After the death of her parents, Marjolaine stayed in their little house with her old nanny. They had left her a thatched roof and the mantelpiece of the chimney, for Marjolaine’s father had been a storyteller and a dream builder. A friend who had loved his beautiful way of thinking had lent him his land for development and a bit of money for his dreams. He had spent a long time mixing various sorts of clay with metal powders in order to bake up a sublime enamel. He had tried his hand at casting and gilding strange glassware. He had molded and pierced “lanterns” in cores of hard clay, and the bronze, once cool, scintillated like a pool of water. But he had left nothing but two or three charred crucibles, rough, dross-encrusted sheets of brass, and seven faded pitchers, which sat over the fireplace. Of Marjolaine’s mother, a pious country girl, nothing remained: for she had sold even her silver rosary to pay for her husband’s claypit.
Marjolaine grew up close to her father, who wore a green apron, whose hands were always covered in clay, and whose pupils were always loaded with fire. She admired the seven pitchers of the fireplace, coated with smoke, filled with mystery, all together like a hollow and ruffled rainbow. From the blood-red pitcher, Morgiana had made a brigand emerge, rubbed with oil and wielding a sword embossed with damask flowers. In the orange pitcher, one could, like Aladdin, find ruby fruits, amethyst plums, garnet cherries, topaz quinces, opal grapes, and diamond berries. The yellow pitcher was filled with the gold powder that Camaralzaman had hidden beneath the olives. One of the olives could just barely be seen beneath the lid, and the edge of the vase shone. The green pitcher must have been closed by a great brass seal marked by King Solomon. Age had laid upon it a coat of verdigris; for, long ago, this pitcher had dwelt in the ocean, and for several thousand years it contained a genie, who was a prince. A very young and wise girl would break the spell beneath a full moon with the permission of King Solomon, who gave the mandrakes their voices. In the bright blue pitcher, Giauhare had enclosed all her marine dresses, woven with seaweed, studded with gems, and stained with the purple of seashells. The entire sky of the earthly Paradise, the sumptuous fruits of the tree, the flaming scales of the snake, and the blazing sword of the angel were all locked away in the deep blue pitcher, the color of the enormous azure cupule of an austral flower. And the mysterious Lilith had poured the whole sky of the heavenly Paradise into the last pitcher: for it stood, violet and rigid, like the shoulder cape of a bishop.
Those unaware of these things saw nothing more than seven aged and faded pitchers on the mantel. But Marjolaine knew the truth from her father’s stories. By the winter fire, in the flickering shadows of the flames of the wood and the candles, she would watch, until she went to sleep, the swarm of marvels.
However, the bread bin and saltbox being empty, the nanny pleaded with Marjolaine. “Marry,” she said, “my sweet little flower. Your mother always thought Jean was right for you; don’t you want to marry Jean? My Jolaine, my Jolaine, what a pretty wife you will make!”
“Marjolaine was courted by knights,” said the dreamer. “But I will have a prince.”
“Princess Marjolaine,” said the nanny, “marry Jean, you will make him a prince.”
“Nay, nanny,” said the dreamer; “I should rather spin. I am saving my loves and dresses for a more handsome genie. Buy some hemp and some distaffs and a polished spindle. We will have our palace soon. For now, it lies in a black desert in Africa. A magician lives there, covered in blood and poison. He pours a brown powder into the wine of travelers, which turns them into hairy beasts. The palace is lit with torches, and the Negroes who serve his meals wear golden crowns. My prince will kill the magician, and the palace will come to our land, and you will cradle my child.”
“O Marjolaine, marry Jean!” said the old nanny.
Marjolaine sat down and began to spin. Patiently, she spun the spindle, twisted the hemp, and untwisted it. The distaff thinned down and bulked back up. Jean came to sit by her side and admired her. But she paid him no attention, for the seven pitchers on the grand chimney were filled with dreams. All day long, she could hear them whimper or sing. When she would stand up from the loom, the distaff would no longer swish for the seven pitchers, and the spindle would cease to lend them its murmuring.
“O Marjolaine, marry Jean!” the nanny said to her every night.
But in the middle of the night, the dreamer would rise. Like Morgiana, she threw grains of sand against the pitchers to awaken the mysteries within. And yet the brigand continued to sleep; the precious fruits did not rattle around; she heard neither the gold powder pouring out, nor the rustling of the dresses, and Solomon’s seal weighed heavily over the imprisoned prince.
Marjolaine threw the grains of sand one by one. Seven times they clinked against the hard clay of the pitchers; seven times silence resumed.
“O Marjolaine, marry Jean!” the nanny said to her every morning.
Then Marjolaine took to frowning at the very sight of Jean, and Jean no longer came around. And one day at sunrise, the old nanny was found dead, looking happy enough. And Marjolaine donned a black dress and a dark cornet, and continued spinning.
Every night she would rise and, like Morgiana, throw grains of sand against the pitchers to wake the mysteries within. And, as ever, the dreams went on sleeping.
Marjolaine grew old in her waiting. But the prince imprisoned beneath King Solomon’s seal was still young, no doubt, having already lived for thousands of years. One night when the moon was full, the dreamer rose from her bed like a murderer and took a hammer. She broke six pitchers in a rage, and anguished sweat streamed down her forehead. The vases shattered open: they were empty. She hesitated before the pitcher into which Lilith had poured the violet Paradise; then she murdered it like the others. Into the debris tumbled a rose of Jericho, dry and grey. When Marjolaine tried to make it bloom, it crumbled into dust.