13 French Science-Fiction Stories by Damon Knight (ed)

Author:Damon Knight (ed) [Knight, Damon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

I asked the master’s permission to be present at the second sitting, and Perugino, who had just sunk a new arrow into the biceps of Saint Sebastian, looked up in surprise. “Do you really want to?”

“Per Bacco! If not, would I speak of it?”

“Good,” he conceded, spreading a bloody highlight across the pectorals of my double, “but don’t swear: it sits ill with the expression of a martyr. I grant you that the arrangement of milord Al-Hazreh’s lodgings is ingenious, and his ambition to have me paint his wax doll is amusing. . . .”

“His-what?”

“His automaton,” said the artist. “His demon, queen of the vampires. His giant homunculus.” And taking my indignation at its height: “You haven’t looked upon her closely, then? It’s true that with all the lights dimmed, you might be excused.”

Breathless, I could only form the words; “But that girl spoke to us!”

“Really? After all, the thing is possible. Such astonishing engines have been made! In France, it appears, some angels were constructed of gilded wood, with a mechanism so perfect that they walked, shook their wings, and even spoke a compliment, at the coronation of the young queen, Ysabeau de Bavière. But Paracelcus maintains that not only the mandragores, but certain bulbs of the white lily, grown in jars and buried in dung at the full of the moon, with appropriate incantations, give birth to living beings a cubit tall. These sprats, though very devoted to their masters, are of a vicious and malignant humor. Certain alchemists relate that they live on air, like the fish of Cathay, but it is generally conceded that they feed on a blood jelly. Parenthetically, it would interest me to know how Al-Hazreh procures this, since it is compounded of human blood. ... At any rate, automaton, homunculus, or mandragore, whether your Signorina Nahema belongs to one species or the other, it is certain she is no Christian creature, and I shall not paint her! I shall not let Art itself, in my person, be abased!”

“But,” I protested again, “what you speak of is impossible, senseless! Nardo, who has painted her, will certify—”

Exasperated, the master interrupted. “Nardo! What a witness! A stripling who never has dared lift his eyes to a living woman! An automaton is just the sort of toy that fascinates children. Well, let Nardo paint her, since he understands her so well, and he can also gild a few tavern and cookshop signboards, to earn sweets for his serving-wench mother!”

This unjust judgment confirmed my suspicions: to wit, that the master was jealous of Nardo’s progress.

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