I

—You know that he is not at all well, said the waiter, seeing Prometheus a few days later.

—Who?

—Damocles—Oh! very bad:—it was coming out after your lecture that he was taken ill....

—But what is the matter?

—The doctors hesitate;—it is a very unusual illness ... a shrinkage of the spine....

—The spine?

—Yes, the spine.—At least, unless a miracle happens he must get worse. He is very low, I assure you, and you should go and see him.

—You go very often yourself?

—I? Yes, every day.—He is very anxious about Cocles; I bring him news every day.—Why doesn’t Cocles go to see him himself?

—Cocles?—He is too busy. Don’t you remember your lecture? It has made an extraordinary effect upon him. He talks of nothing but self-devotion, and passes all his time looking in the streets for another blow, which may benefit some unknown Damocles. In vain he offers his other cheek.

—Why not tell the Miglionaire?

—I give him news every day. That is really the reason why I visit Damocles every day.

—Why does he not go and see Damocles himself?

—That is what I tell him, but he refuses. He does not wish to be known. And yet Damocles would certainly get well immediately if he knew his benefactor. I tell him all this, but he insists upon keeping his incognito—and I understand now that it is not Damocles but his illness which interests him.—You spoke of introducing me?...

—Yes, at once, if you like.

They went off immediately.

II

Not knowing him ourselves, we have decided not to say very much about the waiter’s friend, Zeus, but just to report these few remarks.

INTERVIEW OF THE MIGLIONAIRE

The waiter:—Is it not true that you are very rich?

The Miglionaire, half turning towards Prometheus:—I am richer than you can ever imagine. You belong to me; he belongs to me; everything belongs to me.—You think I am a banker; I am really something quite different. My effect on Paris is hidden, but it is none the less important. It is hidden because it is not continuous. Yes, I have above all the spirit of initiative. I launch; then, once the affair is set going, I leave it; I have nothing more to do with it.

The waiter:—Isn’t it true that your actions are gratuitous?

The Miglionaire:—It is only I, only a person whose fortune is infinite, who can act with absolute disinterestedness; for man it is impossible. From that comes my love of gambling; I do not gamble for gain, you understand—I gamble for the pleasure of gambling. What could I gain that I do not possess already? Even time.... Do you know my age?

Prometheus and the waiter:—You appear still young, sir.

The Miglionaire:—Well, do not interrupt me, Prometheus.—Yes, I have a passion for gambling. My game is to lend to men. I lend, but it is not for pleasure. I lend, but it is sinking the capital. I lend, but with an air of giving.—I do not wish it known that I lend. I play, but I hide my game. I experiment; I play, as a Dutchman sows his seed; as he plants a secret bulb; that which I lend to men, that which I plant in man, I amuse myself by watching it grow; without that, man would be so empty!—Let me tell you my most recent experience. You will help me to analyse it. Just listen, you will understand later.

I went down into the street with the idea of making some one suffer for a gift I would make to another; to make one happy by the suffering of the other. A blow and a note of £20 was all that was necessary. To one the blow, and to the other the note. Is it clear? What is less clear is the way of giving them.

—I know it already, interrupted Prometheus.

—Oh, really, you know of it, said Zeus.

—I have met both Damocles and Cocles; it is precisely about them that I have come to speak to you:—Damocles looks and calls for you, he is very anxious; he is ill;—for goodness’ sake go and see him.—Sir, stop—said Zeus—I have no need of advice from anybody.

—What did I tell you? said the waiter.

Prometheus was going away, but suddenly turned again: Sir, pardon me. Excuse an indiscreet question. Oh! show it to me, I beg you! I should love so much to see it....

—What?

—Your eagle.

—But I have no eagle, sir.

—No eagle? He has no eagle! But....

—Not so much of one as I can hold in the hollow of my hand. Eagles (and he laughed), eagles! It is I who give them.

Prometheus was stupefied.

—Do you know what people say? the waiter asked the banker.

—What do they say?

—That you are God.

—I let them say so, said he.

III

Prometheus went to see Damocles; and then he went very often. He did not talk to him every time; but in any case the waiter gave him the news. One day he brought Cocles with him.

The waiter received them.

—Well, how is he? asked Prometheus.

—Bad. Very bad, replied the waiter. For three days the miserable man has not been able to take any food. His bank-note torments him; he looks for it everywhere; he thinks he may have eaten it;—he takes a purgative and thinks to find it in his stool. When his reason returns and he remembers his adventure, he is again in despair. He has a grudge against you, Cocles, because he thinks you have so complicated his debt that he no longer knows where he is. Most of the time he is delirious. At night there are three of us to watch him, but he keeps leaping upon his bed, which prevents us sleeping.

—Can we see him? said Cocles.

—Yes, but you will find him changed. He is devoured by anxiety. He has become thin, thin, thin. Will you recognize him?—And will he recognize you?

They entered on the tips of their toes.

THE LAST DAYS OF DAMOCLES

Damocles’ bedroom smelt horribly of medicines. Low and very narrow, it was lighted gloomily by two night-lights. In an alcove, covered with innumerable blankets, one could see Damocles tossing about. He spoke all the time, although there was no one near him. His voice was hoarse and thick. Full of horror Prometheus and Cocles looked at each other; he did not hear them approach and continued his moaning as if he were alone.—And from that day, he was saying, it seemed to me, both that my life began to have another meaning and that I could no longer live! That hated bank-note I believed I owed it to every one and I dared not give it to any one—without depriving all the others. I only dreamed of getting rid of it—but how?—The Savings Bank! but this increased my trouble; my debt was augmented by the interest on the money; and, on the other hand, the idea of letting it stagnate was intolerable to me; so I thought it best to circulate the sum; I carried it always upon me; regularly every week I changed the note into silver, and then the silver into another note. Nothing is lost or gained in this exchange. It is circular insanity.—And to this was added another torture: that it was through a blow given to another that I received this note!

One day, you know well, I met you in a restaurant....

—He is speaking of you, said the waiter.

—The eagle of Prometheus broke the window of the restaurant and put out Cocles’ eye.... Saved!!—Gratuitously, fortuitously, providentially! I will slip my bank-note into the interstices of these events. No more debt! Saved! Ah! gentlemen! what an error.... It was from that day that I became a dying man. How can I explain this to you? Will you ever understand my anguish? I am still in debt for this note, and now it is no longer in my possession! I tried like a coward to get rid of my debt, but I have not acquitted it. In my nightmares I awake covered with perspiration. Kneeling down, I cry aloud: Lord! Lord! to whom do I owe this? I know nothing of it, but I owe—owing is like duty. Duty, gentlemen, is a horrible thing; look at me, I am dying of it.

And now I am more tormented than ever because I have passed this debt on to you, Cocles.... Cocles! it does not belong to you that eye, as the money it was bought with did not belong to me. And what hast thou that thou didst not receive? says the Bible ... received from whom? whom?? Whom??... My distress is intolerable.

The wretched man spoke in short, sharp jerks; his voice grew inarticulate, choked as it was by gasps, sobs and tears. Anxiously Prometheus and Cocles listened; they took each other’s hand and trembled. Damocles said, seeming to see them:

Debt is a terrible duty, gentlemen ... but how much more terrible is the remorse of having wished to evade a duty.... As if the debt could cease to exist because it was transferred to another.... But your eye burns you, Cocles!—Cocles!! I am certain it burns you, your glass eye; tear it out!—If it does not burn you, it ought to burn you, for it is not yours—your eye ... and if it is not yours it must be your brother’s ... whose is it? whose? Whose??

The miserable man wept; he became delirious and lost strength; now and again fixing his eyes on Prometheus and Cocles he seemed to recognize them, crying:—But understand me for pity’s sake! The pity I claim from you is not simply a compress on my forehead, a bowl of fresh water, a soothing drink; it is to understand me. Help me to understand myself, for pity’s sake! This which has come to me from I know not where, to whom do I owe it? to whom?? to Whom??—And, in order to cease one day from owing it one day, believing, I made with this a present to others! To others!!—to Cocles—the gift of an eye!! but it is not yours, that eye, Cocles! Cocles!! give it back. Give it back, but to whom? to whom? to Whom??

Not wishing to hear more, Cocles and Prometheus went away.

IV

—There, you see, said Cocles, coming down the stairs, the fate of a man who has grown rich by another’s suffering.

—But is it true that you suffer? asked Prometheus.

—From my eye occasionally, said Cocles, but from the blow, no more; I prefer to have received it. It does not burn any more; it has revealed to me my goodness. I am flattered by it; I am pleased about it. I never cease to think that my pain was useful to my neighbour and that it brought him £20.

—But the neighbour is dying of it, Cocles, said Prometheus.

—Did you not tell him that one must nourish one’s eagle? What do you expect? Damocles and I never could understand each other, our points of view are entirely opposed.Prometheus said good-bye to Cocles and ran to the house of Zeus, the banker.

—For goodness’ sake, show yourself! he said, or at least make yourself known. The miserable man is dying. I could understand your killing him since that is your pleasure; but let him know at least who it is that is killing him—that he may be at peace.

The Miglionaire replied:—I do not wish to lose my prestige.

V

The end of Damocles was admirable; he pronounced a little while before his last hour some words which drew tears from the most unbelieving and made pious people say: How edifying! The most notable sentiment was the one expressed so well in these words: I hope at any rate that he will not have felt the loss of it.

—Who? asked some one.

—He, said Damocles, dying; he who gave me ... something.

—No! it was Providence, cleverly replied the waiter.

Damocles died after hearing these comforting words.

THE FUNERAL

—Oh! said Prometheus to Cocles, leaving the chamber of death,—all that is horrible! The death of Damocles upsets me. Is it true that my lecture can have been the cause of his illness?

—I cannot say, said the waiter, but I know that at any rate he was greatly moved by all that you said of your eagle.

—Of our eagle, replied Cocles.

—I was so convinced, said Prometheus.

—That is why you convinced him.... Your words were very strong.

—I thought that no one paid any attention and I insisted.... If I had known that he would listen so attentively....

—What would you have said?

—The same thing, stammered Prometheus.

—Then?

—But I would not say the same thing now.

—Are you no longer convinced?

—Damocles was too much so.... I have other ideas about my eagle.

—By the way, where is he?

—Do not fear, Cocles. I have my eye on him.—Good-bye. I shall wear mourning, said Cocles. When shall we see each other again?

—But ... at the funeral, I suppose. I will make a speech there. I ought to repair in some way the damage I have done. And afterwards I invite you to the funeral feast in the restaurant exactly where we saw Damocles for the first time.

VI

At the funeral there were not many people; Damocles was very little known; his death passed unnoticed except for those few interested in his history. Prometheus, the waiter, and Cocles found themselves at the cemetery, also a few idle listeners of the lecture. Every one looked at Prometheus, as they knew he was to speak; and they said: “What will he say?” for they remembered what he had said before. Before Prometheus began to speak great astonishment was caused by the fact that he was unrecognizable; he was fat, fresh, smiling; smiling so much that his conduct was judged a little indecent, as smiling still he advanced to the edge of the grave, turned his back on it, and spoke these simple words:

THE HISTORY OF TITYRUS

—Gentlemen who are kind enough to listen to me, the words of Scripture which serve as text for my brief discourse to-day are these:

Let the dead bury their dead. We will therefore occupy ourselves no more with Damocles.—The last time that I saw you all together was to hear me speak of my eagle; Damocles died of it; leave the dead ... it is nevertheless because of him, or rather thanks to his death, that now I have killed my eagle....

—Killed his eagle!!! cried every one.

—That reminds me of an anecdote.... Let us grant I have said nothing.

I

In the beginning was Tityrus.

And Tityrus being alone and completely surrounded by swamps was bored.—Then Menalcas passed by, who put an idea into the head of Tityrus, a seed in the swamp before him. And this idea was the seed and this seed was the Idea. And with the help of God the seed germinated and became a little plant, and Tityrus in the evening and in the morning knelt before it, thanking God for having given it to him. And the plant became tall and great, and as it had powerful roots it very soon completely dried up the soil around it, and thus Tityrus had at last firm earth on which to set his feet, rest his head, and strengthen the works of his hands.

When this plant had grown to the height of Tityrus, Tityrus tasted the joy of sleeping stretched under its shadow. Now, this tree, being an oak-tree, grew enormously; so much so that soon Tityrus’ hands were no longer sufficient to till and hoe the earth around the oak—to water the oak, to prune, to trim, to decorticate, to destroy the caterpillars, and to ensure in due season the picking of its many and diverse fruits. He engaged, therefore, a tiller and a hoer, and a trimmer and a decorticator, and a man to destroy the caterpillars, and a man to water the oak, and two or three fruit boys. And as each had to keep strictly to his own speciality, there was a chance of each person’s work being well done.

In order to arrange for the paying of the wages, Tityrus had to have an accountant, who soon shared with a cashier the worries of Tityrus’ fortune; this grew like the oak.

Certain arguments arising between the trimmer, and the pruner, and the depilator—as to where each man’s work began and finished, Tityrus saw the necessity of an arbitrator, who called for two lawyers to expose both sides of the question.

Tityrus took a secretary to record their judgments, and as they were only recorded for future reference, there had to be a keeper of the rolls.

On the soil meanwhile houses appeared one by one, and it was necessary to have police for the streets, to guard against excesses. Tityrus, overcome by work, began to feel ill. He sent for a doctor who told him to take a wife—and finding the work too much for him, Tityrus was forced to choose a sheriff, and he himself was therefore appointed mayor. From this time he had only very few hours of leisure, when he could fish with a line from the windows of his house, which still continued to open on the swamp.

Then Tityrus instituted bank holidays so that his people might enjoy themselves; but as this was expensive and no one was very rich, Tityrus, in order to be able to lend them all money, first began by raising it from each of them separately.

Now the oak in the middle of the plain (for in spite of the town, in spite of the effort of so many men, it had never ceased to be the plain), the oak, as I said, in the middle of the plain, had no difficulty in being placed so that one of its sides was in shadow and the other in the sunshine. Under the oak then, on the shady side Tityrus rendered justice; on the sunny side he fulfilled his natural necessities. And Tityrus was happy, for he felt his life was useful to others and fully occupied.

II

Man’s effort can be intensified. Tityrus’ activity seemed to grow with encouragement; his natural ingenuity caused him to think of other means of employment. He set to work to furnish and decorate his house. The suitable character of the hangings and the convenience of each object were much admired. Industrious, he excelled in empiricism; he even made a little hook to hang his sponges on the wall, which after four days he found perfectly useless. Then Tityrus built another room by the side of his room, where he could arrange the affairs of the nation; the two rooms had the same entrance, to indicate that their interests were the same; but because of the one entrance which supplied both rooms with air, the two chimneys would not draw at the same time, so that when it was cold and a fire was lighted in one, the other was full of smoke. The days therefore that he wished for a fire, Tityrus was forced to open his window.

As Tityrus protected everything and worked for the propagation of the species, a time came when the slugs crawled on his garden paths in such abundance that he did not know where to step for fear of crushing them and finally resigned.

He invited a woman with a circulating library to come to the town, with whom he opened a subscription. And as she was called AngÈle he became accustomed to go there every three days and pass his evenings with her. And by this means Tityrus learnt metaphysics, algebra, and theodicy. Tityrus and AngÈle began to practise together successfully various accomplishments, and AngÈle showing particular taste for music, they hired a grand piano upon which AngÈle played the little tunes which between times he composed for her.

Tityrus said to AngÈle: So many occupations will kill me. I am at the end of my tether; I feel that I am getting used up, these consolidated interests intensify my scruples, and as my scruples grow greater I grow less. What is to be done?

—Shall we go away? said AngÈle to him.

—I cannot go: I have my oak.

—Suppose you were to leave it, said AngÈle.

—Leave my oak! You don’t mean it!

—Is it not large enough now to grow alone?

—But I am attached to it.

—Become unattached, replied AngÈle.

And a little while after, having realized strongly that after all, occupations, responsibilities, and other scruples could hold him no more than the oak, Tityrus smiled and went off, taking with him the cash-box and AngÈle, and towards the end of the day walked with her down the boulevard which leads from the Madeleine to the OpÉra.

III

That evening the boulevard had a strange look. One felt that something unusually grave was going to happen. An enormous crowd, serious and anxious, overflowed the pavement, spreading on to the road, which the Paris police, placed at intervals, with great trouble kept free. Before the restaurants, the terraces disproportionately enlarged by the placing of chairs and tables, made the obstruction more complete and rendered circulation impossible. Now and again an onlooker impatiently stood upon his chair for an instant—the time that one could beg him to get down. Evidently all were waiting; one felt without doubt that between the two pavements upon the protected route something was going to pass. Having found a table with great difficulty and paid a large price for it, AngÈle and Tityrus installed themselves in front of two glasses of beer and asked the waiter:

—What are they all waiting for?—Where does your lordship come from? said the waiter. Does not your lordship know that every one is waiting to see Meliboeus? He will pass by between 5 and 6 ... and there—listen: I believe one can already hear his flute.

From the depths of the boulevard the frail notes of a pipe were heard. The crowd thrilled with still greater attention. The sound increased, came nearer, grew louder and louder.

—Oh, how it moves me! said AngÈle.

The setting sun soon threw its rays from one end of the boulevard to the other. And, as if issuing from the splendour of the setting sun, Meliboeus was at last seen advancing—preceded by the simple sound of his flute.

At first nothing could be clearly distinguished but his figure, but when he drew nearer:

—Oh, how charming he is! said AngÈle. In the meantime Meliboeus as he arrived opposite Tityrus, ceased to play his flute, stopped suddenly, saw AngÈle, and every one realized that he was naked.

Oh! said AngÈle, leaning upon Tityrus, how beautiful he is! what strong thighs he has! His playing is adorable!

Tityrus felt a little uncomfortable.

—Ask him where he is going, said AngÈle.

—Where are you going? questioned Tityrus.

Meliboeus replied:—Eo Romam.

—What does he say? asked AngÈle.

Tityrus:—You would not understand, my dear.

—But you can explain it to me, said AngÈle.

—Romam, insisted Meliboeus.... Urbem quam dicunt Romam.

AngÈle:—Oh, it sounds delicious! What does it mean?

Tityrus:—But my dear AngÈle, I assure you it is not so delightful as it sounds; it means quite simply that he is going to Rome.—Rome! said AngÈle dreamily. Oh, I should love so much to see Rome!

Meliboeus, resuming his flute, once more began to play his primÆval melody, and at the sound, AngÈle, in a passion of excitement, raised herself, stood up, drew near; and as Meliboeus’ arm was bent to her hand, she took it, and thus the two together went on their way along the boulevard; further, further they went, gradually vanished from sight, and disappeared into the finality of the twilit dusk.

The crowd, now unbridled in its agitation, became more and more tumultuous. On all sides one heard the questions: What did he say?—What did he do?—Who was that woman?—And when, a few minutes later, the evening papers appeared, a furious curiosity swept over them like a cyclone, and it was suddenly divulged that the woman was AngÈle, and that this Meliboeus was a naked person who was going to Italy.

Then, all their curiosity having died down, the crowd streamed off like water flowing away and the main boulevards were deserted.

And Tityrus found himself alone, completely surrounded by the swamp.

Let us grant that I have said nothing.

An irrepressible laughter shook the audience for several seconds.

—Gentlemen, I am happy that my story has amused you, said Prometheus, laughing also. Since the death of Damocles I have found the secret of laughter. For the present I have finished, gentlemen. Let the dead bury the dead and let us go quickly to lunch.

He took the waiter by one arm and Cocles by the other; they all left the cemetery; after passing the gates, the rest of the assembly dispersed.—Pardon me, said Cocles. Your story was charming, and you made us laugh.... But I do not quite understand the connexion....

—If there had been more you would not have laughed so much, said Prometheus. Do not look for too much meaning in all this. I wanted above all to distract you, and I am happy to have done so; surely I owed you that? I wearied you so the other day.

They found themselves on the boulevards.

—Where are we going? said the waiter.

—To your restaurant, if you do not mind, in memory of our first meeting.

—You are passing it, said the waiter.

—I do not recognize it.

—It is all new now.

—Oh, I forgot!... I forgot that my eagle.... Don’t trouble: he will never do it again.—Is it true, said Cocles, what you say?

—What?

—That you have killed him?

—And that we are going to eat him?... Do you doubt it? said Prometheus. Have you looked at me?—When he was alive, did I dare to laugh?—Was I not horribly thin?

—Certainly.

—He fed on me long enough. I think now that it is my turn.

—A table! Sit down! Sit down, gentlemen!

—Waiter, do not serve us: as a last remembrance, take the place of Damocles.

The meal was more joyful than it is possible to say. The eagle was found to be delicious, and at dessert they all drank his health.

—Has he then been useless? asked one.

—Do not say that, Cocles!—his flesh has nourished us.—When I questioned him he answered nothing, but I eat him without bearing him a grudge: if he had made me suffer less, he would have been less fat; less fat, he would have been less delectable.

—Of his past beauty, what is there left.

—I have kept all his feathers.

It is with one of them that I write this little book. May you, rare friend, not find it too foolish.