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Atlantida

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Crystal Thielkien
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« on: March 30, 2009, 03:23:16 pm »



Poster from the French 1948 production of Atlantida (Fair Use)

Atlantida
(L'Antlantide)

by Pierre Benoit
Tr. by Mary C. Tongue and Mary Ross
[1920]
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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #1 on: March 30, 2009, 03:23:43 pm »

This French novel of 'Atlantis in the Sahara' made a huge splash when it was published. The exotic Saharan setting, the stories of desert survival, the overpowering allure of the last Queen of Atlantis, make a memorable, if a bit pulpy, read. Over a dozen films have been made of this plot, to the point where it is almost a subgenre of the lost-civilization adventure film in itself. The author was sued (and lost) at one point because the plot is fairly close to that of Haggard's She. However, it is thought Benoit had no exposure to Haggard prior writing L'Antlantide, so this appears to be a case of literary convergent evolution. This online text was scanned and proofed from scratch, from a 1920 edition of this translation of the book. Therefore it may differ slightly from the Project Gutenberg version, which was sourced from a 1964 Ace paperback edition. That edition has 192 pages and some obvious differences, e.g., a dedication in the Ace which does not appear in the 1920 printing. NOTE: Unicode is used to display Greek in this text. I've also made a sketch map of the route in the book through the Sahara.


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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #2 on: March 30, 2009, 03:24:10 pm »

ATLANTIDA
(L’Atlantide)
BY
PIERRE BENOIT
TRANSLATED BY
MARY C. TONGUE AND MARY ROSS
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
[1920]
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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #3 on: March 30, 2009, 03:24:28 pm »

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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #4 on: March 30, 2009, 03:24:42 pm »

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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #5 on: March 30, 2009, 03:25:03 pm »

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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #6 on: March 30, 2009, 03:25:18 pm »

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« Reply #7 on: March 30, 2009, 03:25:54 pm »

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
   
 
   
 PAGE
 
 
 
 Preface
 
 3
 
I
 
 A Southern Assignment
 
 9
 
II
 
 Captain de Saint-Avit
 
 26
 
III
 
 The Morhange-Saint-Avit Mission
 
 43
 
IV
 
 Towards Latitude 25
 
 54
 
V
 
 The Inscription
 
 70
 
VI
 
 The Disaster of the Lettuce
 
 84
 
VII
 
 The Country of Fear
 
 98
 
VIII
 
 Awakening At Ahaggar
 
 113
 
IX
 
 Atlantis
 
 130
 
X
 
 The Red Marble Hall
 
 146
 
XI
 
 Antinea
 
 161
 
XII
 
 Morhange Disappears
 
 176
 
XIII
 
 The Hetman of Jitomir's Story
 
 192
 
XIV
 
 Hours Of Waiting
 
 212
 
XV
 
 The Lament Of Tanit-Zerga
 
 225
 
XVI
 
 The Silver Hammer
 
 239
 
XVII
 
 The Maidens of the Rocks
 
 253
 
XVIII
 
 The Fire-Flies
 
 266
 
XIX
 
 The Tanezruft
 
 281
 
XX
 
 The Circle Is Complete
 
 296
 



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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #8 on: March 30, 2009, 03:26:17 pm »

p. 3

ATLANTIDA
Hassi-Inifel, November 8, 1903.

If the following pages are ever to see the light of day it will be because they have been stolen from me. The delay that I exact before they shall be disclosed assures me of that. 1

As to this disclosure, let no one distrust my aim when I prepare for it, when I insist upon it. You may believe me when I maintain that no pride of authorship binds me to these pages. Already I am too far removed from all such things. Only it is useless that others should enter upon the path from which I shall not return.

Four o'clock in the morning. Soon the sun will kindle the hamada with its pink fire. All about me the bordj is asleep. Through the half-open door of


p. 4

his room I hear André de Saint-Avit breathing quietly, very quietly.

In two days we shall start, he and I. We shall leave the bordj. We shall penetrate far down there to the South. The official orders came this morning.

Now, even if I wished to withdraw, it is too late. André and I asked for this mission. The authorization that I sought, together with him, has at this moment become an order. The hierarchic channels cleared, the pressure brought to bear at the Ministry;—and then to be afraid, to recoil before this adventure! . . .

To be afraid, I said. I know that I am not afraid! One night in the Gurara, when I found two of my sentinels slaughtered, with the shameful cross cut of the Berbers slashed across their stomachs,—then I was afraid. I know what fear is. Just so now, when I gazed into the black depths, whence suddenly all at once the great red sun will rise, I know that it is not with fear that I tremble. I feel surging within me the sacred horror of this mystery, and its irresistible attraction.

Delirious dreams, perhaps. The mad imaginings of a brain surcharged, and an eye distraught by mirages. The day will come, doubtless, when I shall reread these pages with an indulgent smile, as a man of fifty is accustomed to smile when he rereads old letters.

Delirious dreams. Mad imaginings. But these

p. 5

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« Reply #9 on: March 30, 2009, 03:26:31 pm »

dreams, these imaginings, are dear to me. "Captain de Saint-Avit and Lieutenant Ferrières," reads the official dispatch, "will proceed to Tassili to determine the stratigraphic relation of Albien sandstone and carboniferous limestone. They will, in addition, profit by any opportunities of determining the possible change of attitude of the Axdjers towards our penetration, etc." If the journey should indeed have to do only with such poor things I think that I should never undertake it.

So I am longing for what I dread. I shall be dejected if I do not find myself in the presence of what makes me strangely fearful.

In the depths of the valley of Wadi Mia a jackal is barking. Now and again, when a beam of moonlight breaks in a silver patch through the hollows of the heat-swollen clouds, making him think he sees the young sun, a turtle dove moans among the palm trees.

I hear a step outside. I lean out of the window. A shade clad in luminous black stuff glides over the hard-packed earth of the terrace of the fortification. A light shines in the electric blackness. A man has just lighted a cigarette. He crouches, facing southwards. He is smoking.

It is Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, our Targa guide, the man who in three days is to lead us across the unknown plateaus of the mysterious Imoschaoch, across the hamadas of black stones, the great dried oases,

p. 6

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« Reply #10 on: March 30, 2009, 03:26:48 pm »

the stretches of silver salt, the tawny hillocks, the flat gold dunes that are crested over, when the "alizé" blows, with a shimmering haze of pale sand.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh! He is the man. There recurs to my mind Duveyrier's tragic phrase, "At the very moment the Colonel was putting his foot in the stirrup he was felled by a sabre blow." 1 Cegheir-ben-Cheikh! There he is, peacefully smoking his cigarette, a cigarette from the package that I gave him. . . . May the Lord forgive me for it.

The lamp casts a yellow light on the paper. Strange fate, which, I never knew exactly why, decided one day when I was a lad of sixteen that I should prepare myself for Saint Cyr, and gave me there André de Saint-Avit as classmate. I might have studied law or medicine. Then I should be today a respectable inhabitant of a town with a church and running water, instead of this cotton-clad phantom, brooding with an unspeakable anxiety over this desert which is about to swallow me.

A great insect has flown in through the window. It buzzes, strikes against the rough cast, rebounds against the globe of the lamp, and then, helpless, its wings singed by the still burning candle, drops on the white paper.


p. 7

It is an African May bug, big, black, with spots of livid gray.

I think of the others, its brothers in France, the golden-brown May bugs, which I have seen on stormy summer evenings projecting themselves like little particles of the soil of my native countryside. It was there that as a child I spent my vacations, and later on, my leaves. On my last leave, through those same meadows, there wandered beside me a slight form, wearing a thin scarf, because of the evening air, so cool back there. But now this memory stirs me so slightly that I scarcely raise my eyes to that dark corner of my room where the light is dimly reflected by the glass of an indistinct portrait. I realize of how little consequence has become what had seemed at one time capable of filling all my life. This plaintive mystery is of no more interest to me. If the strolling singers of Rolla came to murmur their famous nostalgic airs under the window of this bordj I know that I should not listen to them, and if they became insistent I should send them on their way.

What has been capable of causing this metamorphosis in me? A story, a legend, perhaps, told, at any rate by one on whom rests the direst of suspicions.

Cegheir-ben-Cheikh has finished his cigarette. I hear him returning with slow steps to his mat, in barrack B, to the left of the guard post

p. 8

Our departure being scheduled for the tenth of November, the manuscript attached to this letter was begun on Sunday, the first, and finished on Thursday, the fifth of November, 1903.

Olivier Ferrières,
Lt. 3rd Spahis.   


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Footnotes
3:1 This letter, together with the manuscript which accompanies it, the latter in a separate sealed envelope, was entrusted by Lieutenant Ferrières, of the 3rd Spahis, the day of the departure of that officer for the Tassili of the Tuareg (Central Sahara), to Sergeant Chatelain. The sergeant was instructed to deliver it, on his next leave, to M. Leroux, Honorary Counsel at the Court of. Appeals at Riom, and Lieutenant Ferrières' nearest relative. As this magistrate died suddenly before the expiration of the term of ten years set for the publication of the manuscript here presented, difficulties arose which have delayed its publication up to the present date.

6:1 H. Duveyrier, "The Disaster of the Flatters Mission." Bull. Geol. Soc., 1881.



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Crystal Thielkien
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« Reply #11 on: March 30, 2009, 03:27:10 pm »

p. 9

CHAPTER I
A SOUTHERN ASSIGNMENT
Sunday, the sixth of June, 1903, broke the monotony of the life that we were leading at the Post of Hassi-Inifel by two events of unequal importance, the arrival of a letter from Mlle. de C——, and the latest numbers of the Official Journal of the French Republic.

"I have the Lieutenant's permission?" said Sergeant Chatelain, beginning to glance through the magazines he had just removed from their wrappings.

I acquiesced with a nod, already completely absorbed in reading Mlle. de C——'s letter.

"When this reaches you," was the gist of this charming being's letter, "mama and I will doubtless have left Paris for the country. If, in your distant parts, it might be a consolation to imagine me as bored here as you possibly can be, make the most of it. The Grand Prix is over. I played the horse you pointed out to me, and naturally, I lost. Last night we dined with the Martials de la Touche.

p. 10

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« Reply #12 on: March 30, 2009, 03:27:24 pm »

 Elias Chatrian was there,—always amazingly young. I am sending you his last book, which has made quite a sensation. It seems that the Martials de la Touche are depicted there without disguise. I will add to it Bourget's last, and Loti's, and France's, and two or three of the latest music hall hits. In the political word, they say the law about congregations will meet with strenuous opposition. Nothing much in the theatres. I have taken out a summer subscription for l’Illustration. Would you care for it? In the country no one knows what to do. Always the same lot of idiots ready for tennis. I shall deserve no credit for writing to you often. Spare me your reflections concerning young Combemale. I am less than nothing of a feminist, having too much faith in those who tell me that I am pretty, in yourself in particular. But indeed, I grow wild at the idea that if I permitted myself half the familiarities with one of our lads that you have surely with your Ouled-Nails . . Enough of that, it is too unpleasant an idea."

I had reached this point in the prose of this advanced young woman when a scandalized exclamation of the Sergeant made me look up.

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes?"

"They are up to something at the Ministry. See for yourself."

He handed me the Official. I read:

p. 11

"By a decision of the first of May, 1903, Captain de Saint-Avit (André), unattached, is assigned to the Third Spahis, and appointed Commandant of the Post of Hassi-Inifel."

Chatelain's displeasure became fairly exuberant.

"Captain de Saint-Avit, Commandant of the Post. A post which has never had a slur upon it. They must take us for a dumping ground."

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« Reply #13 on: March 30, 2009, 03:27:42 pm »

My surprise was as great as the Sergeant's. But just then I saw the evil, weasel-like face of Gourrut, the convict we used as clerk. He had stopped his scrawling and was listening with a sly interest.

"Sergeant, Captain de Saint-Avit is my ranking classmate," I answered dryly.

Chatelain saluted, and left the room. I followed.

"There, there," I said, clapping him on the back, "no hard feelings. Remember that in an hour we are starting for the oasis. Have the cartridges ready. It is of the utmost importance to restock the larder."

I went back to the office and motioned Gourrut to go. Left alone, I finished Mlle. de C——'s letter very quickly, and then reread the decision of the Ministry giving the post a new chief.

It was now five months that I had enjoyed that distinction, and on my word, I had accepted the responsibility well enough, and been very well pleased with the independence. I can even affirm, without taking too much credit for myself, that under my

p. 12

command discipline had been better maintained than under Captain Dieulivol, Saint-Avit's predecessor. A brave man, this Captain Dieulivol, a non-commissioned officer under Dodds and Duchesne, but subject to a terrible propensity for strong liquors, and too much inclined, when he had drunk, to confuse his dialects, and to talk to a Houassa in Sakalave. No one was ever more sparing of the post water supply. One morning when he was preparing his absinthe in the presence of the Sergeant, Chatelain, noticing the Captain's glass, saw with amazement that the green liquor was blanched by a far stronger admixture of water than usual. He looked up, aware that something abnormal had just occurred. Rigid, the carafe inverted in his hand, Captain Dieulivol was spilling the water which was running over on the sugar. He was dead.

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« Reply #14 on: March 30, 2009, 03:27:55 pm »

For six months, since the disappearance of this sympathetic old tippler, the Powers had not seemed to interest themselves in finding his successor. I had even hoped at times that a decision might be reached investing me with the rights that I was in fact exercising. . . . And today this surprising appointment.

Captain de Saint-Avit. He was of my class at St. Cyr. I had lost track of him. Then my attention had been attracted to him by his rapid advancement, his decoration, the well-deserved recognition of three particularly daring expeditions of exploration

p. 13

to Tebesti and the Air; and suddenly, the mysterious drama of his fourth expedition, that famous mission undertaken with Captain Morhange, from which only one of the explorers came back. Everything is forgotten quickly in France. That was at least six years ago. I had not heard Saint-Avit mentioned since. I had even supposed that he had left the army. And now, I was to have him as my chief.

"After all, what's the difference," I mused, "he or another! At school he was charming, and we have had only the most pleasant relationships. Besides, I haven't enough yearly income to afford the rank of Captain."

And I left the office, whistling as I went.

 

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