A small Christmas gift to friends of Péladan everywhere, in the form of an excerpt from his novel Istar (1888). This is one of the more lyrical and atmospherical parts of the book. As always, please respect the work that has gone into this and do not distribute without giving due credit.
ISTAR: Tome I, Ch. IV
by Joséphin Péladan, trans. by Sasha Chaitow.
A Sentimental Journey
On a lost path where the mandrakes sing, I wanted to spend the night – their naked feet disturbed the ferns – unreal beings!
They gave their name in a plaintive voice:
“Oh Sina!”
“Cyllene, hé!”
“Vo, Kypris!”
“Orphéa, hé!”
And the four phantoms often turned their heads towards a young black man following in prayer.
Sina was dressed in a long ray of moonlight, leaving a trail of silver in her wake, nonchalant and her hands full of swooning flowers.
Fevered Cyllene had a forehead pleated by an artist in search of work, and her hands waved spectral paintbrushes.
Skipping Kypris, flirting with the night, gifting swarms of glances and smiles.
Orphéa, her blonde mane a golden helmet, gazed at a brilliant, fixed point in the sky: immortal songs spinning on her lips.
Sina hummed:
“Floating and creeping ivy drags on bare soil, wandering, disoriented sweetheart, unquiet vagabond seeking rest, my soul is searching for a great soul to give itself to; my slender waist, a strong arm to hold me; my changing eyes, loyal eyes to admire.
So where is the sunlight of love hiding? Who will warn me with intimate words and kiss my sulky lips.
Appear to me, oh my Eros! Before my long wait, appear, master! Before my prostated tenderness.
Bring your shoulder to my tired head, wrap your arms around my weakened waist that I may finally sleep, a happy rest on your noble and fiery breast where sentiment, once born, flowers always the same, and always pure.
My sisters, after your efforts, do you see a dawning, you who march for art, for glory and for the kiss?
My heart, for me, alas, hopes for nothing.
“Cyllene, hé – Vo Kypris! – Orphéa, hé!”
Cyllene hastily spat out her words:
“I want! I want! I want!
When I called for tender love, I was deceived every time, and my brothers who could have cherished me are far away.
I will not weaken; the basilisk of my pride hisses and watches, around my waist decorated with the girdle of Venus. Nobody was worthy enough to remove my girdle, and I buried a dagger in my throat, renouncing the destiny of women, Hermes, my father, gave me hermaphroditic tendencies and the divine Helios was favourable.”
Transformed into an artist, the beloved severed herself from kisses, and walked a road of virility and immortality with a proud step.
Voluntarily sterile, I increased my desire for chimeras. Fecund of spirit and with a closed lap, I applied Plato’s serene words, a mystical androgyne enamoured of beautiful work.
Following my lead, cease your vain tears. Work my sisters, because your heart will not sense anything coming, alas.
Oh Sina! – Vo Kypris! – Orphéa, hé!”
Kypris murmured, cooing:
“Adonis is not dead; the kiss of his breath reaches me on the breezes, and at the spring a little of his reflection trembles; he passes by there, I tell you, we will join him before the opaline dawn.
My moaning languor that does not want to heal cherishes the untiring hope, dreaming of the tardy Beloved who with one embrace will erase even the memory of waiting.
My duty with each step is to adorn the earth with a soft beat of the soul.
I am the living ideal of the forms that you are seeking, Cyllene, and my noble patience, sister to your own, Sina, does not brood on the fever of the Orphics.
To wait for love, oh sisters! I look at myself and my heart smiles with my charms, if no-one else is to enjoy them.
Hé! Sina! – Cyllene, hé! – Orphéa, hé!
Orphéa sang, ecstatically:
“Glory, oh Cyllene, is the balm that heals the breathless wounds of love.
“Yes, glory, oh Sina, is a radiance which dissolves the shade of isolation forever, and which on the illuminated front, the Hero’s lamp, will bring us to Leandre.
“Glory, oh Kypris! Is a gem that adorns beauty itself. If our too haughty hearts have not been able to find a master, let us make a potent destiny for ourselves.
Love eludes us; we follow enthusiasm, if we have not been able to admire a mortal, let us make ourselves admirable and return to God our hearts that have been deceived on earth.”
Under the laurels, one day perhaps an unknown joy waited for the androgynes, under the myrtles, Kypris, and Sina, under the willows.
“My sisters, have you felt anything coming?
Oh Sina! – Cyllene, hé! – O Kypris?”
The apparitions marched towards the dawn; and when the cock crowed I saw them stopped in a clearing where the paths formed a cross.
“We should go our separate ways, my sisters,” said the young black man.
“Adar! We are thirsty for love.”
“Adar! We are hungry for mystery.”
“Adar! We are afraid of the day.”
“Adar! We are cold of heart.”
“Weep, for comfort.”
The black youth struck the eyes of the travellers: their tears fell heavy and glistening. Then he raised the vase of lead as a chalice, and, a miracle! Vermillion blood, royal blood bubbled to the suddenly sparkling edges.
Soon the four sisters knelt as Adar spoke in a solemn voice; he seemed like a chaplain performing Mass.
“Thus you, Clement father, through your son, our God, we entreat you to bless this bitter sacrifice, a devotion of humility.
Instead of the luciferian diamond, our chalice is of base lead, and I, Bené Satan, instead of solar vestments, wear the funeral habit of fatalism. Denied holy communion forever our obstinacy maintains our audacity, similar to the excommunicated who must pray before the porches of churches.
We want to take communion, and under the only species allowed in our damnation; my Word for the host, for wine the tears of these women, queens of hell, demon angels who carry for life the regret of peaceful skies.
The pain of my thoughts mixes with these tears that we drink for salvation.
Purification of the man who appeases the wrath of the Father.
Purification of the androgyne who appeases the wrath of the Son.
Purification for the demon who appeases the wrath of the Holy Spirit.
Lord, I am unworthy to drink your precious blood, here I heal the lesions of sin with the water of pain.
He leant the chalice four times towards attentive lips, saying:
“Tears of the passions, wash us for eternal life.”
Having blessed the roads four times, Adar kissed each forehead. Sighing, the sisters lingered, hand in hand.
“Adar, walk with us; with the four of us.”
But the yound black man shook his head sadly.
“If you are together, you will not suffer, and I, a lost Saturnian, am condemned to solitude.”
“O Sina! – Cyllene, hé! – Vo Kypris! – Orphéa hé!”
In the clearing all was silent after that, and when the last star died in the opaline sky, the spectres disappeared.
I constantly see them, in spirit, those four phantoms passing, turning their tired heads towards a young black man who follows them in prayer.
Long have I travelled, a nocturnal pilgrim, the most deserted trails, my eye has seen the moon dissolve, but on the calm autumn nights, I can hear a faint echo.
“O Sina! – Kyllene, hé! – Vo Kypris! – Orphéa hé!”
Are those the damned ones, or is it the purgatory of penitent souls? But when I saw them, didn’t I cross myself?
These seekers of love, Sina the languorous one, Cyllene demanding an expression of Art; Kypris, the sad turtledove; and the one from Cithaeron with feverish accents, they seemed to me, when I dreamed of them, like august demons, followed by a melancholy almoner and fatalist priest.
Sina wore a long ray of moonlight, leaving a trail of silver in her wake, nonchalant and her hands full of swooning flowers.
Fevered Cyllene had a forehead pleated by an artist in search of work, and her hands waved spectral paintbrushes.
Skipping Kypris, flirting with the night, gifting swarms of glances and smiles.
Orphéa, her blonde mane a golden helmet, gazed at a brilliant, fixed point in the sky: immortal songs spinning on her lips.
On a lost pathway where the mandrakes sing, I wanted to spend the night – their naked feet disturbed the ferns – unreal beings!
They gave their names in a plaintive voice:
“Oh Sina!”
“Cyllene, hé!”
“Vo, Kypris!”
“Orphéa, hé!”
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