The Count of Monte Cristo
hermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to
share, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready?”
At this moment the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, black as ebony,
and dressed in a plain white tunic, made a sign to his master that all
was prepared in the dining-room.
“Now,” said the unknown to Franz, “I do not know if you are of my
opinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or
three hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to
address one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of
hospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me
one by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself,
that I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called
‘Sinbad the Sailor.’”
“And I,” replied Franz, “will tell you, as I only require his wonderful
lamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at
this moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from
going away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been
conveyed by some good genius.”
“Well, then, Signor Aladdin,” replied the singular Amphitryon, “you
heard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the
dining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way?”
At these words, moving aside the tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest.
Franz now looked upon another scene of enchantment; the table was
splendidly covered, and once convinced of this important point he cast
his eyes around him. The dining-room was scarcely less striking than
the room he had just left; it was entirely of marble, with antique
bas-reliefs of priceless value; and at the four corners of this
apartment, which was oblong, were four magnificent statues, having
baskets in their hands. These baskets contained four pyramids of most
splendid fruit; there were Sicily pine-apples, pomegranates from
Malaga, oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches from France, and dates
from Tunis.
The supper consisted of a roast pheasant garnished with Corsican
blackbirds; a boar’s ham with jelly, a quarter of a kid with tartar
sauce, a glorious turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between these large
dishes were smaller ones containing various dainties. The dishes were
of silver, and the plates of Japanese china.
Franz rubbed his eyes in order to assure himself that this was not a
dream. Ali alone was present to wait at table, and acquitted himself so
admirably, that the guest complimented his host thereupon.
“Yes,” replied he, while he did the honors of the supper with much ease
and grace—“yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does
all he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he
has a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for
having kept it on his shoulders.”
Ali approached his master, took his hand, and kissed it.
“Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad,” said Franz, “to ask you the
particulars of this kindness?”
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“Oh, they are simple enough,” replied the host. “It seems the fellow
had been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than
etiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey
to have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue
the first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always
had a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his
tongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali
a splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of
having. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the
poor devil’s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass
with which I had shivered his highness’s yataghan to pieces, the Bey
yielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that
the poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless
clause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse
of the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to
appear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe.”
Franz remained a moment silent and pensive, hardly knowing what to
think of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with which his host related
the brief narrative.
“And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed,” he said,
by way of changing the conversation, “you pass your life in
travelling?”
“Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be
able to accomplish it,” said the unknown with a singular smile; “and I
made some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season.”
Although Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes
gave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity.
“You have suffered a great deal, sir?” said Franz inquiringly.
Sinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied, “What makes
you suppose so?”
“Everything,” answered Franz,—“your voice, your look, your pallid
complexion, and even the life you lead.”
“I?—I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am
king of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I
get tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like
one; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by
delivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I
have my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or
appeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you
had tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never
return to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish
there.”
“Revenge, for instance!” observed Franz.
The unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate
into the depth of the heart and thoughts. “And why revenge?” he asked.
“Because,” replied Franz, “you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by
society, has a fearful account to settle with it.”
“Ah!” responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which
displayed his white and sharp teeth. “You have not guessed rightly.
Such as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I
shall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little
blue cloak.”
“And will that be the first time you ever took that journey?”
“Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you
that it is not my fault I have delayed it so long—it will happen one
day or the other.”
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“And do you propose to make this journey very shortly?”
“I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain
arrangements.”
“I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to
repay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality
displayed to me at Monte Cristo.”
“I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure,” replied the host,
“but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability,
_incognito_.”
The supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the
unknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to
which his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or
rather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them
on the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with
a silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table
roused Franz’s curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of
greenish paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was
perfectly unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the
cup contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting
his eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment.
“You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can
you?”
“No, I really cannot.”
“Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia
which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.”
“But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through
mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human
name; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which,
to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?”
“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad;
“we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without
regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing
it. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste
this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.
Are you a man of imagination—a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of
possibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you
advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of
unfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the
greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a
king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe
like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the
universe, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you
will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not
tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is
only to do thus? look!”
At these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance
so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his
lips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent
backwards. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite
sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired:
“What, then, is this precious stuff?”
“Did you ever hear,” he replied, “of the Old Man of the Mountain, who
attempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste?”
“Of course I have.”
“Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the
mountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were
magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens
isolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and
there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which
transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs,
ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took
for reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous,
so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave
it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck
down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing
that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life
of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a
slight foretaste.”
“Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that—by name at least.”
“That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish—the purest and
most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria,—the hashish of Abou-Gor, the
celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a
palace, inscribed with these words, _A grateful world to the dealer in
happiness_.”
“Do you know,” said Franz, “I have a very great inclination to judge
for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies.”
“Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin—judge, but do not confine yourself
to one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a
fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle
in nature against this divine substance,—in nature which is not made
for joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat,
the dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme,
then the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what
changes occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with