Short Fiction by Aleksandr Kuprin (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

priests, clad in feminine garments. It was their duty today to represent Nephthys and Isis, bewailing Osiris. Then out of the depths of the altar came one in a white chiton, without a single ornament, and the eyes of all the men and women were eagerly drawn to him. This was the very same desert anchorite who had undergone a heavy trial of ten years’ wrestling with the flesh upon the mountains of Lebanon, and was now to bring a great, voluntary bloody sacrifice to Isis. His face, emaciated by hunger, wind-beaten and scorched, was stern and pallid, the eyes austerely cast down; and a supernatural horror was wafted from him upon the throng.

Finally, the chief priest of the temple also made his appearance⁠—a centenarian ancient, with a tiara upon his head, with a tiger skin upon his shoulders, in an apron of brocaded samite adorned with the tails of jackals.

Turning to the worshippers, he uttered in a senile voice, meek and tremulous:

“Suton-di-hotpu.” (“The king bringeth the sacrifice.”)

And then, turning around to the sacrificial altar, he took from the hands of an acolyte a white dove with little red feet, cut off the bird’s head, took the heart out of her breast, and sprinkled the sacrificial altar and the consecrated knife with her blood.

After a brief silence he proclaimed:

“Let us weep for Osiris, the god of Atum, the Great On-Nefer-Hophra, the god Ona!”

Two castrates in female garments⁠—Isis and Nephthys⁠—at once commenced the lamentation, in harmonious, high-pitched voices:

“Return to thy dwelling, O beauteous youth! To behold thee is bliss.

“Isis charges thee⁠—Isis, that was conceived in the one womb with thee⁠—Isis, thy spouse and thy sister.

“Show us thy countenance anew, radiant god. Here is Nephthys, thy sister. She is deluged in her tears and plucks out her hair in her grief.

“In a yearning like unto death do we seek after thy beauteous body. Return to thy dwelling, Osiris!”

Two other priests joined their voices to those of the first two. These were Horus and Anubis lamenting for Osiris, and each time they concluded a stanza, the chorus, disposed upon the steps of the staircase, repeated it to a solemn and sad motif.

Then with the same chant the elder priests brought out of the sanctuary the statue of the goddess, no longer covered with the naos. A black mantle, strewn over with golden stars, now enveloped the goddess from head to foot, leaving visible only her silvern feet, entwined by a serpent, as well as, over her head, a silvern disc, confined within the horns of a cow. And slowly, to the tinkling of the censers and sistra, with mournful weeping, the procession of the goddess Isis set out from the steps of the altar, down into the temple, along its walls, and in and out between the columns.

Thus did the goddess gather up the scattered members of her spouse, that she might resuscitate him with the aid of Thoth and Anubis.

“Glory to the city of Abydos, that preserved thy fair head, Osiris.

“Glory to thee, city of Memphis, where we did find the right hand of the great god⁠—the hand of war and protection.

“And to thee also, O city of Sais, that didst harbour the left hand of the radiant god⁠—the hand of justice.

“And be thou blessed, city of Thebes, where the heart of On-Nefer-Hophra did repose.”

Thus did the goddess make the round of the entire temple, coming back to the altar, and more and more passionate and loud did the singing of the chorus become. A sacred exaltation was taking possession of the priests and those praying. All the parts of the body of Osiris had Isis found, save one⁠—the sacred Phallus, impregnating the maternal womb, creating new life eternal. Now was approaching the grandest act in the mystery of Osiris and Isis.⁠ ⁠…

“Is it thou, Eliab?” the queen asked the youth, who had quietly entered the door.

In the darkness near the couch he noiselessly sank at her feet and pressed to his lips the hem of her raiment. And the queen felt him weeping with rapture, shame, and desire. Lowering her hand upon his curly, tousled head, the queen uttered:

“Tell me, Eliab, all that thou knowest of the king and this girl of the vineyard.”

“How thou dost love him, O queen!” said Eliab with a bitter moan.

“Speak!⁠ ⁠…” commanded Astis.

“What can I tell thee, queen? My heart is rent by jealousy.”

“Speak!”

“Never yet has the king loved any as he loveth her. He doth not part from her for an instant. His eyes shine with happiness. He lavishes favours and gifts all about him. He, the Abimelech18 and sage⁠—he, like a slave, lieth at her feet and, like a dog, taketh not his eyes off her.”

“Speak!”

“O, how thou dost torture me, queen! And she⁠ ⁠… she is all love, all tenderness and caresses! She is meek and abashed, she sees and knows naught save her love. She arouses wrath, envy, or jealousy in none.⁠ ⁠…”

“Speak!” furiously moaned out the queen, and, clutching with her pliant fingers the black curls of Eliab, she pressed his head against her body, scratching his face with the silver embroidery of her diaphanous chiton.

And in the meanwhile, at the altar, around the image of the goddess covered with its black pall, the priests and priestesses were careering in a holy frenzy, with shouts resembling barking, to the clashing of tympani and the jarring strum of sistrums.

Certain ones among them were flaying themselves with many-tailed whiplashes of rhinoceros hide; others were inflicting long, slashing wounds upon their own breasts and shoulders with short knives; others still were tearing their mouths with their fingers, tearing at their ears, and excoriating their faces with their nails. In the midst of this mad round-dance, at the very feet of the goddess, with inconceivable rapidity the anchorite from the mountains of Lebanon was whirling on one spot, in snowy-white, waving raiment. The head priest alone remained motionless. In his hand he was holding the sacred sacrificial knife of Aethiopian obsidian,