HOW SCAURUS STUDIED THE THREE GOSPELS
Beginning with the passages that described the Lord’s Supper, I soon
found that Scaurus was correct in saying that the words of the Lord
quoted by Paul were not in any of the gospels. But my copy of Luke—an
old one, having been transcribed in the reign of the emperor Nerva as
the scribe stated—contained a note in the margin, not in the scribe’s
handwriting, “After ‘_my body_,’ some later copies have these words,
‘_which is being given in your behalf. Do this to my remembering; and the
cup likewise, after supping, saying, This cup is the new testament in my
blood which is being shed for you_’.” Now these words were very similar
to Paul’s quotation, and Flaccus had told me that Luke was a companion of
Paul. So I reflected that Luke must often have partaken of the Christian
Supper with Paul, and must have heard these words from Paul. Why
therefore were the words omitted in Luke, except in “some later copies”?
Mark, Matthew, and Paul agreed in inserting some mention of “covenant.”
Why did Luke, Paul’s companion, alone omit it?
Looking into the matter more closely, I found that Luke, though he
omitted the phrase about “covenant,” _inserted in his context some
mention of “covenanting,” or “making covenant,”_ as follows: “I
_covenant_ unto you as my Father _covenanted_ unto me.” The “covenant”
was “a kingdom, that ye may eat and drink at my table.” Also, in the
same context, Jesus said, “The kings of the nations lord it over them,
and those who play the despot over them are called”—I think he meant,
“called” by their flatterers—“benefactors. But you, not so.” And Jesus
went on to say, “He that ruleth must be as he that serveth,” and, “I am
among you as he that serveth.” The words “my Father covenanted unto me”
appeared to mean a covenant of sacrifice, namely, that the Son was to
sacrifice Himself for the sins of the world, and to pass, through that
sacrifice, into the Kingdom at the right hand of the Father. And the
other words meant that Jesus “covenanted” with the disciples that they
should sacrifice themselves in like manner, taking Him as it were into
themselves, by drinking the blood of the sacrifice (that is, His blood)
and eating its flesh or body (that is, His body). And thus they, too,
being made one with Him, were to pass into the Kingdom.
Such a “covenant” as this, would, I perceived, be so “new” that it might
be described as turning the world upside down—all the kings serving their
subjects, all the masters waiting on their servants. This was indeed
strange. But it was not peculiar to Luke. Mark and Matthew (I found) had
a similar doctrine, though not in this passage; only, instead of “I am
among you as he that serveth,” they had, “to give his soul as a ransom
for many.” This accorded with what was said above, namely, that the
“covenant,” or condition, on which the Son came into the world, was, that
He should be the “servant,” or “sacrifice,” or “ransom,” for mankind. All
three names expressed aspects of one and the same thing. David had said,
“The sacrifice of the Lord is a contrite spirit.” That meant, contrite
for _one’s own_ sins. Jesus seemed to go outside a man’s self, and to
say, “The sacrifice of the Lord is a spirit of service _to others_.”
Romans, I reflected, would call this doctrine either an impracticable
dream, or—if practicable, and if attempted—a pestilent revolution. But
once more the thought recurred that the Jew would say to us, as the
Egyptian said to Solon, “You Romans are but children,” and that, although
Rome had the power (as Virgil said) of “subjecting the proud oppressors
in war,” it might not have what Epictetus described as the power of the
true Ruler (which this Jewish Ruler seemed to claim), namely, to draw the
subjects towards the ruler with the chain of “passionate affection.”
Scaurus next asserted that some disagreements here between the
evangelists arose from translating Hebrew into Greek. Where Mark has
“and they drank,” Matthew has “drink ye.” Scaurus said that the same
Hebrew might produce these two Greek translations. “Also,” said he,
“supposing Jesus to have said in his native tongue, _This is my body for
you_, some might take ‘for you’ to mean ‘given _to you_ as a gift,’ but
others ‘given _for you_ as a sacrifice’.” Hence he inferred that it was
hardly possible to discover what Jesus actually said, because, besides
differences of memory in the witnesses, there might be differences of
translation in those who remembered the same words. But on the other
side, if Scaurus was right, the facts shewed the independence of the
witnesses, as well as their honesty and accuracy. If Jesus used one
Jewish phrase that might imply two meanings, it seemed natural that his
disciples should try to express both meanings in Greek. The nearness of
the Passover (at the time when the words were uttered), and the connexion
in scripture between “covenant” and “sacrifice,” and many things
that I had read in Paul’s epistles, made me believe that “sacrifice”
was implied. Why should not the disciples suppose that their Saviour
bequeathed a legacy _to_ them that was also a sacrifice _for_ them? This
seemed to me a beautiful and intelligible belief.
The result was that I resolved not to give up the study of these books.
Repeating my father’s maxim, _Audi alteram partem_, “Scaurus,” I said,
“shall be on one side, and the three gospels”—which I spread out on the
table—“shall be on the other.” I soon found, however, that my task was
not so simple. There was not merely “the other side,” there were often
three “sides”—so strangely did the gospels vary. Scaurus made a fourth,
or, rather, a commentary on the three. From my youth up (thanks largely
to Scaurus) I had some skill in comparing histories. It was necessary
first (I perceived) to have the three gospels side by side. For this
purpose, the penknife and the pen—the former for transposing, the latter
for transcribing—had to be freely used. Mark’s gospel I preserved intact.
Extracts from Matthew and Luke—copying or cutting them out—I placed
parallel to the corresponding passages in Mark. I also made use of
marginal notes in my MS. referring me to parallel passages in the other
gospels or in the scriptures. Some days were spent in this labour. After
that, I determined to attend lectures regularly, but to devote all my
leisure to a close examination of the gospels with the help of Scaurus’s
comments. Now I must speak of his letter.
It began, as his postscript had ended, with a personal appeal, warning
me against a tendency to dreaming, “which,” said he, “I think you must
have inherited from my Etrurian grandmother, whose blood runs in your
veins—through your dear mother—as well as in mine. I myself, at times,
have to fight against it.” Then he cautioned me against the Jews. “They
are all of them,” he said, “dangerous people, though in different
ways. There are two sorts, plotters and dreamers; the plotters, all
for themselves; the dreamers, all for someone else, or something else
(the Gods know what!) outside themselves. Now a dreamer in the west,
mostly a Greek (for a Roman dreamer is a rare bird) is a harmless
creature—dreaming passively. But the Jewish dreamer dreams actively. He
is, to use the Greek adjective, _hypnotic_. If I might invent a Greek
verb, I would say that he ‘_hypnotizes_’ people. He makes others dream
what he dreams. And his dreams are not the dreams of Morpheus, ‘golden
slumbers’ on ‘heaped Elysian flowers.’ No, they are often dreams like
those of Hercules Furens—destroying himself and his friends while he
thinks he is destroying ‘powers of evil’! I have known several Jews, some
very good, more very bad; only one, perhaps, half-and-half. That was
Flavius Josephus, whose histories you have read. He could be all things
to all men in a very clever way, mostly for his people, sometimes for
himself.
“Paul was all things to all men in a very different way, and always the
same way. Paul, as you know, frankly warns his readers, ‘I am become all
things to all men that I may by all means save some,’ and ‘I became to
the Jews a Jew that I might gain the Jews’—not for himself, of course,
but for his Master, the King of the Jews. I have never told you, before,
something that I will tell you now—to warn you against these Jews,
especially the Christian Jews. I once saw this Paul, only once. I was but
a boy. He was standing, chained, in a corridor in the palace, waiting
to be heard. One of the Prætorian guard was talking to him and Paul was
replying, while my father and I were passing by; and my father, having
something to say to the guardsman, made some courteous remark to Paul
about interrupting their talk. Paul stood up. He was rather short, and
bent down besides with the weight of his chains; and the guardsman (quite
against regulations) had put a stool for him to rest on. He reached up
his face to my father’s as though he could not see very distinctly:
but it was not exactly the eyes, but the look in them, the unearthly
look, that I shall never forget. No doubt, he was thankful for the few
syllables of kindness. It seemed to me as if he wished to return the
kindness in kind. He said something. What it was I don’t know. Probably
bad Greek or worse Latin. Thanks of some sort, no doubt. But it was
the look—the look and the tone, that struck me. Struck! No, rather,
bewitched. For days and nights afterwards I saw that man’s face, and
heard his voice in my dreams. I did not like the dreams. But he made me
dream. He was a retiarius. If he had had me alone for a day or two, I
feel even now that he would have caught me in his Christian net. I don’t
want you to be caught.”
Then Scaurus went on to speak of himself at some length. I will set down
his exact words for two reasons. First, they shew what pains he had taken
to prepare himself for the work of a critic. Secondly, his letter seemed
to me to explain in part why he was so set against what he called the
soporific or hypnotic art of Paul. He and I approached the apostle in
different circumstances. I came to Paul before coming to the gospels.
He read the gospels first, and found it impossible to believe them.
Then, with a mind settled and fixed against belief, approaching Paul, he
found—this I believe to be the fact—that Paul was drawing him towards
Christ. He resisted the constraint, thinking that he was resisting a
sort of witchcraft. Yes, and even to the end of his life, he fought
against the truth, seeing it masked as falsehood. Yet assuredly he loved
the truth and spared no pains to reach it. Let my old friend speak for
himself in what I will call—
SCAURUS’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
“While I am in the mood for telling secrets I may say that, for me, too,
this Christian superstition has not been without attractions; and, had
there been anything solid in it, I think I should have ascertained it.
You must know that in the last year or two of Domitian this sect was
brought into notice in Rome among the highest circles by rather painful
circumstances—painful, I mean, to me. I had retired from the army. As
soon as I had recovered from my wounds, enough to be able to limp about,
I looked round me for something to do. I was not in favour with the
Emperor. He had lost reputation in the Dacian war; and he was supposed
to dislike those officers—there were only a few—who had done creditably
in that most discreditable business. I was supposed to be one of the
few. At all events, in the ‘regrettable incident’ of Fuscus, I brought
off most of my men safe, and we did not run away. Well, I thought I had
better lead a retired life. So under the plea of disablement—which was
unfortunately only too true, as I was lamed for life—I kept at home
in Tusculum all through the reign of Domitian, giving myself up to
literature.
“Even as a boy, I was very fond of Greek, and I liked learning it in
my own way and not according to the ways of my masters. My way was to
commit to memory—and to keep in memory by constant repetition, a very
different thing from mere ‘committing’—great masses of such literature
as I liked best. Many and many a time have I met and passed a friend
or schoolfellow in the Via Sacra, and heard his voice behind me, ‘Are
you going to cut me, Scaurus?’ But I had not been ‘Scaurus’ when I
passed him. I had been Medea frantic, or Demosthenes haranguing the
Athenians, or Plato describing Thales on the well’s brink, or—for I was
an eclectic—Thucydides recording his personal experiences of the plague.
I kept this up, even in the army. Many a long night in Dacia has been
shortened in the company of my friends, the great Greek authors. The
result of all this was, that when I reached consular age, and, instead
of going in for consulships, went in for lameness and literature, I was
well provided, so far as concerned the Greek raw material, for critical
studies.
“Well, as time went on, extending the course of my reading, I happened
to pick up in Flaccus’s shop a Greek translation of the Hebrew book of
Job. It was a chaos, with occasional lucidities—some of them magnificent.
On my shewing it to a learned Jew (whom Josephus had recommended to me)
he explained to me that the Greek translators had often been misled
by similarities of Hebrew words. Hebrew is a queer language. It has
vowels but does not write them. I saw at once what an abundant source
of error this might be. Even in Latin, where vowels are written, I have
known Greeks go wrong by rendering _amnis_ as though it were _omnis_.
How much more, if there were no vowels! My rabbi—that is their name
for ‘teacher’—informed me that even the Greek-speaking Jews were now
beginning to be dissatisfied with the Seventy (that is the name they give
to their authorised version). Several new translations of some of the
books were floating about, he said, and a good and faithful translation
of the whole would probably be produced before long. This interested me.
Under his guidance I studied the parallelisms in the two books of Esdras
and other books of theirs. I learned just enough Hebrew to understand how
it would be possible for an expert to go back to a lost Hebrew original
from two extant parallel Greek translations. You see what I mean. A very
little knowledge of Latin might enable anyone to see, that, in two Greek
documents, ‘_oaks_’ and ‘_flintstones_,’ being parallel, point to a Latin
‘_ilices_’ or ‘_silices_’—the reading being doubtful—from which two
Greeks have been translating.
“Now I must pass to the last year or last but one of Domitian. You have
heard your father speak of Flavius Clemens (not exactly a strong man,
but a good one) who was put to death by his uncle, the Emperor, for
‘Judaism’ (so it was called) and his poor wife exiled. ‘Judaism,’ with
our people, was only a more respectable name for ‘Christianism,’ though
the two superstitions are poles asunder. Poor Domitilla was a downright
Christian. Her husband Clemens was at all events Christian enough for
Domitian’s purposes. He was put to death and his effects confiscated. I
bought a few of his books as memorials of my old friend, and among these
were certain Christian publications called ‘gospels.’
“Every Christian missionary is supposed to ‘preach the gospel’; so, of
course, there might be, theoretically, as many gospels as missionaries,
and ‘a gospel according to’ each missionary, if each chose to write down
what he preached. Accordingly I gather from Flaccus that there have
been a great number of these ‘gospels’; but only three are now in large
demand among Christians in Rome—the three he sent you. The earliest of
these is ‘The Gospel according to Mark.’ That it is the earliest you
can see thus. Put them (that is, of course, the parallel parts of them)
in three columns, Mark in the middle. Then imagine three schoolboys
seated together—Sinister, Medius, and Dexter—writing a translation of
Homer. Suppose Sinister and Dexter to be cribbing from Medius, who sits
between them. The experienced schoolmaster will speedily discover that,
whenever Sinister and Dexter closely agree, it is because they cribbed
from Medius. Similarly Matthew and Luke largely copied—not ‘cribbed,’ for
they did it honestly enough, no doubt—from Mark. Consequently (subject
to certain exceptions, which I will state later on) Matthew and Luke
_never agree together—in those parts of the gospel where there are three
parallel narratives—without also agreeing with Mark_. Don’t trust me for
this. Try it yourself.”
I did try it. And I found that—subject to the exceptions defined
by Scaurus in another letter—his statement was correct. His letter
continued, “So I began with Mark. Do not suppose that I began with any
prejudice against him. On the contrary, your old friend, whom you are so
fond of calling Misomythus, must plead guilty, I fear, to a latent desire
of the philomythian kind—that Mark might contain truth and not myth. But
hereby hangs another tale, and I must begin another confession.
“Among Domitilla’s slaves was one especially dear to her, her librarian,
whom she would (no doubt) have manumitted if she had anticipated the blow
that was soon to fall on her husband and his household. He was an old
man, of Alexandrian extraction, and of some education, simpleminded as a
child, perfectly honest, giving an impression of firmness, gentleness,
and dignity, quite unusual in a slave. I liked old Hermas—that was his
name, you must have seen him, I think, in your childhood—for his own
sake, as well as for his love of literature. When I bought the books
I bought him at the same time. He was nearly seventy and ailing. The
calamities of his mistress helped him to his grave, and he died a few
days after he had come to my household. We had very little talk together,
and least of all at our last meeting; but what we had then, I never
forgot. It happened thus. One afternoon, when he came into the library a
little later than usual—slowly, and painfully, and leaning on his staff—I
happened to have Domitilla’s three gospels rolled out on the table before
me. There were some notes in the margin of Matthew. These were in his
neat small handwriting and I was looking at them. ‘Not Domitilla’s hand,
I think,’ said I, with a smile. He shook his head, opened his lips as if
to speak, looked long and wistfully at me, as if he would greatly have
liked to talk about something more than mere librarian’s business. But
all he said was, ‘Will my lord give his instructions for the day’s work?’
I gave them. They were that he should go to bed and keep there till he
was fit for business. He bowed, moved slowly toward the door, turned and
looked at me a second time with that same expression, only more intense;
then left the room without a word. I felt strangely drawn towards the old
man, and had almost called him back. But I did not. ‘To-morrow,’ I said,
‘to-morrow.’
“Unexpected business took me from Tusculum late in that afternoon and
kept me away for three days. On my return I was told that Hermas was no
more. He had earnestly desired to see me, they said; and when he found
that I had left Tusculum, and that my return might be delayed, and
that his voice was failing, and death perhaps imminent, he had spent
his last strength in writing a letter, which, by his request, was to
be left by his side until he was carried to the funeral pyre—in case I
might come to take it. I went at once to his bedside and read it there.
I keep it still. But I will not transcribe it for anyone, not even for
you, Silanus. It is a confidence between me and old Hermas, a private
confession of a dream of his. A dream fulfilled and to be fulfilled, he
says. All a dream, I say. Who shall decide? Though I will not give you
the words, you shall have the substance of his letter.
“Well, then, if I might believe this letter, he, old Hermas, lying dead
on the couch before my eyes, was not really dead, but only on the way to
a beautiful city of justice and truth, to which all the just, honourable,
and truthful might attain, Roman, Greek, Jew, Scythian, rich and poor,
bond and free, high-born and low-born. No franchise was needed except
a patient and laborious pursuit of virtue. In this city no one citizen
was greater than another. If anyone could be called greatest, it was the
one that made of least account his own pleasures, his own wealth, fame,
and reputation, serving the state and his fellow-citizens in all things.
Yet it was not a republic, for it had a king. But this king was not a
despot like the kings of the east, abhorred by Greeks and Romans. The
kingdom was a family at unity with itself, the citizens being closely
bound by affection to their king as father and to their fellow-citizens
as brethren. ‘And if,’ said Hermas, ‘you desire to be drawn towards that
king and to become one with all the fellow-citizens of the City of Truth,
I beseech you, my dear lord and benefactor—being, as you are, a lover
of truth—to study with all patience those books of my dearest mistress
Domitilla, which I saw before you on that day on which you spoke to me
your words—your last words to me, so God wills it—words of kindness
following deeds of kindness, for which may the Father in heaven be kind
to you for ever and ever.’
“A postscript added a further request, that I would search for other
papyri, which contained the epistles of Paul, and which, he said,
belonged to Domitilla’s library, though he had been unable to find
them. ‘These,’ he said, ‘give a clue to the meaning of many things that
are obscure in the gospels; for in the gospels traditions derived from
different documents or witnesses, are sometimes set down without uniform
arrangement, and without proportion; so that, in Mark, a whole column of
forty lines might be given, for example, to the exorcism of some evil
spirit, and only three or four lines to some principal and fundamental
saying of Christ. But Paul, though he was neither an eye-witness nor an
ear-witness, understood spiritual things, according to his saying, _We
have the mind of Christ_.’
“This was written on the day before his death. Another postscript, added
on the following day, contained nothing but a hope or prayer that he
might meet me in the City of Truth. I should add that I searched at
the time in vain for Domitilla’s copy of Paul’s letters. It was not
till three years afterwards that I read them, having procured a copy
from another source. Sometimes I regret this and ask myself whether
Hermas might have been right in thinking that Paul would have led me to
understand the gospels better. But I cannot think that the Gods have
decreed that those alone shall find the way to the City of Truth who may
happen to have studied four Christian papyri in a particular order. Now
I must pass from all this prattle about regrets, hopes, prayers, and
preconceptions, to describe my exploration of the gospels and my search
for historical fact.”