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Historical Miniatures

by August Strindberg · English · Gutenberg #7955 · 478,342 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Historical Miniatures

Author: August Strindberg

Translator: Claud Field


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7955]
                Most recently updated: October 26, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORICAL MINIATURES ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Marc
D’Hooghe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team








HISTORICAL MINIATURES


By August Strindberg


Translated by Claud Field, M.A.




PREFACE

Maximilian Harden, the well-known critic, writes in the _Zukunft_ (7th
September 1907) of the _Historical Miniatures_:

“A very interesting book, as might be expected, for it is Strindberg’s.
And I am bold enough to say a book which should and must be successful
with the public. The writer is not here concerned with Sweden, nor with
Natural History. A philosopher and poet here describes the visions which
a study of the history of mankind has called up before his inner eye.
Julian the Apostate and Peter the Hermit appear on the stage, together
with Attila and Luther, Alcibiades and Eginhard. We see the empires
of the Pharaohs and the Czars, the Athens of Socrates and the ‘Merry
England’ of Henry VIII. There are twenty brief episodes, and each of
them is alive. So powerful is the writer’s faculty of vision, that it
compels belief in his descriptions of countries and men.”

“The question whether these cultured circles really were as described,
hardly occurs to us. Never has the remarkable writer shown a more
comprehensive grasp. Since the days of the _Confession of a Fool_,
Strindberg has become a writer of world-wide significance.”

[Footnote: one collection of Maximilian Harden’s essays is published by
Messrs. Blackwood, and another by Mr. Eveleigh Nash.]


CONTENTS

PREFACE

THE EGYPTIAN BONDAGE

THE HEMICYCLE OF ATHENS

ALCIBIADES

SOCRATES

FLACCUS AND MARO

LEONTOPOLIS

THE LAMB

THE WILD BEAST

THE APOSTATE

ATTILA

THE SERVANT OF SERVANTS

ISHMAEL

EGINHARD TO EMMA

THE CLOSE OF THE FIRST MILLENNIUM

PETER THE HERMIT

LAOCOON

THE INSTRUMENT

OLD MERRY ENGLAND

THE WHITE MOUNTAIN

THE GREAT CZAR

THE SEVEN GOOD YEARS

DAYS OF JUDGMENT

STRINDBERG’S DEATH-BED





THE EGYPTIAN BONDAGE


The old worker in ebony and cabinet-maker, Amram, dwelt by the
river-side in a clay-hut which was covered with palm-leaves. There he
lived with his wife and three children. He was yellow in complexion and
wore a long beard. Skilled in his trade of carving ebony and hard wood,
he attended at Pharaoh’s court, and accordingly also worked in the
temples. One morning in midsummer, just before sunrise, he got out of
bed, placed his implements in a bag, and stepped out of his hut. He
remained standing on the threshold for a moment, and, turning to the
east, uttered a low prayer. Then he began to walk between fishermen’s
huts, following the black broken bank of the river, where herons and
doves were resting after their morning meal.

His neighbour, the fisherman, Nepht, was overhauling his nets, and
placing carp, grayling, and sheat-fish in the different partitions of
his boat.

Amram greeted him, and wished to say some words in token of
friendliness.

“Has the Nile ceased to rise?” he asked.

“It remains standing at ten yards’ height. That means starvation!”

“Do you know why it cannot rise higher than fifteen yards, Nepht?”

“Because otherwise we should drown,” answered the fisherman simply.

“Yes, certainly, and that we cannot. The Nile, then, has a Lord who
controls the water-level; and He who has measured out the starry vault,
and laid the foundations of the earth, has set up a wall for the waters,
and this wall, which we cannot see, is fifteen yards high. For during
the great flood in the land of our fathers, Ur of the Chaldees, the
water rose fifteen yards--no more, no less. Yes, Nepht, I say ‘we,’
for you are of our people, though you speak another tongue, and honour
strange gods. I wish you a good morning, Nepht, a very good morning.”

He left the abashed fisherman, went on, and entered the outskirts of the
city, where began the rows of citizens’ houses built of Nile-bricks
and wood. He saw the merchant and money-changer Eleazar taking down his
window-shutters while his assistant sprinkled water on the ground before
the shop. Amram greeted him, “A fine morning, cousin Eleazar.”

“I cannot say,” answered the tradesman sulkily. “The Nile has remained
stationary, and begins to sink. The times are bad.”

“Bad times are followed by good times, as our father Abraham knew; and
when Joseph, Jacob’s son, foresaw the seven lean years he counselled
Pharaoh to store up corn in the granaries....”

“May be, but that is a forgotten tale now.”

“Yes, and have you also forgotten the promise which the Lord gave to his
friend Abraham?”

“That about the land of Canaan? We have waited four hundred years for
its fulfilment, and now, instead of receiving it, Abraham’s children
have become bond-servants.”

“Abraham believed through good and through evil days, through joy and
through sorrow, and that was counted to him for righteousness.”

“I don’t believe at all,” Eleazar broke in, “or rather, I believe that
things go backwards, and that I will have to put up my shutters, if
there is a failure in the crops.”

Amram went on with a sad face, and came to the market, where he bought a
millet loaf, a piece of an eel, and some onions.

When the market-woman took the piece of money, she spat on it, and when
Amram received his change, he did the same.

“Do you spit on the money, Hebrew?” she hissed.

“One adopts the customs of the country,” answered Amram.

“Do you answer, unclean dog?”

“I answer speech, but not abuse.”

The Hebrew went on, for a crowd began to gather. He met the barber,
Enoch, and they greeted each other with a sign which the Hebrews had
devised, and which signified, “We believe in the promise to Abraham, and
wait, patient in hope.”

Amram reached at last the temple square, passed through the avenue of
Sphinxes, and stood before a little door in the left pylon. He knocked
seven times with his hand; a servant appeared, took Amram by the arm
and led him in. A young priest tied a bandage round his eyes, and, after
they had searched his bag, they took the cabinet-maker by the hand, and
led him into the temple. Sometimes they went up steps, sometimes down
them, sometimes straight-forward. Now and then they avoided pillars,
and the murmur of water was heard; at one time there was a smell of
dampness, at another of incense.

At last they halted, and the bandage was taken off Amram’s eyes. He
found himself in a small room with painted walls, some seats, and a
cupboard. A richly-carved ebony door divided this room from a larger
one which on one side opened on to a broad staircase leading down to a
terrace facing eastward.

The priest left Amram alone after he had shown him that the door
required repair, and had, with an unmistakable gesture, enjoined on him
silence and secrecy.

When Amram was left alone, and found himself for the first time within
the sacred walls which could not overawe a Hebrew’s mind, he yet felt a
certain alarm at all the mysteriousness, of which he had heard since
his youth. In order to shake off his fear of the unknown, he resolved to
satisfy his curiosity, though at the risk of being turned out, if he met
anyone. As a pretext he took a fine plane in his hand, and entered the
great hall.

It was very spacious. In the midst was a fountain of red granite, with
an obelisk set upright in the basin. The walls were adorned with figures
painted in simple colours, most of them in red ochre, but also in yellow
and black. He drew off his sandals, and went on into a gallery where
stood mummy-coffins leaning against the wall.

Then he entered a domed room, on the vault of which were painted the
great constellations of the northern hemisphere. In the middle of the
room stood a table, on which lay a half-globe covered with designs
resembling the outlines of a map. By the window stood another table,
with a model of the largest pyramid set upon a land-surveyor’s board,
with a scale of measurements. Close by stood an alidade, an instrument
for measuring angles.

There was no visible outlet to this room, but after some search the
uninitiated Hebrew found some stairs of acacia-wood leading up through
a wooden tower. He climbed and climbed, but when he looked through the
loopholes, he found himself always on a level with the roof of the
domed room. But he continued to ascend, and after he had again counted
a hundred steps and, looked through a loop hole, he found himself on a
level with the floor of the domed room. Then a wooden door opened, and
an elderly man in half-priestly garb received him with a greeting as
though he were a well-known and expected superior. But when he saw a
stranger, he started, and the two men gazed at each other long, before
they could speak. Amram, who felt unpleasantly surprised, began the
verbal encounter: “Reuben? Don’t you know me, the friend of your youth,
and your kinsman in the Promise?”

“Amram, the husband of Jochebed, the son of Kohath! Yes, I know you!”

“And you here! After you have vanished from my sight for thirty years!”

“And you?”

“I was sent for to repair a door; that is all; and when I was left
alone, I wanted to look round.

“I am a scribe in the chief school....”

“And sacrificest to strange gods....”

“No, I do not sacrifice, and I have kept my faith in the promise, Amram.
I have entered this temple in order to learn the secrets of the wise,
and to open from within the fortress which holds Israel captive.”

“Secrets? Why should the Highest be secret?”

“Because the common people only understand what is low.”

“You do not yourself believe in these animals which you call sacred?”

“No, they are only symbols--visible signs to body forth the invisible.
We priests and scribes revere the Only One, the Hidden, under His
visible shape, the Sun, giver and sustainer of life. You remember, when
we were young, how Pharaoh Amenophis the Fourth forcibly did away with
the ancient gods and the worship of the sacred animals. He passed down
the river from Thebes proclaiming the doctrine of the Unity of God.
Do you know whence he derived that doctrine? From the Israelites, who,
after Joseph’s marriage to Asenath, daughter of the High Priest of
On, increased in numbers, and even married daughters of the house of
Pharaoh. But after the death of Amenophis the old order was restored,
the King again resided at Thebes, and the ancient gods were brought out
again, all to please the people.”

“And you continue to honour the Only One, the Hidden, the Eternal.

“Yes, we do.”

“Is, then, your God not the same as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob?”

“Probably, since there is only One.”

“It is strange. Why, then, do you persecute the Hebrews?”

“Foreigners are not generally loved. You know that our Pharaoh has
lately conquered the Syrian race of Hittites.”

“In the land of Canaan and the region round about, in the land of our
fathers, and of the promise. Do you see, the Lord of Zebaoth, our God,
sends him to prepare the way for our people?”

“Do you still believe in the promise?”

“As surely as the Lord liveth! And I am told that the time will be soon
fulfilled when we shall leave our bondage, and go to the promised land.”

The scribe did not answer, but his face expressed simultaneously doubt
in Amram’s declaration, and the certainty of something quite different
which would soon happen. Amram, who did not wish to have his faith
shaken by any kind of explanations, let the subject drop, and spoke of
something indifferent.

“That is a strange staircase.”

“It is an elevator, and not a staircase.”

Amram glanced up at the domed roof, and found a new pretext for
continuing the conversation, which he did not wish to drop.

“Does that represent the sky?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And its secrets?”

“Ah, the secrets? They are accessible to all who can understand them.”

“Tell them in a few words.”

“Astronomy is not my province, and I know little of it, but still I
will tell you in a few words. The vault up there represents the sky,
the board lying on the table, the earth. Now the wise speak thus: In the
beginning Earth (Sibu) and Heaven (Nuit) lay near each other. But the
god of air and of sunlight (Shu) raised the sky, and set it as a vault
over the earth. The fixed constellations which we know form as it were
an impression, like that of a seal on wax, of the earth, and when the
learned study the stars, they can find out the unknown parts of our
earth. Look at the constellations which you know. In the north the Great
Bear; in the south, at a certain season of the year, the Hunter (Orion),
with four stars at the corners and three stars in the middle. These
three we Hebrews call Jacob’s Staff, and through the uppermost of them
passes the sky-gauge or equator, which corresponds to the earth-gauge
where the sources of our Nile are said to be.

“You know also the constellation which we specially love--the River
(Nile). Look, how it flees from the Hunter (Orion), and makes as many
windings as the Nile here on earth. Therefore he who wishes to learn the
hidden secrets of earth must learn them from the sky. Our wise men know
only the lands which lie towards the east; but those which lie in the
north under the Great Bear are unknown to us, as also are the lands
towards the west. But it looks as though the lands of the Bear had great
destinies assigned to them. Their numbers are four and three, like those
of the Hunter. Three represents the Divine with its attributes, four
denotes the most perfect possible: three and four together form the
mysterious number seven. To gods sacrifices are offered with the unequal
number, three; to men, with the equal number four.

“This is about all that I have cursorily understood of the secrets of
the sky. If you now wish to understand some of the secrets of the earth,
let us consider the tombs of the Pharaohs. These, apart from their
ostensible purposes of being tombs, have also a hidden one--_i.e._ to
conceal in their numbers and proportions the discoveries of the learned
regarding the mutual relations of Sibus and Nuits. In the first place,
the sepulchre of the Pharaohs, or the Pyramid, operates with the numbers
four and three; the base with four, the sides with three. That was
indeed one of the secrets of the sky. But the base of the Great Pyramid
is 365 ells broad. There you have the 365 days of the year. Now the
triple side of the Pyramid is 186 great ells, or a stadium long. There
you see where our road-measures come from.

“If you multiply the breadth of the base with the number 500, which is
about double the breadth measured in great ells, you obtain a length
which is equivalent to 1/360 of the whole orbital path of the sun in
a year, since the number of days in a lunar year is 360. This length
represents four minutes, and those who live a degree west of us see the
sun rise four minutes later than we do.

“This is all I remember about numbers and proportions. If you wish to
learn more--for example, why the sides of the pyramid are inclined at
an angle of 5l°--you must ask the astronomers. The steps to the funereal
chamber, on the other hand, are inclined at an angle of 27°. This
corresponds to the difference between the axis of the universe and the
axis of the earth.”

Amram had listened with special attention to the learned scribe’s
explanation of the tombs of the Pharaohs, and when Reuben mentioned
numbers he concentrated his attention still more, as though he wished
to fix something in his mind. Finally he interrupted him, and began to
speak: “You just now mentioned 27°. Good! That is not the inclination
of the axis of the universe, but of the Milky Way, which probably is
the real axis and lies 27° north of the heavenly equator, while the
inclination of the earth’s axis to the orbit of the sun is 23°. But you
have forgotten the third Pyramid, that of Menkheres, the base of which
is 107 great ells broad. This number 107 we find again three or five
times in the universe; there are 107 smaller suns between the earth and
the sun; 107 is the distance of the planet Venus, and also of Jupiter
from the sun.”

Reuben started. “What? Where did you get all that? Here you let me
stand, and make a fool of me! Where have you learnt that?”

“From our oldest and wisest, who have preserved the memories of their
home at Ur in Chaldaea. You despise Assur, you men of Egypt, for you
believe the Nile is the centre of the earth. But there are many centres
in the infinite. Behind Assur, on the Tigris and Euphrates, there lies
another land with another river. It is called the Land of the Seven
Rivers, because its river debouches into seven mouths as the Nile does.”

“The Nile has seven arms, as you say, like the seven-branched
candlestick!

“That betokens the Light of the world, which shall shine from every land
where a river divides itself in order to flow into the sea. The rivers,
you see, are the blood-vessels of the earth, and as these carry blue and
red blood alternately, so our land has its Blue Nile and its Red Nile.
The Blue Nile is poisonous like dark blood, and the Red is fertilising,
life-giving, like red blood. So everything created has its counterpart
above in heaven and below on earth, for all is one, and the Lord of all
is One--One and the Same.”

Reuben kept silence and listened. “Speak on!” he said at last.

Amram therefore continued: “The tombs of the Pharaohs have also grown
out of the earth on which they rest. The first or Great Pyramid is built
after the pattern of sea-salt when it crystallises in the warmth of the
sun. If you could look through a dewdrop into a salt-crystal, you would
find it built up of an infinite number of squares just like the Great
Pyramid. But if you let alum crystallise, you will see a whole field of
pyramids. Alum is the salt deposited in clay. There you have the salt of
the earth and of the sea.

“But there is another kind of pyramid with blunted corners. That is the
original form of sulphur when found in chalk. Now we have water, earth,
and chalk with its fire-stone. There is still a third kind of pyramid
with blunted edges; these resemble crystallised flint or rock crystal.
There you have the foundation of the mountains. A closer examination of
the Nile-mud will discover all these primary forms and substances--clay,
salt, sulphur, and flint. Therefore the Nile is the blood of the earth.
And the mountains are the flesh, not the bones.”

Reuben, whose Egyptian name was Phater, had regarded Amram while he
spoke with alarm and amazement. When the latter had ceased to speak, he
began, “You are not Amram the worker in ebony and cabinet-maker.”

“I am certainly a worker in ebony and cabinetmaker, but I am also of
Israel’s priestly line. I am the son of Kohath, the son of Levi, the son
of Jacob, the son of Isaac, the son of Abraham. I am a Levite and the
husband of Jochebed. Miriam, and Aaron are the children hitherto born
to me; one unborn I still await. Now I go back to my work; show me the
way!”

Phater went in front, but led Amram by another way than that by which
he had come. As they passed by an open door, which led into a large hall
lined with bookcases, Amram stopped, full of curiosity, and wished to
enter, in order to look at the numerous books. But Phater held him back
by his garment, “Don’t go in,” he said; “the place is full of traps and
snares. The guardian of the library sits concealed in the middle of the
hall, and guards his treasures jealously. He has had the floor made of
dried willow-withes, which creak when they are trodden upon. He hears
anyone stealing in, and he hears if a scribe touches the forbidden
books. He has heard us, and he is feeling after us! Don’t you feel as
if cold snake-tongues were touching your cheeks, your forehead, your
eyelids?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It is he, stretching out the fingers of his soul, as we stretch out an
arm. But now I cut off the feeler which wants to examine us.”

He took out a knife, and made a cut through the air in front of them.

Amram felt a sudden glow, and at the same moment saw a great adder
writhing on the ground in its death-struggle.

“You practise magic arts here?” he said.

“Did you not know that?”

“I did not expect it.”

At the same instant the wall seemed to open, and they saw a mass of
Nile mud in which crocodiles and snakes twined round each other, while a
hippopotamus trampled threateningly with its forefeet.

Amram was alarmed, but Phater took out an amulet in the shape of a
scarabaeus, and, holding it as a shield in front of him, he passed
through the terrible shapes, which dissolved like smoke, while Amram
followed him.

“The magician only cheats our eyes,” said Phater, and as he waved his
hand the whole appearance vanished.

Now they stood again in the first hall, and, pointing to the Nilometer,
Amram said, “Famine!”

“There is no doubt of that. Therefore all superfluous mouths should be
stopped.”

“What!”

Phater saw that he had made a slip of the tongue.

“I mean,” he said, “Pharaoh must consider how to get corn.”

“He would find a Joseph useful just now.”

“Why?” broke in Phater more vehemently than he intended. “Don’t you
know that Joseph the son of Jacob brought the Egyptians to be Pharaoh’s
bond-slaves. Your chronicles and ours relate that he made the peasants
mortgage their land in return for help during the seven lean years, and
that, by his doing so, Pharaoh became sole possessor of all the land of
Egypt.”

“You are not Reuben; you are Phater the Egyptian, for if you were an
Israelite, you would not have spoken thus. Our ways part. I go to my
work.”

Amram laid his hand on the door, and Phater glided into the shadow of
the columns and vanished. But Amram saw by his bent back that he had
evil designs.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Amram came home in the evening, he found that his wife had borne a
son. He was like other healthy children, but did not cry; after the bath
he was wrapped in linen and laid in the darkest corner of the cottage.

The next day before sunrise Amram went again to his work in the Temple
of the Sun, and was again led into the chamber with his eyes bandaged.
There he was left alone without receiving any counsel or advice
regarding what he was to do. This carelessness seemed to him like
indifference, and indicated a general laxness in the temple servants.
Therefore he again entered the columned hall. He looked uneasily at the
Nilometer, in which the water had sunk. There was no hope of the fifteen
ells of water which the earth needed for the harvest of the year.

He stepped out on the terrace, which looked towards the east, and
entered an open colonnade. But before he went farther, he took the
precaution of dropping small pieces of papyrus to show him the way back.
He went through narrow courtyards, but took care not to climb steps; his
experience of yesterday had warned him. At last he found himself in a
forest of pillars whose tops were crowned with lotus-buds, and, as he
listened, he heard what seemed a faint song of children’s voices from
the roof. He laid his ear to a pillar, and heard it more clearly, like
the ringing music of zither and harp. He knew that this was caused by
the sun, which had already warmed the stones of the roof, and was about
to ascend the sky.

He went forward, and suddenly saw a terrace upon which stood a
sacrificial altar. From the terrace, a flight of stairs flanked with
sphinxes descended to the river. Thence there sloped a valley, bounded
on the east by the mountains of the Red Sea. At the altar there stood
a priest in a white linen robe with a purple border. He had raised his
arms towards heaven, and stood motionless. His hands were quite white,
since the blood had sunk into his arms, and the face of the old man
seemed astrain with the strength he had invoked from above. Sometimes
his body shuddered as though streams of fire ran through it. He was
silent, and gazed towards the East. Then the shining edge of the sun’s
disk rose above the mountain-ridge, and the white hands of the priest
became transparently crimson like his face. And he opened his mouth and
said: “Sun-god: Lord of the splendour of rays, be Thou extolled in the
morning when Thou risest, and in the evening when Thou descendest. I cry
to Thee, Lord of Eternity, Thou Sun of both horizons, Thou Creator who
hast created Thyself. All the gods shout aloud when they behold Thee, O
King of heaven; my youth is renewed when I see thy beauty. Hail to Thee,
as Thou passest from land to land, Thou Father of the gods!”

He stopped speaking and remained standing, his arms outstretched towards
the sun, as though he absorbed warmth from it.

Then in the forest of pillars a rattle of arms was heard, which ceased
immediately, and forthwith a stately beardless man appeared, clothed in
purple and gold. His walk was as noiseless as that of a panther’s, and
he seemed to glide over the floor which reflected his image, a bright
shadow which followed him as he went. When he came out on the terrace
the sun cast behind him a gigantic dark shadow which lay there like a
carpet.

“Already at prayer, thou wisest of the wise!” was Pharaoh’s greeting to
the Chief Priest.

“My lord has called me, thy servant has obeyed. My lord has returned
to his land after long and victorious campaigns in far and foreign
countries. Thy servant greets Pharaoh to his face.”

Pharaoh sat down on a chair of state, his face turned towards the rising
sun, and began to speak like one who wishes to set his thoughts in
order. “My chariots have rolled over the red soil of Syria, my horses
have trampled the highways of Babylon and Nineveh; I have crossed the
Euphrates and Tigris, and marched through the region between the two
rivers; I have come to the land of the Five Rivers, and seen the Seven
in the distance, where the Land of Silk begins, that stretches towards
the sunrise. I have returned on my traces and gone northward towards
Scythia and Colchis. Wherever I went I heard murmurs and saw movements.
The people have awaked; in the temples they prophesied the return of the
gods; for men had been left alone to manage their affairs and to guide
their destinies, but had done both badly. Justice had become injustice,
and truth, falsehood; the whole earth groaned for deliverance. At last
their prayers reached the throne of the All-merciful. And now the wise,
the gentle, the saintly proclaim in all tongues the joyful message, ‘The
gods return again. They return in order to put right what the children
of men have thrown in confusion, to give laws and to protect justice.’
This message I bring home as a spoil of victory, and thou, wisest of the
wise, shalt receive it first from thy lord.”

“Thou hearest, my Lord Pharaoh, what is spoken over the whole circle of
the earth; thine eyes see farther than the stars of heaven and the eye
of the sun!”

“And yet only my ear has heard, but my intelligence has not grasped what
the gods have revealed to me in a dream. Interpret it for me.”

“Tell it, my lord.”

“I saw nothing, but I heard a voice, when sleep had quenched the light
of my eyes. The voice spoke in the darkness, and said, ‘The red earth
will spread over all lands, but the black shall be dispersed like the
sand.’”

“The dream, my lord is not hard to interpret, but it forebodes nothing
good.”

“Interpret it.”

“Very well; the red earth is Syria, as thou knowest, my lord, where
live the wretched Hittites, that is the hereditary land of the Hebrew,
Canaan. The black earth is that of the Nile, thy land, my lord.”

“Again the Hebrews, always the Hebrews! Centuries have passed since this
people wandered into our land. They have increased without disturbing
us. I neither love nor hate them; but now I fear them. They have had to
toil, of late more severely than ever, but they do not murmur; they are
patient as though they expected something to happen.”

“Let them go, my lord.”

“No! for then they will go, and found a new kingdom.”

“Let them go.”

“No, I will destroy them.”

“Let them go.”

“Certainly I will destroy them.”

“But thy dream, my lord.”

“I interpret that as a warning and exhortation.”

“Touch not that people, my lord, for their God is stronger than ours.”

“Their God is that of the Chaldaeans. Let our gods fight. I have spoken;
thou hast heard; I add nothing and retract nothing.”

“My Lord, thou seest one sun in the sky, and believest that it shines
over all nations: do you not believe that there is one Lord of the
heaven who rules the destinies of all nations?”

“It should be so, but the Lord of heaven has made me ruler over this
land, and now I rule it.”

“Thou rulest it, my lord, but thou rulest not wind and weather; thou
canst not raise the water of the Nile by one inch, and thou canst not
prevent the crops failing again this year.”

“Failing? What does the Nilometer say?”

“My lord, the sun has entered the sign of the Balance, and the water is
sinking already. It means famine.”

“Then I will destroy all superfluous and strange mouths which take the
bread from the children of the country. I will annihilate the Hebrews.”

“Let them go free, my lord.”

“I will summon the midwives, and have every boy that is born of a Hebrew
woman destroyed. I have spoken; now I act.” Pharaoh rose from his chair,
and departed more quickly than he had come. Amram sought to find his
way back, but could only discover one piece of papyrus. Then he remained
standing and feared much, for he could not find his way.

The sun had risen, and there was no more music in the forest of
pillars, but silence. But as Amram listened he began to be aware of that
compressed stillness which emanates from a listener, or from children
who do something forbidden and do not wish to be discovered. He felt
that someone was near who wished to be concealed, but who still kept his
thoughts directed towards him. In order to satisfy himself Amram went in
the direction where the silence seemed to be densest. And lo! behind a
pillar stood Phater. He did not show a sign of embarrassment, but only
held out his open hand, in which lay all the pieces of papyrus, which
Amram had strewed as he went.

“You must not strew pieces of papyrus on the ground,” said Phater with
an inscrutable smile. “Yes--I am not angry, I only wish you well. For
now you will follow me, and not return to your work, which was only a
trap set for your life. You must return to your house, and take care
that your new-born child is not killed. You see that Reuben-Phater is a
true Israelite, although you would not believe him.”

Amram followed him out of the temple, and went home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jochebed went about in Pharaoh’s garden watering cucumbers; she went to
and fro with her watering pot between the Watergate that opened on the
river and the cucumber-bed. But sometimes she went through the gate and
remained for a while outside.

Miriam, her daughter, pruned the vines which grew against the
garden-wall, but seemed to direct her attention more towards the broad
walk which led up to the summer palace of the princesses. Her head moved
like the leaf of the palm-tree when the wind blows through it, looking
sometimes towards the Watergate, sometimes towards the great walk, while
her hands carried on her work. As her mother delayed her return, she
went from the wall down to the gate, and out to the low river shore
where the bulrushes swayed in the gentle south wind. A stonechat of
the desert sat on a rock by the river, wagged its tail, and flapped its
wings, as though it wished to show something which it saw; and chattered
at the sight of something strange among the bulrushes. High up in the
air a hawk hovered in spiral circles, eyeing the ground below. Miriam
broke off some lotus-buds and threw them at the stonechat, which flew
away, but kept its beak still pointing towards the rushes. The girl girt
up her dress, waded into the water, and now saw her mother standing,
hidden up to her waist in a forest of papyrus-reeds, bending over a
reed-basket with a baby at her breast.

“Mother,” whispered Miriam, “Pharaoh’s daughter is approaching; she
comes to bathe in the river.”

“Lord God of Israel, have mercy on my child!”

“If you have given the child enough to drink, hasten and come.”

The mother bowed herself like an arch over the child; her hair hung down
like an insect-net, and two tears fell from her eyes on the little one’s
outstretched hands. Then she rose, placed a sweet date in its mouth,
softly closed the cover, murmured a blessing, and came out of the water.

A gentle breeze from the land swayed the rushes and crisped the surface
of the river.

“The basket swims,” she said, “but the river flows on; it is red with
blood and thick as cream. Lord God of Israel, have mercy!”

“Yes, He will,” answered Miriam, “as He had mercy on our father Abraham,
who obtained the promise, because he obeyed and believed, ‘Through thy
seed shall all the families on the earth be blessed.’”

“And now Pharaoh slays all the first-born.”

“But not thy son.”

“Not yet.”

“Pray and hope.”

“What? That the monsters of the river do not swallow him, that the waves
of the river do not drown him, that Pharaoh’s executioners do not kill
him! Is that the hope?”

“The promise is greater, and it lives: ‘Thy seed shall possess the gate
of his enemies.’”

“And then Amram thy father has fled.”

“To Raamses and Pithom, where our people toil in the buildings; he has
gone there to warn and advise them. He has done well. Hush! Pharaoh’s
daughter comes.”

“But she cannot bathe in the blood of our child.”

“She comes, however. But she is the friend of the poor Hebrews; fear
not.”

“She is her father’s daughter.”

“The Egyptians are our cousins; they are Ham’s descendants, and we are
Shem’s. Shem and Ham were brothers.”

“But Ham was cursed by his father Noah, and Kanaan was Ham’s son.”

“But Noah said, ‘Blessed be the Lord God of Shem, and let Kanaan be his
servant.’ Have you heard? Shem received the promise, and we belong to
him.”

“Lord of Hosts, help us; the basket drifts with the wind! It drifts
towards the bathing-house,--and the vulture up there in the air.”

“That is a hawk, mother!” Jochebed ran up and down the bank, like a dog
whom its master has deserted; she beat her breast, and wept great tears.

Steps and voices were audible. “Here is Pharaoh’s daughter!”

“But the Lord God of Israel is watching over us.”

The two women hid themselves in the reeds, and Pharaoh’s daughter
appeared with her attendants at the watergate. She stepped on the bridge
leading to the bath-house, which was a hut of coloured camel’s skin,
supported by pillars which stood in the bed of the river. But the basket
drifted against the bridge and excited the curiosity of the princess.
She remained standing and waited. Jochebed and Miriam could not hear
what she said on account of the wind, but by her quiet movements they
saw that she expected some amusement from the strange gift brought by
the river. Now she sent a slave to the bank. The latter ran and broke
off a long reed, which she handed to her mistress, who fished for the
basket and brought it within reach. Then she knelt down and opened it.
Jochebed saw two little arms outstretched. The princess laughed aloud,
and turned to the women. She uttered an expression of joy, and then
lifted the infant, which nestled in her maiden bosom and felt about in
her white robe. Then the princess kissed it, pressed it to her breast,
and turned back to the shore.

Miriam, who had now lost all fear, stepped forward and fell on her face.
“See, Miriam,” said the princess, whose name was Temma, “I have found a
baby. I have received it from the Nile, and therefore it is a child of
the gods. But now you must find a nurse for it.”

“Where shall I find one, noble princess?”

“Search! But you must find one before evening. Do not forget, however,
that it is my child, since I drew it out of the water. I have given him
his name, and he shall be called Moses. And I will have him educated so
that he becomes a man after our mind. Go in peace, and find me a nurse!”

Pharaoh’s daughter went with her child up to the palace, and Miriam
looked for her mother among the reeds, where she had waited and heard
what Pharaoh’s daughter had said and resolved.

“Mother, Pharaoh’s daughter will bring up Amram and Jochebed’s son.
Ham’s children will serve Shem’s. Praised be the Lord, the God of Shem!
Now you believe in the promise, mother!”

“Now I believe, and God be praised for His great mercy!”




THE HEMICYCLE OF ATHENS


After a hot day the sun began to sink, and the market-place lay already
in shadow. The shadow rose and climbed up the Acropolis, on which the
shield of Pallas still gleamed as the aegis of the city.

Before the vari-coloured colonnade stood a group of men who had
assembled before the semi-circular marble seat called the Hemicyklion;
they appeared to be awaiting someone’s arrival before they sat down.
Among them were stately and handsome men, but there was also an
extraordinarily ugly one, round whom, however, the others seemed to
press. His face resembled that of a slave or satyr, and there were
Athenians who thought they could trace in it the marks of all kinds of
wickedness and crime. On hearing of such suspicions, Socrates is said
to have remarked, “Think how much Socrates must have had to contend
against, for he is neither wicked nor a criminal!”

This was the man known to the whole population of Athens as an eccentric
character who carried on philosophical discussions in streets and
market-places, in drinking-houses and brothels. He shunned no society,
and was on equally intimate terms with Pericles, the head of the state,
and with the licentious Alcibiades. He sat down to table with tradesmen
and artisans, drank with sailors in the Piraeus, and lived himself with
his family in the suburb Ceramicus. When it was asked why Socrates
was always out of doors, his friends answered, “because he was not
comfortable at home.” And when his more intimate friends asked how
he could be on intimate terms with seamen and tax-gatherers, Socrates
himself answered, “They are also men!”

At the philosopher’s side, and when he sat, standing behind him, was
always to be seen a youth, whose broad brow attracted attention. This
was his best disciple, whose real name was Aristokles, but who, on
account of his forehead, had the nickname Plato.

Vying with him in an almost jealous rivalry to appear by the Master’s
side, stood the beautiful Alcibiades.

The third after them was the stately austere Euripides, the tragic
dramatist. Turning his back to the company, absorbed in thought and
tracing designs on the ground, as though he were always at work, stood
Phidias, the man “who made gods for Athens.” On the edge of the fountain
sat a man with his legs dangling and his mouth perpetually moving, as
though he were sharpening his tongue for thrust and counter-thrust; his
brow was furrowed and worn as though with fruitless thought, his eyes
glowered like those of a serpent watching for its prey. That was the
Sophist, Protagoras, the reasoner for hire, who for a few figs or a
pair of obols, could make black seem white, but was tolerated in this
brilliant society, because he could carry on a dialogue. They used him
to enliven their meetings, and pitted him in argument against Socrates,
who, however, always entangled him in the meshes of his dialectic. At
last came the one they expected. It was the head of the State, who would
have been king had not the kingship been abolished. His appearance
was majestic, but his entrance without a body-guard was like that of
a simple citizen. He ruled also only by force of his personal
qualities--wisdom, strength of will, moderation, forethought.

After exchanging greetings which showed that they had already met that
day, for they had been celebrating the deliverance from Persia at the
Salamis festival, the company sat down on the long semicircular marble
seat, called the Hemicyklion. When all had taken their seats, which were
reserved for each according to prescription, a silence followed which
was unusual in this circle, for they were accustomed to assemble as if
for an intellectual feast at every sunset. It was a symposium of minds,
at which the excesses, according to Alcibiades, were only spiritual.

Alcibiades, the second youngest, but spoilt and aggressive, was the
first to break the silence. “We have been celebrating the battle of
Salamis, the day of our deliverance from the barbarians and the King of
Persia, and I see we are tired.”

“Not too tired,” answered Pericles, “to forget the birthday of our
friend Euripides, for, as we all know, he first saw the daylight when
the sun shone on the battle of Salamis.”

“He shall have a libation,” answered Alcibiades, “when we sit at table
with our cups in front of us.”

The Sophist, sitting by the fountain, had now collected enough yarn to
commence spinning with.

“How do you know,” he began, “that our deliverance from the King of
Persia was really a piece of good fortune? How do you know that Salamis
was a happy day for Hellas? Has not our great Aeschylus lamented and
sympathetically described the defeat of the Persians?

    “‘Hateful to me is thy name, Salamis,
    And with a sigh I think of thee, Athens!’”

“For shame, Sophist!” Alcibiades broke in.

But Protagoras whetted his beak and continued, “It is not I who say that
the name of Salamis is hateful, but Aeschylus, and I, as everyone knows,
am not Aeschylus. Neither have I maintained that it was a good thing to
serve the Persian King. I have only questioned, and a questioner asserts
nothing. Is it not so, Socrates?”

The master drew his fingers through his long beard, and answered.

“There are direct and indirect assertions; a question can be an indirect
and mischievous assertion. Protagoras has made such a one by his
question.”

“Good! Socrates!” exclaimed Alcibiades, who wished to kindle a flame.

Pericles spoke: “Protagoras, then, has asserted that you would be
happier under the Persian King. What should be done with such a man?”

“Throw him backwards in the fountain,” cried Alcibiades.

“I appeal!” protested the Sophist.

“To the mob! They will always justify you,” Alcibiades interrupted.

“One does not say ‘mob’ if one is a democrat, Alcibiades. And one does
not quote Aeschylus when Euripides is present. When Phidias sits here
one would rather speak of his Parthenon and his Athene, whose robe even
now glitters in the sinking sun. Courtesy is the salt of social life.”

Thus Pericles sought to direct the conversation into a new channel, but
the Sophist thwarted him.

“If Phidias’ statue of Athene must borrow its gold from the sun, that
may prove that the gold granted by the State did not suffice, and that
therefore there is a deficiency. Is it not so, Socrates?”

The master silenced with his outstretched hand the murmur of disapproval
which arose, and said:

“It must first be proved that Phidias’ statue must borrow gold from
the sun, but since that is unproved, it is absurd to talk of a
deficit. Moreover, gold cannot be borrowed from the sun. Therefore what
Protagoras says is mere babble, and deserves no answer. On the other
hand, will Phidias answer this question? ‘When you have made Athene up
there on the Parthenon, have you made Athene?’”

“I have made her image,” answered Phidias.

“Right! You have made her image. But after what pattern?”

“After the pattern in my mind.”

“Not after an external one, then? Have you seen the goddess with your
eyes?”

“Not with my outward eyes.”

“Does she then exist outside you, or inside you?”

“If no one were listening to us, I would answer ‘She is not outside of
me, therefore she is not anywhere at all.’”

Pericles interrupted him: “You are talking of the gods of the State:
friends, take care!”

“Help, Protagoras! Socrates is throttling me!” cried Phidias.

“In my opinion it is not Zeus but Prometheus who has created men,”
 answered the Sophist. “But Zeus gave unfinished man two imperishable
gifts--the sense of shame and conscience.”

“Then Protagoras was not made by Zeus, for he lacks both.” This thrust
came from Alcibiades. But now the taciturn tragedian Euripides began to
speak: “Allow me to say something both about Zeus and about Prometheus;
and don’t think me discourteous if I cite my great teacher Aeschylus
when I speak about the gods.”

But Pericles broke in: “Unless my eyes deceive me, I saw just now a pair
of ears projecting from behind the pillar of Hermes, and these ass’s
ears can only belong to the notorious tanner.”

“Cleon!” exclaimed Alcibiades.

But Euripides continued: “What do I care about the tanner, since I do
not fear the gods of the State? These gods, whose decline Aeschylus
foretold long ago! Does not his _Prometheus_ say that the Olympian Zeus
will be overthrown by his own descendant--the son that will be born of a
virgin? Is it not so, Socrates?”

“Certainly: ‘she will bear a son who is stronger than his father.’ But
who it will be, and when he will be born, he does not say. Now I believe
that Zeus already lies _in extremis_.”

Again the warning voice of Pericles was heard. “The gods of the State!
Hush, friends! Cleon is listening!”

“I, on the other hand,” broke in Alcibiades, “believe that Athens is
near her end. While we have been celebrating the victory of Salamis, the
Spartans have risen and devastated the north. Megaris, Locris, Boeotia,
and Phocis are already on her side.”

“What you say is well known,” answered Pericles deprecatingly, “but at
present there is a truce, and we have three hundred ships at sea. Do you
think, Socrates, that there is danger?”

“I cannot mix in the affairs of State; but if Athens is in danger, I
will take up shield and lance as before.”

“When you saved my life at Potidaea,” added Alcibiades.

“No, the danger is not there,” interrupted Euripides--“not in Sparta,
but here at home. The demagogues have stirred up the marsh, and
therefore we have the pestilence in the Agora, and the pestilence in the
Piraeus.”

“That in Piraeus is the worse of the two,” said Protagoras; “don’t you
think so, Alcibiades?”

“Yes, for there are my best girls. My flute-players, who are to perform
at supper this evening, live by the harbour. But, by Hercules, no one
here fears death, I suppose?”

“No one fears, and no one wishes it,” answered Socrates; “but if you
have other girls, that would increase our pleasure.”

“Euripides does not like girls,” interrupted Protagoras.

“That is not true,” answered Euripides; “I like girls, but not women.”

Pericles rose: “Let us go to supper, and have walls round our
conversation--walls without ears! Support me, Phidias, I am tired.”

Plato approached Socrates: “Master, let me carry your mantle?” he asked.

“That is my function, boy,” said Alcibiades, intercepting him.

“It was once,” objected Socrates; “now it belongs to Plato of the broad
head. Notice his name! He descends from Codrus, the last king, who gave
his life to save his people. Plato is of royal birth.”

“And Alcibiades is of the race of heroes, the Alcmaeonidae, like his
uncle Pericles; a noble company.”

“But Phidias is of the race of the gods; that is more.”

“I am probably descended from the Titans,” broke in Protagoras. “I say
‘probably,’ for one knows nothing at all, and hardly that. Don’t you
think so, Socrates?”

“_You_ know nothing at all, and least of all what you talk about.”
 The company passed through the Sacred Street, and went together to the
theatre of Dionysus, near which Alcibiades lived.

       *       *       *       *       *

The demagogue Cleon had really been lurking out of sight, and listening
to the conversation. And so had another man with a yellow complexion and
a full black beard, who seemed to belong to the artisan class. When the
brilliant company had departed, Cleon stepped forward, laid his hand on
the stranger’s shoulder, and said:

“You have heard their conversation?”

“Certainly I have,” he answered.

“Then you can give evidence.”

“I cannot give evidence, because I am a foreigner.”

“Still you have heard how they spoke against the gods of the State.”

“I am a Syrian, and only know one true God. Your gods are not mine.”

“You are a Hebrew, then! What is your name?”

“I am an Israelite, of the family of Levi, and call myself now
Cartophilus.”

“A Phoenician, then?”

“No, a Hebrew. My forefathers came out of Ur of the Chaldees, then fell
into bondage in Egypt, but were brought by Moses and Joshua to the
land of Canaan, where we became powerful under our own kings, David and
Solomon.”

“I don’t know them.”

“Two hundred years ago our city Jerusalem was destroyed by
Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, and our people were carried captive to
Babylon. But when Babylon was overthrown by the King of Persia, we fell
under the power of the Persians, and have groaned under the successors
of your Xerxes of Salamis, whom we called Ahasuerus.”

“Your enemies, our enemies! Very well, friend; how did you come here.”

“When the Assyrian was about to carry us for the first time into
captivity, those who could flee, fled to Rhodes, Crete, and the islands
of Greece. But of those who were carried away some were sent northwards
to Media. My ancestors came hither from Media, and I am a new-comer.”

“Your speech is dark to me, but I have heard your nation praised because
they are faithful to the gods of the State.”

“God! There is only One, the Single and True, who has created heaven and
earth, and given the promise to our people.”

“What promise?”

“That our nation shall possess the earth.”

“By Heracles! But the commencement is not very promising.”

“That is our belief, and it has supported us during our wanderings in
the wilderness, and during the Captivity.”

“Will you give evidence against these blasphemers of the gods?”

“No, Cleon, for you are idolaters. Socrates and his friends do
not believe in your gods, and that will be counted to them for
righteousness. Yes, Socrates appeared to me rather to worship the
Eternal and Invisible, whom we dare not name. Therefore I do not give
evidence against him.”

“Is _that_ the side you are on? Then go in peace, but beware! Go!”

“The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will protect me, so long as I and
my house keep His laws.”

Cleon had espied his friend and fellow-artisan in the colonnade, and
therefore let the inflexible Hebrew go. The latter hastened towards the
sycamore avenue of the oil-market, and disappeared there.

Anytos the tanner and politician approached, rehearsing a written speech
which he was intending to deliver: “Athens or Sparta,--that is the whole
question at issue....”

Cleon, full of curiosity, interrupted him: “What are you rehearsing,
Anytos?”

“A speech.”

“So I heard! Athens or Sparta! Government by the people, or government
by donkeys. The people, the weightiest element in the State, the
cultivators of the land, the producers of wealth, lie at the bottom like
gold. The worthless, the drones, the rich, the aristocratic, the most
frivolous, swim on the surface like chips and corks. Athens has always
represented government by the people, and will always do so; Sparta
represents the donkey-government.

“The oligarchy, you mean, Cleon.”

“No; donkeys. Therefore, Anytos, Athens is badly governed, for Pericles
the rich man, who boasts of royal ancestors, has come to power. How
can he sympathise with these people, since he has never been down there
below? How can he see them rightly from above? He sits on the gable-roof
of the Parthenon, and views the Athenians as ants, while they are lions,
with their claws pared and their teeth drawn. We, Anytos, born down
there amid the skins of the tanyard and dog’s-dung, we understand our
perspiring brothers--we know them by the smell, so to speak. But like
readily associates with like; therefore Sparta feels attracted to
Athens, to Pericles and his followers. Pericles draws Sparta to himself,
and we sink....”

Anytos, himself an orator, did not like to hear eloquence from others,
therefore he cut abruptly through Cleon’s speech.

“Pericles is ill.”

“Is he ill?”

“Yes, he has fever!”

“Really? Perhaps the plague.”

“Perhaps.”

This interjected remark of Anytos had crossed Cleon’s prolix discourse,
and a new hope glimmered before him.

“And after Pericles?” he said. “Cleon, of course.”

“Why not? The man of the people for the people, but no philosophers nor
actors. So, Pericles is sick, is he? Listen, Anytos? Who is Nicias?”

“He is a grandee who believes in oracles.”

“Don’t attack the oracles. I certainly do not believe in them, but
a State requires for its stability a certain uniformity in
everything--laws, customs, and religion. Therefore I support the gods of
the State--and what belongs to them.”

“I also support the gods of the State, so long as the people do.”

The two orators began to be mutually weary, and Cleon wished for
solitude in order to hatch the eggs which Anytos had laid for him.
Therefore he remarked, “You say that Nicias....”

“I am going to bathe,” broke in Anytos; “otherwise I will get no sleep
to-night.”

“But Alcibiades, who is he?”

“He is the traitor Ephialtes, who will lead the Persian King to
Thermopylae.”

“The Persian King in the east, Sparta in the south.”

“Macedonia in the north.”

“And in the west, new Rome.”

“Enemies in all four quarters! Woe to Athens!”

“Woe to Hellas!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The guests had assembled at the house of Alcibiades, who on his
arrival had immediately gone off, with the laudable object of procuring
flute-players. Since the evening was warm, supper was served in the
Aula, or inner court, which was surrounded by Corinthian colonnades, and
lighted by many lamps which hung between the pillars.

After they had taken a light meal, ivy wreaths were distributed and cups
were set before the guests.

Aspasia, the only woman present, had the place of honour next to
Pericles. She had come at the beginning, accompanied by her slaves, and
was waiting impatiently for the verbal contests to begin. But Pericles
was depressed and tired. Socrates lay on his back, silent, and looked up
at the stars, Euripides chewed a wood-splinter and was morose; Phidias
kneaded balls of bread, which in his hand took the shapes of animals;
Protagoras whispered to Plato, who, with becoming youthful modesty, kept
in the background.

Quite at the bottom of the table sat the skeleton, with a wreath of
roses round its white forehead. In order to counteract the uncanny
feeling likely to be aroused by this unbidden guest, Alcibiades had
placed an onion between its front teeth, and in one of its hands an
asphodel lily, which the skeleton appeared to smell at.

When the silence at last became oppressive, Pericles roused himself from
his lethargy, and opened the conversation.

“I should like,” he said, “without raising any bitterness or strife,
to suggest as a subject for discussion the often-raised question of
Euripides’ supposed misogyny. What do you say, Protagoras?”

“Our friend Euripides has been married three times, and each time has
had children. He can therefore not be a woman-hater. Is it not so,
Socrates?”

“Euripides,” answered Socrates, “loves Aspasia, as we all do, and can
therefore not be a woman-hater. He loves, with Pericles’ consent, the
beauty of Aspasia’s mind, and is therefore no misogynist. Not much that
is complimentary can be said about Aspasia’s person, and we have nothing
to do with it. Is Aspasia beautiful, Phidias?”

“Aspasia is not beautiful, but her soul is beautiful and good. Is it
not, Pericles?”

“Aspasia is my friend, and the mother of our child; Aspasia is a wise
woman, for she possesses modesty and conscientiousness, self-knowledge
and foresight; Aspasia is prudent, for she is silent when wise men
speak. But Aspasia can also cause wise men to speak wisely by listening
to them; for she helps them to produce thoughts, not like Socrates’
midwife, who only brings corporeal births to pass, but she incarnates
their souls.”

Protagoras continued: “Aspasia is like the Mother Cybele of us all; she
bears us in her bosom.”

“Aspasia is the scale of the zither, without whom our strings would not
sound.”

“Aspasia is the mother of us all,” recommenced Socrates, “but she is
also the midwife who washes our new-born thoughts and wraps them in
beautiful swaddling-clothes. Aspasia receives our children dirty, and
gives them back to us purified. She gives nothing of herself, but by
receiving gives the giver the opportunity to give.”

Euripides resumed the topic which they had dropped: “I was accused, and
am acquitted--am I not, Aspasia?”

“If you can acquit yourself of the accusation, you are acquitted,
Euripides.”

“Accuse me, dear Accuser; I will answer.”

“I will bring the accusation in your own words. Hippolytus says in
one passage in your tragedy of that name: ‘O Zeus, why, in the name of
heaven, didst thou place in the light of the sun that specious evil to
men--women? For if thou didst will to propagate the race of mortals,
there was no necessity for this to be done by women, but men might,
having placed an equivalent in thy temples, either in brass or iron, or
weighty gold, buy a race of children each according to the value paid,
and thus might dwell in unmolested houses, without females.’”

“But now first of all, when we prepare to bring this evil to our homes,
we squander away the wealth of our houses.”

“How evil woman is, is evident from this also, that the father who begat
her and brought her up, having given her a dowry, sends her away in
order to be rid of her.”

“Now defend yourself, Euripides.”

“If I were a Sophist like Protagoras, I should answer, ‘It was
Hippolytus who said that; not I.’ But I am a poet, and speak through my
characters. Very well; I said it, I meant it when I wrote it, and I mean
it still. And yet I almost always love any given woman, though I hate
her sex. I cannot explain it, for I was never perverse like Alcibiades.
Can you explain it, Socrates?”

“Yes, a man can hate and love a woman simultaneously. Everything is
produced by its opposite--love by hate, and hate by love. In my wife
I love the good motherly element, but I hate the original sin in her;
therefore I can hate and love her at the same time. Is it not so,
Protagoras?”

“Now it is Socrates who is the Sophist. Black cannot be white.”

“Now it is Protagoras who is simple. This salt in the salt-cellar is
white, but put out the lamps, and it is black. The salt therefore is not
absolutely white, but its whiteness depends on the light. I should be
inclined rather to believe that salt is absolutely black, for darkness
is merely the absence of light, and is nothing in itself, communicates
no quality of its own to the salt, which in the darkness is something
independent, consequently its real nature is black.

“But in the light a thing can be both black and white. This sea-sole,
for instance, is black above, but white below. In the same way something
can be good and bad at the same time. Therefore Euripides is right when
he says that he loves and hates woman simultaneously. The misogynist is
he who only hates woman, but Euripides loves her also. Therefore he is
not a misogynist. What do you think, Aspasia?”

“Wise Socrates! You confess that Euripides hates women, therefore he is
a woman-hater.”

“No, my dear child, I admitted that Euripides _both_ loves and hates
women,--_both_, mark you. I love Alcibiades, but I abhor and hate
his want of character; now I ask the friends here, am I a hater of
Alcibiades?”

“No, certainly not,” they answered simultaneously. But Aspasia was
roused, and wished to rouse him. “Wise Socrates, how do matters stand
between you and your wife?”

“The wise man does not willingly speak of his wife,” Protagoras struck
in: “nor of his weakness.”

“You have said it. One sacrifices to the earth, but unwillingly; one
binds oneself, but without pleasure; one endures, but loves not; one
does one’s duty to the State, but with difficulty. There is only one
Aspasia, and she belongs to Pericles--the greatest woman to the greatest
man. Pericles is the greatest in the State, as Euripides is the greatest
on the stage.”

This was an opportunity for Protagoras, without his needing to seek it.
“Is Euripides greater than Aeschylus and Sophocles?” he asked.

“Certainly, Protagoras! He is nearer to us; he speaks _our_ thoughts,
not those of our fathers; he does not cringe before the gods and fate;
he fights with them; he loves men, knows them, and laments them; his art
is more elaborate, his feelings warmer, his pictures more life-like than
those of the ancients. But now I should like to speak of Pericles.”

“Stop, Socrates! In the Pnyx or the Agora, but not here! Though I should
be glad of a word of encouragement since false accusations rain on me.
We have come here to forget and not to remember ourselves, and Socrates
delights us most when he speaks of the highest things, among which I do
not count the State of Athens. Here comes Alcibiades with his following.
Kindle more lights, boys, and put more ice in the wine.”

There was a noise at the entrance; the dog barked, the doorkeeper
shouted, and Alcibiades entered with his companions. These consisted of
girls and of two strangers whom he had found in a wine-house.

“Papaia!” he cried. “Here is the host! And here is Aristophanes, a
future dramatist. Here is the Roman Lucillus, formerly a Decemvir,
who has been banished. There is one of the many Laises who have sat to
Phidias. Aspasia must not take it ill. And here are flute-players from
Piraeus. Whether they have the pestilence, I know not! What can they
do to me? I am twenty years old, and yet have done nothing? Why, then,
should I live? Now Lais will dance. Papaia!”

Euripides rose and made a sign for silence. “Let the dance wait;
Pericles is not pleased, and looks serious.” A pause followed. The heat
was oppressive. It was not thunder-weather, but something like it, and a
sense of uneasy expectation seemed to weigh upon all their spirits.

Then, as if by accident, the arm of the skeleton fell on its knee with
a slight snap. The flower, which it had held under its nose, lay on the
earth.

All started, even Alcibiades, but, angry with himself for this weakness,
he took a cup and stepped forward.

“The skeleton is thirsty! I drink to it! Who pledges me?”

“Socrates can do so the best. He can drink half a jar of wine in one
pull, without winking.”

As a matter of fact, Socrates was notorious for his drinking powers, but
now he was not in the mood. “Not to-day! Wine is bitter to my taste,” he
said.

And turning to Pericles, he whispered: “Evil eyes have come here. This
Aristophanes is not our friend! Do you know him?”

“Very little, but he looks as though he would like to murder us.”

Alcibiades continued to address the skeleton: “Thus looks Athens at this
moment! Sparta and the Persian King have gnawed off its flesh; Cleon has
tanned its skin; the allies have gouged out its eyes; the citizens have
drawn out its teeth,--those citizens whom Aristophanes knows and whom
he will soon describe. Here’s to you, skeleton! ‘[Greek: _Polla metaxu
pelei kulikos kai cheileos akrou_]!’”

There was a sudden change in the scene. The skeleton sank backwards like
a drunken man; the lamps began to sway on their chains, the salt-cellar
was spilt on the table.

“Ohioh!” cried Alcibiades, “Tralall! Ha! Ha! Ha! The table wobbles, the
sofa rocks; am I drunk, or is the room drunk?”

All were alarmed, but Socrates commanded quiet. “A god is near!
The earth shakes, and I hear ... does it thunder? No! That is an
earthquake.”

All jumped up, but Socrates continued, “Be quiet! It is already past.”

After they had all taken their places again, he continued: “I was five
years old when Sparta was visited by an earthquake; twenty thousand men
perished, and only six houses remained standing. Then it was Sparta.
Now it is Athens. Yes, friends, a voice says to me, ‘Before a babe can
become a man, we shall have been dispersed and destroyed like a bevy of
birds.’”

Again the dog barked, and the door-keeper shouted. There entered an
uninvited guest in a state of excitement.

Alcibiades greeted him. “It is Nicias,” he said. “Now I will be sober;
the thoughtful Nicias comes to our feast. What is the matter?”

“Allow an uninvited guest.”

“Speak, Nicias!”

“Pericles!” began the new-comer hesitatingly, “your friend, our friend,
the glory of Athens and Hellas,--Phidias is accused....”

“Stop! Silence!”

“Accused! O shame and disgrace! I cannot say it without weeping: Phidias
is accused of having purloined gold from the statue of Athene.”

The silence which followed was first broken by Pericles: “Phidias hides
his face in his mantle; he is ashamed for Athens. But by the gods and
the nether world, let us swear to his innocence.”

“We swear!” exclaimed all like one man.

“I swear also,” said Nicias.

“Athens is dishonoured, if one has to swear that Phidias has not
stolen.”

Nicias had approached Pericles, and, bowing to Aspasia, he whispered,
“Pericles, your son Paralos is ill.”

“Of the pestilence! Follow me, Aspasia.”

“He is not my son, but yours; therefore I follow you.”

“The house collapses, friends depart, all beauty passes away, the ugly
remains.”

“And the gods sleep.”

“Or have emigrated.”

“Or are dead! Let us make new ones.”

Another shock of earthquake extinguished the lamps, and all went out
into the street, except Socrates and Alcibiades.

“Phidias accused of theft! Let the walls of the world fall in!” said
Socrates, and sank, as was his custom, into a fit of absent-mindedness
that resembled sleep.

Alcibiades took one of the largest double-goblets, veiled it, and
improvised the following dithyramb:

    “May everything break up from Pindus to the Caucasus!
    Then will Prometheus be unbound and bestow fire again
      on frozen mortals!
    And Zeus descends to Hades, Pallas sells herself;
    Apollo breaks his lyre in two, and cobbles shoes;
    Ares lets his war-horse go, and minds sheep;
    And on the ruins of all earthly glory, stands Alcibiades
      alone,
    In the full consciousness of his almightiness,
    And laughs!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The pestilence had broken out in Athens accompanied by shocks of
earthquake.

When Pericles, accompanied by Aspasia, reached his house, his son by his
divorced wife was dead.

According to the prevailing custom, and to show that he had not been
murdered, the corpse was placed in the doorway. A small coffin of
cedar-wood, painted red and black, stood on a bier, and showed the dead
child dressed in a white shroud. He had a garland on his head, woven of
the plant of death, the strong-scented Apium or celery. In his mouth he
had an obol as Charon’s fee.

Pericles uttered a prayer in an undertone, without showing especially
deep sorrow, for he had gone through much, and learnt to suffer.

“Two sons the gods have taken from me. Are they enough to atone?”

“What have you to atone for?” asked Aspasia.

“One must suffer for another; the individual for the State. Pericles has
suffered for Athens.”

“Pardon me that my tears dry sooner than yours. The thought that _our_
son lives, gives me comfort.”

“It comforts me also, but not so much.”

“Shall I go, before your wife comes?”

“You must not leave me, for I am ill.”

“You have spoken of it for a long time now. Is it serious?”

“My soul is sick. When the State suffers, I am ill.... There comes the
mother of the dead.”

A black-robed woman appeared in the doorway; she wore a veil in order to
hide the fact that her hair was cut off; she had a garland in her hand,
and a slave followed her with a torch.

She did not immediately notice Aspasia’s presence, greeted her former
husband with a glance, and laid the garland at the dead boy’s feet. “I
only bring a funeral garland for my son,” she said, “but instead of the
obol, he shall take a kiss from the lips of his mother.”

She threw herself on the dead child, and kissed him.

“Beware of the dead!” said Pericles, and seized her arm; “he died of the
pestilence.”

“My life has been a lingering death; a quick one is preferable to me.”

Then she noticed Aspasia, and, rising, said with quiet dignity, “Tell
your friend to go.”

“She goes, and I follow her.”

“That is right! For now, my Pericles, the last tie between us is
dissolved! Farewell!”

“Farewell, my wife!”

And, turning to Aspasia, he said, “Give me your hand, my spouse.”

“Here it is.”

The mourning mother lingered: “We shall all meet again some day, shall
we not? And then as friends--you, she, and he who is gone before to
prepare a dwelling for the hearts which are separated by the narrow laws
of life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Pericles and Socrates wandered in the avenue of plane-trees below the
Hemicyklion, and conversed together.

“Phidias has been acquitted of theft, but re-arrested on the charge of
blaspheming the gods of the State.”

“Arrested? Phidias!”

“They say that he has represented me and himself in Athene’s shield.”

“That is the mob’s doing, which hates all greatness! Anaxagoras banished
because he was too wise; Aristides banished because he was too just;
Themistocles, Pausanias.... What did you do, Pericles, when you gave the
people power?”

“What was lawful and right. I fall certainly by my own sword, but
honourably. I go about and am dying piecemeal, like Athens. Did we
know that we adorned our statues for a funeral procession? that we
were weaving our own shrouds? that the choruses of our tragedies were
dirges?”

“Athens is dying--yes! But of what?”

“Of Sparta.”

“What is Sparta?”

“Sparta is Heracles; the club, the lion-skin, brute-strength. We
Athenians are the sons of Theseus, ranged against the Heraclidae,
Dorians, and Ionians. Athens dies by Sparta’s hand, but Hellas dies by
her own.”

“I believe the gods have forsaken us.”

“I believe so too, but the Divine lives.”

“There comes Nicias, the messenger of misfortune.” It was Nicias;
and when he read the question in the faces and glances of the two, he
answered, without waiting to be asked: “From the Agora!”

“What is the news from the Agora?”

“The Assembly seeks help from the Macedonians.”

“Why not from the Persians? Good! then the end is near. Do they seek
help from the enemy? From the barbarian, the Macedonian, who lies above
us like a lion on a hill. Go, Nicias, and say, ‘Pericles is dying.’
And ask them to choose the worthiest as his successor! Not the most
unworthy! Go, Nicias, but go quickly.”

“I go,” said Nicias, “but for a physician.”

And he went.

“No physician can cure me!” answered Pericles; but in a weak voice, as
though he spoke to himself. He took his old seat in the Hemicyklion.
When he had rested a while, he made Socrates a sign to come near, for he
did not wish to raise his voice.

“Socrates, my friend,” he began, “this is the farewell of a dying man.
You were the wisest, but take it not ill if I say, ‘Be not too wise’;
seek not the unattainable, and confuse not men’s minds with subtleties;
do not make the simple complicated. You wish to see things with both
eyes, but he who shoots with the bow, must close one eye; otherwise he
sees his mark doubled. You are not a Sophist, but may easily appear so;
you are not a libertine, but you go about with such; you hate your city
and your country, and rightly; but you should love them to the death,
for that is your duty; you despise the people, but you should be sorry
for them. I have not admired the people, but I have given them laws and
justice; therefore I die!

“Good-night, Socrates! Now it is dark before my eyes. You shall close
them, and give me the garland. Now I go to sleep. When I awake, _if_ I
awake, then I am on the other side, and then I will send you a greeting,
if the gods allow it. Good-night.”

“Pericles is dead. Hear it, Athenians, and weep as I do!”

The people streamed thither, but they did not weep. They only wondered
what would now happen, and felt almost glad of a change.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cleon the tanner stood in the orator’s pulpit in the Pnyx. Among his
most attentive hearers were Alcibiades, Anytos, and Nicias. Cleon said:
“Pericles is dead, and Pericles is buried; now you know it. Let him rest
in peace with his merits and faults, for the enemy is in Sphacteria, and
we must have a commander; Pericles’ shadow will not serve for that. Here
below sit two adventurers, fine gentlemen both; one is called Nicias,
because he never has conquered; the other Alcibiades, and we know his
conquests--goblets and girls. On the other hand, we do not know his
character, but you will some day know him, Athenians, and he will show
his incisors himself. Such and such and such a one have been proposed
for commander--oddly enough all fine gentlemen, and all grandees, of
course. Athens, which has abjured all kings and their like, must now
fight with royal Sparta, and must, faithful to its traditions, appear
in the field under a man of the people on whom you can rely. We need no
Pericles who commissions statues and builds temples to Fame and Glory;
Athens has enough of such gewgaws. But now we must have a man who
understands the art of war, who has a heart in his breast and a head on
his shoulders. Whom do you wish for, men of Athens?”

Alcibiades sprang up like a young lion, and went straight to the point.
“Men of Athens, I propose Cleon the tanner, not because he is a tanner,
for that is something different. At any rate the army may be compared
to an ox-skin, and Cleon to a knife; but Cleon has other qualities,
especially those of a commander. His last campaign against Pericles and
Phidias closed with a triumph for him. He has displayed a courage which
never failed, and an intelligence which passed all mortal comprehension.
His strategy was certainly not that of a lion, but he conquered, and
that is the chief point. I propose Cleon as leader of the campaign.”

Now it so fell out that this patent irony was still too subtle for the
mob, who took it seriously. Alcibiades also had a certain influence with
them because of his relationship to Pericles, and they listened to him
readily. Accordingly the whole assembly called out for Cleon, and he was
elected.

But Cleon had never dreamt of the honour of being commander, and he was
prudent enough not to endeavour to climb beyond his capacity. Therefore
he protested against the election, shouting and swearing by all the
gods.

Alcibiades, however, seized the opportunity by the forelock, and,
perceiving that the election of Cleon meant his death, he mounted
an empty rostrum and spoke with emphasis: “Cleon jests, and Cleon is
modest; he does not himself know what sort of a commander he is, for
he has not proved himself; but I know who he is; I insist upon his
election; I demand that he fulfil his duty as a citizen; and I summon
him before the Areopagus if he shirks it when the fatherland is in
danger.” “Cleon is elected!” cried the people.

But Cleon continued to protest, “I do not know the difference between
a hoplite and a peltast; [Footnote: a heavy-armed and a light-armed
soldier.] I can neither carry a lance nor sit upon a horse.”

But Alcibiades shouted him down. “He can do everything; guide the State
and criticise art; carry on law-suits and watch Sophists; he can discuss
the highest subjects with Socrates; in a word, he possesses all the
public virtues and all the private vices.”

Now the people laughed, but Cleon did not budge.

“Athenians!” said Alcibiades in conclusion, “the people have spoken, and
there is no appeal. Cleon is elected, and Sparta is done for!”

The assembly broke up. Only Cleon remained behind with his friend
Anytos. “Anytos!” he said. “I am lost!”

“Very probable!” answered Anytos.

But Alcibiades went off with Nicias: “Now Cleon is as dead as a dog.
Then comes my turn,” he said.

       *       *       *       *       *

Socrates walked, deep in thought, up and down the courtyard of his
house, which was very simple and had no colonnades. His wife was carding
wool, and did it as if she were pulling someone’s hair.

The wise man kept silence, but the woman spoke--that was her nature.
“What are you doing?” she asked.

“For the sake of old acquaintance, I will answer you, though I am not
obliged to do so. I am thinking.”

“Is that a proper business for a man?”

“Certainly; a very manly business.”

“At any rate no one can see what you are doing.”

“When you were with child, it was also invisible; but when, it was born,
it was visible, and especially audible. Thus occupations which are at
first invisible, become visible later on. They are therefore not to be
despised, least of all by those who only believe in the visible.”

“Is your business with Aspasia something of that sort?”

“Something of that, and of another sort too.”

“You drink also a good deal.”

“Yes, those who speak become thirsty, and the thirsty must drink.”

“What is it in Aspasia that attracts men?”

“Certain qualities which give zest to social
intercourse--thoughtfulness, tact, moderation.”

“You mean that for me?”

“I mean it for Aspasia.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“No.”

“Anytos declares that she is.”

“He tells an untruth. Do you see Anytos, Cleon’s friend and my enemy?”

“He is not my enemy.”

“But mine. You always love my enemies and hate my friends; that is a bad
sign.”

“Your friends are bad men.”

“No, on the contrary. Pericles was the greatest of the Athenians,
Phidias the best, Euripides the noblest, Plato the wisest, Alcibiades
the most gifted, Protagoras the most acute.”

“And Aristophanes?”

“He is my enemy, though I do not know why. I suppose you have heard of
the comedy which he has written about me.”

“Anytos told me. Have you seen it?”

“I saw the _Clouds_ yesterday.”

“Was it amusing--was it clever?”

“What did Anytos think?”

“He made me laugh when he described some scenes.”

“Then it must be amusing, or you would not have laughed.”

“Did you not laugh, my Socrates?”

“Yes, of course; otherwise they would have thought me a blockhead. You
know that he has depicted me as a rogue and fool. Since I am neither, it
was not serious; therefore it was in jest.”

“Do you think so? I think it was serious.”

“And you laugh at the serious? Do you weep, then, at jesting? Then you
would be mad.”

“Do you think I am mad?”

“Yes, if you think me a rogue.”

“You know that Cleon is with the army.”

“I was astonished to hear it.”

“Astonished! You think, then, that he is not fit to command.”

“No, I know nothing about his fitness as commander, for I have never
seen him in the field. But I am astonished at his election, as he
himself was, because it was unexpected.”

“You therefore expect him to be defeated.”

“No, I wait for the result, in order to see whether he wins or loses.”

“You would be glad if he lost?”

“I do not love Cleon, but as an Athenian I would mourn if he were
defeated; therefore I would not rejoice at his overthrow.”

“You hate Cleon, but you do not wish his overthrow.”

“On account of Athens--no.”

“But except for that?”

“Except for that, Cleon’s overthrow would be a blessing for the State,
for he has been unjust to Pericles, to Phidias, to all who have done
anything great.”

“Here comes a visitor.”

“It is Alcibiades.”

“The wretch! Are you not ashamed to be on intimate terms with him?”

“He is a man; he has great faults and great merits, and he is my friend.
I do not wish to be on intimate terms with my enemies.” Alcibiades
knocked at the door, and rushed in. “Papaia! The pair are philosophising
together, and talking of yesterday’s comedy! This Aristophanes is an
ass! If one wishes to kill an enemy, one must hit him; but Aristophanes
aims at the clouds. Hit, yes! Do you know that Cleon is defeated?”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Socrates.

“Is it a pity that the dog is unmasked?”

“I think Alcibiades is misinformed,” broke in Xantippe.

“No, by Zeus, but I wish I was!”

“Hush! here is Anytos coming,” said Socrates.

“The second tanner! It is strange that the destiny of Athens is guided
by tanners.”

“The destiny of Athens! Who knows it?”

“I, Alcibiades, am the destiny of Athens.”

“[Greek: _Hubris_]! Beware of the gods!”

“I come after Cleon; Cleon is no more; therefore it is my turn.”

“Here is Anytos!”

Anytos entered: “I seek Alcibiades.”

“Here I am.”

“Must I prepare you....’

“No, I know.”

“Prepare you for the honour....”

“Have I waited long enough.”

“To go at the head....”

“That is what I was born for.”

“To take the lead....”

“That is my place.”

“And conduct the triumphal procession?”

“What procession?”

“Ah! you did not know. Cleon’s triumphal procession from the harbour.”

Alcibiades passed his hand downwards over his face, as though he wished
to changed his mask, and it was done in a moment.

“Yes, certainly, certainly, certainly. I have in fact just come here
to--announce his victory.”

“He lies,” broke in Xantippe.

“I jested with the pair. There will be a triumphal procession, then, for
Cleon! How fine!”

“Socrates,” continued Anytos, “are you not glad?”

“I am glad that the enemy is beaten.”

“But not that Cleon has won a victory?”

“Yes, it is nearly the same thing.”

Xantippe seized the opportunity and struck in: “He is not glad, and he
does not believe in Cleon.”

“I know you,” concluded Anytos. “I know you philosophers and quibblers!
But take care!--And now, Alcibiades, come and receive the despised
Cleon, who has saved the fatherland!”

Alcibiades took Socrates by the hand, and whispered in his ear. “What a
cursed mischance! Well, not yet!--but the next time!”




ALCIBIADES


Kartaphalos, the shoemaker, sat in his shop by the Acarnanian Gate, and
repaired cothurns for the Dionysian theatre, which was about to make a
last attempt to revive the tragic drama, which had been eclipsed by the
farces of Aristophanes. The Roman Lucillus lounged at the window-sill,
and, since philosophy had been brought into fashion by Socrates and the
Sophists, the shoemaker and the exiled Decemvir philosophised as well as
they could.

“Roman!” said Kartaphalos, “you are a stranger in the city, as I am:
what do think of the state and the Government?”

“They are exactly like the Roman. One may sum up the whole past history
of Rome in two words--Patricians and Plebeians.”

“Just as it is here.”

“With the difference that Rome has a future. Hellas only a past.”

“What is known of Rome’s future?”

“The Cumaean Sibyl has prophesied that Rome will possess the earth.”

“What do you say? Rome? No, Israel will possess it; Israel has the
promise.”

“I do not venture to deny that, but Rome has also the promise.”

“There is only one promise, and one God.”

“Perhaps it is the same promise, and the same God.”

“Perhaps Israel will conquer through Rome.”

“Israel will conquer through the promised Messiah.”

“When will Messiah come, then?”

“When the time is fulfilled, when Zeus is dead.”

“May we live to see it. I wait, for Zeus has gone to Rome, and is called
there Jupiter Capitolinus.”

Aristophanes, who was easily recognised by his crane-like neck and open
mouth, looked in through the window.

“Have you a pair of low shoes, Kartaphalos? A pair of ‘socks’?
[Footnote: a low-heeled shoe worn by comic actors.] You have plenty of
cothurns, I see, but the ‘sock’ has won the day.”

“At your service, sir.”

“We want them for the theatre, you understand.... Ah! there is Lucillus!
... and of raw leather, not tanned.”

“What are you going to play in the theatre, then?”

“We are going to bring on Cleon, and make him dance, and fancy! since
no one dares to represent the low-born tanner, I must do it. I will play
Cleon.”

“Where is the great general, Cleon, now?”

“In a new campaign against Brasidas. When the commander Demosthenes won
the battle of Sphacteria, Cleon claimed the honour of the victory and
received a triumph. Then, since he regarded himself as a great warrior,
he marched against Brasidas. The pitcher goes so often to the well....”

“Till it is broken,” interrupted a new arrival. It was Alcibiades.
“Papaia!” he exclaimed, “Cleon is beaten! Cleon has fled! Now it is my
turn! Come to the Pnyx.” And he went on.

“Very well--to the Pnyx,” said Aristophanes, “and I will obtain matter
for a new comedy, to be called _Alcibiades_.”

“You are right, perhaps,” answered Lucillus. “The whole matter is not
worth weeping for. Therefore let us laugh!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Alcibiades stood again on the orator’s platform in the Pnyx. He felt
at home there, and he always had the ear of the people, for he was
not tedious. They all spoilt him, and his grotesque impudence had an
enlivening effect upon them.

Before the orator’s platform, among others, was to be seen the wise,
rich, and aristocratic Nicias, who had always sought to mediate between
Sparta and Athens, but through his over-deliberation had done more harm
than good.

Alcibiades, who knew Nicias and his political views, and feared his
opposition, resolved on a master-stroke. He would not speak of Sparta
and Athens as Nicias expected, but determined to make a diversion, and
speak of something quite different. The people loved novelties, and
to-day they should have something quite new.

“Athenians!” he began, “Cleon is defeated and dead, and I place my
undoubted talents at the service of the State. You know my small
failings, but now you will know my great merits. Listen, Athenians.
There was a time when Hellas possessed Asia Minor and extended its wings
eastward. The Persian King took these settlements from us one after the
other, and he is now in Thrace. Since we cannot go farther eastward,
we must go westward, towards the sunset. You have heard more or less
vaguely of the Roman Republic, which is growing and growing. Our
countrymen have long ago taken possession of that part of the Italian
peninsula which is called Tarentum, and we have thereby become close
neighbours of Rome. And the finest of the islands, opulent Sicily,
became ours. But the Romans have gradually surrounded our colonies, and
threaten their independence. The Romans are pressing on us, but they are
also pushing northward towards Gaul and Germany, and southward towards
Africa. The Persian King, who was formerly our enemy, has now nearly
become our friend, and our danger is not now Persia, but Rome.
Therefore, with the future in view, I say to you Athenians, ‘Let us go
to Italy and Sicily. With Sicily as our base, we can dispute with the
Romans the possession of Spain and the Pillars of Hercules. In Sicily
we have the Key to Egypt; by means of Sicily we protect the threatened
Tarentum, and can, in case of need, save sinking Hellas. The world is
wide; why should we sit here and moulder in the wilderness? Hellas is
an exhausted country; let us break up new ground. Hellas is an outworn
ship; let us build a new one, and undertake a new Argonautic enterprise
to a new Colchis to win another Golden Fleece, following the path of the
sun westward. Athenians! let us go to Sicily!’”

These new prospects which the speaker opened to them pleased the people,
who were tired of the everlasting Sparta and the Persian King; and
stimulated by fear of Rome, the growing wolf’s-cub, they received the
ill-considered proposal with applause, and raised their hands in token
of assent.

Nicias sought an opportunity to speak, and warned them, but no one
listened to him. The Scythian police who kept order in the Pnyx could
procure him no audience. And when Nicias saw that he could not prevent
the enterprise, he placed his services at Alcibiades’ disposal, and
began to equip the fleet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Aspasia was now the widow of Pericles, and had mourned him for a long
time. The “Hemicyklion” was no more, but her few remaining friends
visited her from time to time. Socrates was the most faithful among
them. One evening he sat with her in the little brick-roofed villa on
the bank of the Cephisos.

“No, Aspasia,” he said, “I advised against the Sicilian expedition, so
did Nicias, so did the astronomer Meton, but it was to be. Alcibiades
had managed to procure a favourable response from the oracle in the
Temple of Ammon.”

“Do you believe in oracles, Socrates?”

“Yes--and no! I have my own ‘demon,’ as you know, who warns but never
urges--who advises, but never commands. This inner Voice has said to me,
‘Hellas will not conquer the world.’”

“Will Rome do it?”

“Yes, but for another!”

“You know that Pericles’ great thought was a single Hellas--a union of
all the Grecian States.”

“That was Pericles’ wish, but the will of the gods was otherwise.
Alcibiades’ dream of Hellas governing the world is also great, but the
dreams of the gods are greater.”

“What gain do you think comes to Athens from Cleon’s death?”

“None! After Cleon comes Anytos. Cleon is everlasting, for Cleon is the
name of an idea.”

Protagoras, grown old and somewhat dull, appeared in the inner
courtyard.

“There is Protagoras!”

“The Sophist! I do not like him,” said Aspasia. “He is a file who frets
all will away; his endless hair-splitting robs one of all resolution.”

“You speak truly and rationally, Aspasia, and in an earlier age you
would have sat upon the Pythoness’s tripod and prophesied. Like the
priestess, you know not perhaps what you say, but a god speaks through
you.”

“No, Socrates; I only utter your thoughts; that is all!”

Protagoras came forward. “Mourning in Athens! Mourning in Hellas! Alas!”
 was his greeting.

“What is the matter, Protagoras?”

“Phidias of immortal memory lies dead in prison.”

“Alas! then they have killed him.”

“So it is rumoured in the city.”

“Phidias is dead!”

“Probably poisoned, they say; but that need not be true.”

“All die here in Athens before their proper time. When will our turn
come?”

“When it does.”

“Are we falling by the arrows of the Python-slayer? We are shot like
birds.”

“We are the children of Apollo. Would our father kill us?”

“Saturn has returned to devour his children.”

Socrates sank in meditation, and remained standing.

“We have angered the gods.”

Lucillus the Roman entered. “See the Roman!” said Socrates, “the lord of
the future and of the world. What has he to tell us?”

“I come to warn Protagoras. He is to be banished.”

“I?”

“You are banished.”

“On what grounds?”

“As a blasphemer. You have repudiated the gods of the State.”

“Who is the informer?”

“The sycophant, the invisible, who is present everywhere.”

“All is probable; nothing is certain,” exclaimed Protagoras.

“Yes, this is certain.”

“Well, my fabric of thought is shattered against this certainty as
everything else is shattered.”

“[Greek: _Pànta reî_]. Everything flows away; nothing endures; all comes
to birth, grows, and dies.”

“Farewell, then, Aspasia, Socrates, friends, fatherland!

“Farewell!”

Protagoras departed with his mantle drawn over his head.

“Will Athens miss Protagoras?” asked Aspasia.

“He has taught the Athenians to think and to doubt; and doubt is the
beginning of wisdom.”

“Aristophanes has murdered Protagoras, and he will murder you some day,
Socrates.”

“He has done that already; my wife rejoices at it, but still I live.”

“Here comes young Plato with an ominous look. More bad news I expect.”

“Expect? I am certain! Sing your dirge, Plato.”

“Dirges, you mean. Alcibiades has been accused and recalled.”

“What has he done?”

“Before his departure he has mutilated all the images of Hermes in the
city.”

“That is too much for one man; he could not do that.”

“The accusation is definite; injury to the gods of the State.”

“And now the gods avenge themselves.”

“The gods of Greece have gone to Rome.”

“There you have spoken truth.”

“Now comes number two: The Athenians have been defeated in Sicily. And
number three: Nicias is beheaded.”

“Then we can buy sepulchres for ourselves in the Ceramicus.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Near the Temple of Nemesis in the Agora stood the tanner Anytos chatting
with Thrasybulos, a hitherto obscure but rising patriot.

Anytos rattled away: “Alcibiades is in Sparta; Sparta seeks the help of
the Persian King; only one thing remains for us--to do the same.”

“To go over to the enemy? That is treachery.”

“There is nothing else to be done.”

“There were once Thermopylae and Salamis.”

“But now there is Sparta, and the Spartans are in Deceleia. Our envoys
have already sailed to the Persian King.”

“Then we may as well remove Athene’s image from the Parthenon! Anytos!
look at my back; for I shall be ashamed to show my face now when I
walk.”

Anytos remained alone, and walked for some time up and down in front of
the temple portico. Then he stopped and entered the vestibule.

The priestess Theano seemed to have been waiting for him. Anytos began:
“Have you obeyed the order of the Council?”

“What order?”

“To pronounce a curse on Alcibiades, the enemy of his country.”

“No, I am only ordered to bless.”

“Have the avenging goddesses, then, ceased to execute justice?”

“They have never lent themselves to carry out human vengeance.”

“Has Alcibiades not betrayed his country?”

“Alcibiades’ country is Hellas, not Athens; Sparta is in Hellas.”

“Have the gods also become Sophists?”

“The gods have become dumb.”

“Then you can shut the temple--the sooner, the better.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The incorrigible Alcibiades had really fled from Sicily to the enemy at
Sparta, and now sat at table with King Aegis; for Sparta had retained
the monarchy, while Athens at an early date had abjured it.

“My friend,” said the King, “I do not like your dining at the common
public table, after being accustomed to Aspasia’s brilliant feasts in
Athens.”

“I! Oh no! My rule was always the simplest food: I went to sleep with
the sun, and rose with the sun. You do not know what a severe ascetic I
have been.”

“If you say so, I must believe it. Rumour, then, has slandered you?”

“Slandered? Yes, certainly. You remember the scandal about the
statues of Hermes. I did not mutilate them, but they have become my
destruction.”

“Is that also a lie?”

“It is a lie.”

“But tell me something else. Do you think that it is now the will of the
gods that Sparta should conquer Athens?”

“Certainly, as certainly as virtue will conquer vice. Sparta is the home
of all the virtues, and Athens of all the vices.”

“Now I understand that you are not the man I took you for, and I will
give you the command of the army. Shall we now march against Athens?”

“I am ready!”

“Have you no scruple in marching against your own city?”

“I am a Hellene, not an Athenian, Sparta is the chief city of Hellas.”

“Alcibiades is great! Now I go to the general, and this evening we
march.”

“Go, King! Alcibiades follows.”

The King went, but Alcibiades did not follow, for behind the curtains
of the women’s apartment stood the Queen, and waited. When the King had
gone, she rushed in.

“Hail! Alcibiades, my king!”

“Queen, why do you call your servant ‘king’?”

“Because Sparta has done homage to you, because I love you, and because
you are a descendant of heroes.”

“King Aegis the Second lives.”

“Not too long! Win your first battle, and Aegis is dead.”

“Now life begins to smile on the hardly-tried exile. If you knew my
childhood with its sorrows, my youth with its privations! The vine had
not grown for me, woman had not been made for me; Bacchus knew me not;
Aphrodite was not my goddess. The chaste Artemis and the wise Pallas
guided me past the devious ways of youth to the goal of knowledge,
wisdom, and glory. But when I first saw you, Timia, my queen....”

“Hush!”

“Then I thought that beauty was more than wisdom.”

“Hush! some one is listening.”

“Who?”

“I, Lysander, the General,” answered a sharp voice, and the speaker
stood in the middle of the room.

“Now I know you, Alcibiades, and I have your head under my arm, but I
have the honour of Sparta under the other. Fly before I strangle you!”

“Your ears have deceived you, Lysander!”

“Fly! do us the kindness to fly! Fifty hoplites stand without, waiting
for your head.”

“How many do you say? Fifty? Then I will fly, for I cannot overcome more
than thirty. My queen! farewell! I have thought better of Sparta. This
would never have happened in Athens. Now I go to the Persian King; there
they understand better what is fitting, and there I shall not be obliged
to eat black broth!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Alcibiades sat with the Persian satrap Tissaphernes, and Alcibiades
the eloquent spoke. “Yes, my teacher Protagoras taught me once, that
everything is born from its opposite; therefore you see my heart can
embrace all opposites. Sparta and Athens are both dear to me; that is
to say, both hateful--the state--gods of the one, and the virtues of the
other.”

“You have a great heart, stranger! Is there room in it for Persia?”

“For the whole world.”

“What do you think of our chief city?”

“I love all large cities!”

“But at the present moment, you ought to love ours the most.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You must also love our allies.”

“Pardon me, who is your present ally?”

“At present, it is Sparta.”

“Very well, then, I love Sparta.”

“And suppose it is Athens to-morrow?”

“Then I will love Athens to-morrow.”

“Thank you. Now I understand that it is all over with Hellas. Old Greece
is so corrupt, that it is hardly worth conquering.”

“Protagoras taught that man is the measure of all things; therefore I
measure the value of all things by myself; what has value for me, that I
prize.”

“Is that the teaching of your prophets? Then we have better ones; do you
know Zarathrustra?”

“If it would do you a pleasure, I wish I had known him from childhood.”

“Then you might have been able to distinguish good and evil, light and
darkness, Ormuzd and Ahriman. And you would have lived in the hope
that light will eventually conquer; and that all discordances will be
reconciled through suffering.”

“I can at any rate try. Is it a large book?”

“What are the names of your sacred books?”

“Sacred! What is that?”

“From whence do you get your religion, the knowledge of your gods?”

“From Homer, I believe.”

“You do not believe that Zeus is the supreme ruler of the world?”

“Yes, I do certainly.”

“But he was a false swearer and a lecher.”

“Yes! But how can that be helped?”

Tissaphernes rose. “Listen, my guest; we cannot share any common
undertaking, for we do not serve the same gods. You call us barbarians.
I, on my part, know no term of reproach strong enough for people who
honour such gods. But the Athenians are as rotten as you, for they have
pardoned you. Outside there stands an envoy from Athens come to beg you
to return. Go to Athens; that is your place.”

“To Athens? Never! I do not trust them.”

“Nor they, you! That is appropriate. Go to Athens, and tell your
countrymen--the Persian does not want them. The vine tendrils seek the
sound elm, but turn away from the rotten cabbage-top.”

Alcibiades had begun to walk up and down the room. That meant that he
was irresolute.

“Is the Athenian really outside?” he asked.

“He kneels outside in order to beg the traitor Alcibiades to be their
lord. But listen, you are a democrat, are you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you must change your point of view, for now an oligarchy governs
Athens.”

“Yes, ah! yes, yes--but I am an aristocrat, the most aristocratic in the
State.”

“Spinning-top! Seek for a whip!”

Alcibiades stood still. “I think, I must speak with the Athenian after
all.”

“Do that! Speak the Athenian language to him! He does not understand
Persian.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Alcibiades returned to Athens; the death-sentence against him was
annulled; and as a commander who had won a battle, he was able to have
a triumphal procession from Piraeus to the city. But popular favour was
fickle, and, becoming suspected of aspiring to be king, he fled again,
this time to the Persian satrap Pharnabazes. Since he could not
live without intrigues, he was soon entangled in one, unmasked, and
condemned, without his knowing it, to death.

One day he was sitting with his paramour, and chatting quietly at his
ease: “You think, then, Timandra, that Cyrus marches against his brother
Artaxerxes, in order to seize the throne of Persia.”

“I am sure of it, and equally sure that he has ten thousand Athenians
under Xenophon with him.”

“Do you know whether Artaxerxes has been warned?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Who could have warned him?”

“You did.”

“Does Cyrus know that?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Who has betrayed me?”

“I did.”

“Then I am lost.”

“Yes, you are.”

“To think that I must fall through a woman!”

“Did you expect anything else, Alcibiades?”

“No, not really! Can I not fly?”

“You cannot, but I can.”

“I see smoke! Is the house on fire?”

“Yes, it is. And there are archers posted outside!”

“The comedy is over! We return to tragedy....”

“And the satyr-play begins.”

“My feet are hot; generally cold is a precursor of death.”

“Everything is born from its opposite, Alcibiades.”

“Give me a kiss.”

She kissed him, the handsomest man of Athens.

“Thank you!”

“Go to the window; there you will see!”

Alcibiades stepped to the window. “Now I see.”

At that moment he was struck by an arrow. “But now I see nothing! It
grows dark, and I thought it would grow light.”

Timandra fled, as the corpse began to burn.




SOCRATES


Sparta had conquered Athens, and Athens lay in ruins. The government by
the people was over, and the rule of the Thirty Tyrants had succeeded
it. Socrates and Euripides walked with sad faces among the ruins on the
Agora.

Socrates spoke: “We are on the ruins of Athens’ walls! We have become
Spartans. We would have no tyrants, and now thirty rule over us.”

“I go to the North,” said Euripides, “to Macedonia, whither I am
invited.”

“In that you are right, for the Tyrants have forbidden the acting of
your tragedies.”

“That is true.”

“And they have forbidden me to teach.”

“Have they forbidden Socrates to speak? No! Then he can teach, for he
cannot speak without teaching. But they must have forbidden the oracles
to speak, for they have ceased to prophesy. Everything has ceased!
Hellas has ceased to be! And why?”

“You may well ask. Has Zeus begotten the son who is to overthrow him, as
Aeschylus foretold?”

“Who knows? The people have introduced a new God called Adonai or
Adonis. He is from the East, and his name signifies the Lord.”

“Who is the new god?”

“He teaches readiness for death, and the resurrection. And they have
also got a new goddess. Have you heard of Cybele, the mother of the
gods, a virgin, who is worshipped in Rome like Vesta by vestal priests.”

“There is so much that is new and obscure, like wine in fermentation.
There comes Aristophanes. Farewell, my friend, for the last time here in
life.”

“Wait! Aristophanes beckons! No, see! he weeps! Aristophanes weeps!”

Aristophanes approached. “Euripides,” he said, “don’t go till I have
spoken to you.”

“Can you speak?” answered Euripides.

“I weep.”

“Do not quit your role. Shall that represent tears?”

“Sympathise with a companion in distress, Euripides; the Tyrants have
closed my theatre.”

“Socrates, shall I sympathise with my executioner?”

“I believe that the Temple of Nemesis has been opened again,” answered
Socrates. “Aristophanes has never been ingenuous hitherto; now he is so
with a vengeance. Very well, Aristophanes, I sympathise with you that
you can no more scoff at me. I pardon you, but I cannot help you to
stage your comedies. That is asking too much. Now I follow Euripides
home.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Socrates sat by Aspasia, who had grown elderly. “Euripides has gone to
Macedonia,” he said.

“From his wives.”

“You have become bitter.”

“I am tired of seeing ruins and all the rest. The Tyrants are murdering
the citizens.”

“That is the occupation of tyrants.”

“Shall we soon have rest?”

“In the Ceramicus, in a cedar coffin.”

“I will not die; I will live, but quietly.”

“Life is not quiet.”

“Yes, if one is well off.”

“One never is.”

“No, not if one is unhappily married, like you, Socrates.”

“My wife is certainly the worst possible; if she had not had me for a
husband, she would long ago have been murdered.”

“Xantippe betrays you with her gossiping; and when she does not
understand what you say, she gives others distorted ideas of your
opinions and your person.”

“Yes, I know that, but I cannot alter it.”

“Why do you continue in such a state of humiliation?”

“Why should I fly? One is only justified in flying from superior force,
and Xantippe is not a superior force to me.”

“You are forbidden, on pain of death, to give instruction; that is her
work and that of Anytos.”

“She may bring about my death, if she likes, for then she has only
brought about my freedom.... Aspasia, I hear that our friendship is on
the decline; you have found new friends, you have become another person.
Let me say farewell before Lysicles comes.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, and the whole town speaks of your coming marriage.”

“With the cattle-dealer, Lysicles?”

“Yes, that is your affair; I don’t talk about it.”

“But you think I should have cherished Pericles’ memory better?”

“I would fain have seen Aspasia’s memory better preserved; but since I
have seen Athenians adorn themselves with garlands to celebrate Athens’
overthrow; since I have seen Phidias....”

“How, then, will Socrates end?”

“Certainly not like Aspasia.”

“The gods jest with us. Beware! O Socrates!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Socrates was at last in prison, accused of having seduced the youth, and
blasphemed or repudiated the gods of the State. Among the accusers were
a young poetaster, Melitos, the tanner Anytos, and the orator Lykon.

Socrates made his Apology, and declared that he had always believed on
God, and the voice of his conscience, which he called his “demon.” He
was condemned to drink hemlock, and kept in prison, where, however, he
was allowed to see his wife and his few remaining friends.

Just now his wife was with him, and wept.

“Weep not,” said Socrates; “it is not your fault.”

“Will you see the children?”

“Why should I lacerate their little souls with a useless leave-taking?
Go to them and comfort them; divert their minds with an expedition to
the woods.”

“Shall we rejoice while you are dying?”

“Rejoice that my sufferings come to an end! Rejoice that I die with
honour.”

“Have you no last wish?”

“I wish for nothing, except peace and freedom from your foolish tears
and sighs, and your disturbing lamentations. Go, woman, and say to
yourself that Socrates wants to sleep for he is tired and out of humour;
say to yourself that he will wake again, refreshed, rejuvenated, happy
and amiable.”

“I wish you had taught me all this before.”

“you had nothing to learn from me.”

“Yes! I have learnt from you patience and self-control.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I cannot, for I have done it already. Say farewell now, as though I
were going on a journey. Say ‘We meet again,’ as though I were soon
returning!”

“Farewell, then, Socrates, and be not angry with me.”

“No, I am always well-disposed towards you.”

“Farewell, my husband, for ever.”

“Not for ever. You wish to see me again, don’t you? Put on a cheerful
face, and say, ‘We meet again.’”

“We meet again.”

“Good! and when we meet again, we will go with the children together
into the woods.”

“Socrates was not what I thought he was.”

“Go! I want to sleep.”

She went, but met in the doorway Plato and Crito.

“The hour approaches, friends,” said Socrates wearily, and with feverish
eyes.

“Are you calm, Master?”

“To say the truth, I am quite calm. I will not assert that I am joyful,
but my conscience does not trouble me.”

“When, Socrates, when--will it happen?”

“You mean, When is it to happen,--the last thing? Plato, my friend, my
dearest... it hastens.... I have just now enjoyed a sleep. I have been
over the river on the other side; I have seen for a moment the original
forms of imperishable Beauty, of which things on earth are only dim
copies.... I have seen the future, the destinies of the human race; I
have spoken to the mighty, the lofty, and the pure; I have learnt the
wise Order which guides the apparent great disorder; I trembled at
the unfathomable secret of the Universe of which I had a glimmering
perception, and I felt the immensity of my ignorance. Plato, you shall
write what I have seen. You shall teach the children of men to estimate
things at their proper value, to look up to the Invisible with awe, to
revere Beauty, to cultivate virtue, and to hope for final
deliverance, as they work, through faithful performance of duty and
self-renunciation.”

He went to the bed, and lay down.

Plato followed him, “Are you ill, Master?”

“No, I have been; but now I am getting well.”

“Have you already....”

“I have already emptied the cup!”

“Our Wisest leaves us.”

“No mortal is wise! But I thank the gods who gave me modesty and
conscience.”

There was silence in the room.

“Socrates is dead!”




FLACCUS AND MARO


After the death of Socrates, the greatness of Athens was no more. Sparta
ruled for a time, and then came the turn of Thebes. Subsequently the
Macedonians invaded the country, and governed it till the year 196 B.C.,
when the Romans conquered both Macedonia and Greece, and completely
destroyed Corinth, but spared Athens, which was deprived of its
fortifications under Sulla, on account of the great memories which
gathered round it.

Now, in Julius Caesar’s time, it had become the fashion to send youths
to Athens to study Grammar, Rhetoric, and Philosophy there. There was
no great philosopher there, but they studied the history of philosophy.
There was also no religion, for no one believed on the gods of the
State, although, from old habit, they celebrated the sacrificial feasts.

Athens was dead, and so was the whole of the ancient world--Egypt,
Syria, Asia Minor. In Rome they lived on the memories of the past of
Greece, and the greatest Roman, Cicero, when he wished to discuss
some philosophic theme, always commenced by citing the opinions of the
ancient Greeks on the subject; he also closed in the same way, for he
had no original opinion of his own on any subject, such as the nature of
the gods, &c.

One early spring day, during the last years of Julius Caesar, two
students sat in an arbour below Lykabettos, opposite the college of
Kynosarges. Wine was on the table, but they did not seem very devoted
to their yellow “Chios.” They sat there with an air of indifference, as
though they were waiting for something. The same atmosphere of lethargy
seemed to pervade their surroundings. The innkeeper sat and dozed; the
youths in the college opposite lounged at the door; pedestrians on the
high road went by without greeting anyone; the peasant in the field sat
on his plough, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

The elder of the two students fingered his glass, and at last opened his
mouth.

“Say something!”

“I have nothing to say, for I know nothing.”

“Have you already learnt everything?”

“Yes.”

“I came yesterday from Rome with great hopes of being able to learn
something new and of hearing something remarkable, but I hear only
silence.”

“My dear Maro, I have been here for years, and I have listened, but
heard nothing new. I have heard in the Poikile that Thales maintained
that there were no gods, but that everything had been produced from
moisture. I have further heard Anaximines’ doctrine that air was the
source of all things; Pherecydes’ doctrine of ether as the original
principle; Heraclitus’ doctrine of fire. Anaximander has taught me
that the universe came from some primitive substance; Leucippus and
Democritus spoke to me of empty space with primitive corpuscles or
atoms. Anaxagoras made believe that the atom had reason. Xenophanes
wished to persuade me that God and the Universe were one. Empedocles,
the wisest of the whole company, despaired at the imperfection of
reason, and went in despair and flung himself head foremost into Etna’s
burning mountain.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No! it may well be a lie like everything else. Then I learnt a number
of interesting doctrines from Plato which were subsequently all confuted
by Aristotle. At last I took up my position with the wisest of the
wise--Socrates, who openly declared, as you know, that he knew nothing.”

“That is the same as the Sophists said,--that one knew nothing, and
hardly so much.”

“You are right, and our good Socrates was a Sophist, without wishing to
be one. But there is one, a single one, who.... Yes, I mean Pythagoras.
He has proclaimed this and that doctrine in the East and the West, but I
have found one anchor in his philosophy, and I have gripped firm ground
with it. I certainly swing in the wind, but I do not drift away from
it.”

“Tell me.”

“Do what you think right at the risk of being banished from your
country; the mob cannot judge what is right. Therefore you should
think little of their praise, and despise their blame. Cultivate the
friendship of kindred spirits, but regard the rest of mankind as
a worthless mass. Always be at war with ‘the beans’ (he means the
democrats). ‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo!’”

“You ought to live at home in Rome, Flaccus, where....”

“Yes, what are you doing now in Rome?”

“Caesar is Caesar; he conquers the world, and unites all the highest
functions, even the priestly, in his own person. I have nothing against
it, but they say he is aiming at his own deification.”

“Why not? All gods have first been heroes, and many gods have not been
so great as Caesar. Romulus was certainly no giant, though he had the
luck to come first, as someone must. Now he is a god, has a temple, and
they sacrifice to him.”

“It is probably a lie, like everything else.”

“Probably.”

“Yes, I have heard another legend of the founding of Rome by Aeneas’ son
Ascanius, who fled from Troy; and I intend to take it as the
starting-point of my great poem....”

“You mean the _Aeneid_, of which I have heard mention.”

“Yes, the _Aeneid_.”

“Is it difficult to write poetry?”

“No; one follows good patterns. Hitherto Theocritus has been mine, but
now I shall go to Father Homer himself.”

“By Heracles! Now there you will be undisturbed--so long, that is, as
Maecenas sends you the sesterces regularly.”

“Yes, he does! But how do you get along?”

“My father, a freedman, toils as quaestor, and will find me a place.”

“Have you no interests, no passions, no ambitions?”

“No; what should I do with them? ‘Nihil admirari.’ That is my motto. If
there are gods who guide the destinies of men and nations, why should I
interfere and wear myself out in a useless struggle? Think of
Demosthenes, who for thirty years delivered speeches against the
Macedonian, and warned his countrymen, who would not listen to him! The
gods were with the Macedonian, and condemned Hellas to be overthrown.
Demosthenes was imprisoned. Comically enough, he was accused of having
been bribed by the same Macedonian. That was, of course, a lie. This
patriot who sacrificed himself for the salvation of his fatherland, who
believed he was fighting on the gods’ side, had to take poison, and
fell, fighting against the gods! Vestigia terrent!”

During their conversation, the sun had gone down, and now in the
twilight beacons were visible flaming on Aegina, on Salamis, by
Phaleros, in the Piraeus, and finally on the Acropolis. The murmurs from
the city became louder till they rose to one immense paean of joy. Men
came down the streets, and brought their wives and children with them,
some on foot, others riding and driving. The worthy innkeeper Agathon
was aroused, and went out into the highway to learn the cause of the
confusion. The two students had gone on the inn roof to look out. But
they surmised danger for foreigners like themselves, and, alarmed by the
ever louder shouting, descended again, and concealed themselves in the
wine-press. At last Agathon’s voice was heard: “Caesar is assassinated!
Death to the Romans! Freedom for Hellas!”

Such was the news. The garden of the inn filled with people, wine
flowed, and shouts of joy resounded, varied by sarcastic remarks on the
passing Romans who were fleeing northwards from the town in order to
reach the Macedonian frontier.

Maro and Flaccus underwent great anxiety, hidden as they were in the vat
of the wine-press, from which hiding-place they heard the whole news,
with its accompanying details. Caesar had been assassinated by Cassius
and Brutus in the Capitol.

“Brutus?” whispered Maro. “Then it is certainly over with the Caesars,
just as the old Brutus made an end of the Kings!”

And Brutus was flying to Hellas to rouse the Greeks against the Romans.
“Long live Brutus!” they cried in the garden.

“Then we shall live also!” said the pliant Flaccus. “Caesar is dead; let
us do homage to Brutus for the present.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Many years had passed when the former student of Athens, Quintus
Horatius Flaccus, was walking one day in the garden of his villa on
the Sabine Hills. This villa he had received as a gift from his friend
Maecenas, who possessed a splendid country-house close by in Tibur
itself.

Horace was now a very famous poet, but still essentially the same as he
had been when a student in Athens. Destiny or the gods had played with
him, but the poet had taken it as a good joke on the part of the Higher
Powers, and answered it with a satire. After the murder of Caesar,
Brutus had fled to Greece, and been so well received there, that the
Athenians had erected a statue to him, and raised troops for him against
Antonius and the other generals, among whom was the invalid Octavianus
(afterwards Augustus).

Horace was compelled to serve as a soldier, and actually commanded a
legion at Philippi, where Brutus fell. The poet, who was no warrior,
fled from the superior force of the enemy, and came to Rome, where,
after the amnesty had been proclaimed, he became a clerk in a public
office. At the same time he had begun to write verses, was discovered by
Maecenas, and received his reward in the form of an estate.

The Emperor Augustus admired him, and offered him a position as
secretary, but Horace refused, partly because he could never see
anything else but an usurper in this Emperor, partly because he loved
freedom and independence above all things.

Just now he was walking in his garden, whose fruit-trees he had himself
cultivated. He plucked roses and hyacinths, for he awaited the visit of
a favourite guest, his old friend and fellow-student of Athens, Publius
Virgilius Maro, as well known as Horace himself, although he had not yet
allowed his _Aeneid_ to appear in manuscript.

A table was laid in a vine-arbour; flagons of old Massisian and
Falernian lay already on ice, oysters and eels were there; a kid and
some quails were roasting on the spit in the kitchen; fruit had been
plucked in the garden; and the only thing wanting on the table, which
had been laid for two persons, were flowers.

A little slave, who was able to write, ran to and fro between the
garden-gate and the dove-tower, in order to look out for the expected
guest. The poet was standing at the water-barrel and washing his hands,
after he had finished plucking flowers, when someone clapped him on the
shoulder.

“Virgil! Which way have you come, then?”

“Over the hills of Tibur from Maecenas.”

“Welcome, wanderer, whichever way you have come! Sit down--you must be
tired--in my hemicyklion, under the olives I planted myself, while the
spits turn, and they ply the chopping-knife. Here you see my plot of
land which represents the world to me.”

Their first greetings and questions were over, and the two friends sat
down to the table. The host was certainly an Epicurean or votary of
pleasure; but in order to be able to enjoy, one must be moderate, and
the meal, judging by Roman customs, was quite a frugal one, but simple
and brilliant. Then the cups were passed round, and the wine awoke
memories in spite of its supposed lethal capacity of quenching them.

“Well, you were in the war, friend?” began Virgil.

“Yes, and I fled disgracefully, as you know.”

“I have read so in one of your poems, but it is said not to be true, and
you have slandered yourself.”

“Have I? Perhaps! One talks nonsense when one writes.”

“You poet, do you remember how you asked me in Athens whether it were
difficult? How did you come to write?”

“I needed money!”

“Now you slander yourself again! If all clients who needed money could
write, the world would be full of poets.”

“Well, perhaps it was not so. But speak of yourself--of your _Aeneid_.”

Virgil looked gloomy: “Of that I will not speak.”

“Is it finished?”

“More than that! It is done with!”

“Done with?”

“Yes! When I read it, I found it a failure! It was not Homer; it was
nothing. It was a punishment, because I wished to outshine my father.”

“Have you destroyed it?”

“Not yet; but it is sealed up, in order to be destroyed after my death.”

“Now _you_ are slandering yourself, and you are depressed, Maro, not by
years, not by work, but by something else.”

“Yes, by something else. The future disturbs me!”

Horace shook his cup and recited: [Footnote: Hor. Od. I. ii.] “Do not
go to the astrologers, Leuconoe. Better bear life as it comes. Be wise,
clear your wine! While we speak, envious life is flying. Enjoy the
present, and think as little as possible about the future.”

“That I cannot!” broke in Virgil. “I cannot drown myself in my cups,
when I see my fatherland perishing.”

“Has Rome ever been so powerful as it is now? Do we not possess the
whole known world--Egypt, Syria, Greece, Italy, Spain, Germany, Gaul,
Britain? And yet we live in a time of peace: the Temple of Janus is
closed; the earth rejoices; the arts flourish; and commerce was never so
active as at present.”

“Yes, the peace that precedes a war. For all these conquered nations are
awake, and have an eye on Rome. Not on Greece as before, for Greece is
barren and laid waste, and passes into the great silence. Do you know
that Sulla and Mithridates have gone slaying and pillaging over Hellas,
so that science and art have fled to the Egyptian Alexandria or the
growing Byzantium? Do you know that pirates, whose origin is unknown,
from the East, have recently plundered every temple in Hellas, so that
hardly any religious service can be held there? The oracles are dumb,
the poets are silent like song-birds in a storm, the great tragedies
are no longer performed; people rather go to see farces and gladiatorial
shows. Hellas is a ruin, and Rome will soon be one.”

“Times are bad, I grant, but every time has been one of decay, and has,
however, prepared the way for a new epoch. The fallen leaves of autumn
form a forcing-bed for the coming spring; Nature, life, and history ever
renew themselves through death. Therefore death is to me only a renewal,
a change, and whenever I meet a funeral, I always say to myself, ‘O how
pleasant it is to live!’”

“My dear Flaccus, you live with your dreams in the Golden Age, while
we others only drag ourselves through this life of the Iron Age. Do you
remember how Hesiod complains already of his own time?”

“No, I have forgotten that, but in order to oblige you I will listen.”

“‘The people of to-day are an iron race, and never rest from the burden
of work, neither by day nor by night. They are a sinful folk, and the
gods send them heavy troubles. But even when they send joy, this turns
to their misfortune. Some day Zeus will destroy them, these many-tongued
people, when they are born with grey locks on their temples. Yes, our
children are born old men already, toothless, wrinkled and with bald
heads. The father is not gracious to the child, nor the child to the
father, nor the guest to his host, nor servant to fellow-servant, nor
brother to brother. Children dishonour their old parents, revile them
and speak unfriendly words--these young scoundrels who know nothing
of divine vengeance, and never thank their ageing parents for their
fostering care of them as children. Might is right, and one city
destroys another. Honesty and faithfulness in keeping vows are never
rewarded, as little as kindness or justice. Oh no, they who practise
sin and break the law, demand honour. Scoundrels betray noble men, and
commit perjury without scruple. Envy follows men, these unhappy ones
with their harsh voices and dreadful faces, who rejoice over the evil
and the mischief which they do.’”

“Yes, so Hesiod spoke a thousand years ago, and I must confess his words
are well deserved, but what can one do?”

“Yes, they are. Cicero was murdered, and I feel inclined to follow the
example of Cato, who died in order to escape sin. I sink, Flaccus, in
lies and hypocrisy. But I will not sink ... I will mount. I have praised
Augustus and his son Marcellus in my verses, but I believe no more
in them, for they are not the future. Therefore the _Aeneid_ shall be
burnt!”

“You disquiet me, Maro. But what do you believe in?”

“I believe in the Sibyl, who has prophesied that the Iron Age will end,
and the Golden Age return.”

“You have sung of that in the Fourth Eclogue, I remember.... Have you
fever?”

“I believe I have. Do you remember--no! our fathers remember when the
Capitol was burnt, and the Sibylline books destroyed. But now new books
have come from Alexandria, and in them they have read that a new era
will begin; that Rome will be destroyed but built up again, and that a
Golden Age....”

Here the seer was silent. Then he continued: “Pardon me, Flaccus, but I
am poorly, and must ride home before the mists rise from the Campagna.”

“Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume! Labuntur anni! I will follow you,
friend, on my ass, for you are sick. But ‘the man of righteous heart and
rock-like purpose will not be shaken nor terrified by the blind zeal
of the citizens commanding evil, nor the glance of the threatening
tyrant.... If the walls of the world fall in, they will bury him
unterrified beneath their ruin.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

Some days later Virgil died in Naples. His will was opened, and actually
found to contain a request that his _Aeneid_ should be burnt. But it was
not carried out. Posterity has passed various judgments on this ignoring
of a dead man’s wish--some think it was a pity; others that it was a
good thing.

When Christianity arrived, Virgil was enrolled among the prophets. The
_Aeneid_ was regarded as a Sibylline book and included in the liturgy.
Pilgrimages were made to the poet’s tomb. And later on he was raised to
the rank of a saint by Dante.




LEONTOPOLIS


A caravan was encamped on a height eastward of the ancient Egyptian town
Heliopolis. There were many people in it, but all were Hebrews. They
had come on camels and asses from Palestine through the desert--the
same desert which the Israelites had passed through thousands of years
before.

In the evening twilight, by the faint light of the half-moon, hundreds
of camp-fires were to be seen, and by them sat the women with their
little children while the men carried water.

Never yet had the desert beheld so many little children, and, as they
were now being put to bed for the night, the camp echoed with their
cries. It was like an enormous nursery. But when the washing was over,
and the little ones were laid to their mothers’ breasts, the cries one
after the other ceased, and there was complete silence. Under a sycamore
tree sat a woman, and suckled her child; close by stood a Hebrew,
feeding his ass with branches of the broom plant; when he had done that,
he went higher up the hill, and looked towards the north. A foreigner--a
Roman, to judge by his dress--passed, and regarded the woman with the
child closely, as though he were counting them.

The Hebrew showed signs of uneasiness, and began a conversation with the
Roman, in order to divert his attention from the woman.

“Say, traveller, is that the City of the Sun there in the west?”

“You see it!” answered the Roman.

“Then it is Bethshemesh.”

“Heliopolis, from which both Greeks and Romans have derived their
wisdom; Plato himself has been here.”

“Can Leontopolis also be seen from here?”

“You see the pinnacles of its temple two miles northward.”

“But that is the land of Goshen, which our father Abraham visited, and
which Jacob had portioned out to him,” said the Hebrew, turning to his
wife, who only answered with an inclination of her head. Then, speaking
to the Roman, he continued, “Israel wandered from Egypt to Canaan. But
after the Babylonish captivity a part of them returned and settled down
here. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that. And now the Israelites here have increased till they
number many thousand souls, and have built a temple for themselves,
which you see standing in the distance. Did you know that?”

“Yes, something about it. So that, then, is Roman territory?”

“Yes. Everything is Roman now--Syria, Canaan, Greece, Egypt--Germany,
Gaul, Britain; the world belongs to Rome, according to the prophecy of
the Cumaean Sibyl.”

“Good! But the world is to be redeemed through Israel, according to
God’s promise to our father Abraham.”

“I have heard that fable also, but for the present Rome has the
fulfilment of the promise. Do you come from Jerusalem?”

“I come through the desert like the others, and I bring wife and child
with me.”

“Child--yes! Why do you Hebrews carry so many children with you?”

The Hebrew was silent, but since he perceived that the Roman knew the
reason, and since the latter looked like a benevolent man, he resolved
to tell the truth.

“Herod the King heard from the Wise Men of the East the prophecy that
a King of the Jews would be born in Bethlehem in the land of Judaea. In
order to escape the supposed danger, Herod had all the children recently
born in that district put to death. Just as Pharaoh once had our
first-born put to death here. But Moses was saved, in order to free our
people from the Egyptian bondage.”

“Well! but who was this King of the Jews to be?”

“The promised Messiah.”

“Do you believe that he is born?”

“I cannot tell.”

“I can,” said the Roman. “He is born; he will rule the world, and bring
all people under his sceptre.”

“And who will that be?”

“The Emperor, Augustus.”

“Is he of Abraham’s seed or of David’s house? No. And has he come with
peace, as Isaiah prophesied, ‘His kingdom shall be great, and of peace
there shall be no end’? The Emperor is certainly not a man of peace.”

“Farewell, Israelite. Now you are a Roman subject. Be content with the
redemption through Rome. We know not of any other.”

The Roman departed.

The Hebrew approached his wife. “Mary!” he said.

“Joseph!” she answered. “Hush! The child sleeps.”




THE LAMB


Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch, had come to Jerusalem, because there
was much unrest among the populace. He had taken up his dwelling with
Pilate, the Governor. Since on the preceding evening he had witnessed a
gladiatorial show in the circus and then taken part in an orgy, he slept
late into the morning--so late that his host, who was waiting for his
guest, had gone upon the roof.

There lay the Holy City, with Mount Moriah and the Temple, Zion and
David’s House. To the north-west and west there stretched the Valley of
Sharon to the Mediterranean Sea, which in the clear air appeared like a
blue streak at a distance of five miles.

In the east there rose the Mount of Olives, with its gardens and
vineyards, olives, figs and terebinths, below ran the brook Kedron
whose banks were decked in their spring apparel of flourishing laurels,
tamarisks, and willows.

The Governor was restless, and often paused to stand by the parapet of
the roof in order to look down into the forecourt of the Temple. Here
numbers of people moved about busily, forming themselves into knots
which dissolved and then formed larger groups.

At last the Tetrarch appeared. He had overslept himself, and his eyes
were blood-shot. He gave the Governor a brief greeting, and settled
himself as though for a conversation. But he found it hard to bring out
a word; his head hung down, and he did not know how to begin, for the
orgies of the preceding night had made him forget what he had come for.

Pilate came to his help: “Speak, Herod; your heart is full, and your
mind uneasy.”

“What do you say, my brother?”

“We were speaking yesterday of the strange man who stirs up the people.”

“Quite right! I had John beheaded. Is it he who is going about?”

“No, it is another one now.”

“Are there two of them?”

“Yes, this is another one.”

“But they have the same history--a prophecy which foretold their
birth, and the fable of a supernatural origin, just like the Perseus of
mythology, and the philosopher Plato in history. Is it a confusion of
persons?”

“No, not at all.”

“What is his name? Josua, Jesse...?”

“His name is Jesus, and he is said to have passed his childhood in the
Egyptian towns Heliopolis and Leontopolis.”

“Then he must be a magician or wizard; can he not come and divert me?”

“It is difficult to find him, for he is now in one place, now in
another. But we will question the High Priest; I have had him called,
and he waits below.”

“Why is there this commotion in the court of the Temple?”

“They are going to erect the Emperor’s statue in the Holy of Holies.”

“Quite right! Our gracious Emperor Tiberius lives like a madman on
Capri, and is pummelled by his nephew Caligula, if the offspring of
incest can be called a nephew. And now he is to become a god. Ha! Ha!”

“Antiochus Epiphanes had the statue of Zeus set up in the Holy of
Holies. He, however, _was_ a god. But to set up this beast, Tiberius,
means a tumult.”

“What are we to do? Call the Priest here.”

Pilate went and fetched the High Priest Caiaphas.

Herod closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his breast. He regarded
all matters of business as an interruption to his pleasures, and
generally liked to cut them short. When Pilate returned with Caiaphas,
the Tetrarch awoke from his doze, and did not know where he was, or
what they were talking about. Pilate stepped forward, aroused him to
consciousness, and directed his attention to the matter in hand.

“There is a tumult in the Temple,” was his first observation, for that
disturbed his sleep. “Ah! the Priest is here. What is the meaning of the
uproar below?”

“It is the Galilaean, who has taken to using force, and has driven the
money-changers out of the Temple.”

Herod’s curiosity was aroused: “I should like to see him.”

“He has already gone.”

“Tell us, High Priest, who is this man? Is he the Messiah?”

“That is incredible. The son of a poor carpenter, who is weak in the
head!”

“Is he a prophet?”

“He stirs up the people, he breaks the law, he is a glutton and
wine-bibber, and he blasphemes God. Yes, he says that he himself is God,
the Son of the Highest.”

“Have you witnesses to this?”

“Yes, but they contradict each other.”

“Then procure better witnesses, who will agree. But now, Priest, we
must talk of something else. You know that the Senate have decreed the
apotheosis of the Emperor, and that his image is to be set up in the
Temple. What do you think about it?”

“We live by the favour of the Emperor. But if this abomination is done,
we will all die as the Maccabees did.”

“Then die!”

Caiaphas considered a moment before he answered. “I will summon the
Sanhedrim, and tell them what the Emperor wishes.”

“Yes, do that. And before the Passover you must bring the Galilaean
before me, for I wish to see him.”

“I will.”

“Then go in peace.”

Caiaphas retired.

“They are a hard people, these Israelites,” said Pilate, for want of
something better to say. “I am also of Israel,” answered Herod somewhat
curtly, “for I am an Edomite, of Esau’s race, and my mother was a
Samaritan, belonging to the despised people.”

Pilate saw that he had made a slip, and therefore struck the ground
three times with his official staff. A large trap-door opened, and a
table came up covered with all kinds of delicacies according to Roman
taste.

Herod’s countenance cleared.

        *       *       *       *       *

In the Court of the Priests stood Caiaphas and Annas, and spoke with
each other.

“Since we cannot avert the abomination,” said Caiaphas, “and the
Emperor’s image is to be erected in the Holy of Holies, and the people
will be destroyed if there is an insurrection, it is better for us to
bring an offering to the Lord, and that one man die for the people.”

“You are right. An extraordinary atoning sacrifice is necessary, and as
the Passover is approaching, let us sacrifice the Galilaean.”

“Good! But the offering should be pure. Is the Galilaean pure?”

“Pure as a lamb.”

“May he then take Israel’s sins upon him, that we may be set free
through his blood. Who brings him into our hands?”

“One of his disciples, who stands outside.”

“Fetch him in.”

John, later known as the “Evangelist,” was brought in, and Caiaphas
began to examine him.

“What do you say concerning your teacher? Has he transgressed the law of
Moses?”

“He has fulfilled the law.”

“But what new commandment has he introduced into our holy law?”

“Love one another.”

“Did he say he was the King of the Jews?”

“The Master said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’”

“Has he not made children rebel against their parents?”

“The Master said, ‘He who loveth father or mother more than me is not
worthy of me.’”

“Did he not say that one has a right to neglect one’s duties as a
citizen?”

“The Master said, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His
righteousness.’”

“Did he tell labourers to leave their work?”

“The Master said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are
heavy-laden.’”

“Did he say that he would conquer the world?”

“The Master said, ‘In the world ye have tribulation, but be of good
cheer; I have overcome the world.’”

Caiaphas was weary: “According to all that I have heard and perceived,
this man has not answered a single question.”

“The Master answers in spirit and in truth, but you ask according to the
flesh and the letter. We are not the children of one spirit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He has sent me to preach good tidings to the poor, to heal the broken
in heart, to preach deliverance to the captives, to give sight to the
blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.”

“What you speak in foolishness, young man, can neither bring credit to
you nor to your teacher.”

“Woe unto you when men praise you, and he who departeth from evil maketh
himself a prey.”

Caiaphas turned to Annas: “This is not the man who will deliver the
Galilaean up to us.”

“They have sent another one--Listen! Is your name Iscariot?”

“No; my name is John.”

“Then go in peace, but send us Iscariot instead. But wait! Give us in
two words the teaching of your Master regarding the meaning of life.”

“Death is a gain for the righteous,” answered John without stopping to
think.

“Is life not itself...?”

“Through death ye shall enter into life.”

“We have heard enough. Go.”

But Caiaphas repeated to himself, as though he thought he would
understand those words in his own mouth better: “Death is a gain for the
righteous.”

Now there arose a clamour from the market-place and the hall of justice.
Annas and Caiaphas went out upon the battlemented walls to find out the
cause. Levites were standing there, and looking down.

“Has he been taken?”

“He has already been seized as an inciter to insurrection, because he
bade his disciples to sell their garments and buy a sword.”

“Have they found them with weapons?”

“They have found two swords.”

“Then he is already condemned.”

Then they heard a cry rise from the crowd before the Court of
Justice--at first difficult to distinguish, but ever clearer. The people
were crying “Crucify! Crucify!”

“Is that not too severe, regarded as a punishment?” said Caiaphas.

“No,” answered the Levite; “one of his disciples called Simon or Peter
drew his sword and wounded one of the servants called Malchus.”

“Do we need any more witnesses?”

“But the Teacher said, ‘Put up thy sword into its sheath, for they that
take the sword, shall perish with the sword.’”

“That is a difficult saying,” said Annas, and went down. But the people
continued to cry, “Crucify! Crucify!”




THE WILD BEAST


Before the temple of Jupiter Latiaris in Rome, two men of the middle
classes met each other. They both remained standing in order to
contemplate the new temple, which was different from all others, and
looked as if it had felt the effects of an earthquake. The basement
had the shape of a roof; the columns stood reversed with their capitals
below, and the roof was constructed like a basement with cellar-windows.

“So we meet here again, Hebrew,” said one of the two, who resembled a
Roman merchant. “Was it not in Joppa that we last met?”

“Yes,” answered the Hebrew. “One meets the Roman everywhere; he is at
home everywhere; one also meets the Hebrew everywhere, but he is at home
nowhere. But tell me, whose temple is this?”

“This is the Temple of the Wild Beast, the Emperor Caligula, the madman,
the murderer, the incestuous. He has erected it to himself; his image
stands within; and the madman comes every day to worship himself.”

So saying, the Roman made a sign on his forehead, moving the forefinger
of his right hand first from above, below, and then from left to right.

The Hebrew looked at him in astonishment.

“Are you not a Roman?”

“Yes, I am a Roman Christian.”

“Where do you live?”

“Here under Rome, in the catacombs.”

He pointed to a hole in the ground, which resembled those that led down
to the cloacae.

“Do you live here under the ground?”

“Yes, that is where we Christians live; there we lie like seed in the
earth, and germinate.”

“Those are grave-vaults down there.”

“Yes, we are buried with Christ, and await the resurrection.”

“Have you a temple down there?”

“We have our religious service there, and to-day we celebrate the birth
of Christ.”

“Someone is coming down the street,” said the Hebrew. The Roman opened
the trap-door in the ground in order to descend. From below the sounds
of a choral hymn were heard. “The City hath no need of the moon, neither
of the sun, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the
light thereof.”

“Who is the Lamb?” asked the Hebrew.

“Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the World.”

“Do you think the world is redeemed, while this mad Caligula....”

“The world will be redeemed, if we continue to hope.”

“You have, then, taken the promise away from Israel?”

“No, we have inherited the promise, for Christ was of the stock of
Israel.”

“Someone is coming.”

“Then farewell. We shall always meet, for the earth is ours.”

In the temple, which people called “the world turned upside down,” a man
slunk along the walls in a state of panic, as though he were afraid to
display his back. He had the face of a youth without any hair round
it. His upper lip was drawn upwards on the left side, and showed a long
canine tooth, while at the same time his right eye shot a sharp glance
like a poisonous arrow.

He glided along the wall to the apse, where an image was erected. It was
a likeness of the timid man himself, representing him exactly even to
his clothes.

“Is the priest there?” the mad Emperor whispered, for it was he.

No answer followed.

“Priest, dear priest, I am so frightened. Are you not coming?”

A sacrificial priest came forward, fell on his knee before the Emperor,
and worshipped him.

“Jupiter, Optimus, Maximus, Latiaris, frighten away thy foes.”

“Have I foes, then? Yes, and that is what frightens me. Do you believe
that I am God?”

“Thou art.”

“Let us then have thunder, to frighten my foes.”

The priest beat upon a kettledrum, and the echoes rolled through the
temple.

The Emperor laughed, so that all his teeth were visible.

“Priest!” he cried as he seated himself on his throne, “now you shall
sacrifice to me.”

The priest kindled a fire on the little altar before the madman.

The Emperor said, “The scent is good. Now I am the mightiest in heaven
and on earth. I rule over living and dead; I cast into Tartarus and lift
into Elysium. How mighty I am! I tame the waves of the sea, and command
the storm to cease: I hold sway over the planets in their courses; I
myself have created chaos, and the human race lie at my feet, from the
primeval forests of Britain to the sources of the Nile, which I alone
have discovered. I have made my favourite horse consul, and the people
have acknowledged his consulship. Priest! Worship me! Or do you forget
who I am? No, I am I, and I shall always worship myself in my own image.
Caius Caesar Caligula, I honour thee, Lord of the world, how I honour
myself! Jupiter Latiaris Caligula!”

He fell before the image on his knee.

“Some one is coming,” said the priest warningly.

“Kill him.”

“It is the tribune, Cassius Chaeraea!”

“Frighten him away.”

“Chaeraea does not let himself be frightened.”

The tribune came in fearlessly and without ceremony.

“Caius Caesar, your wife is dead.”

“All the better,” answered the Emperor.

“They have dashed your only child against a wall.”

“Ah, how pleasant!” laughed the madman.

“And now you are to die.”

“No, I cannot. I am immortal.”

“I wait for you outside. It shall not take place here.”

“Creep away, ant! My foot is too great to reach thy littleness.”

Then a sound of singing rose from the basement of the temple, or from
the earth; they were children’s voices.

The Emperor was again alarmed, and crept under his chair.

Chaeraea, who had waited at the door, lost patience.

“Dog! are you coming? Or shall I strike you dead here?”

“Chaeraea,” whimpered the Emperor, “do not kill me! I will kiss your
foot.”

“Then kiss it now when I trample you to death.”

The gigantic tribune threw the chair to one side, leapt on the madman
and crushed his windpipe beneath his heel; the tongue, protruded from
his jaws, seemed to be spitting abuse even in death.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Wild Beast had three heads; the name of the second was Claudius. He
played dice with his friend Caius Silius, who was famous for his wealth
and his beauty.

“Follow the game,” hissed Caesar.

“I am following it,” answered his friend.

“No, you are absent-minded. Where were you last night?”

“I was in the Suburra.”

“You should not go to the Suburra; you should stay with me.”

“Follow the game.”

“I am following it; but what are the stakes we are playing for?”

“You are playing for your life.”

“And you, Caesar?”

“I am also playing for your life.”

“And if you lose?” asked Silius.

“Then you will lose your life.”

The Emperor knocked with the dice-box on the table. His secretary
Narcissus came in.

“Give me writing materials, Narcissus. The antidote for snake-bites is
yew-tree resin....”

“And the antidote to hemlock?”

“Against that there is no antidote.”

“Follow the game, or I shall be angry.”

“No, you cannot be angry!” answered Silius.

“Yes, that is true,--I cannot! I only said so!”

Messalina, the Emperor’s wife, had entered.

“Why is Silius sitting here and playing,” she asked, “when he should
accompany me to the theatre?”

“He is compelled,” answered the Emperor.

“Wretch! what rights have you over him?”

“He is my slave; all are slaves of the Lord of the world. Therefore
Rome is the most democratic of all States, for all its citizens are
equal--equal before Men and God.”

“He is your slave, but he is my husband,” said Messalina.

“Your husband! Why, you are married to me.”

“What does that matter?”

“Do you go and marry without asking my permission?”

“Yes, why not?”

“You are certainly droll, Messalina! And I pardon you. Go, my children,
and amuse yourselves. Narcissus will play with me.”

When the Emperor was left alone with Narcissus, his expression changed.

“Follow them, Narcissus!” he hissed. “Take Locusta with you, and give
them the poison. Then I shall marry Agrippina.”

But when Silius and the Empress had gone without, Silius asked
innocently: “Have you yourself prepared the mushrooms which he will eat
this evening?”

“I have not done it myself, but Locusta has, and she understands her
business.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The name of the third head of the Wild Beast was Nero. He was
Agrippina’s worthy son, had poisoned his half-brother Britannicus,
murdered his mother, kicked his wife to death, and committed unnatural
crime. He falsified the coinage and plundered the temples. He made an
artistic tour to Greece, where he first appeared as a public singer
and brought eight hundred wreaths home, then as a charioteer, in which
capacity he upset everything, but received the prize because nobody
dared to refuse it to him.

To such a depth had Rome and Greece sunk. Claudius was an angel compared
to this monster; but he also received apotheosis.

To-day the Emperor had returned home from his artistic tour, and found
his capital in flames. Since, in his fits of intoxication, he had so
often raged against his old-fashioned Rome, with its narrow streets, and
had on various occasions expressed the wish that fire might break out at
all its corners, he came under the suspicion of having set it in flames.

He sat in his palace on the Esquiline in a great columned hall, and
feasted his eyes on the magnificent conflagration. It was a marble hall
with only a few articles of furniture, because the Emperor feared they
might afford lurking-places for murderers. But in the background of the
hall was a strong gilded iron grating, behind which could be caught a
glimpse of two yellow-brown lions from Libya. These the Emperor called
his “cats.”

At the door of the grating stood two slaves, Pallas and Alexander, and
watched every change in the Emperor’s face.

“He smiles,” whispered Pallas; “then it is all over with us. Brother, we
shall meet again. Pray for me and give me the kiss of peace.”

“The Lord shall deliver thee from all evil, and preserve thee for
His heavenly kingdom. This mortal must put on immortality, and this
corruptible, incorruption.”

The red face of the Emperor, red with wine and the light of the
conflagration, began to assume a look of attention, and it could be seen
from his eyes and ears that he was listening. Did he hear perhaps how
the masses of people whispered their suspicions of the “incendiary”?

“Pallas!” he roared, “Rome is burning!”

The slave remained speechless from fright.

“Pallas! Are you deaf?”

No answer.

“Pallas! Are you dumb? They say down there that I have fired the town,
but I have not. Run out in the streets and spread about the report that
the Christians have done it.”

“No, I will not!” answered the slave.

Nero believed that his ears had deceived him.

“Do you not know,” he said, “that the Christians are magicians, and live
like rats in the catacombs, and that all Rome is undermined by them? I
have thought of making the Tiber flow in to drown them, or of opening
the walls of the cloacas and submerging the catacombs in filth. Their
Sibylline books have prophesied the fall of Rome, though they use the
name ‘Babylon.’ See, now the Capitol takes fire. Pallas, run out, and
say the Christians have done it.”

“That I will not do,” answered Pallas loud and clearly, “because it is
not true.”

“This time my ears have not deceived me,” roared the Emperor rising.
“You will not go into the town; then go in through the grating-door and
play with my lions.”

He opened the door, and pushed Pallas into the fore-court of the lions.

“Alexander!” said Pallas, “I have prayed you to be firm and courageous!”

“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the latter day He shall
raise me from the earth.”

“What is that you are saying?” said the Emperor, and pulled a cord,
which opened the second door to the lions.

“Alexander, go out into the town, and spread the report that the
Christians have set Rome on fire.”

“No,” answered Alexander, “for I am a Christian.”

“What is a Christian?”

“God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son that
whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”

“Will you not perish? Have I not the power to destroy you?”

“You have no power over me, except it be given from above.”

“He does not fear death. Lentulus! bring fire here; I will set fire to
your clothes, that we may see if you can burn, I will set your hair,
your beard, your nails on fire; but we will first soak you in oil and
naphtha, in pitch and sulphur. Then we will see whether you have an
everlasting life. Lentulus!”

Lentulus rushed in: “Emperor! The city is in an uproar! Fly!”

“Must I fly? First bring fire!”

“Spain has revolted, and chosen Galba as Emperor.”

“Galba! Eheu! fugaces, Postume ... Galba! Well, then, let us fly, but
whither?”

“Through the catacombs, sire.”

“No! the Christians live there, and they will kill me.”

“They kill no one,” said Alexander.

“Not even their enemies?”

“They pray for their enemies.”

“Then they are mad! All the better!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Christians were assembled in one of the crypts of the catacombs.
“The Capitol is burning; that is the heathen’s Zion,” said Alexander.

“The Lord of Hosts avenges his destroyed Jerusalem.”

“Say not ‘avenges,’ say ‘punishes.’”

“Someone is coming down the passage.”

“Is it a brother?”

“No, he makes no obeisance before the cross.”

“Then it is an executioner.”

The Emperor appeared in rags, dirty, with a handkerchief tied round his
forehead. As he approached the Christians, whom in their white cloaks he
took for Greeks, he became quiet and resolved to bargain with them.

“Are you Greeks?”

“Here is neither Jew nor Greek, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but
all are brothers in Christ! Welcome, brother!”

“It is the Wild Beast,” said Alexander.

The Emperor now recognised his escaped slave, and in his terror fell on
his knees.

“Kill me not! I am a poor stone-cutter, who has lost his way. Show me
the way out, whether right or left.”

“Do you know me?” asked Alexander.

“Alexander!” answered the Emperor.

“He whom you wished to burn. It is I!”

“Mercy! Kill me not!”

“Stand up, Caesar! Thy life is in God’s hand.”

“Do I find mercy?”

“You shall have a guide.”

“Say whether right or left; then I can help myself.”

“Keep to the left.”

“And if you lie.”

“I cannot lie! Do you see, that is the difference.”

“Why do you not lie? I should have done so.”

“Keep to the left.”

The Emperor believed him, and went. But after going some steps, he stood
still and turned round.

“Out upon you, slaves! Now I shall help myself.”

It was a terribly stormy night, when Nero, accompanied by the boy
Sporus, and a few slaves, reached the estate of his freedman Phaon.
Phaon did not dare to receive him, but advised him to hide in a
clay-pit. But the Emperor did not wish to creep into the earth, but
sprang into a pond, when he heard the pursuers approaching, and remained
standing in the water. From this place he heard those who were going
by seeking him, say that he was condemned to be flogged to death. Then,
after some hesitation, he thrust a dagger into his breast.

His nurse Acte, who had also been his paramour, buried him in a garden
on Monte Pincio. The Romans loved him after his death, and brought
flowers to his grave. But the Christians saw in him the Wild Beast and
the Antichrist of the Apocalypse.


THE APOSTATE

At a date rather more than three hundred years after the Birth
of Christ, the stage of the world’s history had shifted from the
Mediterranean to the East. Greece was sunk in everlasting sleep, Rome
lay in ruins and had become a tributary state. Jerusalem was destroyed,
Alexandria at the mouth of the Nile in a state of decay. The world’s
metropolis lay on the Black Sea, and was a half-oriental colony called
Byzantium, or, after Constantine the Great, Constantinople. The heathen
world was a waste, and Christianity had become the State religion.
But the spirit of Christianity had not penetrated the empire. Doctrine
indeed there was--plenty of doctrine--but those at court lived worse
lives than the heathen, and the way to the throne in Byzantium was
generally through a murder.

But while the centre of gravity in Europe had shifted to the East, new
conquests had been made in the West and in the North. The Romans had
founded fifty cities on the Rhine, and, since Julius Caesar’s time, all
Gaul lay under Roman ploughs and worshipped Roman gods in Roman temples.

But now that Christianity was to be introduced into Gaul, it encountered
great difficulties. The original religion of the country, Druidism, had
been proscribed by the Emperor Claudius, and the Roman cult of the gods
substituted. And now that a second alteration of their religion was
proposed, the Gauls strongly resented it. Accordingly Gaul was in a
state of disorganisation, which was likely to result in some new growth.

But under the rule of Constantius, new danger from another side
threatened the newly-formed provinces of Gaul. The German races, the
Franks and the Alemanni, were attracted by the charm of the fertile
land, where the mountains seemed to drop with wine, and the plains were
covered with yellow corn. In order to protect the best of his provinces,
and perhaps for other reasons, the Emperor sent his cousin and
brother-in-law, Julian, to subdue the Germans. Although Julian had been
educated in a convent and at a university, he seems to have understood
the art of war, for he defeated the invaders and then retired to Lutetia
Parisiorum.

The legions had marched up the Mons Martis or Martyrorum, as it was
called by turns. At their head went the insignificant-looking man with
his beard trimmed like a philosopher’s--Julian, surnamed Caesar, but
not therefore Emperor. High on the summit of the hill stood a temple of
Mars, but it was closed. When the army had encamped, Julian went alone
to the edge of the hill, in order to view the town Lutetia, which he had
never seen.

On the island between the two arms of the Seine lay the main part of
the town with the temple of Jupiter; but the Imperial Palace and the
Amphitheatre stood on the slope of Mount Parnassus, on the left bank of
the river. For three hundred years from the time of Julius Caesar, the
Emperors had stayed here at intervals. The two last occupants had been
Constantine the Great and Constantius.

After thoughtfully contemplating for a while the valley with the river
flowing through it, Julian exclaimed, “Urbs! Why, it is Rome! A river,
a valley, and hills, seven or more, just as at Rome. Don’t you see,
we stand on the Capitoline? On the opposite side we have Janiculum
represented by Mount Parnassus, and in the north Mons Valerian forms our
Vatican. And the city on the island! The island resembles a ship, just
like the island in the Tiber, on which they have erected an obelisk as a
mast, so striking was the similarity. Caesar indeed was too original to
have wished to copy. They call Byzantium New Rome, but Rome is like a
worm; when cut in two, a living creature is formed from each piece. What
do you say, Maximus?”

“Rome was the city of the seven hills and the seven kings; how many
there will be here, none can say.”

“It had never occurred to me,” answered Julian, “that Rome had had just
as many kings as hills--a curious coincidence!”

Maximus the Mystic, who, together with the Sophist Priscus, always
accompanied the Emperor, in order to give him opportunities for
philosophising, immediately objected: “There are no ‘coincidences,’
Caesar, everything is reckoned and numbered; everything is created with
a conscious purpose, and in harmonious correspondence--the firmament of
heaven and the circle of the earth.”

“You have learnt that in Egypt,” Priscus interrupted, “for the Egyptians
see the river Nile in the constellation Eridanus. I should like to know
under which constellation this Lutetia lies!”

“It lies under Andromeda, like Rome,” answered Maximus, “but Perseus
hangs over the Holy Land, so that Algol stands over Jerusalem.”

“Why do you call that cursed land ‘holy’?” broke in Julian, who could
not control his generally quiet temper as soon as any subject was
mentioned connected with Christianity, which he hated.

“I call the land ‘holy’ because the Redeemer of the world was born
there. And you know that He was born without a father, like Perseus; you
know also that Perseus delivered Andromeda, as Jesus Christ will deliver
Rome and Lutetia.”

Julian was silent, for, as a Neo-platonist, he liked analogies between
the heavenly and the temporal, and a poetic figure was more for him than
a rhetorical ornament.

Educated in a convent by Christian priests, he had early gained an
insight into the new teaching of Christianity; but he believed that
his philosophic culture had shown him that the seed of Christianity
had already germinated in Socrates and Plato. After he had made the
acquaintance of the Neo-Platonists, he found nothing to object to in
the recently-promulgated dogmas of Christianity. But he felt a boundless
hate against these Galilaeans who wished to appropriate all the wisdom
of the past ages and give it their own name. He regarded them as
thieves. The doctrine of Christ’s Divine Sonship seemed to him quite
natural, for as a Pantheist he believed that the souls of all men are
born of God and have part in Him. He himself acknowledged the dogma
recently promulgated at Nicaea, that the Son is of the same essence as
the Father, although he interpreted, it in his own way. As to miracles,
they happened every day, and could be imitated by magicians. He
acknowledged the truth of the Fall of Man, for Plato also had declared
that the soul is imprisoned in matter--in sinful matter, with which we
must do battle. And this had been confirmed by St. Paul’s saying in the
Epistle to the Romans, “The good which I would, that I do not, but the
evil, which I would not, that I do,” and again, “I delight in the law
of God after the inward man. But I see another law in my members, which
warreth against the law of my mind.... O wretched man that I am! who
shall deliver me from the body of this death?” That was the lament of
the thinking sensitive man regarding the soul’s imprisonment in matter;
the disgust of human nature at itself.

Julian, as a sensitive and struggling spirit, had felt this pressure,
and had honestly and successfully combated the lusts of the flesh. Grown
up though he was, among murderers and sybarites, in the extravagant
luxury of the Byzantine Court, where, for example, he had at first
possessed a thousand barbers and a thousand cooks, he had abandoned
luxury, lived like a Christian ascetic, acted justly, and was
high-minded. He had a perfect comprehension of the soul’s imprisonment
in the flesh or of “sin,” but understood nothing of the Redemption
through Christ. Three hundred years had passed since the birth of
Christ, and the world had become continually more wretched. The
Christians he had seen, especially his uncle Constantine the Great,
lived worse than the heathen. As a young man he had tested the new
teaching in his own internal struggles; he had prayed to Christ as to
God, but had not been heard. When he had lamented his plight to the
devout Eusebius, the latter had answered, “Be patient in hope! Continue
constant in prayer.”

But the youth answered, “I cannot be patient.”

Then Eusebius said, “The deliverance comes, but not in our time. A
thousand years are as a day before the Lord God! Wait five days, then
you will see.”

“I will not wait,” exclaimed the youth angrily.

“So say the damned souls also. But look you, impatience is one of
the torments of hell, and you make a hell for yourself with your
impatience.”

Julian became a hater of Christ, without exactly knowing why. The
philosophers did not teach it him, for they adapted Christianity to
their philosophy. Celsus’ feeble attack on Christianity had not misled
Julian’s ripe and cultured intelligence. Eusebius explained his pupil’s
hatred of Christ in the following way: “He has heathen blood in him, for
he comes of Illyrian stock; he does not belong to this sheepfold. Or is
his pride so boundless, his envy so great, that he cannot tolerate any
Autocrat in the realm of the spirit? He lives himself like a Christian,
and teaches the same as Christ, but at the same time is a Christ-hater.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Julian, in order to hide his anger, had approached the little
Temple of Mars on the hill. The building was in ruins, the doors had
been carried away, and the columns were broken. As he entered it, he saw
the statue of Mars, modelled after a good Greek one of Ares, standing in
the apse, but the nose was broken off, the fingers were lacking, and the
whole statue was streaked with dirt.

“This is the work of the Galilaeans,” said Julian, “but they shall pay
for it.”

“They have already paid with their lives,” answered Maximus.

“Dionysius [Footnote: St. Denis] was beheaded on the hill, and his
chapel stands there on the slope.”

“Are you also a Galilaean?”

“No; but I love justice.”

“Justice and its guardian-goddess Astrasa left the earth when the Iron
Age began; now she is a star in heaven.”

“In the Zodiac,” interrupted Priscus; “I believe also, we all live in
Zodiacs, and there justice has no place.”

A sudden murmur of voices was heard from the camp. Julian mounted a heap
of stones to see what was the matter. The whole of the north-east side
of Mars’ Hill was covered with soldiers, and below in the valley were
to be seen tents and camp-fires. These thousands belonged to all the
nations of the world. They comprised Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, Negroes,
Hebrews, Persians, Afghans, Scythians, Germans, Britons, and Gauls. But
now they were in movement and swarming, as gnats do when they dance.

“What is the excitement about?” asked Julian.

A little bell from the chapel of St. Denis sounded the Angelus, and the
Christians fell on their knees, while the heathen remained standing
or continued their occupations. The Christians considered themselves
disturbed, and so did the heathen.

“This religion,” said Julian, “which should unite all, only divides
them. If the Church Councils, instead of formulating new creeds, had
done away with all forms, and proclaimed free worship with praise and
adoration of the Highest, all peoples would have bent the knee before
the Nameless, but look at the Christians! Since the law is on their
side, they have the upper hand, and therefore compel the heathen to
adore their Galilaean! But I will not help them. I can hold nations
together, but not professors of creeds. Let us go into the town. I will
not mix in the matter.”

Some Christian tribunes approached Julian, with the evident purpose of
complaining, but he waved them off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Julian had entered Lutetia on foot, accompanied by his philosophers. He
had not allowed himself to be escorted by generals or other officers,
because he did not trust them.

He found the new town to be a miniature of the Rome of the Caesars. It
is true that huts with straw roofs formed the nucleus of it, but there
were also several temples and chapels, a prefecture, a forum, and an
amphitheatre. The forum or market-place was surrounded by colonnades,
in which tradesmen and money-changers’ had opened their shops. One
side--the shortest--of it was occupied by the prefecture, in which the
Aedile and Quaestor lived.

Unnoticed and unrecognised by the people, Julian went into the
prefecture. In the hall he saw Christian symbols--the cross, the fish,
the good shepherd, etc. Christianity was certainly the State religion,
but Julian’s hatred against everything Christian was so great that he
could not look at these figures. Accordingly he went out again, called
the Prefect down, and bade him show the way to the Imperial palace and
the left side of the river. There he took up his abode in a simple room
resembling a monk’s cell. As he had been obliged to make many detours
since he had left Byzantium, and the punitive expedition against the
Franks and Alemanni had consumed much time, he found letters waiting his
arrival. Among them was one from the Emperor which seriously discomposed
Julian.

The attitude of the Emperor towards his cousin had always been somewhat
dubious, almost hostile, and now, after the latter’s victories, envy
and fear had taken possession of the mind of the Byzantine despot. The
letter contained a command for Julian to send back the legions at once,
as the war was at an end. Julian saw the danger if he stripped the
newly recovered land bare of defence, but his sense of duty and
conscientiousness bade him obey, and without hesitation he sent the
Emperor’s edict to the camp. This was on the evening of the first day of
his arrival.

The next morning Julian had gone out for an excursion with his learned
staff. They slowly climbed Mount Parnassus, and wandered through the oak
wood on the north side, avoiding the beaten paths. He and his companions
philosophised and disputed eagerly, and, forgetting their surroundings,
wandered ever deeper into the forest. Finally they reached an open space
where grazing deer had taken refuge, and set themselves down to rest on
strangely-shaped stones which lay in a circle. In the oaks over their
heads were large green clumps of a different colour from the oak-leaves,
and these they thought were birds’ nests.

“I have never seen so many crows’ nests together,” said Julian.

“They are not crows’ nests, your Majesty,” answered the scribe Eleazar,
who acted as Julian’s secretary. “That is the sacred mistletoe, which
grows on the oak, and through the operation of cosmic forces takes this
globular form, which is also said to be that of the earth and the other
heavenly bodies.”

“Is that...?”

“Yes, and we seem to have entered a sacred sacrificial grove, in which
the primeval deities of the land are still worshipped by the Druids,
although their worship is forbidden.”

“Forbidden in spite of the Emperor’s edict regarding religious freedom,”
 broke in the Sophist Priscus.

Julian did not like to be reminded of this edict, through which
Christianity had won freedom to suppress other creeds. He rose with
his companions in order to continue their excursion. After a while they
reached Suresnes and its vineyards, where figtrees and peach-trees lined
the walls. When they had ascended a height, they saw the whole Seine
Valley lying before them, with its fields, gardens, and villas.

“Why, that is like the sacred land of Canaan!” exclaimed Julian,
enchanted by the lovely landscape.

On the other side of the river rose the Hill of Mars, with its temples
and chapels, and where the soil had been laid bare the white chalk
gleamed in patches, as though a countless number of tents had been
erected on the slopes.

The philosophers stood for a long time there, and contemplated the view,
when a sound was heard like that of an approaching tempest. But no
cloud was visible, and they remained listening and wondering. The noise
increased till cries, shouts, and the clash of arms were heard. Now the
Hill of Mars seemed to be in movement; there were swarms of men on its
summit, and here and there steel could be seen flashing. Like a river,
the mass began to roll down the hill to the town.

Then the spectators understood. “It is a revolt of the legions,”
 exclaimed Maximus.

“The edict has taken effect.”

“They seek their own Emperor.”

“Then the only thing for us to do is to turn round and go home.” They
turned into the path which ran along the river, and followed it up the
stream, in order to be able to see what the legions were doing. The dark
mass, interspersed with flashes From swords and helmets, poured on in an
ever stronger tide.

Quickening their steps, Julian and his companions reached the palace, in
which there was great excitement. Julian was naturally a courageous man,
but as a philosopher he was retiring, and wished to avoid public scenes.
He therefore went through the bath-house and sought his lonely chamber,
in order to await what would happen. He paced restlessly up and down
the room, feeling that the destiny of his whole future life was just now
being decided. So there came what he half expected. Cries were audible
from the courtyard of the palace,--“Ave Caesar Julianus Imperator! We
choose Julian as Emperor! The crown for Julian! Death to Constantius the
murderer and weakling!”

There was no longer any room for doubt. The legions had chosen Julian
Emperor because they would not leave this fertile land, which they had
conquered at the cost of their blood. Julian, who had not striven
for power because he feared responsibility, wished to decline; but
messengers from the army warned him, “If you do not accept, you will
be slain.” He who does not dare to rule will be enslaved. Thus Julian
became Emperor of the great realm which stretched from the Black Sea to
the Atlantic Ocean.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night which followed this day was spent by the Emperor in
reflection; and when in the morning, after a bath, he appeared to his
friends, he was hardly recognisable as the same man. He had literally
thrown off the mask, and showed a new face, with a new expression,
almost new features. In spite of his upright character, Julian,
like Constantine, had been compelled to live in a perpetual state
of hypocrisy, by being obliged to favour and practise the Christian
teaching in which he did not believe. He had even been forced to
acknowledge the Trinity and Deity of Christ as promulgated by the
Council of Nicaea, to attend services and observe fasts. The first thing
he did after obtaining power, was to use his freedom and be what he was.
His first act was to separate the sheep from the goats, i.e. to pick out
the “Galilaeans,” and form them into legions by themselves, under the
pretext that they could thus better carry out their religious practices.
But at the same time he surrounded his person exclusively with
heathen of the old type,--Hebrews, Syrians, Persians, and Scythians.
Simultaneously he assumed the gorgeous purple and glittering diadem of
the emperors, trimmed and gilded his beard, and showed himself
abroad only on horseback and with a great train. This done, he made
preparations for publicly receiving the homage of the people, and
determined to use the theatre for that purpose, and to put on the stage
_Prometheus_, the trilogy of Aeschylus, which at that time existed in
its entirety. The Emperor had brought actors with him, and the theatre
stood ready. The news of this had spread in the town, and was joyfully
hailed by the heathen, while the Christians were vexed. The lower
classes had, it is true, expected a gladiatorial show and wild beast
fights, but a “comedy,” as they called it, was always welcome.

The day arrived, and the town was in gala attire. The play was to last
from morning to evening without pauses for meals; and as the spring
weather was cold and uncertain, the spectators were advised to bring
the garment known as “cucullus,” a short white Roman mantle with a hood,
which was all the more necessary as the theatre stood under the open
sky.

Julian, now called Augustus, came to the theatre at the appointed time,
accompanied by his philosopher friends, who had to take their seats at a
little distance, for the Emperor sat in the imperial box, whither he had
summoned the Prefect, Aedile and Quaestor to be in attendance on him. He
was somewhat astonished not to find these city authorities there, and as
the Aedile was president of the theatre, they could not begin before he
came.

The people had risen as Julian entered, and many tribunes had shouted
“Long live the Emperor!” but thereupon there followed an embarrassing
silence, during which the Emperor was regarded with cold curiosity. When
at last the latter was weary of waiting, he called his secretary, the
Hebrew Eleazar, and commanded him to go to the prefecture in order to
find out the reason of the defaulters’ absence, and at the same time he
gave the signal for the play to commence.

The actors entered, and at the altar commenced to offer the ancient kind
of sacrifice which used to serve as an introduction to tragedies. Since
animal sacrifices had ceased in all religions, even in the Jewish after
the destruction of the Temple, under Titus in A.D. 70, this unusual
proceeding aroused great curiosity. The legionaries were inured to the
sight of blood, but the citizens and their wives turned away when the
goat was sacrificed to Dionysus. People sought to find the reason for
Julian’s wish to reintroduce this custom in his laudable attempt to
mingle all religions together, and to discover a deeper meaning in the
ceremonies of all. The offering indeed was a gift, a sacrifice, and an
expression of gratitude, but Maximus the mystic had also persuaded the
Emperor that there were hidden powers in the blood itself, the source
of life, which attracted spiritual forces of a lower order. Man shed his
mother’s blood at his birth and the sacred institution of circumcision
was intended to be a reminder of the bloody and painful operation of
birth. Slaves were slaughtered on the graves of chieftains, and in
the time of Julius Caesar the Romans had on one extraordinary occasion
sacrificed three hundred prisoners. Captivated by this and by similar
philosophical arguments, Julian was enticed into a course which was
destined to lead to his destruction. After the sacrifice, at which the
soldiers had laughed and the women had wept, the drama commenced in
the poet’s original language. Greek was indeed spoken by all people of
cultivation from Palestine to Gaul, but the uneducated did not know it,
and therefore the citizens sat there inattentively.

As the chorus entered for the second time, Eleazar returned with news.
“This is what has happened,” he said. “The Bishop of Sens, the Primate
of the Church of Gaul, has entered the town, and is performing mass in
the church. The high officials are present there, and they accordingly
beg to be excused attending on the Emperor. They thought that he was
aware that Christians never go to the theatre, and they rely upon the
edict granting religious liberty.”

Julian turned white with rage. “Good! They shall pay for that! Now, my
Jewish friend, Eleazar, you shall sit near and talk with me. The actors
are wretched, and I cannot endure their pronunciation of Greek.”

Eleazar demurred, but the Emperor overruled his objections. The morning
passed, and when the first part of the trilogy was at an end, part of
the public seemed to wish to steal away; but the exits were closed, in
order to avoid the fiasco of actors playing to an empty house, and
the disrespect which would thereby be shown to the Emperor. But the
discontent of the audience continually increased, for they were tired
and hungry. They were also unpleasantly surprised by the presence of a
Jew in the Emperor’s box. It was not, however, because he was a Jew,
for hatred of the Jews arose much later, after the Crusades. During the
first centuries after Christ, Jews were confused with Christians because
people believed that the new religion came from Palestine and was a
continuation of Mosaism. The hostile glances which were cast at Eleazar
were therefore more on account of his mean appearance and position than
of his religion. The favour shown him by the Emperor was especially
a challenge to the Christians, in whose eyes he was an alien and a
heathen.

When, in the second part of the trilogy, Prometheus was nailed to the
rock, the spectators must have thought of the Crucified as the antitype,
for the actor playing that part took that posture, extended his arms,
and let his head sink on his breast. The common people became more
attentive, and as they neither had learnt Greek nor were acquainted
with mythology, they thought that the sufferings of Christ were being
represented on the stage. Since this had never been done before, they
were displeased, and half-audible conversations began. The Emperor was
angry, but did not move a muscle. He was generally quiet, but when
he was enraged his intelligence forsook him. He sat there in silence,
revolving plans against these barbarians, who had forgotten the wisdom
of the ancients. It was now past noon, and the impatience of the
audience increased. Then the sky began to be covered with clouds and
some flakes of snow fell slowly like white feathers. Those who had
mantles drew them over their heads. The actors looked towards the
Emperor’s box, but he did not move, although it had no roof. He was a
soldier, and would not be afraid of anything so trivial as bad weather.

Now Prometheus began to prophesy to Io of the Deliverer who would
be born to overthrow Zeus and deliver the fire-bringer. The educated
Christians and the heathen looked at each other questioningly, when
Io said, “What dost thou say? Shall my son be thy deliverer?” And when
Prometheus answered, “He will be the third scion after ten generations,”
 a murmur broke out in the theatre. “Ten generations,” that was in round
numbers 700 years--a period nearly extending to the birth of Christ,
since the Christians reckoned dates from 763 A.D., the end of the
mythological era, to which the drama belonged.

Julian perceived that he had “carried wood to the fire,” and helped the
Christians without intending to do so. Aeschylus had prophesied Christ’s
birth almost to the very year, and intimated that he would overthrow
Zeus. The orthodox followers of Athanasius wished for no better weapon
with which to crush the Arians, who denied the Deity of Christ.

The snow fell ever more thickly, till at last it was a snowstorm. Julian
was as white as though he wore a shroud, but he did not move, for he
was beside himself with rage against himself, against the demons who
had enticed him to choose this play, and against the heavenly powers who
mocked him.

The whole audience was covered with snow, and discussed theology; the
rabble laughed and quarrelled. The only ones who were protected against
the inclemency of the weather were the actors under the canopy. But the
damp snow was heavy, and the linen awning presently bent and broke.

Then the whole audience rose and burst into laughter; the actors crept
out from under the masses of snow, the doors opened, and all fled except
Julian and his philosophers.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as Julian had been elected Emperor, he had sent an ambassador
to the Emperor at Byzantium, and now awaited his reply. It was about
the time of the winter solstice and the turn of the year. The Christians
had, at this period, just begun to celebrate the birth of Christ, and
had adopted certain Roman customs from the Saturnalia, the feast in
honour of Saturn. Julian, irritated by the challenge of the Nazarenes,
began to arm himself for resistance and attack. Now he determined to use
his power to give back to heathendom what belonged to it, and to show
the Christians whence they had derived their knowledge of the highest
things. At the same time he wished to lend heathenism a Christian
colouring, so that, at its return, it might be able to conquer
everything. The old Temple of Jupiter, on the island in the river, was
opened one night, and lights were seen in it. There was also a noise of
hammers and saws, mattocks and trowels. This lasted for some time, and
people talked about it in the town.

One night in midwinter, Julian sat with Maximus, Priscus, and Eleazar
in the Opisthodomos or priests’ room, behind the altar in the Temple
of Jupiter. The whole temple was lit up, and the purpose of the
improvements which had taken place could be seen. By the colonnade on
the left hand was an ambo or pulpit, and under it a confessional; there
were also a seven-branched candlestick, a baptismal font, a table with
shewbread, and an incense-altar. These represented Julian’s attempt
to attach the new doctrine to the old, and to amalgamate heathenism,
Christianity, and Judaism. Heliogabalus had indeed attempted the same in
his own rough fashion, by introducing Syrian sun-worship into Rome,
but he retained all the heathen gods, even the Egyptian ones. Neither
Christians, however, nor Jews would have anything to do with it.

Julian did not love the Jews, but his hatred of Christianity was so
great that he preferred to help the stiff-necked race in Palestine, in
order to rouse them against Christ. For that purpose he had given orders
that the Temple in Jerusalem should be rebuilt, and this was the matter
which he wished to discuss with his philosophers and Eleazar. “What
is your opinion, then?” he asked, after finishing a long speech on the
subject. “Let Maximus speak first.”

“Caesar Augustus,” answered Maximus the mystic, “Jerusalem has been
destroyed from the face of the earth, as the prophets foretold, and the
Temple cannot be rebuilt.”

“Cannot? It shall be.”

“It cannot! Constantine’s mother, indeed, built a church over the grave
of Christ, but the Temple cannot be rebuilt. Since Solomon’s time the
history of this city has been a history of successive destructions.
Sheshach, the Philistines, Arabs, Syrians, Egyptians, and Chaldaeans,
destroyed it in early times. Then came Alexander Ptolemaus, and finally
Antiochus Epiphanes, who pulled down the walls and set up an image of
Jupiter in the Temple. But now, mark!--sixty-three years before Christ,
Jerusalem was conquered by Pompey. What happened in the same year after
Christ in the Roman Empire? Pompeii, the town by Naples, named after
the conqueror, was destroyed in A.D. 63 by an earthquake. That was the
answer, and the Lord of Hosts conquered Jupiter,--Zeus.”

“Listen!” broke in Julian, “I don’t agree with your Pythagorean
speculations about numbers. If both events had happened in the year 63
before Christ, then I would be nearly convinced.”

“Wait, then, Caesar, and you will be. After Pompey had conquered
Jerusalem, and Cassius had plundered it, Herod rebuilt the city and the
Temple. But soon afterwards--_i.e._ in A.D. 70, Jerusalem was completely
destroyed by Titus. Only nine years later Monte Somma began to throw up
fire as it had never done before, and by it Pompeii and Herculaneum were
both destroyed. Pompeii and Herculaneum were Sodom and Gomorrah, and a
temple in Pompeii contained an image of Vespasian, who had laid waste
part of Jerusalem before Titus. It disappeared altogether. Do you think
perhaps that the Christians set Vesuvius on fire, as Nero believed they
had fired Rome in A.D. 64?”

Julian reflected: “There were nine years between,” he said, “but it
seems strange.”

“Yes,” answered Maximus, “but precisely in the same year 70, in which
Titus destroyed the Temple, the Capitol was burnt.”

“Then it is the gods who are warring, and we are only soldiers,”
 exclaimed Julian.

Priscus the Sophist, who liked word-encounters, determined to stir up
the embers, as they seemed to be expiring: “But Christ has said that one
stone shall not remain upon another, and that the Temple shall never be
built again.”

“Has Christ said that?” answered Julian. “Very well; then he shall show
whether he was a god, for I will build again the Temple of Solomon.”

And turning to Eleazar, he continued, “Do you believe in prodigies?”

“As surely as the Lord lives, as surely as Abraham’s God has brought us
out of Egyptian bondage and given us Canaan, so surely will He fulfil
the promise, and restore to us land, city, and Temple!”

“May it be with you according to your belief. The Temple shall be built
up, even though it be not in three days as the Galilaean thought.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The winter solstice had come, and the Feast of the Saturnalia commenced
in Lutetia. The heathen had always kept the feast in recollection of the
legendary Golden Age, which was said to have been under the reign of the
good Saturn. Then there was peace upon earth; the lion played with the
lamb, the fields brought forth harvests without husbandry, weapons were
not forged, for men were good and righteous. This beautiful festival,
which had been discontinued by the Romans, had been revived by the
Christians, who at Christ’s coming expected a new Golden Age or the
Millennium. But now Julian wished to restore to the heathen their
privilege, and at the same time to show the Nazarenes whence they had
derived their religious usages.

The heathen began to keep the festival in the old way. The shops were
closed, and the city decorated, when on the morrow a procession was seen
issuing from the Basilica to the market-place. At the head went King
Saturn, with his horn of plenty, corn-sheaves, and doves; he was
followed by the Virtues, Fortune, Wealth, Peace, Righteousness. Then
followed an actor dressed like the Emperor, and by the hand he led a
captive, who, in honour of the day, had been freed from his chains. He
was followed by citizens who took their slaves by the arm; and these in
their turn by women and children, who scattered corn from the sheaves
for the sparrows in the street. The procession passed through the
streets, and at first pleased the beholders.

Then they entered the temple, where there was a seated image of Jupiter
in the apse. It had been cunningly modelled to resemble God the Father,
or Moses, as he began to be represented about that time. Near and a
little beneath this image stood Orpheus in the character of the Good
Shepherd, with a lamb on his shoulders, and carved in relief on the
pedestal was to be seen his descent to Hades, from which he returned
bringing Diké (Justice),--a play on the name Eurydice. This was a
direct hit at the Christians. Before the divine images stood the Jewish
shewbread table, with the bread and the wine--a reminder of the source
from which the Christians had taken the Eucharist or the Mass. As though
by chance, a new-born heathen child was brought and baptized in the
font. To the question of one, who had studied his part, whether heathen
were baptized, it was answered by one, who also had his role assigned
him, that the ancients had always washed their new-born children.

The whole affair was a comedy staged by Julian.

Then Maximus mounted the pulpit, and, in a Neo-platonic discourse,
expounded all religious images, symbols, and customs. He also showed
that the heathen only worshipped one God, whose many attributes found
expression in various personifications. Then he ostensibly defended
Christ’s Deity, the Virgin birth, and miracles. “We are,” he said, “all
of divine origin, since God has created us, and we are His children.
There is nothing remarkable in Christ being born without a father, since
the philosopher Plato was also born of a virgin without a father.” In
the middle of his discourse he exclaimed: “Miracles! Why should we not
believe in miracles, since we believe in Almighty God? His omnipotence
signifies that He can suspend the laws of nature which he has
established. He who believes not in miracles is therefore an ass.” The
discourse was listened to by heathen and Christians. The latter thought
that they had never heard anything which so clearly explained mysterious
dogmas, and the heathen found that they were one with the Christians.
“What, then, stands between us?” exclaimed Maximus, carried away by the
sight of the harmony and mutual understanding which prevailed among his
audience. “Have we not all one Father? Has not one God created us? Why,
then, strive one against the other? Have we not here to day celebrated
the recollection of the better times which have been, and which will
surely return, as the light returns with the renewal of the sun--times
of reconciliation and peace on earth, when no one will be master and no
one slave? Here is neither Jew nor Greek nor Barbarian, but we are all
brothers and sisters in one faith. Therefore love one another; reconcile
yourselves with God and each other; give each other the kiss of peace;
rejoice, perfect yourselves, be of one mind, and the God of love and
peace shall be with you.”

The audience was delighted, and with streaming eyes fell in each other’s
arms, pressed each other’s hands, and kissed each other’s cheeks.

Then suddenly a row of lights was kindled on the altar; that was part of
the ceremonial of the Saturnalia, and signified the return of the sun.
This custom was adopted by the Christians in celebrating the Birth of
Christ or Christmas.

After this beggars were brought forward, and those of the upper classes
washed their feet. Then twelve slaves took their seats at a covered
table, while their masters served them. Julian, who, hidden in the
Opisthodom, had watched the whole ceremony, secretly rejoiced, because
by means of these ancient heathen rites he had entirely defeated the
Christians. In them, as he had intended, there was a wordless expression
of philanthropy and charity, and both had existed from time immemorial.

Finally, the children were brought forward, and received as presents
dolls modelled of wax and clay. The illusion was complete, and the
Christians felt as though under an enchanter’s spell. “The heathen are
Christians after all!” they exclaimed. “Why, then, strive and quarrel,
when we are one?”

There was an overflow of emotion, and the success of the experiment was
complete. That was the victory of the first day. When, on the following
day, the Christians wished to celebrate their Christmas festival, it
necessarily appeared a mere copy of that of the heathen.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Saturnalia lasted seven days, and Julian, intoxicated with his
success, resolved to introduce the whole of the ancient ceremonies in
all their terrible splendour. His philosophers warned him, but he did
not listen to them any more; he must have his hecatombs; a hundred oxen
adorned with garlands were to be slaughtered in the open space before
the Temple of Jupiter, as a sacrifice to the ancient gods.

“He is mad!” lamented Eleazar.

“Whom the gods would destroy, they strike with blindness. Now he pulls
down, what he had built up.”

It is difficult to explain how the highly cultivated, clever, and
aesthetic Julian could conceive the wild idea of reintroducing animal
sacrifices. It was really butchery or execution, and neither butchers
nor executioners enjoyed much respect in society. It looked as though
his hatred of Christ had clouded his understanding, when, arrayed in the
garb of a sacrificial priest, he led forth the first ox, with its horns
gilded and wearing a white fillet.

After he had kindled incense on the altar, he poured the bowl of wine
over the head of the ox, thrust his knife in its throat and turned it
round. A shudder ran through the crowd, who remained riveted to their
places.

But as the blood spirted around, and the Emperor opened the quivering
body of the animal in order to take an augury from its entrails, a cry
rose which ended in an uproar, and all fled. The word “Apostate!” for
the first time struck his ear. That was the signal of his defeat, and,
as the animals were released by those who held them, they fled away
through the streets of the town.

The Emperor, in his white robe sprinkled with blood, had to return
alone to his palace, while Christians and heathen alike shouted their
disapprobation.

“See the butcher!” they cried; “Apostate! Renegade! Madman!”

When Julian came to his palace, he looked as though petrified; but,
without changing his clothes, he sat down to the table and wrote an
edict against the Christians, in which they were forbidden to study, and
to fill offices of State. That was his first step.

In the evening of the same day Julian received a letter: it was from the
Emperor Constantius in Byzantium, who did not acknowledge his election
to the imperial throne, and threatened to bring an army against him in
Gaul. This was quite unexpected, and Julian left Lutetia in order to
march against his cousin. As he went towards the East, he felt as though
he were going to his death. But the first throw of the dice of destiny
was a lucky one for him. Constantius died on the march, and Julian was
left sole Emperor. This he took for a sign that the gods were on his
side, and he proceeded on his campaign feeling that he was supported by
the higher powers. But it was only the last jest of his gods.

It is related that before his last march against the Persians, he wished
to ascertain his destiny, and had a woman’s body cut open in order to
take an augury from the entrails. But that may be untrue, as is also
the case with the conflicting reports of his death, which happened soon
after. One thing, however, is certain; the “Galilaean” conquered Zeus,
who rose no more.

It is also a fact, confirmed by Christian, Jewish, and heathen
writers, that the Temple of Jerusalem was never built again, for as
the foundation was about to be laid, fire broke out of the ground
accompanied by an earthquake. The same earthquake also destroyed Delphi,
“the centre of the earth,” and the focus of the religious and political
life of Greece.




ATTILA


With the demise of Constantine the Great, Greece, Rome, and
Palestine had ceased to exist. Civilisation had passed Eastward, for
Constantinople was the metropolis of Europe; and from the East, Rome,
Spain, Gaul, and Germany were governed by satraps with various titles.
It seemed as though the vitality of Europe had been quenched, and as
though Rome had been buried, but it was only apparently so. History did
not proceed in a straight line, but took circuitous paths, and therefore
development seemed to be in disorder and astray. But it was not really
so.

Christianity, which was about to penetrate the West, had sprung from the
East, and so ancient Byzantium formed a transition stage. In Rome, which
had been left to itself, for its governors dwelt in Milan and Ravenna, a
new spiritual world-power was springing up, which was silently forging
a new imperial crown, in order to give it to the worthiest when the time
was fulfilled. The advent of this heir had already been announced by
Tacitus--a new race from the North, healthy, honest, good-humoured.
These were the Germans, who were to hold the Empire for a thousand years
from 800 to 1815. Already, at the commencement of the fifth century, the
West Goths had captured Rome, but again withdrawn; other German races
had overrun Spain, Gaul, and Britain, but none of them had taken firm
root in Italy. Then an entirely new race appeared upon the scene, whose
origin was unknown, and the promise of possessing the land which had
been given to the Germans seemed to have been revoked, for the Huns
finally settled in Hungary, and exacted tribute from all the nations in
the world. Round a wooden castle and a few barracks on the river Theiss,
there collected a crowd of Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, and Germans
of all kinds to do homage before a throne on which sat a savage who
resembled a lump of flesh.

In the year 453 A.D. this King, after many adventures, wished to
celebrate one of his numerous marriages. He had summoned the chief men
of all Europe--summoned--for a King does not invite. So they came riding
from North, South, East, and West.

From the west, along the bank of the Danube, just below the place where
the river makes a curve at the modern Gran, came two men riding at the
head of a caravan. For several days they had followed the picturesque
banks of the green river, with its bulr

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