Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

“But tell me, Reverend,” the Pope asked without appearing to have noticed Kircher’s interjection, “is there not a contradiction in placing this stone idol at the center of a monument dedicated to our religion? I have not yet had time to look at your book, which I am told is fascinating, & I would be interested to know by what magic you manage to justify the unjustifiable …”

Athanasius threw me a quick glance in which I could see his surprise: the Pope was attacking him for having supported Bernini against his irony! The sculptor gave my master a little shrug as if to apologize for having landed him in such an awkward position.

“There is no need of magic,” Kircher replied, “to explain the presence of this obelisk at the very heart of the Eternal City. Your predecessor, the late Pope Innocent X, since it was his wish that his name & that of his ancestors should be forever associated with this monument, was quite right to place it here. Although the product of one of the most ancient of peoples, but also of the one most worthy to be compared with ours, this obelisk remains a pagan symbol; it is for that reason that it is surmounted by the dove of the Holy Ghost, indicating the superiority of our religion over paganism. Thus the divine light, victorious over all idolatrous religions & descending from the eternal heavens, spreads its blessings over the four continents of the Earth represented by the Nile, the Ganges, the Danube & the Plate, the four splendid rivers from which Africa, India, Europe and the Americas draw their sustenance. The Nile is masked because no one has yet found its sources; as for the others, they are each represented by emblems corresponding to their nature.”

“Very interesting …” Pope Alexander said. “From what you say, then, it is a monument to the propagation of the faith that we owe to the generosity of Innocent X & to your genius … I didn’t see it from that point of view. Especially after the dispute the Franciscans had with you not long ago …”

“I insist,” Kircher said, ignoring the dig at him, “that this fountain is a stone symbol of the glory of the Church & of all the missionaries who serve our holy cause. But it is more than that, & if I may—”

“That will be enough for today, Reverend Father, other duties call. But I will be happy to listen to your … ‘stories’ some other time.”

That was the first & last time I saw my master turn scarlet with indignation. I was afraid he would direct one of the quips he always had up is sleeve at the Pope, but he contained himself & bent humbly to kiss the ring Alexander held out to him. “ Tamen amabit semper ,” 2he said between his teeth, as the rules of our Society commanded him. Bernini & I did the same, then the Pope turned his back on us without further ado.

As soon as he could do so without danger of being noticed, Bernini burst out into open, infectious laughter. “You see what it costs to take the side of a stonemason,” he said, placing his hand on Kircher’s shoulder. “Welcome to the brotherhood of actors, Father Athanasius, for you have just been promoted to the ranks of storytellers …”

“How dare he?!” Kircher exclaimed, still rather somber. “Years of work to decipher the hieroglyphs, the key sought by men for centuries & that all at once can give us the whole of the science & philosophy of the ancients! All that dismissed with a wave of the hand, like an irritating fly! Why is God punishing me like this? Do I still have too much pride?”

“No, no,” said Bernini in soothing tones, “only a few days ago that Pope was merely Cardinal Fabio Chigi, well known for … let’s say his lack of judgment & his patrician smugness. If it is true that the function creates the organ, it’ll take quite some time with that fellow.”

The thought drew a smile from Kircher, accompanied by a pseudoreproachful frown. I could have kissed Bernini for that! Especially since he now invited us, with all the warmth of an old friend, to accompany him to his house.

“ Carpe diem , my friends. Let us forget that ass & go & empty a few bottles of French wine that I have been keeping for this occasion. For myself, I prefer to drink that to the water of the rivers, even if they were those of the Garden of Eden.”

His house was not far from where we were. There we met several of his pupils who had played a part in the erection of the fountain and had preceded us to their master’s house after the unveiling. There were also several ragged creatures who lived there to serve as models for Bernini & his pupils, but also to act as servants &, from what I thought I could tell from the liberties they allowed these gentlemen, as other things as well … Good girls, all the same, cheerful & in some cases even cultured, who behaved in a seemly manner while we were there.

We all sat around the common table in the studio surrounded by the clay models, blocks of stone and drawings cluttering up the room. Large white sheets hung underneath the glass roof allowed a soft light to filter through; the wine in the copper goblets was deliciously cool, we were in high spirits & Kircher quickly recovered his good humor.

Bernini went on & on about his set- to with the Pope & how my master had backed him up & suffered for it. He did a marvelous imitation of Alexander’s curt, arrogant voice, prompting general hilarity. It was nothing to make a fuss about & my master laughed as much as the others at the biting satire, though taking care not to join in it himself.

Once we had finished the second bottle of white wine from Ay, our host had several chickens killed and sent to be roasted at a neighboring eating-house. It was therefore with mouths full of perfectly cooked meat that we started to discuss the fountain again. One of the young women sitting at the table asked if we had to believe that all the animals carved on the obelisk told a story.

“And what a story, my lovely!” Bernini exclaimed, tearing a chicken leg apart. “You can trust Father Kircher, he can read hieroglyphs as if he’d drawn them himself. Is that not true, Reverend Father?” he added with a wink.

“We mustn’t exaggerate,” said my master, “it’s a bit more complicated than that; our good Caspar, who helps me in my work, will confirm how much labor the translation of each line demands. The priests of ancient Egypt took their time making this secret language complicated in order to keep their knowledge inaccessible to the profane; the centuries have shown how successful they were in this.”

“And what is the story these figures tell?” the young woman asked.

“A beautiful story, one I’m sure you’ll enjoy,” Bernini said, taking over from Kircher, “the story of the love of Isis & Osiris. Listen, my girl, and don’t let me die of thirst: a certain Râ of Egypt, the sun god of his land, had the misfortune to have four children — two daughters: Isis & Nephtys, & two sons: Typhon & Osiris. These brothers & sisters married each other, as was the charming custom among the powerful. Isis became the wife of Osiris & Nephtys that of Typhon. Since their father was becoming a little decrepit, he put the administration of the kingdom into the hands of Osiris, the one who was more worthy to exercise that power. Under him Egypt thrived; aided by his wife, he taught the people how to cultivate wheat & the vine, introduced the religious cults & built large and beautiful cities, thus ensuring the happiness of the nation. But then Typhon, jealous of the power & fame of Osiris, decided to conspire against his brother. Drawing him into a cleverly laid trap, he killed him, cut him up into tiny pieces and threw him into the Nile.

“Poor Isis, in despair but still in love, set about finding the pieces of her husband. Through her persistence, she managed to find almost all of them, for the fish of the Nile treated him with respect & spared them. There was just one missing, a dainty morsel the oxyrhynch had not been able to resist … & this piece, my little doll, the one that Isis, as a true woman, preferred above all, was his gherkin, his big bird, his engine, his tassel, his family organ, his Don Cypriano, his awl, his chitterling, his fiddle bow, his syringe, his ploughshare, his Polyphemus, his father confessor, his lance, his yard, his pintle, his drumstick, his coney-catcher &, in a word, his sweetmeat! Yes, my lovelies, his sweetmeat!”