The Revolt of the Angels - 05

revolutionaries from every quarter of the globe, picturesque old faces
with tumbled masses of hair and beard that swept downwards even as the
torrent and the waterfall sweep over their rocky bed. There were young
faces of virginal coldness, expressions sombre and wild, pale eyes of
infinite sweetness, drawn faces, and, in a corner, there were two
Russian women, one extremely lovely, the other hideous, but both
resembling each other in their indifference to ugliness and to beauty.
But failing to find the face he sought, for there were no angels in the
room, he sat down at a small vacant marble table.
Angels, when driven by hunger, eat as do the animals of this earth, and
their food, transformed by digestive heat, becomes one with their
celestial substance. Seeing three angels under the oaks of Mamre,
Abraham offered them cakes, kneaded by Sarah, an whole calf, butter and
milk, and they ate. Lot, on receiving two angels in his house, ordered
unleavened bread to be baked, and they did eat. Arcade was given a tough
beef-steak by a seedy waiter, and he did eat. Nevertheless, his dreams
were of the sweet leisure, of the repose, of the delightful studies he
had quitted, of the heavy task he had undertaken, of the toil, the
weariness, the perils which he would have to endure, and his soul was
sad and his heart troubled.
As he was finishing his modest repast, a young man of poor appearance
and thinly clad entered the room, and rapidly surveying the tables
approached the angel and greeted him by the name of Abdiel, because he
himself was a celestial spirit.
"I knew you would answer my call, Mirar," replied Arcade, addressing his
angelic brother in his turn by the name he formerly bore in heaven. But
Mirar was remembered no more in heaven since he, an Archangel, had left
the service of God. He was called Théophile Belais on earth, and to earn
his bread gave music lessons to small children in the day-time and at
night played the violin in dancing saloons.
"It is you, dear Abdiel?" replied Théophile. "So here we are reunited in
this sad world. I am pleased to see you again. All the same I pity you,
for we lead a hard life here."
But Arcade answered:
"Friend, your exile draws to an end. I have great plans. I will confide
them to you and associate you with them."
And Maurice's guardian angel, having ordered two coffees, revealed his
ideas and his projects to his companion: he told how, during his visit
on earth, he had abandoned himself to researches little practised by
celestial spirits and had studied theologies, cosmogonies, the system of
the Universe, theories of matter, modern essays on the transformation
and loss of energy. Having, he explained, studied Nature, he had found
her in perpetual conflict with the teachings of the Master he served.
This Master, greedy of praise, whom he had for a long time adored,
appeared to him now as an ignorant, stupid, and cruel tyrant. He had
denied Him, blasphemed Him, and was burning to combat Him. His plan was
to recommence the revolt of the angels. He wished for war, and hoped for
victory.
"But," he added, "it is necessary above all to know our strength and
that of our adversary." And he asked if the enemies of Ialdabaoth were
numerous and powerful on earth.
Théophile looked wonderingly at his brother. He appeared not to
understand the questions addressed him.
"Dear compatriot," he said, "I came at your invitation because it was
the invitation of an old comrade. But I do not know what you expect of
me, and I fear I shall be unable to help you in anything. I take no hand
in politics, neither do I stand forth as a reformer. I am not like you,
a spirit in revolt, a freethinker, a revolutionary. I remain faithful,
in the depths of my soul, to the Celestial Creator. I still adore the
Master I no longer serve, and I lament the days when shrouding myself
with my wings I formed with the multitude of the children of light a
wheel of flame around His throne of glory. Love, profane love has alone
separated me from God. I quitted heaven to follow a daughter of men. She
was beautiful and sang in music-halls."
They rose. Arcade accompanied Théophile, who was living at the other end
of the town, at the corner of the Boulevard Rochechouart and the Rue de
Steinkerque. While walking through the deserted streets he who loved the
singer told his brother of his love and his sorrows.
His fall, which dated from two years back, had been sudden. Belonging to
the eighth choir of the third hierarchy he was a bearer of grace to the
faithful who are still to be found in large numbers in France,
especially among the higher ranks of the officers of the army and navy.
"One summer night," he said, "as I was descending from Heaven, to
distribute consolations, the grace of perseverance and of good deaths to
divers pious persons in the neighbourhood of the Étoile, my eyes,
although well accustomed to immortal light, were dazzled by the fiery
flowers with which the Champs Élysées were sown. Great candelabra, under
the trees, marking the entrances to cafés and restaurants, gave the
foliage the precious glitter of an emerald. Long garlands of luminous
pearl surrounded the open-air enclosures where a crowd of men and women
sat closely packed listening to the sounds of a lively orchestra, whose
strains reached my ears confusedly.
"The night was warm, my wings were beginning to grow tired. I descended
into one of the concerts and sat down, invisible, among the audience. At
this moment, a woman appeared on the stage, clad in a short spangled
frock. Owing to the reflection of the footlights and the paint on her
face all that was visible of the latter was the expression and the
smile. Her body was supple and voluptuous.
"She sang and danced.... Arcade, I have always loved dancing and music,
but this creature's thrilling voice and insidious movements created in
me an uneasiness I had never known before. My colour came and went. My
eyelids drooped, my tongue clove to my mouth. I could not leave the
spot."
And Théophile related, groaning, how, possessed by desire for this
woman, he did not return to Heaven again, but, taking the shape of a
man, lived an earthly life, for it is written: "In those days the sons
of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful."
A fallen angel, having lost his innocence along with the vision of God,
Théophile at heart still retained his simplicity of soul. Clad in rags,
filched from the stall of a Jewish hawker, he went to seek the woman he
loved. She was called Bouchotte and lodged in a small house in
Montmartre. He flung himself at her feet and told her she was adorable,
that she sang delightfully, that he loved her madly, that, for her, he
would renounce his family and his country, that he was a musician and
had nothing to eat. Touched by such youthful ingenuousness, candour,
poverty, and love, she fed, clothed, and loved him.
However, after long and painful struggles, he procured employment as a
music-teacher, and made some money, which he brought to his mistress,
keeping nothing for himself. From that time forward she loved him no
longer. She despised him for earning so little and did not conceal her
indifference, weariness, and disgust. She overwhelmed him with
reproaches, irony, and abuse, in spite of which she kept him, for she
had had experience of worse partners and was used to domestic quarrels.
For the rest, she led a busy, serious, and rather hard life as artist
and woman. Théophile loved her as he had loved her the first night, and
he suffered.
"She overworks herself," he told his celestial brother, "that is what
makes her so hard to please, but I am certain she loves me. I hope soon
to give her more comfort."
And he spoke at length of an operetta at which he was working and which
he hoped to have brought out at a Paris theatre. A young poet had given
him the libretto. It was the story of Aline, queen of Golconda, after an
eighteenth-century tale.
"I am strewing it profusely with melodies," said Théophile; "my music
comes from my heart. My heart is an inexhaustible source of melody.
Unfortunately nowadays people like recondite arrangements, difficult
scoring. They accuse me of being too fluid, too limpid, of not imparting
enough colour to my style, not aiming at stronger effects in harmony and
more vigorous contrasts. Harmony, harmony!... No doubt it has given its
merits, but it does not appeal to the heart. It is melody which carries
us away and ravishes us and brings smiles and tears to our eyes." At
these words he smiled and wept to himself. Then he continued with
emotion:
"I am a fountain of melody. But the orchestration! there's the rub! In
Paradise, you know, Arcade, in the matter of instruments, we only
possess the harp, the psaltery, and the hydraulic organ."
Arcade was only listening to him with half an ear. He was meditating
plans which filled his soul and swelled his heart.
"Do you know any angels in revolt?" he asked his companion. "As for me,
I know only one, Prince Istar, with whom I have exchanged a few letters
and who offered to share his attic with me while I was finding a lodging
in this town, where I believe rents are very high."
Of angels in revolt Théophile knew none. When he met a fallen spirit who
had formerly been one of his comrades he shook him by the hand, for he
was a faithful friend. Sometimes he saw Prince Istar. But he avoided
all those bad angels who shocked him by the violence of their opinions
and whose conversations plagued him to death.
"Then you don't approve of me?" asked the impulsive Arcade.
"Friend, I neither approve of you nor blame you. I understand nothing of
the ideas which trouble you. Neither do I think it good for an artist to
concern himself with politics. One has quite sufficient to occupy
oneself with one's art."
He loved his profession, and had hopes of "arriving" one day, but
theatrical ways disgusted him. The only chance he saw of having his
piece played was to take one or two--perhaps three--collaborators, who,
without having done any work, would sign their names and share the
profits. Soon Bouchotte would fail to find engagements. When she offered
her services in some small hall the manager began by asking her how many
shares she was taking in the business. Such customs, thought Théophile,
were deplorable.


CHAPTER XIII
WHEREIN WE HEAR THE BEAUTIFUL ARCHANGEL ZITA UNFOLD HER
LOFTY DESIGNS AND ARE SHOWN THE WINGS OF MIRAR, ALL
MOTH-EATEN, IN A CUPBOARD

Thus talking, the two archangels had reached the Boulevard Rochechouart.
As his eye lighted on a tavern, whence, through the mist, the light fell
golden on the pavement, Théophile suddenly bethought himself of the
Archangel Ithuriel who, in the guise of a poor but beautiful woman, was
living in wretched lodgings on La Butte and came every evening to read
the papers at this tavern. The musician often met her there. Her name
was Zita. Théophile had never been curious enough to enquire into the
opinions entertained by this archangel, but it was generally supposed
that she was a Russian nihilist, and he took her to be, like Arcade, an
atheist and a revolutionary. He had heard remarkable tales about her.
People said she was an hermaphrodite, and that as the active and passive
principles were united within her in a condition of stable equilibrium,
she was an example of a perfect being, finding in herself complete and
continuous satisfaction, contented yet unfortunate in that she knew not
desire.
"But," added Théophile, "I have my doubts about it. I believe she's a
woman and subject to love, like everything else that has life and breath
in the Universe. Besides, someone caught her one day kissing her hand to
a strapping peasant fellow."
He offered to introduce his companion to her.
The two angels found her alone, reading. As they drew near she lifted
her great eyes in whose deeps of molten gold little sparks of light were
forever a-dance. Her brows were contracted into that austere fold which
we see on the forehead of the Pythian Apollo; her nose was perfect and
descended without a curve; her lips were compressed and imparted a
disdainful and supercilious air to her whole countenance. Her tawny
hair, with its gleaming lights, was carelessly adorned with the tattered
remnants of a huge bird of prey, her garments lay about her in dark and
shapeless folds. She was leaning her chin on a small ill-tended hand.
Arcade, who had but recently heard references made to this powerful
archangel, showed her marked esteem, and placed entire confidence in
her. He immediately proceeded to tell of the progress his mind had made
towards knowledge and liberty, of his lucubrations in the d'Esparvieu
library, of his philosophical reading, his studies of nature, his works
on exegesis, his anger and his contempt when he recognised the deception
of the demiurge, his voluntary exile among mankind, and, finally, of his
project to stir up rebellion in Heaven. Ready to dare all against an
odious master, whom he pursued with inextinguishable hatred, he
expressed his profound happiness at finding in Ithuriel a mind capable
of counselling and helping him in his great undertaking.
"You are not a very old hand at revolutions," said Zita, smiling.
Nevertheless, she doubted neither his sincerity nor the firmness of his
declared resolve, and she congratulated him on his intellectual
audacity.
"That is what is most lacking in our people," she said, "they do not
think."
And she added almost immediately: "But on what can intelligence sharpen
its wits, in a country where the climate is soft and existence made
easy? Even here, where necessity calls for intellectual activity,
nothing is rarer than a person who thinks."
"Nevertheless," replied Maurice's guardian angel, "man has created
science. The important thing is to introduce it into Heaven. When the
angels possess some notions of physics, chemistry, astronomy, and
physiology; when the study of matter shows them worlds in an atom, and
an atom in the myriads of planets; when they see themselves lost
between these two infinities; when they weigh and measure the stars,
analyse their composition, and calculate their orbits, they will
recognise that these monsters work in obedience to forces which no
intelligence can define, or that each star has its particular divinity,
or indigenous god; and they will realise that the gods of Aldebaran,
Betelgeuse, and Sirius are greater than Ialdabaoth. When at length they
come to scrutinise with care the little world in which their lot is
cast, and, piercing the crust of the earth, note the gradual evolution
of its flora and fauna and the rude origin of man, who, under the
shelter of rocks and in cave dwellings, had no God but himself; when
they discover that, united by the bonds of universal kinship to plants,
beasts, and men, they have successively indued all forms of organic
life, from the simplest and the most primitive, until they became at
length the most beautiful of the children of light, they will perceive
that Ialdabaoth, the obscure demon of an insignificant world lost in
space, is imposing on their credulity when he pretends that they issued
from nothingness at his bidding; they will perceive that he lies in
calling himself the Infinite, the Eternal, the Almighty, and that, so
far from having created worlds, he knows neither their number nor their
laws. They will perceive that he is like unto one of them; they will
despise him, and, shaking off his tyranny, will fling him into the
Gehenna where he has hurled those more worthy than himself."
"Do you think so?" murmured Zita, puffing out the smoke of her
cigarette.... "Nevertheless, this knowledge by virtue of which you
reckon to enfranchise Heaven, has not destroyed religious sentiment on
earth. In countries where they have set up and taught this science of
physics, of chemistry, astronomy, and geology, which you think capable
of delivering the world, Christianity has retained almost all its sway.
If the positive sciences have had such a feeble influence on the beliefs
of mankind, it is not likely they will exercise a greater one on the
opinions of the angels, and nothing is of such dubious efficacy as
scientific propaganda."
"What!" exclaimed Arcade, "you deny that Science has given the Church
its death-blow? Is it possible? The Church, at any rate, judges
otherwise. Science, which you believe has no power over her, is
redoubtable to her, since she proscribes it. From Galileo's dialogues to
Monsieur Aulard's little manuals she has condemned all its discoveries.
And not without reason.
"In former days, when she gathered within her fold all that was great in
human thought, the Church held sway over the bodies as well as over the
souls of men, and imposed unity of obedience by fire and sword. To-day
her power is but a shadow and the elect among the great minds have
withdrawn from her. That is the state to which Science has reduced her."
"Possibly," replied the beautiful archangel, "but how slowly, with what
vicissitudes, at the price of what efforts, of what sacrifices!"
Zita did not absolutely condemn scientific propaganda, but she
anticipated no prompt or certain results from it. For her it was not so
much a question of enlightening the angels; the important thing was to
enfranchise them. In her opinion one only exerted a strong influence on
individuals, whoever they might be, by rousing their passions, and
appealing to their interests.
"Persuade the angels that they will cover themselves with glory by
overthrowing the tyrant, and that they will be happier once they are
free; that is the most practical policy to attempt, and, for my own
part, I am devoting all my energies to its fulfilment. It is certainly
no light task, because the Kingdom of Heaven is a military autocracy and
there is no public opinion in it. Nevertheless, I do not despair of
starting an intellectual movement. I do not wish to boast, but no one is
more closely acquainted than I with the different classes of angelic
society."
Throwing away her cigarette, Zita pondered for a moment, then, amid the
click of ivory balls on the billiard table, the clinking of glasses,
the curt voices of the players announcing their points, the monotonous
answers of the waiters to their customers, the Archangel enumerated the
entire population of the spirits of light.
"We must not count on the Dominations, the Virtues, nor the Powers,
which compose the celestial lower middle class. I have no need to tell
you, for you know it as well as I, how selfish, base, and cowardly the
middle classes are. As to the great dignitaries, the Ministers, the
Generals, Thrones, Cherubim, and Seraphim, you know what they are; they
will take no action. Let us, however, once prove ourselves the stronger,
and we shall have them with us. For if autocrats do not readily
acquiesce in their own downfall, once overthrown, all their forces
recoil upon themselves. It will be well to work the Army. Entirely loyal
as the Army is, it will allow itself to be influenced by a clever
anarchist propaganda. But our greatest and most constant efforts ought
to be brought to bear upon the angels of your own category, Arcade; the
guardian angels, who dwell upon earth in such great numbers. They fill
the lowest ranks of the hierarchy, are for the most part discontented
with their lot, and more or less imbued with the ideas of the present
century."
She had already conferred with the guardian angels of Montmartre,
Clignancourt, and Filles-du-Calvaire. She had devised the plan of a
vast association of Spirits on Earth with the view of conquering Heaven.
"To accomplish this task," she said, "I have established myself in
France. But not because I had the folly to believe myself freer in a
republic than in a monarchy. Quite the contrary, for there is no country
where the liberty of the individual is less respected than in France.
But the people are indifferent to everything connected with religion;
nowhere else, therefore, should I enjoy such tranquillity."
She invited Arcade to unite his efforts to hers, and when they separated
at the door of the _brasserie_ the steel shutter was already making its
groaning descent.
"Above all," said Zita, "you must meet the gardener. I will take you to
his rustic home one day."
Théophile, who had slumbered during all this talk, begged his friend to
come home with him and smoke a cigarette. He lived quite near in the
small street opposite, leading off the Boulevard. Arcade would see
Bouchotte, she would please him.
They climbed up five flights of stairs. Bouchotte had not yet returned.
A tin of sardines lay open on the piano. Red stockings coiled about the
arm-chairs.
"It's a little place, but it's comfortable," said Théophile.
And gazing out of the window which looked out on the russet-coloured
night, with its myriad lights, he added, "One can see the _Sacré
Coeur_." His hand on Arcade's shoulder, he repeated several times, "I am
glad to see you."
Then, dragging his former companion in glory into the kitchen passage,
he put down his candlestick, drew a key from his pocket, opened a
cupboard, and, raising a linen covering, disclosed two large white
wings.
"You see," he said, "I have preserved them. From time to time, when I am
alone, I go and look at them; it does me good."
And he dabbed his reddened eyes. He stood awhile, overcome by silent
emotion. Then, holding the candle near the long pinions which were
moulting their down in places, he murmured, "They are eaten away."
"You must put some pepper on them," said Arcade.
"I have done so," replied the angelic musician, sighing. "I have put
pepper, camphor, and powder on them. But nothing does any good."


CHAPTER XIV
WHICH REVEALS THE CHERUB TOILING FOR THE WELFARE OF HUMANITY
AND CONCLUDES IN AN ENTIRELY NOVEL MANNER WITH THE MIRACLE
OF THE FLUTE

The first night of his incarnation Arcade slept at the angel Istar's, in
a garret in that narrow, gloomy Rue Mazarine which wallows along beneath
the shadow of the old Institute of France. Istar, who had been expecting
him, had pushed against the wall the shattered retorts, cracked pots,
broken bottles, and odds and ends of iron stoves, which made up the
furniture of his room, and spread his clothes on the floor to lie on,
leaving his guest his folding-bed with its straw mattress.
The celestial spirits differ from one another in appearance according to
the hierarchy and the choir to which they belong, and according to their
own particular nature. They are all beautiful; but in different fashion,
and they do not all offer to the eye the soft contours and dimpling
smiles of childhood with its rosy lights and pearly tints. Nor do they
all adorn themselves with eternal youth, that indefinable beauty that
Greek art in its decline has imparted to its most lovingly handled
marbles, and whereof Christian painters have so often timidly essayed to
give us veiled and softened imitations. In some of them the chin glows
with tufts of hair, and the limbs are furnished with such vigorous
muscles that it seems as if serpents were writhing beneath the skin.
Some have no wings, others possess two, four, or six; others again are
formed entirely of conjoined pinions. Many, and these not the least
illustrious, take the form of superb monsters, such as the Centaurs of
fable; nay, one may even see some who are living chariots, and wheels of
fire. A member of the highest celestial hierarchy, Istar belonged to the
choir of Cherubim or Kerûbs who see above them the Seraphim alone. In
common with all the angelic spirits of his rank he had formerly borne in
Heaven the bodily shape of a winged bull surmounted by the head of a
horned and bearded man, and carrying between his loins the attributes of
generous fecundity. He was vaster and more vigorous than any animal on
earth, and when he stood erect with outspread wings he covered with his
shadow sixty archangels.
Such was Istar in his native home. There he radiated strength and
sweetness. His heart was full of courage and his soul benevolent.
Moreover, in those days he loved his lord. He believed him to be good
and yielded him faithful service. But even while guarding the portals of
his Master, he used to ponder unceasingly on the punishment of the
rebellious angels and the curse of Eve. His mind worked slowly but
profoundly. When, after a long course of centuries, he persuaded himself
that Ialdabaoth in creating the world had created evil and death, he
ceased to adore and to serve him. His love changed to hatred, his
veneration to contempt. He shouted his execrations in his face, and fled
to earth.
Embodied in human form and reduced to the stature of the sons of Adam,
he still retained some characteristics of his former nature. His big
protruding eyes, his beaked nose, his thick lips framed in a black beard
which descended in curls on to his chest recalled those Cherubs of the
tabernacle of Iahveh, of which the bulls of Nineveh afford us a pretty
accurate representation. He bore the name of Istar on earth as well as
in Heaven, and although exempt from vanity and free from all social
prejudice, he was immensely desirous of showing himself sincere and
truthful in all things. He therefore proclaimed the illustrious rank in
which his birth had placed him in the celestial hierarchy and translated
into French his title of Cherub by the equivalent one of Prince, calling
himself Prince Istar. Seeking shelter among mankind he had developed an
ardent love for them. While awaiting the coming of the hour when he
should deliver Heaven from bondage, he dreamed of the salvation of
regenerate humanity and was eager to consummate the destruction of this
wicked world, in order to raise upon its ashes, to the sound of the
lyre, a city radiant with happiness and love. A chemist in the pay of a
dealer in nitrates, he lived very frugally. He wrote for newspapers with
advanced views on liberty, spoke at public meetings, and had got himself
sentenced several times to several months' imprisonment for
anti-militarism.
Istar greeted his brother Arcade cordially, approved of his rupture with
the party of crime, and informed him of the descent of fifty of the
children of light who, at the present moment, formed a colony near Val
de Grace, imbued with a really excellent spirit.
"It is simply raining angels in Paris," he said, laughing. "Every day
some dignitary of the sacred palace falls on one's head, and soon the
Sultan of the Cherubs will have no one to make into Vizirs or guards but
the little unbreeched vagabonds of his pigeon coops."
Soothed by the good news, Arcade fell asleep, full of happiness and
hope.
He awoke in the early dawn and saw Prince Istar bending over his
furnaces, his retorts, and his test tubes. Prince Istar was working for
the good of humanity.
Every morning when Arcade woke he saw Prince Istar fulfilling his work
of tenderness and love. Sometimes the Kerûb, huddled up with his head in
his hands, would softly murmur a few chemical formulæ; at others,
drawing himself up to his full height, like a dark naked column, with
his head, his arms, nay, his entire bust clean out of the sky-light
window, he would deposit his melting-pot on the roof, fearing the
perquisition with which he was constantly menaced. Moved by an immense
pity for the miseries of the world wherein he dwelt in exile, conscious
perhaps of the rumours to which his name gave rise, inebriated with his
own virtue, he played the part of apostle to the Human Race, and
neglecting the task he had undertaken in coming to earth, he forgot all
about the emancipation of the angels. Arcade, who, on the contrary,
dreamed of nothing else but of conquering Heaven and returning thither
in triumph, reproached the Cherub with forgetting his native land.
Prince Istar, with a great frank, uncouth laugh, acknowledged that he
had no preference for angels over men.