ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a demagogic barrel-maker called Bernardino, who, in the field of cosmography, professed the view that the world is a vast vat of quince jelly, and, in the field of politics, called for the masses to be enthroned. In order for this to happen, he took up a big stick, roused the people to revolution, and overthrew the king; however, on entering the palace, acclaimed as victor, he saw that there was only room on the throne for one person, and got around this little difficulty by sitting on the throne himself, declaring in a booming voice:
“You see in me the masses enthroned. I am all of you, and all of you are me.”
The first act of the new king was to abolish barrel-making, immediately rewarding the other barrel-makers, who threatened to overthrow him, with the title of the Magnificent Ones. His second act was to declare that, in order to lend greater luster to the person and position of king, he would, henceforth, be called by the grander name of Bernardão, rather than by the more diminutive Bernardino. He commissioned a great expert in matters of genealogy, who, in no time at all, had traced his ancestry back to some Roman general from the fourth century, Bernardus Barrelius—a name that gave rise to great controversy, which continues to this day, with some saying that King Bernardão must once have been a barrel-maker, and others that this was all a silly confusion arising from the name of the founder of the family. As we have seen, this second view is the only true one.
Having been bald ever since he was a young man, Bernardão decreed that all his subjects should be equally bald, either naturally or with the help of a razor, and he based this act on a purely political idea, namely, that the moral unity of the state depended on all heads looking the same. A further, equally wise act was one that ordered every left shoe to have a small hole cut in it next to the little toe, thus giving his subjects another opportunity to resemble him, for he had a corn on that very toe. The use of spectacles throughout the kingdom can also only be explained by an eye infection that afflicted Bernardão in the second year of his reign. The illness cost him the sight of one eye, and this was the moment when Bernardão’s poetic vocation was first revealed, because, when one of his two ministers, called Alpha, commented that the loss of one eye made him equal to Hannibal—a comparison he found deeply flattering—the second minister, called Omega, went still further, and remarked that he was superior even to Homer, who had lost the sight of both eyes. This compliment was a revelation, and since this leads us neatly to the matter of his marriage, let us move swiftly on.
Marriage was, to be honest, a way of securing the Barrelius dynasty. There was no shortage of brides for the new king, but none pleased him as much as a beautiful, rich, illustrious young woman called Estrelada. This lady, who cultivated music and poetry, was much sought-after by certain gentlemen, but remained faithful to the old dynasty. Bernardão plied her with rare, sumptuous gifts, while her family screamed at her to remember that a crown on the head is worth more than any affair of the heart, urging her not to bring shame on them when the illustrious Bernardão was tempting them with a principality, reminding her that thrones were few and far between, etc., etc. Estrelada, however, resisted these temptations.
She did not resist for very long, but neither did she give in entirely. Since among her suitors she secretly preferred one young man who was a poet, she declared that she was willing to get married, but only to the man who was deemed to have written the best madrigal in a competition created for that purpose. Mad with love and full of confidence, Bernardão accepted this condition; he did, after all, have one eye more than Homer and had achieved homogeneity among feet and heads.
Twenty suitors took part in the competition, with the entrants’ names kept entirely secret. One madrigal was judged to be better than all the others, and it was written by the poet she loved. Bernardão decreed the competition null and void, and ordered another to be held; then, in a moment of Machiavellian inspiration, he decreed that only words more than three hundred years old could be used. None of the other competitors had studied the classics, and so this seemed a certain way of defeating them.
He still did not win, though, because the beloved poet had quickly read as many of the classical writers as he could, and his madrigal was again judged to be the best. Bernardão once more declared this second competition to be null and void, and, seeing that in the winning madrigal the use of ancient turns of phrase gave a remarkable elegance to the poem, he decreed that only modern, fashionable terminology could be used. A third competition ended in a third victory for the poet.
Furious, Bernardão confided in his two ministers, asking them to come up with a swift and energetic remedy, because, if he did not win Estrelada’s hand, he would order three hundred thousand heads to be cut off. The ministers spent some time in discussion, then returned with this proposal:
“We, Alpha and Omega, are, by virtue of our names, responsible for all matters linguistic. Our idea is that Your Sublimeness should order all dictionaries to be confiscated, and we will then compile a new vocabulary that will ensure your victory.”
Bernardão did as they proposed, and the two ministers remained closeted in the palace for three whole months, after which they placed in his august hands the finished work, a book they entitled the Dictionary of Babel, because it really was no more than a jumble of letters. No word bore any resemblance to the spoken language; consonants climbed on top of other consonants, vowels dissolved into other vowels, words of two syllables now had seven or eight and vice versa, everything was muddled up and switched around, with no verve, no elegance—a language of fragments and scraps.
“Your Sublimeness has only to impose this language by decree, and our job is done.”
Bernardão rewarded them each with an embrace and a large pension, and decreed that this new vocabulary would, from then on, be the official vocabulary. He also declared that there would be one final competition to win the hand of the lovely Estrelada. The jumble in the dictionary was transferred to people’s minds; everyone lived in a state of utter confusion. Jokers would greet each other in the street, using the new phrases; for example, instead of saying: “Good morning, how are you?” they would say: “Pflerrgpxx, rouph, aa?” Fearing that her beloved poet would finally lose the competition, the young lady herself suggested that they elope together. He, however, answered that, first, he would see what he could do. Entrants were given ninety days to compose their poem, and again there were twenty entries. The best of these, despite that barbarous new language, was the one written by the poet. Half mad with rage, Bernardão ordered the hands of his two ministers to be cut off, but that was his only act of revenge. Estrelada was so wonderfully beautiful that he did not dare to harm her, and so he gave in. Greatly displeased, he shut himself up for a week in the library, reading, pacing, and thinking. It seems that the last thing he read was a satire by the poet Garção, in particular these lines, which seemed as if made to order:
It was not the paints that made them eternal,
Those three rare, inimitable artists—
Apelles, Rubens, and Raphael—
But the elegant way they blended them.