THERIAKI3

 

 

Better one grain of opium than twelve gourds full of rice.

(Oriental proverb.)

 

Happiness? It’s drunkenness that takes away reason.

(Anonymous.)

 

“Alas, my feeble and convulsive hands can scarcely raise this cup to my lips; the shaking is making its contents spill. Oh, I would bless the angel of death if he would extend his redoubtable blade over my mouth! Life weighs upon me so heavily! There is no true believer more miserable than me; my contracted muscles are inclining my heavy head toward me left shoulder; a cup seems a burden in my trembling hands; my stiff legs are buckling beneath my paltry body and the slightest light closes my eyes, too weak to support it.

“I would like to be in a shroud on which the pious hands of a dervish has inscribed verses from the Koran; I would like the servants of Mohammed to prostrate themselves on seeing my abode illuminated by funeral lamps; yes, I would like them to repeat, while striking their breasts: ‘The Aga Massoud is no more! There is no God but God and Mohammed is his prophet.’

“What is there left for me to do on the earth?

“In vain the most delicious dishes are set forth before me; they only excite my disgust.

“What use is it to me to have slaves in my seraglio from Georgia with white shoulders, Kaffirs with passionate movements and coppery complexions, Africans with large eyes and black breasts? Their smiles leave me cold; their voluptuous dances weary me; it is necessary for me to lower the triple bans of my turban over my ears when they marry their voices and play the lute or the Persian flute; the softest sounds shake my debilitate brain and are too noisy for it.

“Yes I would like to be in a shroud on which the pious hands of a dervish has inscribed verses from the Koran; I would like the servants of Mohammed to prostrate themselves on seeing my abode illuminated by funeral lamps!”

Such were the thoughts of the Aga Massoud.

Lying sadly on a vast sofa, pale and motionless, his eyes half-closed, one might have mistaken him for a corpse if one had not heard the rattle of his slow respiration.

Soon, the effects of the opium that he had drunk began to manifest themselves: a more rapid breath elevated his bosom; all his limbs quivered with a convulsive frisson; his swollen face became red; a wild expression caused his eyes, previously dull and bleak, to scintillate.

At the same time, a coolness, an indescribable wellbeing circulated in his veins and rendered an artificial existence to that demi-cadaver; a magical influence caused reflections of dazzling light to gleam in his eyes from all the surrounding objects.

Suave visions rose up, passing back and forth, rotating before his charmed gaze; there was the vertigo if an intoxication, not like that produced by the fermented beverages of Europe, but a divine intoxication, an inexpressible, sublime ecstasy.

“Oh,” he murmured, in a halting voice, “Oh, what sensations of happiness are inundating all my senses! They are too delightful for the strength of a mortal: it’s necessary that I succumb to them!

“A soft languor is half-closing my eyes; my warm and supple limbs allow themselves to relax into the sweetest abandonment. Make the celestial melody sounding around me stop…take away those houris who are fluttering and smiling at me and lifting up garlands of flowers entwined around their semi-naked breasts…leave me alone, beautiful phantoms, oh, leave me alone! Do you want to make me die of voluptuousness?

“I need to get rid of these fantastic images…it’s necessary to flee...

“A magic power is dragging me away and making me glide lightly over meadows enameled with flowers, shores sparkling with light, without me having the fatigue of having to lift my feet, without my will directing my body: a delightful sensation in which the inertia of repose is mingled with the wellbeing of movement...

“I’m no longer gliding now; a vague and languorous swaying is cradling me voluptuously, and mysterious beings are lifting me slowly into the clouds.

“They’re angels who are supporting me in their interlaced arms, they’re the angels of the divine Allah! I can glimpse their smiling heads over my shoulder; their warm breath exhales over my forehead, and the blond curls of their beautiful hair gently brushes my lips.

“Will I never be able to stop, being borne away forever and ever by the unknown impulsion that it drawing me? No, divine messengers of the prophet, not even to visit those innumerable palaces sparkling with emeralds and carbuncles, which flee before my gaze, not even for those houris whose modulated voices are calling to me!

“No, no, don’t stop! One is rocked so softly in your arms, one palpitates with such sweet ecstasy, on breathing the air with which this region is embalmed. The air of mortals makes me die. Keep flying! Let’s fly without stopping, like the rapid arrow of the angel of wrath! Let’s fly and fly, further…let the celestial wind that is blowing over my face never cease to blow...”

And Massoud’s voice, fading away and becoming inarticulate, no longer murmured any but rare and inconsequential words; and his eyes closed; and he went to sleep: a profound sleep excited by fantastic and voluptuous dreams.

The next day, when he woke up, Massoud was pale and suffering; his extenuated voice could hardly make itself heard by his slaves. He summoned them so that they could give him another dose of opium.