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.”