has come upon the world. Last night when you crept into mine arms I was
troubled; never before have I been troubled while you were with me; but
last night, when you touched me, I trembled. I was unhappy, and I did
not know why I was unhappy; but I feared to lose you, Eve. Though I
touched you it seemed that you were far away. You were but a child when
I first saw you with your mother; and I was twelve years old. It was
last moon that we came together again; in the day that the djinns came
down from the mountains and slew our kinsfolk. I was pasturing the
sheep, and as I came back, leading my flock with my pipe, I saw the
dying embers and the dead bodies. Then you called to me, and we fled
together. Do you remember? That night we slept in the desert. I did not
tremble when you touched me. You will never leave me, Eve? We are alone
in the world. There are only ourselves, and the angels and the djinns."
"The djinn who came to us yesterday has made us unhappy," said Eve. "He
has withered the trees and made the tops of the mountains white."
"He was not a djinn," said Adam; "he was an angel. He smelt of roses,
his raiment was wonderful, he was clothed in glory."
"What is that noise?" said Eve. "What is that pillar of cloud that goeth
up out of the earth?"
And they saw in the distance the army of Merodach, and, being afraid,
they fled.
"It is a pleasant site," said Merodach, as the elephants entered the
valley; "the autumnal landscapes have always a certain melancholy which
charms me."
"The fallen leaves in the valleys are like fallen light," said Mekerah;
"that slender birch flamed yellow a moment ago, but, at a touch, went
out in a shower of sparks."
"It must be delightfully cool in summer," said the Queen Parysatis.
"The best time is the spring," said the Princess Candace.
"The almond and cherry blossom will be out then," said Mekerah; "these
slopes will be all pink and white, with petals drifting in the wind. The
hyacinths and daffodils will be out then; and the red flower of Tammuz
will fall upon the river."
"I should like to come here in the spring, and go naked, and live in a
cabin of boughs like Adam," said the Princess Candace.
Adam could not be found. Merodach ordered that his men should encircle
the whole valley, and drive whatever game there was toward him.
"In this way, if he is still here we shall find him; and in any case we
shall have some sport."
Then the servants of Merodach drove all the game that was in Eden past
the elephant of the Great King; and Merodach pierced the beasts and the
birds with his arrows, and the herds of Adam were scattered in the
wilderness, bleating dispersedly, and the hollow caves answered their
bleating, while the ewes sought their lambs, and the she-goats the kids
of the flock. But Adam, the servants of Merodach could not find. Then
the slaves erected a pavilion of purple silk, upon which was embroidered
the whole story of Ut-Napishtim and the flood; the gods cowering like
dogs at the fury of Rimmon, while Ishtar cried like a woman in travail,
and the Anunnaki brought lightnings; and the race of man strewn like
leaves upon the waters; and the waters like a great host rioting in the
fury of battle, white-plumed squadrons of angry and tumultuous waves.
Yea, and therein was figured Ut-Napishtim looking from the window of the
ark; and the sending forth of the birds, the sending of the dove, the
sending of the swallow, and the sending of the raven, who saw the
decrease of the waters, and ate, and waded, and croaked, and turned not
back. And there was embroidered upon it the bow which Ishtar hung in the
heavens, and the sacrifice which Ut-Napishtim offered unto the gods upon
the mountain, setting Adagur vases seven by seven, strewing reeds,
cedar-wood, and incense before them, so that the gods smelt the goodly
savour, and gathered like flies over the sacrifice. The Princess Candace
was delighted with the tapestry, which she had never seen before.
Mekerah told her the story, handling the details with rare imagination,
while the Princess ate larks stuffed with cherries. Then she turned
toward Bagoas.
"Priest of Bel," she said, "how long is it since all this trouble came
upon the world?"
And Bagoas smiled faintly, his smile expressive of many things.
"It happened, little Princess, in the time when the animals spoke with
the tongues of men."
But the Princess found this chronology too vague.
"When did the animals speak the language of men?" she enquired.
"It is all a tale, little Princess. The animals never spoke as men do;
but once upon a time the speech of men was like that of animals."
"Then it never happened?" enquired the Princess regretfully.
"No; it never happened," answered Bagoas.
But the King was outraged, for he claimed to be descended from
Ut-Napishtim.
"Candace," he said, "the story is quite true. Gilgamesh builded a ship
and pitched it within and without, and he took with him Ia-bani, and
some chosen comrades, and journeyed over the waters which engirdle the
earth, and he crossed the river of death, which flows round these waters
without mixing with them, and he landed in the country of the shades.
Then he dug a trench, and cut the throat of a black bull so that the
blood flowed into the trench, and the shades flocked to drink of the
warm blood; but Gilgamesh drove them from it with his sword until
Ut-Napishtim came to drink of it, and had drank his fill. And of all
these who came to drink of it only Ut-Napishtim and his wife had life
and substance; but all the others were unsubstantial shades. Then
Ut-Napishtim told Gilgamesh all the things which had befallen him in
this life, and how that the gods had given him and his wife, alone of
all human kind, imperishable bodies and immortal youth; but he said it
was sad to dwell among the shades, whom he could not touch with his
hands, and to see loved faces, which, whenever the wind blew, lost their
remembered contours, and became as wreaths of vapour drifting over the
desolate marshes. And he bade Gilgamesh to make haste and get him into
his ship again, for that if night found him there, he would become even
as the shades himself, and his bones would rot by the bitter flood. Then
Gilgamesh made haste into his ship with his companions, and they lifted
the creaking sail, and bent to the oars, and departed over the sea. But
Ut-Napishtim stood upon the beach where the waves broke at his feet, and
his eyes strained after the vessel; for he was like an exile there, who
sees a ship bound to his own country, and his heart goes with it. So the
body of Ut-Napishtim stood upon the beach, but his heart was with the
living offspring of his race; for a long time he stood thus, until the
ship was a mere speck on the waters, while tears blinded his eyes; then
he sighed and went back into the shadowy ways of that twilit land."
His audience listened to Merodach with astonishment, his voice was full
of emotion. He had hurried through the story, careless of whither it led
him, like a man blind with grief, who stumbles against all the obstacles
in his path. When he had finished there was silence.
"And Gilgamesh," he added after a pause, "wrote all these things in a
book, which is preserved in the Temple of Bel at Nippur."
He glanced at Bagoas indignantly as he spoke. Bagoas was eating a dish
of leverets stewed with rice and prunes; he looked up from his plate,
and wiped his mouth with a fine napkin.
"There is preserved in our Temple at Nippur a book which purports to be
the work of Gilgamesh," he said. "It is the work of a poet, such a
history as Mekerah might invent for you, which it would be ridiculous to
consider as a true and serious narrative of actual events."
Mekerah caught a malicious glance from the Queen Parysatis, and rose
angrily.
"There is, O Priest, a higher truth and a higher seriousness," he said.
"In the epic of Gilgamesh is enshrined the religious consciousness of
Babylonia. It is sacred. It is not to be touched. It contains those
great truths which are not a peculiar feature of any one age, but are
true for all time. It was directly inspired by Bel, and shall we set our
pitiful human wisdom above the wisdom of the divine word?"
Bagoas once again wiped his mouth before he began to speak.
"I deny," he said, "that it has any truth as an historical document. It
is valuable, historically, as an instance of the narrow limits of human
knowledge in the age which produced it. That is all its value to the
historian. Its value to the theologian is different. He finds in it the
first concrete expression of man's relation to God, as he understands
it. The truth may be veiled in a mist of fable and metaphor, but he
feels it to be there. At the same time, he gives it an extended sense,
and interprets it in a larger spirit than that in which it was
originally interpreted. It means to us at once something more and
something less than it did to the ancient world; for religion is not a
definite revelation of an eternal truth, but the contemplation of the
unknown from the sum of man's experience. It is consequently susceptible
of infinite development and extension, it reacts to every new discovery
of science; and its chief glory is that it is part of man's daily life.
"We, the priests of Bel, recognise our sacred books as the
starting-point of a living, growing truth; in our hands is the duty of
interpreting it, and our interpretation is of the nature of a
commentary. We are continually rejecting some details as unsound, and
developing others to the utmost limits of their power; that is our value
and duty as an hierarchy: to criticise, to prune, to graft. And if we
consider the nature of the books, in which are enshrined those great
spiritual truths, we see how necessary this work of selection and
rejection is; for they do not form one inseparable, concrete whole, but
each has arisen under the impulse of different circumstances, each had
its own separate development and origin before it became joined on to
the main body.
"Before philosophy came into being men spoke in fables, and their minds,
not being able to grasp as yet the significance of abstract ideas, dealt
exclusively with things and actions. They were curious of the destiny of
man after death, and they felt the need for some answer, so they
imagined the hero, the Babylonian semi-divinity, Gilgamesh, setting out
on a ship fashioned by human hands to bring them back the answer which
they needed. For us it was the first voyage of man's mind into the
unknown, the first adventure beyond the realm of actualities, and as
such it demands our reverence. We do not, however, believe either in
Gilgamesh, Ia-bani, or the ship which crossed the river of death. The
story is a mere fable, and the actions described in it are only the
unconscious vehicles of a half-recognised truth, or rather of the germ
of a new spirit. There is only one form of truth, and one form of
seriousness."
He drank a little wine.
"Let us walk in the garden," said Merodach.
* * * * *
Merodach, after a moment's consideration, found that the conclusions of
Bagoas with reference to the epic of Gilgamesh were reasonable, so he
conversed with the High-priest amiably as they walked by the river. The
Princess Candace interrupted the conversation.
"Yesterday was my birthday, and you have given me no present, now let me
ask one," she said.
"Ask then," said Merodach, smiling.
"Give me this garden to be my garden, and build me a palace where Adam
had his cabin of boughs; a little palace of blue porcelain, which I may
visit in the spring, and in the hot months of the year, and set at all
the entrances into the valley great winged cherubim, that the wandering
tribes may see that it is a royal palace, and fear to enter."
"So be it," said the King; and the Princess went off to inspect the site
of the new palace.
"She is discreet, and charming, wise beyond her years," said Merodach.
"We shall consider the son of Na'amah, my cousin, at Nippur. How is he
called?"
"His name is Adamaharon," answered Bagoas, smiling; "and he is even now
on his way to visit me at Uruk, where he has never been. He may turn
aside to hunt. It is his ambition at present to kill a lion, for which
he has a permit from the King's huntsman."
"He shall hunt with me," said the King; "but the Princess is still a
little young for marriage."
She, unconscious of her fate, drew close to the cabin of Adam. That part
of the valley had been deserted by the King's servants, and she was
alone. She saw the glitter of a spear which lay in the doorway, and then
the eyes of a young man watching her.
"I came for an apple," she said, turning toward the tree in the branches
of which the great snake hung; "but Adam must have eaten them all."
"There is one at the top of the tree," said the boy. "Look! right at the
top."
"It is too high. Perhaps you could knock it down with your spear?"
"That would bruise it. I shall climb up and get it for you."
He swung himself up, avoiding the great snake which looked at him
warily.
"Do not go any higher," cried the Princess; "the branch will break, and
you will be killed."
But he laughed at her, and climbing higher seized the apple, then the
branch did break. She screamed a little.
"You are bruised instead of the apple," she said, as he picked himself
up.
He laughed.
"I have done wonderful things to-day," he said. "At dawn I killed a
lion; and at eve I got an apple for a Princess."
"But are you not one of the court-pages? I thought you were. Who are you
to kill lions, which are preserved for the King?"
"I am Adamaharon, the son of Na'amah, the cousin of the King."
She offered him the apple, and he bit a large piece out of it.
"Come and look at the lion's skin," he said, and led her into Adam's
cabin. She felt a curious pleasure in being with him, and listened with
delight to the story of how he killed the lion. But they did not talk
much, they seemed to understand each other so well that they had nothing
to say; and at last they kissed each other.
It was at that precise moment, when their souls seemed to meet with
their lips that Merodach entered. For a moment he paused, anger falling
about him like darkness in which all things writhed, confused. Then he
drew his sword. The Princess Candace fell before him and embraced his
knees; he was lifting the sword to strike her when Bagoas seized his
arm.
"It is the son of Na'amah," he said quickly.
The King paused, and then lowered his sword slowly. He stared at the
young man in silence, and the young man met his gaze quietly. Then the
King let his eyes wander over the other's form, and he saw that the
young man was well-thewed, spare, and muscular, with a beauty to make
him desired of the maidens; and his heart softened toward his cousin's
son.
"You are Adamaharon," he said slowly, as he sheathed his sword. "I had
intended to send for you to come unto Uruk, that I might wed you to my
daughter. This is the will of the gods, and it is mine, also."
The young man came to him, and bowed down before, touching his feet; and
Merodach let his hand rest upon the bowed head, caressing the thick
curls.
"A young lion of our race," said Merodach exultingly; "look at the
yellow mane rippling over the firm neck. A child of my cousin Na'amah. A
child of the race of the gods."
And he embraced Adamaharon kindly, and he raised up Candace and kissed
her fondly, bidding her go to her mother, and tell her how she had found
a husband in the cabin of Adam. And Candace left them; and as she went
she wept, for her fear had given place to joy. Then Adamaharon rose up,
and stood before the King.
"I have done wonderful things to-day," he said proudly. "At dawn I slew
a lion; and at eve I kissed the desire of my heart. My mouth is filled
with honey."
"It is the will of the gods," said Merodach.
Then he began to lead the son of Na'amah toward the river where the
Queen Parysatis was listening to her daughter's tale; but Bagoas paused
before the apple-tree and looked into the eyes of the great serpent.
"It is the will of the gods," he said, with his ironical smile. "I am
but their minister, the mere instrument of their designs; so what part
shall I claim in this adventure?"
The snake watched him fixedly.
"The boy is like a son to me," said Bagoas. "He was born to be
fortunate."
And then he followed them toward the river, leaving the wise snake
wreathed in the branches of the fruitless tree.
On the journey back to Uruk the three royal elephants walked abreast.
Adamaharon rode with Merodach, Bagoas with the Princess Candace, and the
Queen Parysatis with her attendant poet. And Adamaharon made delicate
songs for his beloved.
"The old look upon the stars," he sang; "but I look into the eyes of my
beloved. What stars are like her eyes? What wisdom can compare with the
wisdom of love?"
"He is a true poet," said Parysatis to Mekerah. "What spirit, what
fire!"
"I have said the same thing an hundred times," said Mekerah crossly.
"Precisely," said Parysatis; "he has said it once, perfectly."
"The kisses of her mouth are sweeter than honey," sang Adamaharon; "more
fragrant than apples. She has filled me with the joy of morning, and
gladdened my soul as with wine."
Bagoas leaned toward the Queen's elephant.
"Adam said of love that----"
But the Queen put a finger on her lips.
"I do not believe that Adam ever existed," she said.
Bagoas, looking at Candace, smiled.
* * * * *
But many years afterwards a woman sitting by the door of a hut in the
desert, watching the quiet stars quicken as the day died, drew two young
boys toward her, and told them the story of the garden. Her face was
tranquil, like the face of one who has grief for a companion; and the
boys were clothed in goat-skins.
"And," she said, looking into the embers of the fire, "the man
counselled me to eat, saying, if ye eat of the fruit ye shall know."
Adam suddenly appeared in the firelight. He had heard the last words.
"It was the serpent," he said suspiciously. "You always told me it was
the serpent."
And Eve answered quickly, drawing her children closer to her.
"Yea, it was the serpent! I forgot. It was the serpent!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_TO MRS SHAKESPEARE_
II
AT THE HOUSE OF EURIPIDES
------------------------------------------------------------------------
II
AT THE HOUSE OF EURIPIDES
Euripides ordered the tables to be removed, and then some musicians
entered, followed by a girl, who danced as Persephone among the flowers
of Enna. While the guests were admiring the grace of her gestures, and
the swift movements of her thin, naked feet, Callias came in with Lysis
and Antisthenes. They had been unable to come earlier; and after making
their excuses to Euripides, Callias and Antisthenes took a couch close
by Protagoras, and Lysis went to Socrates. The company included Glaucon,
Hermogenes, Pythodorus, Philip the buffoon, who never missed a feast,
and Apollodorus, the friend of Socrates. Protagoras had a couch to
himself on the right of Euripides, who was also without a companion.
Others came in during the evening until the room was very full. When the
girl had finished her dance there was a murmur of admiration, and she
leaned back on the bench, smiling with pleasure, her slim body trembling
and palpitating beneath its crocus-coloured veils.
"You are magnificent, Euripides," said Socrates. "You not only feast us
sumptuously; but you amuse us with dancing and music."
"I am glad that you are amused, Socrates. Why are you so silent
to-night?"
"I feel like one about to be initiated into the mysteries. When there
are so many older and wiser men than myself present I listen rather than
talk. It is more interesting. I wish that I had come with flowers and
ribbons like Lysis, so that I might have occupied myself in making a
garland. Are you going to crown Protagoras when he has read his
discourse, Lysis?"
"Yes, Socrates; Callias said it would be worthy of a crown."
"Protagoras must be the happiest of men." said Socrates. "He has health,
riches, and honour from all. I am impatient to hear what he has to say."
"I am old," said Protagoras, "and like to rest a little while after
eating; but I shall not keep you long. In the meantime, why do you not
have a discussion with Euripides?"
"Well, as you have given me leave to speak, I should like to ask
Euripides a few questions."
"Very well," said Euripides.
"Do not encourage him," shouted Philip. "If he once begins asking
questions we shall not know where we are. He will tell us that
Protagoras is not Protagoras, and that this banquet is not a banquet."
"Why do you attack me like this, Philip? What harm have I ever done to
you?" said Socrates.
"Why, ever since you have taken to frequenting the tables of the rich
you have done me harm," said Philip, with a pretence to excitement. "At
one time I was always a welcome guest; but since you have come upon the
scene no one laughs at me. Your talk is all about justice, wisdom, and
virtue. What does a poor man like myself know of such things? But these
are all that amuse the company now; and, if I want a dinner in mine old
age, I shall have to play the sophist too."
Philip was a great favourite with the company, and his exaggerated
gestures as he railed at Socrates amused them extremely. He advanced
into the middle of the room.
"Laugh at me as you will," he cried; "it is true. Socrates cannot deny
it. The more wine a man has now, the more solemn he looks; until
sometimes I think I have strayed to a funeral instead of to a feast. If
I chose, I could be the greatest sophist of you all. I should teach you
not only the knowledge of good, and truth, and virtue, but the knowledge
of all things."
"And how would you teach us, Philip?" said Socrates; "for this is
precisely the knowledge which I have been seeking all my life. By the
dog of Egypt, if you would teach me this I should ever afterwards obey
you in all things. I have always had the greatest respect for you,
Philip, but I did not think that philosophy was among your
accomplishments."
"Do you answer me, Socrates? and I shall prove it to you."
"Willingly," said Socrates; "but I am afraid you are going to make me
ridiculous. I have never pretended to be a sophist, nor, indeed, to know
anything."
Philip stood in the middle of the room, and the company all leant
forward, looking at him with amusement.
"Is knowledge the knowledge of something, or the knowledge of nothing?"
he enquired of Socrates.
"Of both," answered Socrates.
"You will not escape me that way," exclaimed Philip. "Would you not
rather say it is the knowledge of something, and the knowledge of not
knowing other things?"
"Very well, Philip."
"Then there is a knowledge of knowing, and a knowledge of not knowing;
and we know the things we know, and the things we do not know?"
"That seems absurd," said Socrates.
"What? Will you go back on the argument, Socrates, and say that
knowledge is only the knowledge of something?"
"Let us try that way then," Socrates said.
"By Zeus, Socrates, that way will do as well as another," said Philip;
"for if you know something you can distinguish it from other things, can
you not?"
"Yes."
"You can distinguish one thing you know, from another thing you know;
and both from what you do not know."
"You have made me giddy, Philip. Let me think."
"Well, Socrates, you can distinguish Euripides from Protagoras, can you
not? And you can distinguish both these people whom you know, from the
tyrant Archelaus, whom you do not know?"
"Certainly; I must agree to that."
"Then you can distinguish between something you know and something you
do not know?"
"Yes."
"Consider a moment, Socrates. Is it possible for you to know the
difference between one thing and another unless you know both things?"
"Why, no! I must admit that," said Socrates.
"Then mark where I lead you; for if you know the things you know, you
must also know the things you do not know."
Every one was now laughing immoderately; not only at Philip's dialectic,
but at his pompous gestures, wherewith he mimicked many well-known
sophists; blowing out his cheeks, pursing his lips, tapping his head
suspiciously, and rubbing his nose.
"By the dog of Egypt!" cried Socrates; "the man has been with
Euthydemus."
"Euthydemus is a child to me," said Philip contemptuously.
"But, Philip, if I confess I know nothing?" said Socrates, when the
laughter failed a little.
"Why, then, Socrates, I shall not argue the question with you; though I
could easily prove to you that if you knew nothing you would know
everything."
"Philip, I have always asserted my ignorance. It is my ignorance which
causes me to ask questions. And now, as you have proved that you know
everything, I want to ask you what knowledge is. Can you tell me?"