A MODERN ARCADIA.
Courage, my poet!
The age of iron is not yet supreme,
For youth still throbs in the old veins of Mother Earth, wan and weary
with sorrowful centuries.
Tho’ girdled our world by wires multitudinous transmitting the swift
message
of electricity;
Tho’ the straight and curved lines of the railway run parallel along the
immensity of continents for the advancement of culture;
Tho’ ships, steam-driven, even against storms, plough the waters of
perilous oceans;—
Yet somewhere beyond the confines of our selfish civilization
There lies an Arcadia among the lone mountains, or perchance encircled
by tideless seas,
Wherein dwell delicate beings who know not ambition or avarice,
And work but for bread—for bread alone, tempering such toil with singing
melodious, and merry pipings at sundown.
Therefore, courage, my poet!
They were early risers in Melnos, for in that invigorating climate it
was impossible, even for the most indolent, to lie sluggishly in bed,
and the sun was hardly above the eastern horizon before Justinian, his
household and guests, were seated at breakfast. Helena was not present,
having already gone out in the deliciously fresh morning air on some
expedition connected with flowers; so the meal was a strictly masculine
one, and the four men made their plans for the day. Crispin and
Caliphronas decided to remain at the Acropolis, as they were already
well acquainted with the lions of the island, the one to write letters,
the other to await the return of Helena, over whose movements he kept
watch with all the jealous solicitude of a doubtful lover; and Maurice,
in company of Justinian, went down to the valley, in order that the
Englishman might be shown all the wonders of this unique place.
The white indoor robes of the previous evening were now discarded in
favor of a serviceable costume similar to that worn by the rough Cretan
mountaineers,—long boots of brown leather, loose blue trousers thrust
therein at the knees, a red sash, white shirt of wool, and blue jackets,
together with a flowing capote and hood to cover the head when the sun
grew unpleasantly strong. Justinian wore a red fisherman’s cap with a
gold tassel on his white locks, but Maurice was supplied with a large
gray felt sombrero, the shade of which was very grateful. The island
king looked truly regal in this picturesque dress, with his long gray
beard, his sun-tanned skin, fierce black eyes, and reverend locks; lithe
and active as a young man, he carried his burden of sixty-five years
with the greatest of ease, and as he walked beside Maurice, with a light
springy step, the sculptor began to think that his companion must have
discovered the secret of perpetual youth.
They walked leisurely along the mulberry avenue, in the direction of the
entrance to the tunnel, and enjoyed the exquisite coolness of the
morning, for the sun was not yet over the shoulder of the mountain, and
the cup was still in comparative shadow. Notwithstanding this, however,
the air was warm, and balmy with the scent of aromatic herbs, which
delightful temperature rather puzzled Maurice, as it did not agree with
the marked absence of sunlight for a greater part of the morning, and he
mentioned this to Justinian.
“Certainly we do not get much of the sun in the morning owing to the
mountain,” answered the old man, stroking his silver beard; “but in the
middle of the day, and most of the afternoon, his beams are very
powerful, for at noon he is right above our heads, and the western side
of the Melnos Peak is so low, that until near sunset his rays stream on
the valley.”
He pointed to the west, and Maurice saw that the high peaks fell away
into a kind of low semicircle, which enabled them, from their position,
to catch a glimpse of blue sea and distant island. On each side of this
gap, however, the jagged summits stood up stern, rigid, and snow-clad
against the delicately blue sky, girding the valley at the same height
all round, save at the western side before mentioned.
“Still,” said Maurice pertinently, “the sun is still below the eastern
side of the mountain, yet the air is quite warm.”
“Cannot the temple to Hephaistos solve the riddle?”
“Oh, you mean that the island is volcanic!”
“Yes; this is the crater of an extinct volcano, extinct for thousands of
years, for even when the temple was built, the fires must have died out,
or its builders could hardly have placed it on the inner side of the
crater. It is the volcanic character of Melnos that makes it so warm and
fertile. You see the slopes are covered with corn, vine, olive, in
profusion, while dates, lemons, orange-trees, citrons, and all such
delicate plants grow wild without cultivation. This valley is the
veritable Horn of Plenty so lauded by the Hellenes.”
“If we are to believe the ancient historians,” said Maurice gravely, as
he looked at the fertile sides of the mountain so admirably cultivated,
“this was also the case with the crater of Vesuvius, yet it proved to be
still active.”
“What! do you think Melnos will break out again?” observed Justinian,
with a shade of thought on his fine face. “Indeed we have earthquakes
occasionally, but not much to speak of. I fancy the islands of the north
are more of a volcanic centre than these; still the volcano may break
out again—in that case I am afraid all my work will go for nothing.”
“Is this island entirely your work?”
“Every bit of it,” answered the old man emphatically. “Forty years ago,
I came into these waters to look for this extinct volcanic island, of
which I had received full information from a wandering Greek, who knew
Melnos well. I duly sighted it, and, having landed, I climbed up to the
summit, when I discovered this enchanting valley, also the Temple of
Hephaistos still in a tolerably good state of preservation. I had left
England smarting under a sense of injury, from—from—well, it was about a
woman; and I swore never to return to it. Always of an uncivilized
disposition, I determined to fix my home here, and, being possessed of
plenty of money, I bought this island of the Turkish Government at a
pretty heavy price. They were anxious for money, especially as it was
after the Greek War of Independence, which had emptied the coffers of
the Sublime Porte; besides which, the Ottomans did not care about this
barren rock, which was of no use to them in any way; so I bought it, and
settled in the old temple, where I have now dwelt for forty long years.”
“But this community—the tunnel?”
“All my works! I have, so to speak, carried out the projects of Goethe’s
Faust. Ah, you are astonished at my referring to that, but I am a
University man, Mr. Roylands, and have not yet forgotten my learning.
_Et ego in Arcadia fui_, and know the ancient colleges of Cambridge, the
oozy Cam, and the delights of a town and gown row.”
“You have had a strange career.”
“A very happy one at all events. It was fortunate my superabundant
energy found vent in the direction of making this island blossom like a
rose, otherwise I would have remained a restless adventurer to the end
of my days. I could not settle down to the placid life of an English
gentleman; I wanted room to breathe, opportunities for daring,
work—gigantic work—to do; and I found them all in Melnos.”
“You have carried out your self-imposed task nobly.”
“I am glad you think so. Yes; I trust I have been of some use in my
generation. And, at all events, I have erected one thoroughly happy,
peaceful spot,—a modern Eden,—and that is no easy thing to do in this
riotous century.”
“It is a modern miracle!”
And it was little else, seeing that all these gigantic works had been
planned and carried out by a solitary human being; for by this time they
were at the entrance to the tunnel, and as Maurice looked down the
enormous flights of red limestone steps, which led to the valley below,
he was truly amazed at the engineering science displayed by the man
beside him. Flight after flight, now to right, now to left, stretched
down the gentle slope of the mountain, and these mighty stairs were all
carefully finished with heavy balustrades of the same material, neatly
joined together. At certain platforms, statues of white marble,
pedestalled on red blocks, stood up in proud beauty, and, seeing his
guest’s eyes fixed on these heroic forms, Justinian laughed.
“I am a bit of an antiquarian, Mr. Roylands,” he explained as they
descended, “and all over these islands I pay men to dig among ancient
ruins for statues, which I do my best to restore, and then place here.
This Apollo, for instance,” he said, as they paused before a life-sized
nude figure holding a lyre, “was found at Delos and brought to me. True,
the Greek Government claim all these things, but I do not see why I
should not secure them if possible, and I am sure they look better in
this enchanted valley than in some stuffy museum.”
Maurice, with sculptor-like enthusiasm, would fain have lingered before
this masterpiece of Greek art, but Justinian hurried him impatiently
away.
“You will have plenty of time to look at them again,” he said as they
resumed their descent, “but at present I have plenty to show you. I am
glad you like my staircase.”
“It is wonderful, but I think the tunnel is still more so.”
“Yes; it is a fine piece of engineering,” said Justinian complacently.
“You see it was impossible to constantly climb up over the peaks, which
involved waste of time, and a weary ascent, so I got an engineer from
England, supplied him with plenty of Greeks, and they finished that
tunnel in five years. I am very proud of it, I assure you.”
“What about the gate in the middle of it?”
“That is absolutely necessary, not so much now as formerly, but forty
years ago the Ægean was very lawless, and the government could not put
down the pirates. Of course, hearing a rich Englishman had bought
Melnos, those rascals thought it contained all kinds of treasures, and
have made frequent assaults on it. Fortunately I have always managed to
beat them off. I think the rascals have a wholesome dread of me now,”
finished the old man grimly.
“Now I suppose there is no danger of any attack being made.”
“I am not so sure about that. King George’s Government is more feared by
these scamps than was King Otho’s; but, though the majority of them have
disappeared, there are still some left who would like to storm Melnos.”
“Alcibiades?”
“What do you know of Alcibiades?” asked Justinian sharply.
“Nothing more than that he is an equivocal character. Caliphronas told
me so much.”
“Andros! Yes, he is far too friendly with that scamp of an Alcibiades,
who is an excessively dangerous man. I do not trust Andros, and he knows
it; so, out of sheer anger, he may urge Alcibiades to assault the
island. An enemy without, a traitor within—it is very dangerous.”
“If you distrust Caliphronas, why don’t you turn him out?”
“I have no proof against him yet, but I fancy he has some scheme in his
mind. Believe me, Mr. Roylands, if you have a stomach for fighting, I
fancy there will be plenty of opportunity for you to indulge in it
shortly.”
“Oh, as for that, I should like nothing better.”
“I like that,” said Justinian decisively; “you are a true Roylands!”
“I trust so. But how do you know the Roylands are a fighting family?”
“All Englishmen fight, more or less,” answered Justinian carelessly;
“besides your name is a Norman one, and descendants of William the
Conqueror’s vassals are always soldiers. Hitherto you have led a quiet
and peaceful life, but if we do have an island war, I don’t think you
will be the last to help me defend my kingdom.”
“You can rely on that—nor Crispin either!”
“Oh, Crispin!” replied Justinian, a trifle disdainfully; “he is too much
a man of peace to suit my fancy. But here we are at the village.”
“By the way, how did you populate this new Rome of yours?”
“Oh, in the old days I was rather a celebrity in the islands,—a kind of
insular Lord Byron,—and of course had my followers. When I settled here,
I made all my followers come also, and admitted none but young men. They
brought their sweethearts and wives, so gradually the community grew up
here. Recruits come from time to time, but I admit none but those who
are physically perfect and passably moral. We now number, with women and
children, two hundred souls, and you will not find a deformed or lame
person among the lot.”
“Then you have no old people?”
“Oh yes. I am old myself, and many of my followers are of the same age.
We were all young men in those days of colonization, but now age has
come upon us, as you see. Some of my old comrades have died, but many
are well and hearty, thanks to the salubrity of this climate. They are
the sages of the village.”
“Local rulers, I suppose?”
“No,” retorted Justinian, with fiery earnestness; “there is only one
ruler in Melnos—myself.”
They were now walking down the principal street of the village, a broad
thoroughfare, running between two rows of red limestone houses, from the
foot of the grand staircase to the blue lake, the distance in all being
about a quarter of a mile. On each side, between the pathways and the
road itself, ran two lines of elm trees, the foliage of which formed a
pleasant shade, while the houses, built in a tropical fashion, with wide
verandas, were gay with flowers. Helena had evidently inoculated her
father’s subjects with a love for flowers, as on every side the eye was
dazzled with a profusion of bright tints. At the lower end of the street
was a wide semicircle, facing the lake, and planted with lines of beech,
elm, and plane trees, while in the middle of this pleasantness stood a
tall pedestal of white marble, bearing a huge bronze Zeus, seated
half-draped, with thunderbolt and eagle beside him. Indeed, the statues
of gods and goddesses were so frequent, that Maurice began to think his
eccentric host, in order to complete his revival of ancient Athens, had
re-established the hierarchy of Olympus, with himself as Pontifex
Maximus. Evidently his face betrayed his thoughts, for, seeing his eyes
fixed on the garlands decorating the base of the statue, the King
laughed in an amused manner.
“No, no, Mr. Roylands, we are not pagans, in spite of the presence of
the gods,” he said, with a smile. “All my people belong to the Orthodox
Church, and we have a priest, a sacred building, and everything
necessary for such religion.”
“Are you also of the Greek Church?”
“No, I am no renegade,” replied Justinian haughtily; “but, at the same
time, I am not what you would call a Christian.”
“But I trust your religious principles are not those of Caliphronas?”
“No; I believe in working for the good of others, as you can see.
Morally speaking, I am what you call an agnostic, though truly I believe
in a supreme power. I erect my altar to τὸν ἄγναστον Θεόν, Mr. Roylands,
and strive to propitiate him by helping my fellow-creatures.”
The conversation now becoming rather delicate in its trenching on
religious beliefs, Maurice turned it dexterously by remarking on the
number of mulberry trees.
“Those are for the silkworms,” explained Justinian, striking the trunk
of one of these trees with his staff; “we export a great number of
cocoons, and do a large trade with the mainland. We also weave silks for
ourselves; the factory is to the right.”
There were a great number of people in the streets, all in a similar
dress to their own—that is, the men, for the women were mostly arrayed
in the graceful Greek dress of the Cretans, which consisted of full
white trousers reaching to the ankle, brightly colored tunics,
embroidered jackets, gaudy handkerchiefs twisted round the head, and
long white veils, though the latter were but assumed for festive
occasions. Both men and women were very fine-looking, with oval faces,
olive skins, somewhat pointed chins, and aquiline noses, and their gait
was remarkably graceful, with the stately bearing of a free race. The
adults all saluted Justinian respectfully, and he acknowledged their
greetings with haughty condescension, although he unbent somewhat
towards the children, who crowded round him with cries of “Kalli imera
Kyrion!”
“You are as populous as a hive of bees,” said Maurice, as they walked
down to the lake; “soon the island will be too small.”
“Not for many years I hope and trust,” answered Justinian, casting a
look round at the now sunny sides of the mountain, which encircled them
like a cup. “There is plenty of room yet; for my colony, in spite of its
forty years, is only yet in its infancy. Lots of room yonder for
dwellings; the soil is fertile, and affords plenty of food, and as to
necessaries from the outside world, we export olives, cocoons, silks,
wine, and dittany, receiving in return what we require from more
advanced civilization.”
“Dittany! what is that?”
“I am afraid you don’t know your Virgil, Mr. Roylands. Dittany is an
herb of rare medicinal power, which is found in Crete, and also in
Melnos. It is excellent for illness of all kinds, especially fevers, and
is as valued now as it was in the days of Pliny. Plenty of it up in the
mountain yonder, as the goats are very fond of it.”
“Have you goats?”
“Of course! and also sheep, though I am afraid the goats are the more
numerous. Indeed, I have imported here some of the rare Cretan breed—a
kind of ibex, which grows to a great size. These, of course, I will not
allow to be killed; but for food we have plenty of the smaller wild
goats, such as exist in many places in Greece, particularly on the
summits of Olympus. You probably forget we had goat’s flesh for supper
last night.”
“And the lake, sir?”
“Artificial purely.”
“Sea-water?”
“Oh dear no. The level of this valley is considerably above that of the
sea. I should be sorry were it otherwise, as, were it lower, we might
run a chance of being swamped by the influx of waters. I am sure
Alcibiades and his friends would be delighted to drown us like rats if
they could. This lake comes from the snows yonder.”
“The snows?”
“Precisely. I have had a reservoir constructed far below the snow-line,
and a shoot into it from the summit of the mountain. At certain
intervals I send men up, who detach great masses of snow and send them
down the shoot into the reservoir. There the heat of the sun soon melts
them to water, and from thence the water is taken down to the lake.”
“But water always rises to its own level.”
“Hence you think my valley should be an entire lake; but there is no
danger of such a catastrophe happening, as my reservoir is filled in a
purely artificial manner, and I take care to keep it within bounds. The
pipes also down to this lake are contrived so as to regulate the influx
of water, therefore there is no fear of a flood. Now you must come and
see the theatre.”
“The theatre! Have you playwrights and actors here?”
“Our playwrights date from old Hellenic days, and are called Æschylus,
Sophocles, and Euripides; the actors are my Greeks. Sometimes Crispin
writes us a play bearing on local events, which he satirizes after the
style of Aristophanic comedy—at least he did so when he lived here, but
since his departure we have fallen back on Hellas for our plays.”
“How often do you give performances?”
“Only once a year, at the vintage feast. Oh, we follow old customs
closely here, and I hope to show you a veritable Dionysiade before you
leave us. We have a three days’ festival of simple mirth, without any of
the coarse elements which were introduced by the later Hellenes. The
first day we have the vintage festival, the second our plays, and on the
third there are Olympian games.”
“With what prizes?”
“As of yore, the laurel wreath. I am particularly anxious to keep up
these games, as it makes my Greeks athletes, and hardens them by
muscular exercises, else in this lotus-eating valley they would be apt
to become indolent, and then where would Melnos be without brave men to
defend her?”
“You are a perfect Spartan!”
“I believe in the Spartan training to a great extent, but I do not think
the body should be trained exclusively and the mind neglected; therefore
I have the tragedies performed which were unknown to Sparta. The
Spartans were a fine nation of materialists.”
“You are right!” said Maurice earnestly; “one should never let the
material nature overpower the spiritual.”
“You speak warmly.”
“As I was taught. My mother was a religious woman, and trained me
carefully. One cannot rid one’s self of youthful teachings; we may
forget them for a time, but they always force themselves before the mind
sooner or later.”
“Not always. I also was taught as you, but forty years of
solitude—comparative solitude—and pondering have turned me into what I
am—an agnostic. So your mother was a good woman? is she alive?”
“No; she died many years ago.”
“And your father?”
“Is also dead. I am an orphan. No relations in the world—at least, none
I care about.”
Justinian gazed at the young man as if he would read his very soul,
then, turning away with a half-suppressed sigh, entered the theatre.
It was modelled on that of Athens,—a large semicircle hewn out of the
volcanic rock, with seats of the red limestone so frequent in Melnos.
The stage faced the mountain, and had an altar beautifully sculptured in
front of it, and life-sized statues of Dionysius and Phœbus on either
side.
“This is our Temple of Thespis,” said Justinian, as they stood in the
centre of the semicircle, which was at a moderate distance from the
stage. “You see it is not very large, and suitable to the size of the
island and the number of population; so, as the actors can easily be
seen, we need neither cothurnus nor mask. Our plays, I am afraid, are
not so gigantic as those of ancient Hellas; but there is one advantage,
the face is seen, and the Greeks are wonderfully expressive in revealing
their feelings by the countenance.”
“All Melnos seems to be built of this red stone.”
“Yes; I get it from the cliffs of the island. The tint is pleasing, and
warms up the landscape. I am sorry we cannot see the ocean from the
theatre, as I am very fond of the sea; but, shut in by this circle of
mountains, of course that is impossible. Now we must go and see the silk
factory.”
After they had gone through this thoroughly,—for Justinian insisted upon
Maurice taking notice of every detail,—the King showed him some hot
springs just outside the village, which bubbled up from the earth, amid
rugged blocks of black lava, streaked fantastically with sulphur.
“These springs are full of medicinal properties, which are useful for
the cure of many diseases,” he said, as they watched the light clouds of
steam rising; “but we of Melnos are so healthy, that we rarely use them.
Plenty of work, plenty of physical exercise, careful attention to
births, and fresh air and water in abundance, keep the whole population
in splendid health. It is a case of quality, not quantity.”
“Have you any poets, painters, sculptors?”
“Not yet. True, sometimes rude songs are made, and rude pictures
painted, but I am afraid centuries of slavery have crushed all the
creative power out of the Hellenic race. However, they are free here,
and have a city of refuge in this island; so, in the future, who knows
but what Melnos may become a second Attica, and have her Plato, her
Sophocles, her Phidias!”
“It will take years to develop all that genius,” said Maurice, as they
once more began to climb up the staircase.
“I am afraid so. And I dread who may come after me. I am old, and cannot
live long; so when I die, unless my successor is actuated by the same
desire to found a miniature Attica, as I have been, he may turn this
place into a nest of robbers, in which case, I am afraid, King George’s
Government would interfere, and the aspirations of Melnos to revive
Hellenic culture would be at an end.”
“Who is to be your successor?”
“That I do not know. True, I have a daughter, but it needs a man to
manage my Greeks. I took Crispin and Andros, in order to train them up
as my heirs, but Crispin has become wealthy, and prefers to live in
England; while Andros, or, as he now calls himself, Caliphronas, is
nothing but a scamp. If he succeeded me, all my work would go for
nothing. He would be a tyrant, a robber, a selfish seeker after
pleasure, who would destroy the simplicity of Melnos, break all my laws,
and transform it into a nest of criminals.”
“Surely you have some clever men among your people?”
“Clever to serve, but bad to rule. None of them have the administrative
power required for even so small a community as this. No; to succeed me,
I must have an Englishman. We are a dominating race, fit to rule; and a
glance round the world will show you our colonizing capabilities. By a
cool head and a firm hand, I have transformed a barren island into a
centre of prosperity; and if my successors only follow my policy, in a
few hundred years, this little unknown island may become the centre of a
great intellectual power. The Athenians, you know, were small in number,
yet see the intellectual effect they produced in the world’s history.
These Greeks of mine are descendants of the ancient Hellenes, and the
spark of genius, nearly trampled out by centuries of Turkish misrule, is
still within them. Place a plant in the dark, and it grows not; give it
plenty of air and sunlight, and first the green leaves appear, then the
bud, lastly the flower. These are my green leaves, which I have placed
in the light; and let them be tended and looked after, who knows but
what a glorious flower may be produced.”
“It is a splendid—dream!”
“A dream which may yet turn out truth,” answered Justinian, with energy.
“See how well I have prepared the ground. My people here are physically
perfect; their morality is much above what is to be found in the islands
of the Ægean. I have taught them to love work and loathe idleness. The
island they dwell in contains all the beauties of nature in a small
space. ‘Infinite riches in a little room,’ to quote Marlowe. They are
starting fairly under my guidance, and they will develop, as their
prototypes of Athens, into a keen, cultured, intellectual race, who may
give this modern world as splendid gifts of genius as did their fathers
of old. But the plant needs fostering, and I, the gardener, alas! am
growing old; so when I die, who will attend to this delicate flower of
artificiality. What I want is to find a successor who will do as I have
done.”
“He will be difficult to find.”
“I fear so; unless”—
Here Justinian paused abruptly, and walked rapidly along the mulberry
avenue, in which they were now. Maurice waited to hear him speak, but he
said nothing until he stood under the graceful Corinthian capitals of
the temple pillars, when he suddenly came to a full stop, and looked at
Maurice keenly.
“Mr. Roylands, do you know what I think?”
“No, sir.”
“That it would be an excellent thing for you to give up your
country-gentleman life in England, and come here.”
“But for what reason?”
“To be my successor.”
Maurice stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, but in another
moment Justinian vanished.