Chapter II · V

I took leave of the old lighterman, and with elastic steps quitted the pier, taking the road home and philosophizing with all the unhurried calm of a poet, while a biting breeze from the open sea pinched nose and ears relentlessly.

QUEEN MAB’S VEIL

Queen Mab, in her chariot made of a single pearl, drawn by four beetles with golden breastplates and jewel-encrusted wings, traveling upon a sunbeam, slipped through the window of a garret where four lean, bearded, insolent men were lamenting their misfortune.

At that time the fairies had distributed their gifts to mortals. To some they had given mysterious wands that filled the heavy coffers of commerce with gold; to others, wondrous ears of corn whose grains heaped the granaries with wealth; to others, crystals through which they could behold gold and precious gems in the bowels of Mother Earth; to some, thick manes and Goliath muscles, with huge hammers to beat glowing iron; and to others, strong heels and agile legs to mount swift steeds that drink the wind and trail their manes in the gallop.

The four men were complaining. To one a quarry had fallen by lot; to another, the rainbow; to another, rhythm; to another, the azure sky.

Queen Mab heard their words. The first said: “Well then! Here I am in the great struggle of my marble dreams! I have quarried the block and hold the chisel. You all possess gifts: some gold, others harmony, others light; I think of white and divine Venus, displaying her naked beauty beneath the ceiling the color of the sky. I wish to give line and plastic beauty to the mass, and make colorless blood, like that of the gods, course through the statue’s veins. I hold the spirit of Greece within my brain, and I love the nudes where the nymph flees and the faun stretches forth his arms. Oh, Phidias! To me you are proud and august as a demigod in the sanctuary of eternal beauty, a king before an army of loveliness casting their magnificent chitons before your eyes, revealing the splendor of form in their bodies of rose and snow.”

“You strike, wound, and subdue the marble, and the stroke rings harmonious as in verse, while the sun-loving cicada flatters you from beneath the virgin vine leaves. For you are the fair, luminous Apollos, the severe, sovereign Minervas. Like a magician you turn rock into image and elephant tusk into a banquet cup. And seeing your greatness I feel the agony of my littleness. For the glorious times have fled. For I tremble before modern eyes. For I behold the immense ideal and my exhausted strength. For as I chisel the block, discouragement eats into my heart.”

And the second said: “As for today, I shall snap my brushes. Why do I want the rainbow and this vast palette of a flowered field if in the end my canvas will not be admitted to the Salon? What shall I undertake? I have explored all schools, all artistic inspirations. I have painted Diana’s torso and the Madonna’s face. I have begged the fields for their colors and hues; I have courted light like a mistress and embraced her like a beloved. I have been a worshipper of the nude, with its splendors, its carnation tints, and its fleeting half-tones. On my canvases I have traced the nimbi of saints and the wings of cherubim. Ah, but ever the bitter disenchantment! The future! Selling a Cleopatra for two pesetas just to buy lunch!”

“And I, who in the tremor of my inspiration could paint the great picture I hold within!”

And the third said: “My soul lost in the grand illusion of my symphonies, I fear every disappointment. I listen to all harmonies, from Terpander’s lyre to Wagner’s orchestral fantasies. My ideals shine amid my inspired daring. I possess the philosopher’s perception who heard the music of the spheres. Every sound can be captured; all echoes admit of combinations. Everything fits into the compass of my chromatic scales.”

“Vibrant light is a hymn, and the melody of the forest finds an echo in my heart. From the roar of the tempest to the song of the bird, all blends and entwines in infinite cadence.”

“Meanwhile, I behold only the mocking rabble and the asylum cell.”

And the last said: “We all drink from the clear water of the Ionian spring. But the ideal floats in the azure; and that spirits may enjoy supreme light, they must ascend. I possess verse of honey, verse of gold, and verse of red-hot iron. I am the amphora of celestial perfume: I possess love. Dove, star, nest, lily—you know my dwelling. For immeasurable flights I have eagle’s wings that cleave the hurricane with magical strokes. And to find rhymes, I seek them in two mouths meeting; the kiss bursts, I pen the stanza, and then, if you behold my soul, you shall know my muse. I love epics, for from them blows the heroic breath stirring the banners waving above spears and plumes trembling upon helmets; lyric songs, for they speak of goddesses and loves; and eclogues, fragrant with verbena, thyme, and the holy breath of the rose-crowned ox. I would write something immortal; yet a future of poverty and hunger crushes me.”

Then Queen Mab, from the bottom of her chariot made of a single pearl, took an azure veil, almost impalpable, as though woven of sighs or the glances of fair, pensive angels. And that veil was the veil of dreams, of sweet dreams that make life appear rosy. And with it she enveloped the four lean, bearded, insolent men. They ceased to be mournful, for hope entered their breasts, and into their heads entered the cheerful sun, accompanied by that little imp of vanity that consoles poor artists in their deep disappointments.

And ever since, in the garrets of those brilliant unfortunates where the blue dream floats, the future is contemplated like dawn, laughter is heard banishing sorrow, and strange farandoles are danced around a white Apollo, a lovely landscape, an old violin, or a yellowed manuscript.

THE SONG OF GOLD

That day a tattered man—by his look a beggar, perhaps a pilgrim, perchance a poet—arrived beneath the shade of tall poplars at the grand avenue of palaces, where onyx and porphyry, agate and marble, challenge each other in haughty pride; where lofty columns, beautiful friezes, and gilded cupolas receive the pale caress of the dying sun.

Behind window panes in those vast mansions of wealth were the faces of gallant women or charming children. Behind iron grilles one guessed at sprawling gardens, lush greensward dotted with roses, and branches swaying softly and rhythmically as if governed by a cadence. And far within those great salons there must be purple tapestries woven with gold, white statues, Chinese bronzes, vases adorned with blue fields and dense rice paddies, great draperies gathered like skirts and decked with opulent flowers, where oriental ochre makes light shimmer upon radiant silk. Then Venetian mirrors, rosewood and cedar, mother-of-pearl and ebony, and the open black piano smiling with keys like a lovely set of teeth; crystal chandeliers where profuse candles raise the aristocracy of their white wax. Oh, and beyond! Beyond, the treasured painting mellowed by time, the portrait bearing the signature of Durand or Bonnat, and exquisite watercolors where rosy tints seem to emerge from pure skies, bathing everything in a sweet wave from the distant horizon to the humble, trembling ivy. And beyond...

(Evening dies.

A gleaming, lacquered carriage arrives at the palace gates. A couple steps out and enters the mansion with such arrogance that the beggar reflects: decidedly, the young eagle and his mate are entering their nest. The horses, spirited and restless, dash off at a whip-crack, dragging the carriage and making the stones spark. Night.)

Then, in that madman’s brain hidden beneath a threadbare hat, a germ of an idea sprouted, passed to his chest as an oppression, and reached his lips as a hymn that set his tongue on fire and made his teeth chatter. It was the vision of all beggars, all suicides, all drunkards, of rags and sores, of all who live—good God!—in perpetual night, groping in darkness, falling into the abyss for lack of a crust to fill the belly. And then the merry throng, soft beds, truffles and sparkling golden wine, satin and moire rustling with laughter, fair bridegroom and dark bride draped in jewels and lace; and the great hourglass Fortune keeps to measure the lives of the wealthy, dropping golden sovereigns instead of grains of sand.

That semblance of a poet smiled; but his countenance paled with sorrow. And extending his arms, in a bass voice that made the walls vibrate, he began his improvisation.

Let us sing of gold!

Let us sing of gold, king of the world, bearing joy and light wherever it goes, like fragments of a shattered sun.

Let us sing of gold, born of the fertile womb of Mother Earth; immense treasure, golden milk from that gigantic udder.

Let us sing of gold, copious river, fountain of life, making those who bathe in its wondrous currents young and fair, while aging those who taste not of its torrents.

Let us sing of gold, for of it are fashioned the tiaras of pontiffs, crowns of kings, and imperial scepters; and because it pours over mantles like solid fire, floods the copes of archbishops, gleams upon altars, and upholds the eternal God in radiant monstrances.

Let us sing of gold, for though we be scoundrels, it provides screens to veil the abject madness of the tavern and the shame of adulterous bedchambers.

Let us sing of gold, for leaping from the die it bears upon its face the haughty profile of Caesars; and goes forth to pack the vaults of its vast temples, the banks, driving machines, giving life, and fattening privileged hogs.

Let us sing of gold, for it bestows palaces and carriages, fashionable attire, and the fresh breasts of handsome women; the bows of flattering spines and the grimaces of ever-smiling lips.

Let us sing of gold, father of bread.

Let us sing of gold, for in the ears of lovely ladies it holds the diamond dew at the tip of so rosy and charming a shell; for upon the breast it feels the heartbeat, and in the hand is sometimes the symbol of love and holy pledge.

Let us sing of gold, for it stops the mouths that insult us, stays the hands that threaten us, and blindfolds the knaves who serve us.

Let us sing of gold, for its voice is enchanted music; for it is heroic and shines upon the cuirasses of Homeric heroes, upon the sandals of goddesses, the tragic buskins, and the apples of the Garden of the Hesperides.

Let us sing of gold, for of it are the strings of great lyres, the tresses of tenderest loves, the grains of wheat, and the peplos that Olympian Aurora dons at rising.

Let us sing of gold, prize and glory of the laborer, prey of the bandit.

Let us sing of gold, journeying through the world’s carnival disguised as paper, silver, copper, and even lead.

Let us sing of gold, yellow as death.

Let us sing of gold, branded as vile by the starving; brother of coal, the black gold that hatches the diamond; king of the mine where man struggles and the rock is torn; mighty in the sunset dyed in blood; flesh of idols, cloth from which Phidias fashions Minerva’s robe.

Let us sing of gold, in the horse’s harness, the war chariot, the sword hilt, the laurel binding luminous brows, the Dionysian banquet cup, the pin piercing the slave woman’s breast, the star’s beam, and the champagne bubbling like a brew of boiling topazes.

Let us sing of gold, for it makes us polite, cultured, and polished.

Let us sing of gold, for it is the touchstone of all friendship.

Let us sing of gold, purified by fire as man is by suffering; bitten by the file as man is by envy; beaten by the hammer as man is by necessity; enhanced by the silk casket as man is by the marble palace.

Let us sing of gold, slave, despised by Jerome, cast away by Anthony, reviled by Macarius, humiliated by Hilarion, cursed by Paul the Hermit, whose fortress was a rugged cave and whose friends were the stars of night, the birds of dawn, and the shaggy, savage beasts of the wilderness.

Let us sing of gold, calf god, mysterious marrow of rock, silent in its depth and clamorous when bursting into full sunlight and life, ringing like a chorus of tympani; fetus of stars, residue of light, incarnation of ether.

Let us sing of gold, turned to sun, enamored of night, sprinkling her crêpe gown with glittering stars after the final kiss, as with a great shower of golden pounds.

Hey, wretched drunkards, utterly destitute, harlots, beggars, vagrants, thieves, bandits, wandering mendicants, you the exiled, you the idlers, and above all, you, oh poets!

Let us join the fortunate, the mighty, the bankers, the demigods of the earth!

Let us sing of gold!