Lamekis Read online

  Lamekis

  by

  Charles de Fieux,

  Chevalier de Mouhy

  translated by

  Michael Shreve

  A Black Coat Press Book

  Introduction

  Charles Fieux or de Fieux, Chevalier de Mouhy, was born on May 9, 1701 in Metz, France, or in Bourgogne if we believe some of his works where he says his family came from that province. According to his title, he was a cavalry officer, which is hard to believe since the Chronique Scandaleuse of 1785 described him as hunchbacked and lame—but that is the title he took and the costume he wore for his portrait by Fessard. He was a nephew of the Baron of Longepierre, a pensioner of the King, a member of the Academy of Dijon, an “applauder” and audience leader in the theater, a spy, pen pusher, satirist, blackmailer and professor of morality and religion toward the end of his life; he was a journalist, gazetteer, novelist and playwright, as well as writing about the theater, and one of the hardy libertines of the time. He was a colorful, mysterious, multivalent character and a puzzling, prolific writer who left behind a fog of misinformation making it hard to understand him today.

  He arrived in Paris at a young age with nothing but his pen to support himself. The meager pay for his books did not satisfy his needs, so he did whatever he could to supplement them. He first pawned himself off on Voltaire as a literary agent and lawyer and a hired “applauder” for his plays—a common practice since classical times. It seems that de Mouhy sought out Voltaire perhaps to ask him for a loan. Voltaire wrote to Abbé Moussinot, agreeing to meet him, but promising nothing. As it turned out, the meeting went well and de Mouhy started working for Voltaire, but no letters exist between the two, so the exact nature of their relationship remains obscure. At the start, however, Voltaire did give him a loan because he thought he was a promising writer and that his first publications would pay it back.

  It is likely that de Mouhy became Voltaire’s literary agent in 1736 because only later did he deal with his legal matters. In 1738, Voltaire asked Abbé Moussinot to ask de Mouhy about his work and expenses and to keep everything discreet and secret. At the time, Voltaire was working to tarnish Pierre Desfontaines’ reputation,1 and de Mouhy became his champion. Le Préservatif, ou Critique des Observations sur les écrits modernes [The Prophylactic, or Criticism of Observations on modern writing] appeared anonymously in 1738, but was managed and sold under de Mouhy’s name to keep Voltaire’s own name out of it. When Desfontaines answered with La Voltairomanie, a libel suit followed, which was resolved a year later, although the war between the two continued for a long time. In 1738-39, Voltaire needed de Mouhy’s help and support. Afterward, he continued working for Voltaire as a literary agent, but became more and more demanding, financially and otherwise.

  For four years, between 1736 and 1740, Voltaire found de Mouhy to be a good secretary, better than as a writer, and he appreciated his work as an agent and applauder. For his part, de Mouhy did anything he could to make himself worthy in Voltaire’s eyes: writing, talking, visiting, selling, influencing, lying, scandalizing, etc. But de Mouhy was small, ugly and poor, so poor that he had to pawn his watch at one point. Voltaire continually loaned him money or just outright gave it to him, but never too much—it was a well-earned honorarium and the work de Mouhy had to do for Voltaire became infamous. On June 3 or 4, 1740, Voltaire gave de Mouhy his last commission. Ten years later, in 1750, he said de Mouhy was libeling him in the newspapers—which is unlikely—and called him a traitor and ingrate, but considering the reputation de Mouhy earned while in Voltaire’s employ, perhaps that accusation should be leveled against Voltaire himself.

  After leaving Voltaire, de Mouhy joined the service of the Maréchal de Belle-Isle, the Minister of War, doing all kinds of “dirty work” for which he was well paid. That’s all de Mouhy wanted, since he really needed money and was not shy about how to get it. But after Maréchal’s death, he was left with little if any respect in the world, and all the efforts he made to get some through his writings did not turn out too well for him.

  De Mouhy began writing in 1735, launching his productive career with the first chapters of five different novels, including La Paysanne parvenue, La Mouche and Lamekis. Although he did not become rich and famous as a writer, he did earn a living. He wrote because he was hard up for money more than because he was inspired by genius—his works were meant to be appreciated by his contemporaries, not admired by posterity. And indeed, many of his works did have some kind of ephemeral success, especially his earlier ones, which earned him a reputation among novelists. But, generally, his books were not much valued. He gave them titles similar to famous works of the time to attract public attention, and imitated the popular works of writers such as Marivaux and Prévost to take advantage of contemporary trends, which earned him the sobriquet of “opportunist.”

  He went to cafés and people’s homes, listened to everyone and then went back home and wrote a novel with the anecdotes he had heard. When the books came out, advertisements were posted everywhere on the street, and he himself, his pockets full of books, made the rounds of the cafés where people would buy them from him just to get rid of him or (some critics say) he even went to people’s houses to give them away just so he could hear them applaud or whistle.

  De Mouhy has also been criticized for writing carelessly and negligently, knocking out works of boring nonsense just to pay off his monthly debts. It is true he had the habit of writing as he published and working on several novels at the same time, as if his books wrote themselves (see Part 5, The book writes itself).

  His admirers, however, talk about his fearless imagination, his mixing of genres, and his talent as a storyteller, writing simply and naturally. And in his compilation of the history of French theater (Tablettes dramatiques, later called Le Dictionnaire), he was the first to introduce an alphabetical list of all the plays put on in France, with the names of the authors and actors. But whatever was thought of his talent, de Mouhy was unanimously regarded as one of the most prolific authors of his time.

  So, even if he wasn’t blessed with genius, at least he had talent and an unbridled imagination; if he was only a second-rate writer, he was one of the best, and occasionally produced first-rate work. Unfortunately, he produced too many works early in his career and may have worn himself out in the end. By the time of his death, de Mouhy had penned more than 80 volumes of novels of various types, all vivid, but most of them were written before 1750. Today, his works are extremely hard to find—if anybody is looking—except for La paysanne parvenue, about a young country girl introduced into high society, La Mouche ou les aventures de M. Bigand, a colorful, comical, fantastic novel about a snitch, and Le Masque de fer—The Man in the Iron Mask—about the famous prisoner in the Bastille, which have recently been reprinted in France.

  Lamekis, subtitled Les Voyages extraordinaires d’un Égyptien dans la Terre Intérieure avec la Découverte de l'Île des Sylphides [Lamekis, or The Extraordinary Voyages of an Egyptian in the Inner Earth with the Discovery of the Sylphides’ Island] stands out as different from de Mouhy’s other works.2 It partakes of the then-current trend for imaginary voyages, satirical and didactic works, travel logs, etc., but is not really like any of them. Jacques Bosquet called it the “typical unknown masterpiece.” Pierre Versins, in his Encyclopédie de l’Utopie et de la Science-Fiction, labels the work “a remote ancestor of Abraham Merritt—especially The Moon Pool—and H.P. Lovecraft.” There is no real moral or didactic purpose to Lamekis, just an author reveling in his wild, explosive, frenetic imagination, perhaps too strange for his time and better understood from a modern point of view. Like Force Ennemie of John Antoine Nau, another, later “unknown masterpiece,”3 de Mouhy plays with both n
arrative and typographical strangeness—the adjective “extraordinary” in the title is no empty promise. The different physical mazes of the Inner Earth mirror his labyrinthine story structure and state of mind. His use of an invented language, confused and unusual references, fake notes, parentheses, ellipses, etc. have fun with the literature of his age.

  De Mouhy was not afraid of parodying his own work in 1752 with Opuscule d'un célébre auteur egyptien. Contenant l'histoire d'Orphée, par laquelle on pourroit soupçonner qu'il est peu de femmes fidele [Opuscule of a famous Egyptian writer, containing the history of Orpheus in which one might suspect that there are few faithful women]. But Lamekis stands today as his greatest, maybe his only, legacy, one that we would be all the poorer without.

  Charles de Fieux died in Paris at 83 years of age on February 29, 1784.

  Michael Shreve

  LAMEKIS

  Author’s Preface

  On my way back from a long business trip on which I had to stay “incognito,” I met an Armenian who was moving to Paris. His conversations were pleasant enough to make up for the boredom of the trip and they made me feel in less of a hurry to get home. One evening while we were walking under a beautiful full moon on the banks of a river that watered the village where we were staying, we began talking to pass the time. It was on that night that this work I offer to the public was born. The Armenian was fascinated by the beauty of nature and he told me all kinds of stories about it. The story of Lamekis fascinated me and I made him repeat it every day so I could take notes. At the end of our trip I found I had enough material for three parts.

  It is up to the readers to decide if I was wrong to think that this story is entertaining. It is so new and so full of strange and extraordinary events that I am convinced that I will not disappoint the public by bringing it out.

  Now I only have to respond to the concerns of a few people who say that it is impossible for me to have completed all the works that appear under my name and that it would be more probable and even more logical that I got hold of them just to polish them off rather than contribute anything original. I assure the public that I have always worked hard and meticulously to satisfy them and I have always tried to be as entertaining as possible since I find nothing more flattering than to achieve that.

  Part 1

  The mighty north winds had been tossing us around in a terrible storm for three days and had thrown us on death’s doorstep in the raging chaos of our blasted sails, when they suddenly stopped. As the sea slowly calmed and the waves, which seemed to want to smash our ship to pieces, started dying down, we recovered our courage that had been wrested away by our uncertain fate. We made a sacrifice to the god Serapis on the upper deck and sprinkled the ship with precious liquor to purify it of the impurity of our tears. Everyone congratulated one another for escaping what seemed an inevitable death. The fear of danger, which had kept us from minding our natural needs, had vanished and we ran to the food and drink that beguiles care. The present made us forget the horrors of the past—pleasure is never as intense as when it follows woe. The whole crew took part and after the feast, where Bacchus held sway, all of them, even the helmsmen, were charmed into a deep sleep.

  I was the only one who did not give myself up to either debauchery or rest. After a light meal I sat on the poop and looked out over the vastness of the sea with my head full of cruel notions about the harsh fate that persecuted me. I was sunk in these sad thoughts when Sinouis roused me.

  “What am I seeing?” he said to me. “Lamekis is shedding tears and I don’t know why! His great soul is not prone to the fear of death. It’s too lofty to stoop so low. Oh Lamekis! Will my friendship for you ever get to the bottom of your heart? Will you always fend off my thoughtfulness? Since I’ve known you, since melancholy has tainted your thoughts, I haven’t been able to earn your trust. If my devotion is worth anything to you, tell me your secrets. Whatever they are, they will be safe in the bosom of a friend who is not only discreet and sympathetic, but who is also willing to lose his life to prove to you his mettle.”

  “Oh Sinouis!” I sighed, “You don’t know what you’re asking. How can I give an account of such an extraordinary life? Aren’t you afraid that I will make you part of my constant misfortune?”

  “No, No,” my true friend continued, “nothing could ever sever me from you. It is by following your destiny that I can prove to you the strength of my feelings. Real friends are proven only in adversity. We shouldn’t rely on their assurances of zeal until they’ve been purified in the fire of disaster.”

  He said a few other things like that and I was so touched that I could not refuse his insistence. For myself I assured him that I appreciated his zeal and to prove it I began to tell him the story of my life as follows.

  Lamekis the Elder, High Priest of Egypt, and Semiramis the Queen

  My father, Lamekis, was the High Priest of the god whom they worship in Egypt. Everyone respected him for his honesty, his religion and his kindness. The grandeur of all his actions seemed, if I may say so, to be the very image of the divinity they worshipped in the temple. When he pronounced the oracles, they were spoken so honorably that everyone who heard them felt the holiest of emotions. The veneration they had for this minister made him almost as powerful in the state as Semiramis, who was on the throne at the time. The Queen was very attached to my father and nothing could be decided in the counsels without calling him.

  One day she summoned him to her chamber. It was the first time that she was alone with him. She had been attracted to him for a long time and the wisdom of his advice had always made less of an impression on her than his handsome face did.

  “Lamekis,” she said, “I know the laws of the inner temple, but my way of thinking is above vulgar fears. For many years now I have desired to be initiated in the mysteries of Serapis. You have to satisfy me: any opposition to my resolution will be useless. I want the entrance to the catacombs opened for me. I am Queen and in my realm only my sovereign power commands.”

  “Oh Princess!” the High Priest cried. “What are you asking of me? Do you know the price you will have to pay?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the impetuous Queen replied. “I want it to happen in three days. Tomorrow I will wait for you to prepare me as you need. Go now and don’t answer. Just consider that Semiramis must really appreciate you to honor you with such a grace.”

  The High Priest was upset by this command. He knew the fury of the Princess when she was hampered in her desires. His predecessor became food for the Sacred Leopard4 when he refused to let her take part in the feast of the golden horn.5 It is true that she got revenge for what had got in the way of her desire, but she did not disturb the mysteries by showing up; or maybe also she had heard some of the rumors caused by the death and she did not want to worsen them by being stubborn. But it was no less certain that her power had increased lately and nothing could oppose it.

  The High Priest was bewildered and upset. So, being the devoted minister, he ran to his divinity. He invoked it, but was surprised to find it deaf to his voice. “Oh Heavens!” he cried, “Apis refuses to give his eternal orders to his slave! What am I to do? Shall I open the fateful flank?6 Oh Queen, what have you asked? And you, God, whom I have served for so long, does your silence smile or frown upon an order that is so contrary to the laws of the temple? Semiramis represents your supreme power; she is its image. But does this extend all the way to your sanctuary?”

  He spoke, but the adamant statue made no sign. He opened the sacred flank, took out the golden key and went down into the catacombs where they kept the eternal fire. The flame, which usually rose up in his presence, remained still. He was flabbergasted. He wanted to speak to the minister of the divine worship who was under his authority, but the law of silence, which had been imposed since the creation of the mysteries, forbade it. He groaned inside. The priests were surprised at his visit and shuddered at the danger it foretold. They knew that their superior should not descend into the catacom
bs except with the King, only for his consecration, and (except for this) he should not appear unless there was a revolution in the state or some unimaginable event. Lamekis bowed down before the sacred tripod and was purified by the fire. His confidence and strength came back to him and when he went back to the upper temple, he was resolved to defend the integrity of the mysteries. He spent the night at the foot of the altar. The vaults trembled; at the break of day thunder roared. The statue groaned. The horns of the divine bull turned black and from its holy mouth these words came out clearly: “Semiramis is Queen and you are her subject.”

  Lamekis, who was used to explaining the oracles, had a hard time finding the meaning of this one. He spent the rest of the day trying to fathom the sovereign will. It seemed to him that on the one hand it was declaring to him the authority of the ruler and on the other the obedience of a subject. He worshipped the divinity, prayed that it would inspire him and, filled with an inner comfort, he went to see Semiramis.

  “Well now!” she said when she saw him. “Is the statue of Serapis open to me? Am I going to penetrate at last into the heart of the mysteries?”

  “Semiramis is Queen and Lamekis is her subject,” the High Priest replied. “It is for me to obey, but I have to tell you and warn you of the consequences of your dangerous curiosity. Ah, Madame,” he continued, “master this desire that can only result in great harm. What risks will you not run? Your days are too precious for me not to do all I can to dissuade you. Let me explain it to you, that’s my duty, and then you can command your fate and mine.

  “Serapis is the greatest of gods. It is he whom we owe for the creation of the Universe and us. With a single breath he can destroy everything that lives and with a single breath he can bring it all back to life. Before he enlightened the Egyptians, they lived in gross ignorance. Crude, savage nature made all their laws. They devoured one another. From his throne on high Serapis took pity on their blindness and decided to make them what they are today. But he wanted to put their wild hearts to the test and know if they were worthy of his favors. He took the form of a bull, unknown to them before then, and appeared one day in the middle of a field speckled with a thousand flowers. He started grazing in front of the people who were gathered for a feast that was being held for a victory over a neighboring enemy, a feast that was celebrated by eating their prisoners. Depending on how this barbarous people welcomed him, Serapis would either heap upon them all the goods of the world or wipe them out to the last one.