THESPIAN.
The silvery smoothness of sweet Sophocles,
The rolling thunder of Æschylean verse,
The subtle twistings of Euripides
To prove the better reason by the worse;—
Such poets gained the light Athenian’s praise
By daring dealings with the universe,
And yearly won the envied crown of bays;
But not on Attic shores alone,—for we
Yet know their greatness in these modern days,
In alien lands across the stormy sea,
Where with much painful learning do we dare
In pristine splendor to revive the three,
Till, foiled by antique genius high and rare,
We quit the task with unalloyed despair.
The theatre of Melnos was crowded the next day to witness the one
performance of the year, and the whole semicircle of seats was occupied
by a chattering throng, resembling, doubtless, the gossip-loving
Athenians of old. All were in gala dresses, the men brilliant in
Albanian costumes of fustanelli, embroidered jackets, gaudy gaiters, and
vivid red silk sashes; while the women, in accordance with the edict of
the Demarch, still wore their graceful, antique robes of white; indeed,
the male bird here had the more splendid plumage of the two, but what
the female lacked in color, she made up for in grace. The population of
Melnos were, indeed, fine specimens of humanity, as, owing to the
selective genius of Justinian, none but the physically perfect were
admitted to the privileges of the island, and in the case of births he
exercised an almost Spartan rigor. Certainly he departed so far from the
laws of Lycurgus as to permit any child born with a blemish to live, but
it was sent away from Melnos at the moment of its birth, and provided
for elsewhere. In consequence, therefore, of this untiring care in such
matters, the Melnosians were all strong, healthy, and beautiful; while
their constant out-door life and congenial occupations kept them in a
wonderfully vitalized condition, which was eminently calculated to form
a race as physically perfect in form and health as is possible on this
earth.
“I am a great believer in the _mens sana in corpore sano_ theory,” said
the Demarch to Maurice, who sat beside him. “The first law of this new
Athens is, that all the citizens shall be healthy in every way; and the
body being thus perfected by degrees, who knows but what the intellect
may not ripen the sooner to the first-fruits of genius?”
“Is that not rather against the Homeric line you quoted the other day,
sir?” observed Maurice thoughtfully. “I mean as regarding Caliphronas;
he is physically perfect, thoroughly healthful, and yet you can hardly
call him intellectual.”
“Andros,” said Justinian emphatically, “is not a true Greek, but a
mongrel from the island of that name, where I found him a shepherd lad.
I have no faith in mixed races, as their genius, if they have any, is
apt to be confusing. We English are essentially a mixed race, therefore
our literature, although marked by great versatility, lacks that
dominant note which denotes the special characteristic of a pure-blooded
race. Look at the Jew and the Hellene, which are, perhaps, the sole
examples of unmixed blood we have,—at least in the West,—and you will
see that their works of genius, however different in outward form, are
still instinct with the individuality of their particular race-nature.
The Psalms of David, the tragedies of the Greek dramatists, could only
have been written by men of unmixed blood, steeped in the color of their
peculiar branch of the human family.”
“What about Shakespeare?”
“None but a mixed race could have produced an all-comprehensive mind
like his; and though you may perhaps think me narrow in desiring the
formation of pure-blooded nations, which may be barren of such versatile
genius, yet, believe me, Maurice, every plant should bear its own
natural flowers. Now, my Melnosians have been carefully selected from
the most untainted blood of the insular Greeks, who are the real
survivors of the old Attic stock. I allow no mixed marriages—I protect
them from all outward influence—I encourage them to develop their
inherent characteristics of race, so, in all human probability, they, in
years to come, will produce a blossom of genius entirely their own.”
“Is that not rather a hot-house forcing style?”
“Well, yes; but such artificiality is needed in these days of easy
communication and cosmopolitan races. The tribes of mankind are not now
isolated each from each as in former times, when that very isolation
forced them, uninfluenced by contact with alien tribes, to develop their
own special race-nature in literature, music, and art. Mixed races
produce mixed results, splendid, I own, in many cases, but not so
severely unique and classic as would be the case with untamed tribes.”
“Did not Disraeli discuss this question in ‘Coningsby’?”
“Touching the Semitic race,—yes, I think so; but it is so long since I
have read the book that I almost forget his line of argument. But we
have strayed from our subject, which was physical and not intellectual
perfection; and I verily believe that if as much attention were given to
the breeding of humanity as is given to the rearing of race-horses, the
race of mankind would be much benefited thereby.”
Justinian had quite a mania regarding this question of race, and Maurice
would gladly have continued the interesting argument, but the play was
shortly about to begin, so he deferred the discussion until a more
fitting occasion, and meanwhile examined the theatre with careful
attention.
The stage facing the semicircle was long and narrow, with slender
columns on either side supporting the pediment, which, unfortunately,
was quite plain, as Justinian’s theories had not yet developed a
Pheidias to sculpture the red limestone into god-like forms of hero and
deity. A broad flight of steps led downward to the orchestra, which had
entrances to the right and left for the convenience of the chorus; while
a veritable altar of Dionysius, wreathed with sculptured grapes and nude
figures of dancing faun and nymph, taken, doubtless, from some ruined
temple, stood on a raised platform fronting the stage, and on it burned
a small fire, whereon incense was occasionally flung.
“Is that not rather pagan?” asked Maurice, referring to the altar.
“Everything herein is ideal, not real,” replied the Demarch wisely.
“When you see the chorus throw incense on the altar, think not that they
are sacrificing to the wine-god of their ancestors. No, they are all of
the Orthodox Church, and obey devoutly the precepts of Papa Athanasius;
but I like to carry out the old ceremonies, even to this altar, which
means nothing, and is highly characteristic of the antique festival.”
As Crispin, Helena, and Caliphronas were all actors for the day, the
Demarch and Maurice sat alone in the centre of the semicircle,
surrounded by the sailors, who were much puzzled at the strangeness of
this stately, open-air theatre, so different from the air-tight boxes to
which they had been accustomed in London.
“If it was only an Adelphi melodrama!” said Dick, whose inclinations
leaned to the bloodthirsty play; “but I suppose it will be something
like that squalling they called singing yesterday.”
“Or a moosic ’all,” observed Gurt, chewing his quid reflectively. “I
seed a gal in one of ’em down Wappin’ way as guv a song called, ‘Tap me
on the shoulder, Bill.’ My eyes, but it were a good un, that ’ere.”
Decidedly this unique dramatic representation, which many English
scholars would have beheld with delight, was quite thrown away on these
conservative tars, who preferred melodrama and comic songs to the solemn
splendors of ancient tragedy, which was, naturally enough, Greek to them
in more senses than one.
In accordance with the instructions of Justinian, the poet had composed
a play embodying an allegory of the aims of this island colony of
Melnos, and, forsaking to a great extent the severe classicism of
Æschylean tragedy, had modelled his drama on the loose-flying splendors
of Shelley’s Hellas. This piece, entitled ‘The Phœnix,’ was intended
to represent the degradation of Greece under the Turkish yoke, her
escape from such bondage, her material civilization, and her subsequent
rise to intellectual supremacy, which end the formation of the colony of
Melnos was supposed to foster. Crispin had no fear of his allegorical
drama not being understood by his audience, for the Greeks are a
singularly keen-witted people, and, besides, Justinian had so imbued the
whole population with his hopes of reviving the ancient glories of the
Athenian genius, that all present were quite able to comprehend the
hidden meaning of the play. The Phœnix was to occupy the whole
morning, and, after an interval of two hours for rest and refreshment,
the satiric pendant to the more solemn piece was to be represented in
the afternoon, consisting, in this instance, of a local incident,
developed and expanded by Crispin into a wild Aristophanic farce,
blending wit with irony, laughter with tears, and stately chorus with
clownish play of rustic actors.
Crispin, moreover, was not only author, actor, and stage manager, but
also an accomplished musician, therefore had made use of his Western
training in this respect, to get together an orchestra, and, with the
aid of Andronico, had adapted the plaintive music of the Hellenic
folk-songs to his choruses. The quick-eared Greeks speedily picked up
the airs, many of which they already knew, and thus the drama followed
closely in the footsteps of its Athenian prototype; and the wild, rude
music, sounding at intervals between the long speeches of the principal
characters, prevented the monotony which otherwise would have certainly
prevailed. With violin, flute, pipe, drum, symbols, and sabouna, the
musicians therefore took their places unseen by the audience; for
Crispin, adopting Wagner’s theory, did not want the attention of his
audience distracted in any way by the presence of the orchestra between
stage and auditorium.
The back of the stage represented a smooth, white marble wall, fronted
by a range of Corinthian pillars wreathed with milky blossoms, and in
the centre, great folding doors ready to be flung open when required by
the exigencies of the play. Against this absolutely colorless background
moved the brilliant figures of the performers in measured fashion, with
stately gestures, as moved those serene, side-faced figures on the
marble urn dreamed of by Keats. The clear light of the sun burned on the
great half-circle of eager faces with steady effulgence, and left in
delicate shadow that wide white stage, whereon was to be enacted a drama
such as we in England, lacking all things necessary to such colossal
majesty, can never hope to see.
All being read, the curtain arose, or rather fell, for Crispin, with
strict fidelity to Athenian usages, had adopted this curious mode of
withdrawing the veil between audience and performers.
The stage is empty, but a wild chant sounds in the distance, and a long
train of Moslems, headed by their Sultan, sweeps in, bearing with them
Hellas, a captive in her own land to the barbaric power. Helena, draped
in black and manacled with chains, represented Hellas, who stands with
melancholy mien amid the gaudily dressed chorus of Moslems, listening to
their songs of triumph over her downfall. “We have chained you to our
chariot,” they sing tauntingly, “yet thou need’st not look so downcast,
for a slave hast thou been before, and a slave thou wilt be hereafter.
Thy shrines, thy palaces, thy city walls have fallen, and fallen too art
thou.”
The chorus having ended their exalting strains, the Sultan addresses
Hellas, and offers to make her his wife, thus incorporating the ancient
land of loveliness with the newly constructed power of the Turk; but
Hellas, who is Athena incarnate, scorns his offer to make her an
odalisque of the harem. “Virgin I was, virgin I am, virgin I remain,”
says the fallen queen, with haughty grace; “my body you may chain with
iron, but the soul is under the protection of Zeus, the Supreme;
therefore will I sit here in desolation rather than partake of the
splendors you offer me.” Furious with rage, the barbarian smites her,
but she, still smiling, repeats constantly, “The body is thine, but the
soul is mine;” so in wrath he leaves her, with a promise that her woes
shall never end, and the Moslem chorus follow him from the stage, with
triumphant shouts of joy at the success of their arms.
Left alone, chained and desolate, amid the ruins of her temples, Hellas
bewails her downfall, which contrasts so darkly with her former
brilliance in classic times. Crispin afterwards translated the play into
blank verse for the benefit of Maurice, but the English verse gives but
a poor idea of the fire and majesty of the sonorous Greek original. “Woe
is me!” cries the fallen queen—
For I am but the sport of jealous gods,
Who, envious of Athenian gloriousness,
Have crushed the city of the Violet Crown
Beneath the force of overwhelming hordes;
Thus blotting out my heaven-aspiring sons,
Who, burning with a new Promethean fire,
Would fain have scaled god-crowned Olympus high
To match themselves ’gainst gods in equal strife.
Then, with the sudden energy of despair, she calls upon the heroes of
Salamis, of Thermopylæ, of Marathon, to aid their mother in the time of
need. Alas! no voice answers to her cry of anguish, and, overcome with a
sense of hopelessness, Hellas, discrowned and chained, sinks weeping on
the broken column of her fallen shrine.
Now enters the chorus proper of young Greek maidens, dressed in black
stoles, to denote the sorrowful condition of their country. They sweep
into the orchestra, and, having sprinkled the altar with incense, begin
to question their fallen queen, as though they were ignorant of the
cause of her grief.
CHORUS.
What madness drives thee, queen, to rend thine hair?
HELLAS.
Curst Ate bides upon the threshold stone.
CHORUS.
Now see I plainly thou art bound with chains.
HELLAS.
In this no fatal blindness dims thine eyes.
CHORUS.
Say whence these chains which check free-moving limbs?
HELLAS.
The Eastern hordes have bound me helpless thus.
Question and answer thus goes on for some time, and then the chorus
break out into a wailing song, in which they remind Hellas that, having
forsaken the old gods who helped her in her need, she is now reaping the
reward of such folly. “The curse of Ate is on thee,” they cry pitifully,
“nor will the goddess be satisfied until she has exacted her due penalty
for neglect of the Olympians.” They relate the former woes of Hellas,
how she first was slave to the Macedonians, then to the Roman power; how
the Latins set their mailed feet on her neck; and now the Moslems have
again reduced her to the position of bondswoman. Ever a slave, ever
desired, she is thrown from the one to the other, as it pleases them,
unable to free herself from such degradation. When this chorus of
reproach is ended, Hellas calls upon the tutelar genius of Greece to
help her ere she perish.
In answer to her cry, Apollo (represented by Caliphronas) appears, and
blames her for foolishly forsaking the old gods for the new, and thus
falling into the hands of Nemesis. His power, which was engendered and
kept alive solely by belief, has departed, and he cannot help her, much
as he desires to do so. “I myself,” he says—
E’en I whose fanes were ever reverenced,
Am now bereft of shrine and oracle;
No longer do I hear the Delian hymn,
Nor taste the savors of the sacrifice,
But, lyre in hand, go wandering through the night,
Lamenting for my skyey chariot,
Wherein I bore the fierceness of the sun
Up eastern hills and down to western seas.
Finally, Apollo tells his renegade worshipper that she must sing the
battle-songs of Tyrtæus, which may perhaps awaken thoughts of freedom in
the breasts of her degenerated sons, and then departs, promising to
return again when she is once more the stainless Hellas of old. Fired by
the speech of the god, Hellas rises, and, assisted by the chorus, begins
to sing fierce battle-songs, and call upon her sons to remember the
heroes of the past. A clamor is heard without as of men fighting, then
the chains of Hellas fall off, and with them her dark robe. Now she is
free once more, and clad in purest white, so, while rejoicing in her
liberty, a herald (Crispin) appears, and tells how well the Greeks have
fought for their independence. This gave the poet an opportunity for a
stirring speech, descriptive of the modern Greek heroes, Canaris,
Botzaris, and Conduriottis, which names were received with shouts by the
audience, fired with patriotic fervor.
Once more Apollo, the genius of Greece, appears, and declares that no
longer can Hellas dwell in desecrated Athens, but that, even as his
mother Latona, she must seek shelter in an Ægean isle, and there, after
long years, give birth to a supreme race, who will revive the ancient
glories of violet-crowned Athens. Leading her by the hand, the god then
conducts the newly liberated Hellas up the steps of the temple. The
great doors are flung open to the sound of trumpets! and lo! appears the
Acropolis of Melnos in all its beauty. Here is Hellas to dwell in
seclusion, until her antique glory is revived by a new race of her sons,
instinct with genius; and down the steps come strings of white-robed
youths and girls, bearing fruits, to welcome this Phœnix of Greece,
new risen from the ashes of the past. Then the chorus, wreathing in a
mystic dance round the altar of Bacchus, sing the coming glories of New
Hellas, which are soon to be realized in the Island of Melnos.
Long, long hast thou lain as in prison, our mother, our goddess, our
queen,
But lo! to the eastward hath risen a splendor serene,
And glorious day follows darkness, the darkness of hundreds of years,
Reviving thy corpse from its starkness, with laughter and tears,
Ay, tears for the past and its anguish, and laughter for glories to
come,
For never again wilt thou languish, a bondswoman dumb.
The trumpets of triumph are blowing, their clangor swells north from thy
south,
And jubilant music is flowing anew from thy mouth.
Man, dazzled, obedient shall render his homage to thee as of yore,
And thou wilt stand forth in thy splendor, a goddess once more.
After this introductory chant in unison, the chorus divided in twain,
and semi-chorus replied to semi-chorus, in fiery speech and jubilant
music, that rang like a pæan through the wide theatre. Ever moving
figures, kneeling youths and maidens, soft radiance of sunlight, and
triumphant bursts of choral song, while Hellas, serene in her freedom,
stands beside tutelary genius, with the light of the glorious future on
her face, listening to the eagle flight of liquid words, greeting her as
queen of the world.
The play being ended, all the lively Greeks streamed out of the theatre,
loudly praising the entertainment, and, having had an intellectual
feast, now proceeded to the tables set in the open air, which were
covered with all kinds of food to satisfy their physical wants. Maurice
and the Demarch waited in the theatre alone for the actors, and very
shortly Crispin came to see how they liked his play. He received warm
congratulations of his success from the two men, while Helena and
Caliphronas also received their due meed of praise. The Greek was
radiant with self-complacent delight, for his vanity had been much
gratified by the approval of the audience, and for the rest of the day
he regarded himself as the hero of the hour, quite forgetting both
Crispin and Helena in his serene egotism.
“I hope I have succeeded in showing your aims clearly, Justinian?” said
the poet, as they sat down to a comfortable meal.
“You have succeeded admirably, especially in that last chorus. I only
hope that all will see the piece is meant for more than the amusement of
an hour.”
“If you heard how the villagers are talking,” remarked Caliphronas, with
a laugh, “I do not think you would have any doubt on that score, for
they already regard themselves as the saviours of Hellas,
intellectually, physically, and politically.”
“Did you intend your genius of Greece for Lord Byron, Crispin?” asked
Maurice, who had understood and admired the allegory.
“Well, the character was supposed to blend both the god and the poet,”
replied Crispin, after a pause; “let us say it was the Olympian
incarnate in the body of the Englishman.”
“And both the Olympian and Englishman incarnate in a Greek,” said the
Demarch graciously.
Caliphronas smiled at receiving this compliment, which was intended to
further blind him to the reality of Justinian’s feelings towards him.
“There is nothing I should like better than to become a leader in
reality,” he said gayly; “to inspire my countrymen with the desire of
once more making Hellas supreme queen of the world.”
“Of the intellectual world?”
“Or the material—it matters not which.”
“Pardon me, but it matters a great deal,” replied Justinian quickly.
“Politically, Greece has a place among the Powers—she has a constitution
and a king. So, as far as material prosperity goes, I wish not to meddle
with her, but my aim is to revive her intellectuality, and Crispin’s
play was entirely written to illustrate that point. Hellas will never be
a modern Roman empire—she never was an all-conquering power, and her
strength lay in the brains, not in the hands of her sons. After all, is
it not greater to control the minds than the bodies of men?”
“You want to turn Hellas into a school.”
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” rejoined Justinian sententiously.
“Let other nations be merchants and warriors, while Greece reasserts her
ancient vocation of teacher. An aptitude for a special line is as true
of the many as of the one. You would not give the lyre to the soldier
nor the sword to the poet, so every race should exercise the talents
with which it is especially gifted; not, of course, to the exclusion of
others, but make its peculiar gift its greatest aim. At present, the
great human family of Europe is in a state of transition, and, unaware
of each other’s aims, are watchfully in arms the one against the other.
Let us hope that before the end of the twentieth century they will
recognize that one special faculty predominates in every nation, and
permit each other to cultivate that special faculty.”
“What!” exclaimed Maurice, somewhat astonished, “would you have the
English nothing but shopkeepers and colonizers—the French, a nation of
warriors—the Germans, philosophers only, and the Italians, musicians?
That, indeed, would narrow down the talents of the world to one special
field each.”
“You do not understand me, Maurice,” said Justinian impatiently. “I
quite agree that every nation should have its own literature, art,
music, philosophy, and drama, but the one special gift of the race
should be cultivated more than the others; it should be made a state
law—a political necessity. However, this question admits of much
argument, and we have no time to argue now, but, in illustration that I
am not so narrow-minded as you think, I will merely point out, that I
educate my Greeks in military and civil occupations quite as much as I
attend to their intellectuality.”
“After all,” said Caliphronas pointedly, “only civil occupations, such
as touch agriculture, are necessary, for intellectuality is yet in the
future with us, and it is not likely Melnos will ever require to resort
to arms.”
“I trust not,” replied Justinian, looking steadily at the Count. “But if
she does, I am quite sure you will find her sons able to defend their
island, even against enmity and treachery.”
Caliphronas smiled uneasily, and held his peace, upon which there ensued
a rather embarrassing pause, which was only ended by the departure of
Crispin to look after the afternoon’s entertainment. Maurice strolled
off in the pleasant company of Helen, much to the disgust of
Caliphronas, who now pointedly avoided the company of the Englishman,
owing to the fracas which had occurred during the previous day. Truth to
tell, Roylands was pleased with such avoidance, as, now that open war
was declared between himself and the Greek, he had no need to cloak his
distaste for the society of this precious scamp.
The satiric comedy of “The Honey Bees,” was a fantastic piece based upon
an incident which had lately occurred in Melnos. Justinian had lately
imported a potter to teach his people the ceramic art, but this new
acquisition turned out to be but an idle scoundrel, who spent his time
in drinking and making love to his neighbors’ wives. On this basis the
poet had worked out an amusing plot, not devoid of point, in which
Aristides, an idle scamp, forces himself into an industrious hive of
honey bees, whose queen he desires to marry, in order to be independent
for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, he falls a victim to a
counter-plot of the bees themselves, who, in order to disillusionize the
queen, get a pretty young girl called Myrtis to pay court to the
adventurer. He makes love to Myrtis, and is discovered by the enraged
queen, who orders her bees to drive him forth from the hive.
This slight framework was filled with pointed allusions to passing
events, and the weaknesses of many of the Melnosians were slyly pointed
out, so that the gossip-loving audience enjoyed every stinging remark to
the full, nor, indeed, failed to laugh when the irony was directed at
themselves. The scene was the public square of the village, with the
lake and the bronze statue of Jupiter, so that, with such a well-known
setting, every local point was understood and applauded. The chorus
consisted of the “Honey Bees,” dressed somewhat after the fashion of
Aristophanic Wasps, with pinched waists, yellow black-banded bodies, and
spears for stings. Alternating with the rude buffoonery of the play,
were bursts of choric song lauding the community of Melnos and the
industry of its inhabitants, with many sly hits at the idle lives of the
adjacent islanders. In fact, with great judgment the poet had
constructed the whole comedy to glorify the Melnosians at the expense of
their labors, and thus render them the more resolved to work hard at
their appointed tasks, and thus fulfil the aims of their Demarch.
The following scene of the arrival of Aristides and the entrance of the
chorus will give, some idea of the play, though, of course, what with
local allusions and the flexibility of the Greek language, the comedy is
more amusing in the original.
_Aristides._ O Pan, to what land of honey have I come! Truly, I see
naught but wild thyme and yellow comb. Poseidon, has thou then girdled
Hymettus with the azure scarf of ocean?
_Queen._ No hill of Attic fame do you here behold, but the sky-piercing
Melnos, beloved of the gods.
_Aristides._ Jupiter! I behold a graceful creature. Have I then been
thrown on the alluring coast of fatal Circe?
_Queen._ Sun-god’s daughter I am not, but one who rules over
honey-seeking bees in this hollow island. Cleverly do they extract the
sweet juices of flowers to fill the emptiness of many-celled combs.
_Aristides_ (_running away_). Ah me, I fear the sharpness of their
stings.
_Queen._ In no wise will they hurt thee save at my behest. Be still, O
handsome stranger, and I will invoke for thee the industrious tribe,
whose ambrosia is sweeter than the food of undying gods.
_Aristides._ Already I shake in my cowardly knees.
_Queen._ O Pan, inspirer of vague fears, do I call on thee to send
hither the swift-flying bees. Whether ye lurk in honey-throated flowers
industrious, or speed lightly through the measureless sky, do I summon
ye hither, O sting-bearers.
ENTER CHORUS OF BEES.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Indeed I heard thy cry, O queen,
When seeking on a mount serene
Sweet-tasting honey for our store,
Drawn from the core
Of rose and daisy, violet,
In sparkling dews of meadows set,
With patient labor do I strive
To fill the hive,
Alas! too often plundered, when
Espied by all-devouring men.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
But lo! whom see I lurking here?
The form of man, whom much I fear.
Buz—z—z—z—z!
Let me prepare my angry sting
To slay this greedy-passioned thing,
Who would devour
Our honey in a single hour.
Buz—z—z—z—z.
The audience, lovers of laughter as they were, much preferred this
amusing play to the solemn teachings of the morning, and yet from both
they learned something necessary to their well-being. From the one, how
Justinian wished to make them the centre of a new intellectual force;
and from the other, how his aim could be achieved by industry and
perseverance: so, grave or gay, the performance instilled the policy of
the Demarch into their minds.
On the conclusion of the comedy, the rest of the evening was devoted to
feasting, while Justinian and his guests returned to the Acropolis, well
pleased with the success of the performances.
“Well, what do you think of my sermons from the stage?” asked Crispin,
as he strolled along beside Maurice.
“I think very highly of them,” answered the Englishman. “It is a pity we
dare not be so out-spoken in our own land. But if you set forth the
foibles of Londoners as plainly as you did in ‘The Honey Bees,’ I am
afraid you would have half a dozen libel cases.”
“It would be impossible to transplant the Aristophanic comedy to
England, for modern civilization is too complicated to admit of such
free speaking. Besides, the average Briton is too serious and too
practical to relish the truth, even when uttered by the comic muse, and
only the light-hearted Athenians could have appreciated and enjoyed such
plain speaking. The French are more given to open criticism, and I
daresay a political comedy constructed on these lines would appeal
greatly to their sense of humor.”
“When one is in Rome one must not speak evil of the Pope!”
“And every nation has its pope of conventionality. I agree with you
there. After all, it is impossible to revive the past, and even a new
Shakespeare would be as out of place in these post-revolutionary days as
a new Aristophanes. The modern world deals with the drama of little
things, and the individual idiosyncrasy is caricatured instead of the
national policy. We have only one plain-speaking Aristophanes nowadays,
and his name is _Punch_.”