Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

But his discourse was drowned out by the din of forks tapping on glasses, irate expostulations, laughter, and whistles. Franky Amundsen and the pipsqueak Bernini led the insurrection, and Adam angrily rebuked them.

— Listen to me, you animals! he shouted.

— No, no, the rebels chorused.

It was no use. Discord reigned within every breast. Adam saw how things stood. He picked up two bottles in one hand, the platter of figs in the other, and walked away from the table, shouting behind him:

— Come with me, those who’ve got the right stuff!

Thus was produced a schism within that harmonious group. Luis Pereda, the astrologer Schultz, and Ciro Rossini all stood up and followed Adam Buenosayres to a round table ten paces away, beneath the yellow willow. Samuel Tesler, who in other circumstances would likely have gone with them, stayed put among the rebels, immersed — ay! — in a Bacchic ecstasy from which he wouldn’t emerge for the rest of the night. Franky Amundsen and his horde, for their part, closed ranks as the undisputed lords of the table.

The reader, in turn, will now have to choose between the two camps, either staying at the square table of the madmen or going to the round table of the wise. At the first table, harsh wine now flows again, and naked guitars abandon their cases. Now they shout for the payador Tissone; and strumming, he begins to sing:

On the bronco of love

I tried riding one day,

in the belief it would

only be skittish. 10

At the round table — graced by the two bottles, the platter of figs, and the single glass they’d salvaged when they fled — are seated the astrologer Schultz, Adam Buenosayres, Luis Pereda, and Ciro Rossini. The astrologer has just filled the glass, first scattering a few drops in honour of Hermes the Initiate, and now he empties it at one slug. He refills the glass and ritually invites, from left to right, each and every one of his fellow banqueters to drink. The pious libation concluded, the dialogue begins under the willow tree, whose golden branches shiver in the night wind and brush the foreheads of the interlocutors. 11

PEREDA

(He addresses the metaphysical bard of Villa Crespo, Adam Buenosayres, who appears to be deep in contemplation.)

If, as you were just saying, the poet is obliged to work with natural forms — rose, bird, woman — his posture is not that of a creator but rather of an imitator.

ADAM

(Fidgeting with a willow branch.)

There are several distinctions to be made here. It is necessary to consider the poet in relation to: (1) the material he works with; (2) his mode of operation; and (3) the result of his operation; that it to say, the work of poetry. If it’s all right with you, we’ll follow that order.

(Schultz and Pereda agree. The great Ciro adopts a solemn air.)

PEREDA

I was referring to the first relationship.

ADAM

As for the first relationship, I’ve already said that because he works with given forms the poet is not an absolute creator.

SCHULTZ

(Rearing up.)

Absolute creation means creating out of nothingness. Only the Divine Artificer can create absolutely.

ADAM

That’s what I meant.

PEREDA

So the poet is an “imitator of natura ,” as the old boy taught.

CIRO

What old boy?

PEREDA

Aristotle.

ADAM

(Sarcastically.)

That’s right. But the word natura didn’t mean the same thing for the old boy as it does for Luis Pereda and other ingenuous naturalists.

PEREDA

(Testily.)

Cut the philosophical swaggering!

ADAM

For old Aristotle, the natura of the bird is not the same as the flesh-and-blood bird, as is believed nowadays, but rather the “essence” of the bird, its creative number, the abstract universal cipher perceivable only through intellection, which acts on matter and constructs an individual, concrete, sensible bird.

SCHULTZ

Something like the Platonic “idea”?

ADAM

That’s right. But it descends into this world to join with matter and to fecundate it. That creative number is what the ancients call the “substantial form,” and that’s the form that art imitates.

PEREDA

(Feisty.)

That’s just speculating with phantasmic entities. I don’t understand a thing.

CIRO

(Perplexed.)

Corno!

ADAM

(To Pereda.)

So is it my fault that your professors in Geneva turned you into a pint-sized agnostic? 12

PEREDA

Cut the philosophical bullying! Imitating a bird, or the form of a bird, amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?

ADAM

No, it’s not the same thing. The bird is a compound of matter and form. Inasmuch as it is material, it is subject to all the limitations of individual things, their contingencies, corruption, and death. Form, on the other hand, is free of material by virtue of the abstractive work of the intellect; in the mind, form enjoys an eternal and lasting existence. That’s why, when the artist imitates the bird in its form, he creates not a bird, but the bird, with a tiny grain of the marvellous plenitude the bird has in the Divine Intelligence.

(Schultz approves with the insolent smile of the initiated. An unredeemed agnostic, Luis Pereda growls softly. Ciro Rossini, deep in thought, scratches his head. There is a pause. Adam takes advantage of it to refresh his gullet with Sicilian wine. Deep-rooted laughter is heard in the other sector — unruly voices, snippets of guitar.)

SCHULTZ

And so?

ADAM

(He rubs the sides of the bottle, as though seeking inspiration.)

So, the title of “imitator” is appropriate for the poet, in respect of the material he works with; that is, in respect of the forms or ontological numbers that God, not the poet, has invented. But the title is even more appropriate as regards his modus operandi and creative expression. Every artist is an imitator of the Divine Word which created the universe, and the poet is the most faithful of its imitators since, like the Word, he creates by “naming.”

(He lowers he voice, hesitant and seemingly pregnant with mystery.)

Now, the consequences of such an affirmation are incalculable and awesome. Because if the poet’s creative mode is analogous to the creative mode of the Word, then the poet, by studying himself at the moment of creation, can achieve the most accurate of cosmogonies.

PEREDA

(Embarrassed, he addresses Schultz in a low voice.)

Should we take the bottle away from him?

SCHULTZ

(Imposing silence.)

Shhh! It’s just getting interesting.

ADAM

(Hesitating now, wondering whether or not he should divulge something confidential.)

Well then, I have looked deep into myself! I’m going to reveal the secret of poetic inspiration and expiration. (Enigmatic.) Nothing more than that! Those capable of making the analogical leap, let them make it. I wash my hands of it! (Stammering.) And… if it weren’t for the wine… not even this much! (He snaps his thumbnail against his teeth.)

PEREDA

Good for the Sicilian wine! (He fills the glass and passes it to Adam, who accepts with great dignity.)

SCHULTZ

Wine symbolizes all that is initiatic. That’s why…

ADAM

(Interrupts with majesty.)

I’ll speak, but on one condition: you must keep it secret.

PEREDA

(Raises his arm toward the zenith.)

I swear!

(Schultz gives his word of honour, and Ciro Rossini declares himself silent as a tomb.)

ADAM

(Solemn.)