The social phenomenon

The social phenomenon

Paul Fauconnet et Marcel Mauss

Translated by Bayron Pascal

The social phenomenon

A first fact is that there are societies, i.e. aggregates of human beings. Among these aggregates, some are durable, like the nations, ephemeral as the crowds, some are very large as the large churches; The other very small as the family when it is reduced to the marital couple. However, whatever the size and form of these groups and those that could be enumerated class, tribe, occupational group, caste, commune, they all present this character they are formed by a plurality of individual consciences, acting and Reacting to one another. It is in the presence of these actions and reactions, of these interactions that one recognizes societies. The question is whether, among the facts in these groups, there are those that manifest the nature of the group as a group, and not just the nature of the individuals who make up them, the general attributes of mankind. Are there any that are what they are because the group is what it is? On this condition, and on this condition only, there will be a sociology proper; For there will then be a life of society, distinct from that which the individuals lead or rather distinct from the one they would lead if they lived isolated.

But there are indeed phenomena that present these characters, only you have to know how to discover them. Indeed, everything that happens in a social group is not a manifestation of the life of the group as such, and therefore is not social, any more than anything that happens in an organism is strictly biological. Not only the accidental and local disturbances determined by cosmic causes, but also regular, regularly repeated events, which are of interest to all members of the group without exception, may not have the character of Social facts. For example, all individuals, with the exception of patients, perform their organic functions under substantially identical conditions; The same is the psychological functions: the phenomena of sensation, representation, reaction or inhibition are the same among all members of the group, they are subjected to the same laws as the research psychology. But no one thinks about putting them in the category of social events despite their generality. It is that they do not hold in any way the nature of the grouping, but derive from the organic and psychic nature of the individual. So are they the same, regardless of which group the Indi Vidu belongs to. If an isolated human was, conceivably, one could say that they would be what they are even outside of any society. If, therefore, the facts in which the societies are the theatre differed from each other only by their degree of generality, there would be none that could be regarded as proper manifestations of social life, and which could, therefore, be the subject of the Sociology.

And yet the existence of such phenomena is so obvious that it was reported by observers who did not consider the constitution of a sociology. It has often been noted that a crowd, an assembly did not feel, think and do not behave as isolated individuals would have done; That the most diverse groups, a family, a corporation, a nation had a "spirit ", a character, habits as individuals have theirs. In all cases therefore it is perfectly clear that the group, a crowd in society, really has a clean nature, that it determines in individuals certain ways of feeling, thinking and acting, and that these individuals would have neither the same tendencies, nor the Same habits, nor the same prejudices, if they had lived in other human groups. But this conclusion can be generalized. Between the ideas that would have, the actions of an isolated individual and the collective manifestations, there is such a chasm that the latter must be brought to a new nature, to sui generis forces: otherwise, they would remain incomprehensible.

Are, for example, manifestations of the economic life of modern Western societies: industrial production of commodities, extreme Labour Division, international exchange, Capital Association, currency, credit; Annuity, interest, wages, etc.: Let us think of the considerable number of notions, institutions, habits that the simplest acts of a trader or a worker seeking to earn a living entail; It is clear that neither of them creates the forms that their activity necessarily takes: neither do they invent credit, interest, wages, exchange or currency.

All that can be attributed to each of them is a general tendency, to obtain the food necessary to protect against the bad weather, or even if the or wants, the taste of, the business, the gain, etc. Even feelings that seem spontaneous, like the love of work, of savings, of luxury, are in reality the product of social culture since they are lacking in some peoples and vary infinitely, within a society granny, according to the Layers of the population. But on their own, these needs would determine, in order to satisfy themselves, a small number of very simple acts which contrast in the most accused way with the very complex forms in which the economic man now flows his conduct, and it is not Only the complexity of these forms which testifies to their extra-individual origin, but still and above all the way in which they are imposed on the individual. The latter is more or less obliged to comply with it. Sometimes it is the very law that compels it, or the custom as imperative as the law. It was in this way that in the past the industrialist was obliged to manufacture products of determined quality and measure, that now still it is subject to all kinds of regulations, that no one can refuse to receive in payment the legal currency for its legal value. Sometimes it is the force of things against which the individual comes to break if he tries to rebel against them: thus the trader who wants to renounce the credit, the producer who would like to consume his own products, in a word the worker who Would like to recreate the rules of his economic activity alone, would be condemned to an inevitable ruin.

Biological clocks

Biological clocks 

biological clocks do not measure time but allow living beings to live in harmony with the different rhythms of nature (Day and night, seasons, etc.).

Biological Rhythms

Nature is punctuated by alternations of all kinds: that of the day and night, that of the seasons (spring, summer, autumn, winter in temperate regions, but also rainy season and dry season in tropical regions), that of the Tides (tide High, low tide).

The activities of all living beings are also carried out by following cycles or rhythms, in accordance with those of nature. These are for example:

-Alternation in the same day of rest and activity, sleep and waking: diurnal animals rest or sleep at night and seek to eat during the day, while nocturnal animals do the opposite, starting to activate only at nightfall; 

– The alternation over a year between periods of activity and rest: in temperate regions, leaves and flowering from the end of winter, leaf fall and "sleep" during the whole bad season;

– Seasons-related behaviors such as hibernation and migration;

– Cycles of reproduction (flowering season, season of love, menstrual cycles in women and other primates);

– The rhythms according to which the body works in animals: heart rate, respiratory rhythm, body temperature curve throughout the day, production of certain hormones, etc.

There are many different rhythms, the duration of which is very variable: a few seconds (rhythm of production of certain hormones, heart rate), several years (flowering rate of some plants for example). Rhythms whose duration is close to that of a day are called circadian rhythms.

Biological rhythms are controlled by internal clocks

The rhythms of the activities of living beings occur in concordance with those of nature. Yet they are not triggered directly by the natural rhythms. Indeed, biologists have shown that certain rhythms are lost even in the absence of changes in the environment. For example, if you move an animal that hibernates to spend the winter in a warmer part of the world, it is still hibernating when the fall arrives.

In fact, not only do biological rhythms exist in the absence of changes in the environment, but they are passed down from generation to generation; So there are genes to order them. Thus, most living beings have internal biological clocks. They would have appeared very early in the history of Life on Earth: From the beginning of the primary age, more than 500 million years ago.

Nevertheless, the biological rhythms given by the internal clocks are also influenced by the external conditions, such as the length of day and night which varies according to the seasons in temperate regions. Biological clocks are in some way "remitted by the Hour" by the indications of the outside world, such as the onset of dawn or twilight.

Human biological Clocks

At the beginning of the years 1960, by enclosing volunteers in cellars or caves without any way of knowing or predicting what time it is or whether it is day or night outside, it has been shown that the human body continues to function according to determined rhythms. Thus, rhythms such as body temperature or hormone production are slowing down at a pace slightly longer than 24 hours (around 25 hours). The rhythm of the "Day" (waking period plus the period of sleep), it, grows considerably: it takes place over 30 hours.

The IMPORTANCE of biological rhythms

The adaptation of the organism to its environment, controlled in large part by biological clocks, plays an important role in the proper functioning of the body and good health. When the biological clocks are dissolved, it is the whole functioning of the body that is shifted, and the general health is affected.

The easiest way to understand this phenomenon is the time difference. When you travel between Paris and New York For example, you have to stagger your six-hour schedule. It follows a desynchronization between the rhythm of our clocks and the rhythms of the environment: it causes insomnia, fatigue and gastric disturbances.

The organism adapts fast enough to the new rhythms, but not all clocks are restarting on time at the same speed: It takes a few days for the bedtime and the sunrise to be synchronized again with the night and the day, but the other Changes in body temperature and hormone secretion, for example, take much longer to readjust.

The study of biological clocks makes it possible to better understand the mechanisms of occurrence of accidents, especially when driving at night or when working in shifted schedules. It also helps to influence the efficacy of certain medications: by giving a medicine at the right time, it increases its efficacy while reducing the risk of side effects. Finally, it plays an important role in the study of nutrition, since the different types of food are not used by the body in the same way according to the hours to which they are ingested.

Translated by Bayron Pascal.

The trade war between the USA and China. Who's going to win?

The trade war between the USA and China. 

Who's going to win?

"President Donald Trump has approved customs duties on Chinese imports worth approximately 50 billion. The United States confirmed the information on June 15. A series of Chinese products will be imposed on tariffs of 25%, including a portion from July 6, said the U.S. trade representative.

China has not taken a long time to react. "Beijing Counterattack!

China was going to apply customs duties of a similar magnitude (25% more) on US $50 billion million in U.S. imports. In particular, the American agricultural sector (soybeans, beef) is targeted, as is the automobile. These new rights will come into force from 6 July.

On the Chinese import side in the United States, the products covered by the US tariffs come from a wide range of sectors: aeronautics, automotive, information and communication technology, robotics, industrial machinery, Among other things. A list of 818 types of Chinese import products, valued at 34 billion, will be taxed effective 6 July. The 284 other products, valued at 16 billion, will be later affected by the U.S. customs duties.

Commercial warfare more than ever today

"My great friendship with Chinese president Xi and our country's relationship with China are both very important to me," Donald Trump said. While adding:

The trade between our two nations is, however, inequitable, and for a very long time. This situation is no longer tenable. "

Article translated from: Https://www.courrierinternational.com/article/commerce-trump-frappe-la-chine-contre-attaque

Supreme Visions from the East

Supreme Visions from the East
Pierre Loti

Thursday, August 21, 1913.

I leave today the tragic Andrinople where my dear Turkish friends had given me during three days visions of great oriental enchantments  forgetting for a time their nameless miseries and their resentments so justified against the so-called Christian Europe, they had given me a festive welcome in a marvellous Eastern decor, and all that would remain for me unforgettable. Tonight I will be back in Constantinople, in the Bosporus, with my friends from Candilli, whom I will find as anxious as I am about the fate that Europe, excited by the lies of the gregache, is preparing for our dear Turkey.

Friday, August 22.

Candilli. In spite of the heavy weather, dark as in winter, I wanted to go alone to Béïcos, to rest in the "Valley of the Great Lord.

But, there, a heavy storm rain forces me to take refuge in a small Turkish café. And here I am recognized, everyone gathers: the officers, the soldiers, the people, even the most humble of the village. I am in a hurry, I am acclaimed, people kiss my hands, they don't want to leave me... What is the people in the world where we would find so much recognition?

I can only barely take the "Chirket" (the small steamboat that will take me back to Candilli along the Asian coast). People, boarded with me on this boat, signal me to all the passengers and when I disembark in Candilli, hundreds of people still cheer me.

The latest news tonight seems that Europe will have pity, that Russia will give in, that Andrinople will finally remain Turkish.

Sunday, August 24.

My last day of Candilli. I must take possession tomorrow of a house that my Turkish friends have prepared for me in the heart of Stambul.

Today, accompanied by Countess O... I go to Thérapia, for my visit to the French Ambassador. The palace, which served as the summer residence of our embassy, has just been destroyed by a fire; the ambassador walks us through the rubble. This old wooden palace, desiccated by time, had belonged to France for over a century; it burned like straw and nothing could be saved from all the precious memories it contained.

Most of the things I love in Turkey will have the same fate, since fire is, along with "progress" and gregache, one of the greatest destroyers of the Eastern past.

In the evening, after dinner, the Countess and I attend the prayer in the mosque of Candilli. It is a very small village mosque, without dome and that a simple wooden minaret distinguishes only from the houses of surroundings. It is almost dark, the few oil lights hanging from the ceiling barely illuminate the lime walls and naive decorations of the Mirhab. But the recollection of the faithful, in this modest place of prayer, perhaps strikes even more than in the sumptuous great mosques of Stamboul.

After the ceremony, the notables of Candilli and the Imans come to bid me farewell, since tomorrow, alas! I leave their delicious village.

Monday, August 25.

At two o'clock my Turkish friends came to take us to Candilli and took us to a new home, which I did not know yet.

Our house has been arranged in Turkish style, with beautiful old things that the Sultan sent me from the Old Seraglio Palace and our supper is served in golden dishes. But tonight, as if on purpose to give a little tragedy to my installation in this district so lost, a terrible storm comes to shake our roof, everything darkens here and, in spite of the oriental luxury which surrounds me, everything seems to me a little gloomy.

Thursday, August 28.

So here I am once again settling in my dear Stamboul, at the bottom of an almost inaccessible, untraceable district, at the end of long streets of the past time, of which, until now, I almost ignored the existence.

When you are in the holy square of Sultan Fatih, which has been familiar to me for almost forty years, you have to take "Charchembé Djiadessi," a street in old Turkey, between tombs and houses with wire windows, follow it for a kilometre and a half, turn right, in front of a small very ancient mosque, cross a pothouse and finally you arrive at home, at the bottom of a sort of dead end, at the first aspect of a throat-cutter, where the coachmen are always reluctant to engage. This tortuous dead end, lined with old crumbling wooden houses, old walls, old trees, gets lost in a mysterious and dark corner. Grass everywhere on the cobblestones, a small minaret in ruins, no view, no side; one would believe oneself in a humble village of Anatolia, rather than in this immense city.

In the morning, a flute song or musiquette announces the arrival of some fruit merchant, or some water carrier, in Asian costume. The rest of the time, nobody passes, if not, from far to far, a Turk in caftan and turban, who will get lost in one of the roasted houses of the alley. In the evening, in the moonlight, two young girls, always the same, walk a hundred steps, arm in arm, melancholic and fearful, without moving away from their home. Centuries must not have worked for this dead neighborhood.

And my house is there, very screened, too, and very quiet. On the ground floor are the servants' and the police's quarters, which keep me: eight or ten men. In the white marble vestibule, low and dark, there are, on shelves, their socks and their slippers; Sabah Eddin, one of the servants lent me by the Sultan, is a dervish, and I have also taken back my former servants from ten years ago, the great Djeniil and Hassan, the naive one. On the first floor is the dining room. In my house, we only eat Turkish food, served Turkish-style, in adorable little golden dishes. The table in my dining room is in solid silver and was that of Sullan Abd-ul-Aziz.

We often have guests, who are amused by this oriental service; they are mostly my son's guests, French starship signs, embassy attachés. But we must go to meet our guests, wait for them in front of the mosque of Méhémet Fatih, without which they would never arrive at our untraceable house, without getting lost on the way.

On the second floor, where most of the windows and the verandah give on the opposite side to the arrival lane, we suddenly notice that we are very high up, in an eagle's nest, dominating the districts of Fener and Balata, then the Golden Horn and, on the opposite bank, the village of Haskeui...

Haskeui is where I first lived - thirty-six years ago! and that I had received the girlfriend of my youth, when she arrived from Salonika. Nothing has changed here. From my present house, I can see every day, in front of and under me, my house of yesteryear in front of the small mosque of Haskeui and this same landing stage of old boards, on which, so many times, had landed my anxious foot, when I arrived in the evening at the house, clandestine. How time has flowed since that time, capsizing sultans and empires!... And today, not a little adventurer, as in the past, but someone whom Turkey worships, I live on this side of the Golden Horn, at the top of the fierce quarters, which I hardly dared to approach before, and near this mosque of Sultan Selim, which had been named to me one evening of my youth, by my poor Mehémet, when we passed in secular and that it appeared to us for the first time, all above our heads...

On this second floor, there is my living room entirely in Turkish, with couches, Koranic inscriptions and trinkets always sent from the palace of the Old Serail by the Sultan. And then there are our rooms, quite Turkish, too, thick rugs, silk mattresses on the floor, Damascus silk dressing gowns, beautifully embroidered silver and gold linen. In my house, mother-of-pearl table and vermeil sink marked with the number of a sultana who died a hundred years ago. My son's and Osman's rooms overlook the panorama of the Golden Horn; - mine, - more sadly, but of a deliberate sadness, - the small dead end, lugubriously closed, whose grass greenens the cobblestones.

In the evening after dinner, of course, we go to the big square of Méhémet Fatih, center of all these Muslim districts, and there, in front of the marvellous mosque, we sit under the trees of the traditional Turkish café of Mustapha, mixing us with the few hundred dreamers with turban who smoke narguilhés by hardly speaking. Around this square of Méhémet Fatih, Stamboul, at that time, is everywhere in great enchantment of Ramazan; the minarets all have their crowns of fire and support in the air, by means of ropes thrown from one to the other, holy inscriptions made of innumerable small nightlights.

Around ten o'clock, long journey again to return to our home by the deserted streets. In these old streets, asleep in spite of the Ramazan, you can hear from all sides, on the cobblestones that resonate, the clash of the railway sticks of the night watchmen, - the classic sound of old Stambul. During these hot summer nights, when I can't sleep, I often raise the fence of one of my windows, with the windows always open, to look at the mysterious little alley, under the stars. In the shadows walks with a velvety step the chaouch that keeps me against the Bulgarian arsonists.

At the tip of the dawn, we hear the song of a muezzin, from the top of the ruined minaret of the small mosque overlooking us. We had not sung there for years, but the Turks, to please me, now send every night, in this abandoned minaret, a different muezzin, chosen among those with the most beautiful and clear voice.

Friday, August 29.

Tonight, to celebrate the great holy night of Ramazan, we were invited to supper at the Dervishes Tourneurs, whose convent is located outside the walls of Stamboul, in the middle of the immense and silent desert of the dead. In Constantinople, there are other convents of Tourneurs that are more accessible than this one, there are even some in the heart of Péra, where foreigners are admitted; but here no one enters, and it is necessary to have intelligences in the place. The appearance, calm and whiteness of this large convent refectory with its Koranic inscriptions on the walls are striking from the entrance. The Dervishes, in very high brown caps, dine there by small tables, - a dozen small round tables, low almost to the ground, around which they are seriously crouched on the mats of the floor; candles, as long as candles, light them; during the meal, one of the religious reads prayers, the others listen to it in pious silence and, at each pose, when the reader stops, all, with a deep voice, pronounce bowing to the name of Allah.

Our host, the chief of the dervishes, is a young, educated man, well acquainted with all modern questions, but who has managed to keep, as is appropriate to his duties, the nobility and quiet courtesy of the Turks of yore. Moreover he wears the title of "saint," and his high hat, which surrounds a black turban, his dark dress give him very great air. The table around which we are at his side is however as low and as small as the others; only, the crockery is more precious there; it is old Chinese porcelain, undoubtedly come from there in remote times. After dinner, he takes us to his private room. Here again, of course, no Western object breaks the purely oriental harmony. Three or four black panels, where phrases from the Koran are written in gold characters, decorate the walls alone; large couches, a few very small tables for coffee and cigarettes, that's all there is in this strangely austere living room.

Then we go to the mosque of the convent to attend the holy night ceremony. There, from the tribune where we have taken our seats, on prayer mats, we dominate the space reserved for the Tourers' dance; it is a large empty circle that occupies the whole centre of the mosque and that surrounds a barrier. The chief has remained below, inside this sacred circle; standing and facing us, he stands still, rigid, as if anaesthetized, his eyes in a dream. One by one, the dervishes arrive, without a sound from the gloomy, solitary surroundings; they arrive with their eyes lowered, their hands joined on their chest, in the hieratic pose of the Egyptian mummies. They are dressed in long dark dresses, very loose, with a thousand folds, but that belts tighten a lot to their thin waist. They begin their exercises with a slow ritual walk, in line, around the round room. It is already as in dream that they move, and each time they pass or pass again in front of the head of the brotherhood, they address to him a very deep reverence, which is returned to them with the same gravity. The religious dance will be led by a small orchestra of flutes and huge cavernous tambourines; it will last throughout the service, accompanied by discreet songs in several voices. At first, the dervishes unfold their arms in jerks like automatons whose numb springs would play with difficulty, and when they have finally extended them completely, almost in a cross, their head bent over their shoulder with a morbid grace, it is only then that they begin to turn, with a movement that is at first very gentle, but which, from minute to minute, accelerates and rounds their large dark dresses into a bell; they soon look like large inverted bellflowers, now so light that it would be enough with an imperceptible breath to make them slide around the round room like dead leaves that the wind sweeps away. They all took a spinning motion launched smoothly on a flat surface. By the way, they don't make any noise, you don't even see their fast feet waving and their high hats don't even wobble over their ecstasy-eyed heads. They turn, they turn thus, always on the same side; so much one identified with their movement, it seems that, if they changed the direction, one would feel a painful concussion and that an ultra-terrestrial reverie would be broken without recourse... They turn endlessly, to give the vertigo...

The semi-darkness in which these so light characters twirl is a great funeral scene; they dance in front of an audience of dead people, dead people who, all their lives, had twirled like them, here, in the middle of this same sanctuary, but who today are content to watch, in an attentive and intimidating silence, in what way these current dervishes continue the holy tradition of religious vertigo. Indeed, the mosque is opened by wide arches on deep sides populated by immense and very high catafalques that drap green fabrics, the color of the Prophet. All these green tombs emir, which press one behind the other as if to better see if the rites of the secular twirling are well preserved nowadays, all these tombs of the different eras of Islam are all the higher and imposing that the dead asleep below was more holy and more venerated in the middle of the dervicheries, and each catafalque is surmounted by a high pointed dervish cap that supports a wooden "mushroom" and gives the whole a kind of vague human aspect.

In front of these motionless and hidden spectators, they turn, the dervishes, they turn faster and faster, to the sound of their ever-present little flute music that seems strangely distant and heard from the depths of past times..; it is so incredible, the continuation of their twirling without a jerk, neither a false step, nor a hesitation, that one would say they dematerialized or rather reduced to the state of swirling machines, whose dresses swell more and more in the shape of inverted bellflowers. The dead, who are so interested in green catafalques, seem more and more captivated by this easy dance that makes no noise; they seem to stretch their stiff necks and hoist themselves up to see better. Besides, what the dancers are looking for is the fatigue that is grey, it is the elegant, ethereal intoxication, it is the vertigo conducive to flight in the regions where the inaccessible god resides in the special form of this Allah, God of Islam and of the great deserts. By dint of watching, vertigo also takes you, and the giant hats, which hairstyle the attentive dead, now look quite to rise to approach the dancers.

All the same we are afraid at the end that they will fall, these vertiginous valseurs, and suddenly the little music so monotonous seems really tired, it too, and hesitant, close to finish, and the cavernous drums beat something out of order, as would be a kind of berloque that would say: That's enough, finish. The dancers start sagging on the floor, first one, then two, then three, then all... It's over. We feel almost as exhausted as themselves, and the big hats of the catalfaques also have the effect of collapsing, of pulling in their wooden necks. It's over...

Throughout the ceremony, we had not lost the notion of being surrounded by an absolutely mortuary region, and now we shiver a little at the thought that, to get away, we will have to plunge back in there, walk for a long time among the steles, among the cypress trees with black foliage, with white branches whose tips, under the midnight sky, also simulate colossal, obsessive dervish headdresses...

Saturday, August 30.

Tonight, at 9.30, I cross Stambul to go to the national representation that the Turks are giving in my honour. In the streets, the eastern crowd is in great festival of Ramazan, and above, in the dark sky, the air minarets have their crowns of lights. All the way down the road, I get cheered. In front of the theatre, the crowd, which was waiting for me, delirious seeing me and the music plays the Marseillaise. When I enter my dressing room, which is filled with drapes and flowers, the whole crowded room rises and the applause never stops. The Sultan, his son and the Crown Prince each sent an aide de camp to greet me on their behalf.

At this hour, still through the crowd, in the enchantment of the nights of the Ramazan, I return to my solitary house.

Translated by Bayron Pascal

The Slaves
Han Ryner
1925

A theater play

Characters
Eudox, the master.

Stalagmus, old slave.

Tyndare, old slave.

Geta, young slave.

Palinurus, slave.

Agnes, young Christian slave.

Sostrata, slave.

Other slaves of all ages and both sexes.

First scene

The Slaves. They stand in various poses, standing, lying on the ground, sitting on stepladders.

Tyndare. What had I done, I ask you, to deserve the whip?

Geta. Yesterday, I had done even less and I received more blows.

Stalagmus. - Oh ! you, it's too easy to understand.

Geta. Since you know everything, Stalagmus, even the future, explain to me this recent past.

Stalagmus. Nothing could be simpler. You're too handsome. She hates you because she loves you.

Palinurus. You talk crazy. Hate is the opposite of love.

Stalagmus. The shadow, contrary to light, is nevertheless the daughter of light.

Palinurus. What are you saying?

Stalagmus. Put a body in front of the light, you make shade. Put an obstacle in front of love, you make hate.

Palinurus (shrugging). You say empty words.

Geta. No. Stalagmus is right. I know that. I know that. I can see it. I can feel it. What is agitating in my heart tells me what is agitating in Emilia's heart.

Tyndare. Proud! You think you're loved by the one the master loves.

Géta (uncovering her torso). Is the master as beautiful as I am?

Tyndare. He is the master.

Geta. The master, you say?... Because of his ugliness, because of the weakness of his body and soul, is he not rather Emilia's slave? But it would take little for Emilia to become the slave of my strength and beauty.

Tyndare. Meanwhile, she makes you give the whip.

Geta. - Yes. But one day - tomorrow maybe! she will no longer resist his desire. Under my kiss, I will see her shake first as under the kiss of a god, then as under the kiss of death.

Tyndare. You speak too high... If there was among us an informer...

Various voices. There aren't any. Speak without fear.

Palinurus. We all hate Emilia.

Tyndare. You see that Géta is in love with her.

Stalagmus. One does not prevent the other.

Géta (repeating in a deep voice). One does not prevent the other.

Palinurus (interrogator). One doesn't prevent the other?

Stalagmus. Is there not love in the hatred of all the young men who are here? And, in the hatred of old men, there is admiration and regret. And, in the hatred of women, there is jealousy.

Sostrata. Yes, I hate Emilia and I'm jealous of Emilia. If Jupiter asked me, "Who do you want to be?" I'd say "Emilia!" For she is a goddess among us. Her smile is beautiful and frightening, like the dawn of a bad day. His hand, as delicate as that of a child and more terrible than that of a warrior, makes a thousand heads bow. It has the most intoxicating power, that which beauty gives.

Tyndare. I hate Emilia with all my lowliness as a slave and with all my helpless regrets as an old man. But, if it were given to me to become young, beautiful and rich for a day, I would offer Emilia my youth, my beauty, my wealth. I'd say, "Love me today and die tomorrow!"

Geta. I hate Emilia and I love Emilia so much. Yesterday, while she made me give the whip, her eyes were, on my beautiful and vigorous lines, two flames of desire. I remained motionless, without screaming, disdainful of beatings and suffering. I felt great and victorious. Even I was happy, because she hated the strength of my soul.

Tyndare. Your pride makes you delirious.

Geta. No. I read into his heart as if in an unwound book.

Tyndare (ironic). Recite what you were reading.

Geta. This one," she thought, "is perhaps insensitive to both pleasure and pain. The day when I no longer contain the impulse that carries me towards him, he will repel my kiss and he will tell my master my betrayal. Now the master has ears only for my words and the wicked slave will be put on the cross. But he will have deprived me, alas! of her strength and beauty."

Stalagmus. You say true words. So Emilia thought.

Geta. She was irritated in her heart, sometimes biting her lips, sometimes shouting. And his cries accused the lorarius of laziness.

Tyndare (laughing). So you owe him gratitude for every lash. You carry on your back signs of love of which you can be proud.

Geta. Proud and ashamed. The hour will come when I will return to him his hatred and his love, the voluptuousness of my glory and my degradation.

Sostrata. By what means?

Geta. My impatience is a tiger waiting. Maybe tomorrow Emilia will say, "Love me!" Because she's the most beautiful woman, ah! the way I'd like it. But, because she made me whip, when her eyes will be, on the laughter of her mouth, two more laughter, with what joy will strangle her.

Sostrata. So you want to hang, painful fruit, from the infamous tree of the cross?

Geta. What do I care? I will have tasted, in one hour too full, all happiness. The one I hate and love, the one that is all my torn thinking and all my multiple life, will be descended to the kingdom of Pluto. I will join her, drunk with pleasure as the most shaky of men, drunk with vengeance as the most implacable of gods.

Stalagmus (remained pensive for a few moments). What makes me angry since I am a man and what makes me, since I dare think, my shame, is not that I am a slave, it is that there are slaves.

Sostrata. Yet, when the master is good...

Stalagmus. Good or bad, by that alone that he is the master, he deserves death.

Sostrata. No. If Eudoxus escaped Emilia's empire; if, as before, he treated us gently...

Geta. I would hate him no less, since I would remain his slave.

Stalagmus. I would hate myself if I were a master.

Tyndare. Madness!

Stalagmus. Would the injustice be less if I became the master and Eudoxe one of your companions?

Tyndare. I would like to be the master.

Palinurus. Me too.

Sostrata. - And me!!

Geta (low to Stalagmus). They are well disposed. And I know others. If you want, we can organize a servile war.

Stalagmus (in an almost low voice). - Why do?... You don't! Can't you hear me?... Everyone only dreams of being the master. What's the point of putting up what's down, down what's up?

Agnes (who is near them and who has heard everything). The beautiful shall be humbled, the humble shall be exalted. But war will not do these things.

Stalagmus (hard and contemptuous). Shut up, Christian.

All of them. We are unhappy... We are unhappy.

Half choir. No hope for us.

Half choir. Hopefully for our children.

All of them. Stalagmus, give us, give us hope.

Half choir. At least for our children, give us, give us hope.

Sostrata. You who know the future...

All of them. You who know the future...

Sostrata. Tell us the future and its light.

All of them. Tell us the future and its light.

Stalagmus (the distant look). I don't see any light that lasts.

Geta. Other days, you told us expectations.

Stalagmus. I didn't see as far as I do today.

All of them. What do you see? What do you see?

Stalagmus. No, no, I don't want to see. (Closing my eyes and making both hands the gesture that grows back.) I want to escape the horror of seeing.

All of them. Yes, look. Speak.

Stalagmus (eyes closed). Alas! Alas! despite my closed eyelids, the vision pursues me.

Sostrata. Speak, you to whom a god has given to see.

Stalagmus. Wicked God! Cruel God!

Sostrata. Just yesterday, you comforted us.

Stalagmus. Yesterday I was in the midst of you as a still sight among the blind.

Tyndare. What do these words mean?

Stalagmus. I saw the sky leaning on the mountain. That's why I said, "Let's walk to the mountains and to the sky."

All of them. - Oh ! say it again.

Stalagmus. Alas! I walked. My thought went to the top. The sky wasn't there.

Geta. - I know. The horizon and hope recede as we move forward.

Agnes. Listen to the Christians. Come with us. We know the path where the sky no longer retreats.

Sostrata. Speak, O Christian!

Several. Speak, speak, O Christian!

Agnes. Men are brothers. God - but he is not called Jupiter - is the father of all. He also loves his sons and wants them equal. He does not want masters and slaves among us.

Tyndare. Then why is there one?

Agnes. Because we do not love God; because we do not love one another.

Geta. But since love is a golden vessel where the snakes of hatred whistle?...

Agnes. Not the love of Christians. And our God will give infinite and eternal joy to those who suffer and believe in Him.

Several. Speak, speak, Agnes.

Agnes (more ecstatically). But he will deliver up to eternal and infinite tortures the wicked and all those who enjoy in this world.

Geta. You see well that there is hatred in your love.

Tyndare. The powerful and the happy are the favourites of the gods. Where else would their power and happiness come from? And this Christian says the most absurd of follies.

Agnes. I say wisdom. Jesus of Nazareth came to save the little ones. His kingdom was not of this world. Woe to those whose kingdom is of this world.

Stalagmus (in a hard voice). Every kingdom is of this world.

Agnes (at Stalagmus). You are good to all others as if you were a Christian. But, with me, for some time, you've been mean. Why? Why?

Stalagmus. Because your belly is full. Because you carry within you a whole future of slavery. Believe me. As soon as the child appears in the light, strangle him with piously maternal hands. Thus your love will spare him, and many others, all those who would flow from him, the pains and shame of servile life.

Agnes. My child will not be a slave.

Sostrata. - Why?

Agnes. The sunset is always black with night, clouds and evil gods. But the dawn is already whitening the purity of the East. The Good News of Jesus of Nazareth is a light that rises and widens. Soon the sun will shine for all. Soon the world will be Christian.

Palinurus. Never.

Stalagmus (the distant look). What the Christian says, touching the future, is true. I can see it.

Agnes (happy). Then you see happiness flood the earth as light floods us in the middle of the day.

Stalagmus. - Wait. Favor me with your silence. Let the mist from afar slowly disperse under my moved will. Leave it. I'm starting to distinguish your son's life.

Agnes. She's happy, I'm sure.

Stalagmus. It is such as ours. Alone, his death is a joyful deception.

Agnes. How does he die?

Stalagmus. He dies on a cross, like your God.

Agnes (in ecstasy). Like my God!

Stalagmus. He speaks in exaltation of I do not know what intoxication. I hear some of his insane words: "My death makes my salvation! My death helps save the world!"

Agnes. O my son, O glorious martyr, happy are the flanks that bear you. You will advance Christ's triumph by one hour. You will advance your brothers' liberation by one hour.

Stalagmus. Silence... I see more distant times... Strangeness and wonders! Events as crazy as men! A cross made of light walks in heaven before the army of one Caesar who will fight another Caesar.

Tyndare. What does he say?

Stalagmus. He who follows the cross is victorious by the shameful sign, and behold, Caesar becomes a Christian.

Agnes. Glory be to God! A Christian Caesar! Glory be to God! There are no more slaves!

Stalagmus. I always see heads bending under hands that command and threaten.

Agnes. You do not give the Christian Caesar time to act. Look a little further. He will certainly free his brothers.

Stalagmus. The Christian Caesar sets no one free. The children of your son's grandchildren remain slaves. Sostrata. Christians often speak against murder and war. The Christian Caesar, at least, will stop the war.

Agnes. In the Christian world, there will be no more soldiers. No man shall draw the sword, neither shall any man perish by the sword.

Stalagmus. The Christian Caesar is a great and cruel warrior.

Agnes. If you're telling the truth, you're telling a man's crimes. But after him, my brothers, I am too sure, will abolish war and slavery.

Stalagmus. After him, I see the Christians killing each other.

Sostrata. Yet they love each other.

Stalagmus. Christians loved each other so much that they were weak and persecuted. As soon as they become masters, they tear each other apart because of their Jesus.

Agnes. You're lying. Jesus is the source of love and peace.

Stalagmus. Jesus has long been a source of love and peace. But I see little by little the agitation of the men disturbing the clear fountain. Now they have made it a source of hatred. Some say the Galilean almost as god as God. The others proclaim him as god as God. Quarrels of obscure words that clash like bats in the darkness. Stick blows. Then long and wide wars.

Tyndare. Look as far as you want. There will always be wars and there will always be slaves.

Stalagmus (with the gesture that imposes silence). I see a strange temple. A mad architecture erects high ruinous vaults. Yet no, they do not fall. A sort of sumptuous tank rises higher than the heads of the people who are there. A priest is inside, standing and talking.

Agnes. A Christian priest?

Stalagmus. A Christian priest.

Agnes. What does he say? Oh! try to hear it.

Stalagmus. Wait... wait... Through the centuries, some of his words, it seems to me, reach me deafened." My brothers," he said, "we celebrate today, in Jesus' resurrection, the resurrection of humanity. Thanks to our gentle master, there are no more slaves."

Agnes. Glory to God in the heights of heaven.

Stalagmus. This is far... far, far away. Yet, in the listening assembly, I see some remote descendants of the Christian.

Agnes. They are happy among their brothers. They are the equals of their brothers.

Stalagmus. They go shivering under rags. But some of their brothers bend under clothes made heavy by gold and gems. They are thin, tanned, trembling from hunger as much as from cold. But many of their brothers are sick of overeating.

Agnes. You don't say a Christian world.

Stalagmus. I say a world that proclaims itself Christian.

Agnes. Then my sons live freely.

Stalagmus. Your sons are submitted to the college of priests whose chief speaks in the tank too high.

Agnes. You're lying. Christian priests are liberators. How would they get slaves?

Stalagmus. The chief priest said: "You are not our slaves, for we have destroyed slavery. You belong - like trees that it would be criminal to pluck - to the land that belongs to us."

Tyndare. The infamous sophist!

Stalagmus. Listen, oh woman... I see a dungeon... Wait... My eyes have trouble penetrating its darkness that star a wax in the floating light. One of your remote sons is lying there and inclined priests interrogate him while he is being tortured.

Agnes (quivering). What abominable crime did he commit so that even the priests, these merciful ones?...

Stalagmus. He refused to kneel before a criminal and powerful priest at the moment when this priest raised his hand, in the gesture that means: "Kneel down".

Sostrata. Look further. Freedom and happiness are, without doubt, further away.

Stalagmus. Further... Beyond a few centuries... (Pointing Agnes with a scornful finger.) The sons of this belly are artisans... What a strange chaos, the world where they suffer. On a forum, a man speaks. He shouts: "Commemorate, citizens, the great and decisive victory since which there are no more slaves of noble men, since which there are no more slaves of priests. The people, a hundred years ago, delivered themselves!"

Sostrata. 0 joy!... Say, say this happy time.

All of them. Say this happy time.

Stalagmus. - Crazy time! My eyes see. My ears can hear. My mind refuses to believe. How can you admit such insanity in men? And this madness of unknown machines similar, as for their gigantic forms, as for the squeaky and panting awkwardness of slow movements, to I don't know which monstrous beasts !...

Palinurus. What does he say?

All of them. Let's listen. Let's listen.

Stalagmus. Craftsmen no longer work at home or in ordinary houses. They assemble in large numbers in the stables of these enormous, almost living tools, which move almost alone. Around the fantastic machines, the workers anxiously watch out for the minute when it is necessary to touch them to settle the tasks. Sometimes, from an underhand revolt, the tool grabs the worker, drags him, kills him. Large metal beasts are very expensive. No craftsman could buy them.

Palinurus. - Impossible nightmare!

Stalagmus. The master of the tools makes the workers work, and he does not feed them. He gives them some money so they don't die altogether.

Sostrata. And, no doubt, the soldiers bring them back by force, when they run away from the evil master?

Stalagmus. Agnes, I hear the master talking to one of your sons, to an old man." Go away, he said, go away." But the worker threw himself on his knees: "So you want me to starve? Have mercy, if not on me, at least on my wife and children."

Sostrata. What does the tool master say?

Stalagmus. The master of the tools pushes away the old man, who goes away desperate. I hear Agnes' son. He murmurs among sobs: "The masters of old fed their slaves!" And tears cover his cheeks because he thinks our fate is worthy of envy.

Agnes. His brethren love him not, therefore help him not?

Stalagmus. I see him reaching out to passers-by and crying for an obole. He's talking to a priest.

Agnes. - 0 joy! He's saved!

Stalagmus. The priest he is addressing calls a lictor who takes your son to prison.

Agnes. How would I believe you? You invent impossible times. We will never put an unhappy man in prison because he invokes the pity of his brothers.

Sostrata (in Stalagmus). Look beyond this horrible world. It is a necessity that light finally succeeds the night. Look until you see the dawn of freedom.

Stalagmus. Several times I thought I saw the dawn. Always its gleams were more bloody than a twilight on a sea waiting for the storm. And they went out quickly... Here comes blood again... oh! and cries of pain, and cries of rage, and cries of triumph, and cries of joy, and loud cheers: "We are free! We are free... "Run fast, river of blood; and you, dark fog that raises you in its path, scatter. My eyes want to see if, behind you, the earth, finally, will be fruitful.

Long silence.

Stalagmus falls on a stepladder and dips his head into his hands. Sobs are shaking him.

Sostrata. Are you crying?

Palinurus. What could you see that was more awful?

All of them. What did you see? What did you see?

Stalagmus (standing up). Alas! alas! A thousand times, alas! We say again - how long will this lie last? that now all men are free. But the sons of your belly, O woman, are still slaves. And here is how they crush the new chaos and here is what heavier metal their chains are made of...

Scene II

The Slaves, Eudoxus

Just as Stalagmus was saying: "Alas! alas! ", Eudoxus came in. He signaled the other slaves not to stir and to remain silent.

Eudoxus puts his hand on Stalagmus' shoulder. All slaves rise as a sign of respect.

Stalagmus turns around, sees the young face soft and devious. An implacable hatred shines in the old slave's eyes.

Eudox. Calm down, good old man, and pity no one's fate. Or, if you prefer, pity the fate of all mortals. All are slaves.

Sostrata. The masters...

Eudox. There are only masters the gods, if there are gods... Alone, they are freed from true and deep servitudes: sickness, death, fear. Remember, Sostrata. Last night I thought I was sick. The darkness terrified me. It seemed to me I was going to die. I called, I shouted, "Torches! we bring torches!" You have come in great numbers, lights in your hands. But I was afraid of the glimmers that advance and the shadows that retreat, I was afraid of the wide floating of the shadows and the worried quivering of the glimmers. I am a slave to fear. I am a slave to disease. I am a slave, alas! of implacable death.

Stalagmus. You are only a slave to your cowardice.

Eudox (pretending not to hear). Emilia steals the good I care about above all others. Not only to free men, but also, no doubt, to some of you, she gives a share of those kisses that she all owes me. Poor Cupid's slave, I need his dirty kiss more and more servilely.

Agnes (taking a step towards Eudoxe). Believe in Jesus of Nazareth. Believe in the Liberator who breaks all chains. It calms passions, it heals fevers, it dissipates terror and darkness, it breaks the sting of death.

Eudox. I studied the doctrine of Jesus of Nazareth. Because I'm curious about doctrines. But my boredom, which thirsts for all initiations, is not satisfied with any.

Agnes. The doctrine of Jesus of Nazareth does not resemble other doctrines. It is the source of living water...

Eudox (shrugging). Your Jesus of Nazareth was more a slave of Cupid than I was.

Agnes. Madness and blasphemy!

Eudox. He loved all men - what absurd love without beauty! until they die for them. At least that's what your brothers say.

Agnes. It's the truth... So understand...

Eudox. And those who confess the Galilean die to glorify him. I certainly wouldn't die for Emilia's glory. I'm less of a slave than a Christian.

Agnes. Where else can we find freedom but in the nobility of love?

Eudox (at Stalagmus). You, console yourself, if you do not escape a yoke that weighs on all men.

Stalagmus. There are slaves I pity. But you are the voluntary slave I despise. Compared to you, ah! how free I feel.

Eudox (smiling). Poor mind without balance and going from one extreme to the other! As soon as the benevolent master admits to being your equal, you claim to be superior to him!

Stalagmus. Emilia is indifferent to me.

Eudox. I think so! At your age...!

Stalagmus. I fear neither suffering nor death. From the top of my courage, I despise Eudoxe, slave of the lowest passions, slave of fear and death.

Eudox. My goodness is vast. Yet you just crossed its borders. (To Palinurus.) Get the lorarius: the whip will lower this insolent man's superb.

Palinurus steps towards the door. Geta's holding him by the arm.

Geta. Would you be coward enough?...

Palinurus. I like the lashes on his back better than mine.

Geta. Try to escape me and my fist will knock you out.

Stalagmus (in Eudoxe). How would lashes prevent me from despising and hating you? But, among these, many only understand the material facts. The spectacle would be ugly to their poor eyes, degrading to their hearts like yours. These blows would not diminish my inner freedom. Out of a few blind people who think they can see, they would weigh down chains that are already too heavy. I do not have the naivety to teach the vulgar - masters or slaves - the immobile nobilities who train an Olympus in my soul. Here, perhaps, is a lesson they can learn.

Suddenly, Stalagmus grabs Eudoxus by the neck and strangles him. Géta, Palinurus, that Géta always holds by the arm, and Agnès look with various expressions. The other slaves run away through all the doors.

Scene III

Stalagmus, Géta, Palinurus, Agnès, dead Eudoxe

Stalagmus, who bent down to follow Eudoxus's body as it fell, stands up, wiping his forehead.

Agnes. It says: "Thou shalt not kill!"

Stalagmus. The master steals from the slave, which alone gives life value. Even killed, the master remains the real murderer. My revolt is the daughter of my servitude and Eudoxe's death is the work of Eudoxe.

Agnes. Repentance washes away crimes. Repent.

Stalagmus. The Master always remains the aggressor. No matter how badly he returns it, the slave is always too lenient a judge. All crimes of tyranny or servitude are the work of the master, and the slave can never be criminal against him.

Agnes. You don't want to repent!

Stalagmus. When I repent, can I give life back to the one who died?... (He stares at Agnes.) And do you repent?

Agnes. - Of what? My hands are pure.

Stalagmus. Repent, O woman. Crush the seed that you carry within you and from where, if you do not oppose it, so many generations of cowardly or murderous slaves will come out. Destroy in one fell swoop the horrible lives I saw earlier.

Agnes (running away, hands on her belly). 0 criminal, oh crime counselor!

Stalagmus (holding her back). Do you know if it was not your future sons and their aches and resentments who, a moment ago, lived in me, shook my avenging hands around the miserable neck?

He's letting her go. She's running like crazy. Palinurus, whom Géta no longer holds back, flees through another door.

Scene IV

Stalagmus, Géta

Stalagmus sat down, head down. He seems to be in deep reflection. Geta looks at him.

Stalagmus. I don't know... Did I obey anger?... Did I obey justice?... Does my gesture express the superficial feeling of a minute or the deep thought of always?

Geta. What are you worried about? Anyway, your gesture is beautiful, just and useful.

Stalagmus (shrugging). Useful?

Geta. By Hercules, a gesture of revolt is always rebellious: he denies the lie that creates master and slaves; he affirms the truth and realizes man.

Stalagmus (shaking his head). Perhaps inner liberation is enough for what you say. And what I did, even if myriads of slaves imitated him, would it bring us closer to external justice? (Rising and stepping to a side door.) No. Since the souls of slaves are no better than those of masters.

Geta. Where are you going? Do you flee to death to escape the slowness of torture? Will you surrender yourself to the magistrate and, from the top of the cross, insult the cowardice of the masters with your courage? Or do you want me to help you win the next forest?

Stalagmus. Neither this, nor that, nor this third party is in harmony with what I have done.

Geta. - So?

Stalagmus. I will kill the magistrate, creature, support and accomplice of the masters.

Geta. I applaud this project for its justice and usefulness.

Stalagmus. The most correct gestures are perhaps the most useless.

Geta. I don't understand.

Stalagmus. Another will replace the one I killed.

Geta. When I listen to you, I wonder why you act.

Stalagmus. I started to act. I have to keep going. But whoever enters into right action is promised defeat and death.

Geta. Yes, they will throw themselves at you, cowards and many, pack of dogs against the cornered boar. Soon heavy chains will immobilize your hands. Then you won't be free.

Stalagmus. True freedom is not in the hands, but in the mind.

Geta. Why do you clap your hands?

Stalagmus. My soul expresses itself by the means it has. Deprived of instruments, no one will hear its language any more. How will my thinking change?

Geta. You surprise me.

Stalagmus. I started a sentence that I must continue. My first gesture is, on a slope, the beginning of a race that leads down to the bottom or to the obstacle. My hands will not renounce themselves by ceasing, before they are reduced to impotence, to carry out the sentences pronounced by my spirit. But perhaps I regret having obeyed my hands for the first time.

Geta. Your gesture is of a young man; your words are of an old man. So that I no longer hear your words, I flee with, in my eyes, the encouragement of your gesture. (He bows, takes Stalagmus's hand, the door to his lips.) Farewell, walk to your noble destiny. (He steps to another door.) I go to my passionate fate. I run, in the tumult of this hour, to possess Emilia and kill her... After these two drunk joys, let them do with me what they want.

Stalagmus and Géta leave through the two side doors, while soldiers enter through the back door and the curtain falls.

Translated by Bayron Pascal

The Bleating Herd

The Bleating Herd
Han Ryner
Extract from Cynical Parables
1913

Many of the disciples seemed mute as long as Psychodorus was there. But, among those who spoke, two, from the first days, had been noticed.

Eubule d'Andros was skilled at following the floating meaning of the parables. Often he continued the thought of the master. Some claimed that he looked like Psychodore as a son looks like his father. Yet, blond and sweet, this young man had in his smile and mind more tenderness than Psychodore ever had and less malice.

But Excycle de Mégare was a passionate and singularly changing being. He passed, with childish ease, from tears to laughter. Sometimes he exaggerated the thought of the master until he made it repulsive to the master himself; and only then did he love that thought. Usually he would fight against what had been said; and he had the habit of arguing about all things, as the young dog with painful teeth bites all objects. Vanity and obstinacy, he tried to make people admire the ingenuity and independence of his spirit. His eyes sparkled when he thought, by a captivating question, to embarrass the old philosopher. But he hated parables and all the answers that smile and wave like light. He would have wanted precise formulas, affirmations and rigid negations to be opposed to him, which the spirit seized, irritated hand, to break them or to tear themselves apart.

The day after Lycon left, Excycle asked in these terms:

0 Psychodore, does money produce less pain than the poisoned source you were talking about yesterday?

And he received this answer:

Money alone produces more evil than all the springs and torrents that fall from the mountains.

But, he continued, whoever invented it thought only of certain advantages it realizes. He wanted to be the benefactor of men; he wanted to facilitate exchanges that barter made painful and uncertain. So I suppose you absolve him as you absolve the source. Or rather you love and admire him.

Psychodore shrugged.

Excycle's word became bitter:

If I understand correctly, O my master, the unclear answer of which you deign to honour me, you are committing an injustice at this moment and, with two similar acts, you condemn one but you approve the other.

The inventor of money, oh my son, does not resemble the high source. To arrive at such an invention, one needed a thought singularly applied to low things. And he has given nothing that corresponds to man's healthy needs. What has it produced that can satisfy your hunger, or protect you from the cold, or put you above fear and desire? He is rather the poisoner who, between the spring and the city, interposed the factory; and he soils the waters, weighing down with metallic reflections and fetid what comes towards our mouth.

Psychodorus remained silent for a moment and his lips, just now wrinkled as in nausea, slowly became a smile.

Nature, he continued, wanted the fruit, meat and other necessary things to keep for a short time. This wise foresight had established among men a brotherhood and as a necessity of mutual benefits. In the past, a person who had too much food would give it to his neighbour, even if the neighbour had nothing that was bartered. Generosity was the only remedy for the suffering of seeing good rot useless.

The philosopher's eyes seemed to look at a distant and joyful horizon. Sadness, on the contrary, almost closed them while he was finishing his speech:

Today, alas! money makes it possible to exchange what would perish for a durable material, without use and without value by itself, but that our madness accepts as real wealth. In a form as hard as a rich man's heart, he who has too much of what is lacking to others; and he erects, with the hunger of the poor, the edifice of his power and of their servitude. The inventor of money perfected something: he perfected tyranny and slavery; he made the inequality that was precarious, light and uncertain durable, solid and growing. He is the father of myriads of murders, myriads of lies, myriads of violence and myriads of baseness. Did he plan some of his crimes and did he want them, a robber laughing under a mask? I don't think so. He was rather the one whose vile thought harms when it wants to serve, the one who has only to give his garbage and who spreads his droppings at random, as well on the bread that we have just baked as on the field that we will sow...

Yet, Excycle objected, the peoples praise him and forever will praise him.

The noble argument for a philosopher! exclaimed Eubule.

But Psychodorus:

Hear a parable:

*

* *

A man says to a flock of sheep:

Love me. For I have sharpened with art the knife from which you shall be slain. So cheer your benefactor.

Now the sheep bleated together. But I could not guess whether the bleating approved. The bleating of herds and peoples almost always cheers the butchers and knife sharpeners. Sometimes, however, its meaning remains shaky, equivocal and obscure. Many say that the voice of the people is the voice of the gods. Perhaps they are right and - until a priest or a speaker translates them in a way that pleases the tyrants - the roar of thunder, the flight of birds, the bleating of sheep and the distant cries of the people mean absolutely nothing.

Translated by Bayron Pascal