Cæsar's Column: A Story of the Twentieth CenturyDonnelly, Ignatius
Science
Cæsar's Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century
Donnelly, Ignatius
Dystopias -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Science fiction; Social problems -- Fiction; Twentieth century -- Fiction
I could hear them moving about the council-chamber, apparently going
around the walls. Then I heard them advancing into the conservatory.
I shrank down still lower; they moved here and there among the
flowers, and even paused for a few moments before the mass of
flowering cacti.
"That _flagelliformis_," said the Prince, "looks sickly. The soil is
perhaps too rich. Tell the gardener to change the earth about it."
"I shall do so, my lord," said Rudolph; and to my great relief they
moved off. In a few minutes I heard them in the council-chamber. With
great caution I rose slowly. A screen of flowers had been cunningly
placed by Rudolph between the cacti and that apartment. At last,
half-stooping, I found an aperture in the rich mass of blossoms. The
Prince was talking to Rudolph. I had a good view of his person. He
was dressed in an evening suit. He was a large man, somewhat
corpulent; or, as Rudolph had said, bloated. He had a Hebraic cast of
countenance; his face seemed to be all angles. The brow was square
and prominent, projecting at the corners; the nose was quite high and
aquiline; the hair had the look of being dyed; a long, thick black
mustache covered his upper lip, but it could not quite conceal the
hard, cynical and sneering expression of his mouth; great bags of
flesh hung beneath the small, furtive eyes. Altogether the face
reminded me of the portraits of Napoleon the Third, who was thought
by many to have had little of Napoleon in him except the name.
There was about Prince Cabano that air of confidence and command
which usually accompanies great wealth or success of any kind.
Extraordinary power produces always the same type of countenance. You
see it in the high-nosed mummied kings of ancient Egypt. There is
about them an aristocratic _hauteur_ which even the shrinking of the
dry skin for four thousand years has not been able to quite subdue.
We feel like taking off our hats even to their parched hides. You see
it in the cross-legged monuments of the old crusaders, in the
venerable churches of Europe; a splendid breed of ferocious
barbarians they were, who struck ten blows for conquest and plunder
where they struck one for Christ. And you can see the same type of
countenance in the present rulers of the world--the great bankers,
the railroad presidents, the gigantic speculators, the uncrowned
monarchs of commerce, whose golden chariots drive recklessly over the
prostrate bodies of the people.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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