THE RETURN TO ATHENS.
Although Thoth assured Daphne in the most explicit manner that the
whole assembly of the royal race must have perished, she insisted upon
instant flight.
The danger had been so great and the culminating events so appalling,
that she desired above everything to be hundreds of leagues from the
scene.
Thoth became silent and gloomy, and most reluctantly agreed to obey her
requests. Daphne attempted to soothe him, and to make his deed appear
great and noble, but without effect.
“Surely thou dost not repent?” she said.
He replied as if he had not heard her question—
“Canst thou not remain with me a few months in this city until I
arrange some kind of order? There are none left now but the people thou
hast seen, as harmless as sheep, and, without a ruler, as helpless. My
brothers were weaker than I, but every one played some necessary part.
If I leave the city without a guiding mind, a disaster is possible. Why
art thou in such haste to be gone? Thine enemies are irrevocably dead.”
“I fear even the dead,” she answered. “I cannot stay in this place.”
“Not even with me—in the first glow of our love?”
“Restore me to Greece,” she said, “and then, if thou wilt, return
hither and put in order the affairs of thy giants and pigmies.”
“And this,” he said bitterly, “is thy love, when for thee I have
sacrificed everything.”
“Restore me to Greece,” she said; “I can stay no longer in this
dreadful place.”
He yielded, and in silence conducted her to the car. Then he said to
her with gentle, affectionate persuasion—
“Drink again of the nepenthe, and thou shalt awake in Athens.”
She hesitated, as if with distrust, and he said with a tone of
reproach—
“Nay, if I intended harm to thee, there are still a thousand ways in
which I could show my power.”
She drank as he bade her, and again felt the strange soothing effect of
the drug.
* * * * *
She was awakened by the words of Thoth.
“Thou art at the rocks from which we departed, and the dawn is near at
hand. Here is abundance of gold and jewels. Meet me at daybreak in the
same place in ten days.”
He kissed her hand and said—
“I return to my people to set the city in order.”
And without further farewell he entered the car and disappeared.
* * * * *
Some peasants found Daphne and took her into the city.
The plague had vanished, and she found that many friends and companions
had survived. When questioned as to her journey, she said simply that
the vessel had been wrecked, and that she alone had been saved, and
after much toil and suffering she had been restored to Athens by a
man of Grecian birth, who wished to take her to wife. She showed the
treasures in token of the truth of her words.
* * * * *
Every day, as the old familiar life was renewed, the recollection of
Thoth and his city became more odious to her.
On all sides she saw vestiges of the plague, and she could not efface
from her mind the thought that he and his companions had first
implanted it in Greece. How could she love a man who had done such a
deed?
She began to dread his return. She knew not what to do. She feared if
she let him depart from her in anger that he might renew the work of
destruction.
She feared to disclose the secret to the people and those in authority.
She doubted if, against his will, they could overpower him,—and in her
heart she wished him no harm—least of all, death by her devices.
She could not forget the fate from which he had rescued her, and the
sacrifice which he had made.
The appointed day arrived, and still her mind was divided by doubt.
Before daybreak she was at the meeting-place—alone. The scene of her
former departure rose before her, and she wondered if again she could
trust herself with this man.
* * * * *
The first light of day appeared, and she saw no one. The light became
stronger and larger, and she saw, as it were, a large bird in the
distance, advancing rapidly towards her over the sea. She knew that
Thoth would soon be beside her.
Nearer and nearer he came, and she pictured to herself his face aflame
with eagerness and love.
Suddenly, about fifty paces from the shore, without warning, the car
fell, like a wounded bird, into the sea. Daphne waited in breathless
expectation, and in a few moments Thoth rose to the surface, and,
swimming with great difficulty, made his way to the shore.
She ran down to meet him, and when he reached the land, she observed
that he was pallid with suffering.
The water at the place was deep, and the rocks rough and cruel. She
bent down and assisted him to land, and as he felt her touch, a look of
pleasure crossed his suffering face.
“Art thou hurt?” she said.
“My bodily hurt,” he said, “is nothing, but I fear to tell thee the
whole of my evil fortune. My city, with all its people and wealth and
power, is buried in the sands of the desert—not a trace is left.
There, in the depth of the sea, lies the last remnant of our skill. I
stand before thee a nameless, powerless man. Yet if thou wilt only love
me, I regret nothing,” and he looked with longing into her eyes.
“Tell me but one thing,” she said; “assure me that thou thyself didst
not bring hither the pestilence that destroyed my race.”
His face darkened, and he said—
“That is long since past, and I have become a different being.”
She shrank back, and said—
“At least, say that it was thy companions—that thine own hands are
guiltless.”
“Surely thou didst know before that I alone did it,” he said.
Horror seized her, and she cried—
“How can I forget? How can I dwell with thee or love thee?”
But he said with passionate entreaty—
“Now I am altogether different. Since I knew thee, it is as if I had
been born again.”
But she looked at him with dismay and undisguised terror.
“Alas! these are empty words, and the dreadful deed cannot be undone.
How can a man be born again?”
Thoth looked at her, and for a moment seemed to wait for some sign of
relenting, and then he said, hopelessly—
“Then there is but one course left.”
He seized her hand passionately, and she tried to escape.
“Nay,” he said, “fear no violence. I have always treated thee with
honour and respect.”
She left her hand quietly in his, and he raised it to his lips and
kissed it.
“Farewell,” he said; “but hereafter, when thou thinkest of me,
remember that my last words were true, and that the man who loved thee
was not the man who did this wrong.”
Then he turned, and, without a word, plunged into the sea.
In a moment bitter repentance seized on Daphne’s mind. Her memory was
filled with recollections of the kindness of the man.
“Come back! come back!” she cried. “I believe thee! I love thee!”
But there was no answer, save the lapping of the waves on the shore.
EPILOGUE.
I, Xenophilos, physician and philosopher, having wandered forth to
meditate by the sea, found Daphne in a swoon. For many years she lived
affected by what appeared to be a curious madness, but before her death
she seemed to recover somewhat, and out of her narrative I have, with
difficulty, pieced together this history.
I will only add that the body of a man, like one of the Egyptian
merchants, was afterwards washed ashore. Near the spot, and many years
after, some divers found the remains of a curious, unintelligible
mechanical contrivance, partly destroyed by the sea.
APPENDIX.
(_The last chapter of ‘Thoth’ as originally written in 1876. See
Preface._)
Philetos lay dreaming—dreaming that he was still hunting the lion. And
it seemed to him that after slaying numbers of inferior animals, he
lighted on one of an immense size, which, as soon as he came into view,
fled to the mountains. He chased it through mighty forests, followed
it across foaming torrents, and at last on a lofty barren table-land,
he appeared to be fast approaching it. But the lion, roaring terribly,
suddenly rushed away, and in the distance he could see it like an
insect on the grass. Bravely and persistently he followed, however,
and at last saw that the lion was standing on the edge of a precipice,
or rather precipitous incline, at the base of which was a deep black
lake; and it seemed to be in doubt whether to turn and try and rend
its pursuer, or to yield to fear and rush blindly over the abyss. On
Philetos rushed, with spear ready to his hand, and he was now within a
few yards of the beast, when suddenly it sprang down the mountain-side,
as if panic-struck. In its course it loosened immense rocks, which
formed an avalanche, following close on its track. Philetos, with
straining eyes and ears expecting the shock of the rocks falling on the
water, stood at the edge of the abyss. At length the lion fell into the
lake, and in a moment the terrific splash of the avalanche was heard.
Then Philetos awoke, and springing up from his couch, stood up, with
the noise still roaring in his ears. But on awakening he had entirely
forgotten the lion, and he thought that he had surely heard the fall
of immense rocks into water. He looked on the sunlight that streamed
through his chamber windows, and tried to shake off his terror; for
he thought that the Egyptian had broken faith, and that the end of
humanity was near at hand. Breathlessly he waited to hear if a second
noise would follow; for he knew that now, at least, he was fully awake,
and that if he should again hear what he had heard, or dreamed he had
heard, his fears would be realised. Nothing seemed to break the silence
but the sighing of a gentle wind in the sombre trees, and the cries
of animals in the distant forests; yet still he stood breathless, and
scarcely able to stand with excitement. Never in his life before had he
been thus moved: in a multitude of perils by land and sea, his cheek
had not blanched; without fear he had fought alone with beasts in the
midst of the forest, with only the moonlight to direct his blows;
without fear he had found himself in the pathless desert deprived of
food or water; and without fear he had attended to the wants of men
struck with the plague. Never before had he feared for his life; but
now he thought that all his fellows—men who, even at first sight, had
loved him, and showered on him gifts and favours; whom he had loved
as much in return; amongst whom he had no enemies, save the Egyptian
priest; and by whom he had been worshipped almost as a god, save by
him,—he thought that humanity was now to feel the revenge of that
terrible intellect, and man, woman, and child in a few hours or days to
lie writhing in mortal anguish, or withering under the breath of the
plague. And this it was that filled him with terror. Not now did he
seem like Apollo, clothed with immortal strength and beauty, but rather
like Niobe, expecting her offspring to be struck down by the darts of
the far-shooter.
Suddenly the noise which he had heard in his dreams was repeated;
now there could be no doubt. He heard distinctly the masses of stone
striking the waters, and the rush of the waters over them. He knew
for a certainty that the barrier of the temple, which was to fall and
give access to the light of the sun only on the day when mankind was
doomed to be exterminated, had fallen. What his dream had pictured
as the plunge of the lion, had been the fall of the outer barrier;
and now he had heard the innermost wall—the dreadful veil, the fall
of which was to reveal the most terrible spectacle ever enacted on
this earth—fall irrevocably into the poisonous lake. In a moment, he
thought, the awful ceremony will commence: even now the dead are raised
and eagerly expecting the consummation of their hatred; the music is
breathing out the solemn, gentle strains, that will soon swell into
maddening peals, and rouse the fury of the haters of men from its
slumber of ten thousand years. It is no longer a thought: he can hear
the weird sounds, which welcome the dead to life, and form a fitting
prelude to the awful catastrophe. What can he do? Even now, though
the Egyptian should have his hand on the key of the gates of death,
Philetos imagines that could he see him face to face, he would forego
his revenge, and dare to disobey and dishonour his ancestors. He is
certain that this is the work of the priest, and still believes the
Egyptian to be his friend. There is one chance still: if he can gain
access to the temple he will plead the cause of men, and perchance save
them. He rushes from his chamber, and nothing hinders his advance down
the dreary corridor that leads to the temple gate. Fleeter than the
deer he passes along; the roof re-echoes the tread of his feet, and the
hollow clang seems like the shriek of despair; the fitful light of the
few flickering lamps is pallid and ghastly, and seems to fall with the
greatest intensity on the bas-reliefs, which he knows represent the
final sufferings of man. The thick humid air seems to fan him like a
wind, so fleetly does he run. In so brief a space has he accomplished
the entire length, that hardly could the priest have turned to bar
the gate of the temple, even if he had been aware of the object of
Philetos. But so engrossed were both he and the Egyptian, that they
heard not the advancing steps, and he passed the door, and was already
advancing along the central aisle, before he was perceived. On opening
the massive gate, a spectacle so terrible met his gaze, that nothing
but the lofty purpose with which he was animated could give him
strength and courage to pass through the temple.
Only once before had he passed through the massive entrance, and
then a single lamp, carried in the hand, had afforded him glimpses
only of the architecture of the place, where the Egyptians, wrapt in
their everlasting robes, were waiting for the time when it should
be permitted them to link together again the broken chain of life,
and end their existence with a moment of delirious joy—of joy so
intense as to compensate for all their life-long toil, and a voluntary
entombment of a thousand years. Even then, when a thousandth part was
not revealed to him, what he had seen had caused him to tremble. The
pillars by which the roof was supported seemed of adamantine strength;
but this was relieved by no graceful capital, nor was the surface
smooth and polished. On the contrary, deeply engraven on the stone were
unintelligible signs, and exact images of the loathliest animals and
most noxious plants.
There were sculptured groups in abundance; but hate and destruction in
their most horrible garbs formed the only theme. Here was a serpent
enveloping a deer in its scaly folds; the deer had been designed with
the most graceful form, but the marble of which it was carved seemed
shivering with horror. There, again, was a man of unshapely form, but
evidently of immense strength, with a brow that denoted the highest
intelligence, and features that expressed the intensest cruelty,
strangling a being of the most perfect stature and beauty. There were
pictures, too, and in one of these, at first glance, he had missed the
prevailing emotion. A number of maidens were bathing, as careless,
unconscious, and graceful as water-lilies hardly moved by the breeze;
but when he looked again he saw beneath the water a monster that seemed
half alligator, half serpent, and yet altogether human.
These glimpses had filled him with horror on his first visit, but now
the light of an African sun fully revealed the minutest details. The
pillars with their engraven loathliness, the paintings and sculptures
almost innumerable, seemed as if they had been suddenly endowed
with life by the heat and glare of the sun. But they formed only an
appropriate setting to the rest of the picture.
The robes which had hitherto completely covered the bodies of the
Egyptians, had now fallen to their feet, and they were standing in
the garb of life. Not even a face-cloth obscured their visages. They
seemed as if they had just been struck dead in the performance of some
religious ceremony; but, in reality, the reverse had taken place. A
closer examination would have shown that they were just aroused from
their sleep, for their eyes were open; and though they moved neither
hand nor foot, nor seemed to draw breath, the look of the eyes seemed
not altogether as of the dead. There they stood in close array, all
in the same attitude, steadfastly gazing at the upper part of the
temple—seeming only to wait for some signal to open their mouths
and speak, and rush tumultuously towards the day—where, arrayed in
gorgeous robes, stood the friend of Philetos, bearing in his hand
two keys—the keys[1] of life and death; they seemed as if gazing on
the sky, in expectation of the signal of life, on which they would
open their mouth and speak, and rush tumultuously forward. But as men
looking to the gods for aught receive what they desire, or in some sort
what they desire, at the hands of men, so the entry of Philetos seemed
to loosen their frozen bodies as the expected signal from heaven.
Yet they moved not, for the newly given life was snatched away by a
dreadful apprehension. But as he passed through their midst, a thousand
eyes darted on him looks of fear, hatred, and surprise. In a moment,
too, voices faint and low, as voices in a deep cave hardly heard by the
persons above, assailed him on all sides; fierce and vehement words
reached him, but they seemed as large stones hurled from too great a
distance, which gently roll up to the feet of him they were intended
to crush. He heeded them not, even heard them not distinctly, but with
rapid steps advanced to his friend.
[1] The mystery of these keys had been explained in an earlier chapter.
The plagues were supposed to be locked up like the winds in the cave
of Æolus, and by turning the key of death they would be blown about
the world, whilst by turning the key of life they would be rendered
harmless.
The priest, who at first had seemed thunderstruck, and too much
astonished to say or do aught, now poising his javelin, hurled it at
Philetos with a fierce curse. But wrath or fear misdirected the aim,
and the javelin struck the sculpture of the wrestlers, and broke off
the hand of the ideal of intellect and cruelty. The Egyptian himself
seemed a prey to the most violent agitation; at one time he looked
to his ancestors, and at another to Philetos, seeming in doubt which
to obey. Yet he drew not his sword, nor made any effort to kill his
friend, as in similar circumstances he had done before. On his visage,
usually, even in the most perilous and exciting circumstances, as
cold and immovable as marble, was depicted a most terrible struggle
of emotion. On the one hand, the friendship for which he had already
sacrificed so much, and which year by year had been growing in
intensity, urged him in one direction; but on the other, the purpose
of his life, and the lives of his ancestors—the tremendous weight
that accrued to this purpose by the already accomplished resurrection,
the vividness with which he saw his hereditary object before him, and
in addition his sombre religion, which had never ceased to have the
greatest sway over him—urged him to kill Philetos. At length, as
men driven this way and that by doubts at last appeal to chance, and
then become firm in one resolution by the upshot of a most trivial
event, so the Egyptian, when he saw the priest raise his javelin, did
not attempt to hinder him, but seemed to decide to act according to
the javelin;—if it struck Philetos ever so slightly, to slay him at
once—and if it failed, to renounce his ancestors. Accordingly, when
not only did it not strike Philetos, but ominously released the fair
statue from the grasp of its destroyer, he grasped Philetos by the
hand, but remained silent through emotion. But the priest, whom this
act seemed to render furious, thinking that the fate of the world and
his revered masters depended on him alone, drew his sword and rushed
at Philetos. But he, for the first time in his life enraged with a
fellow-man, avoiding the blow, caught the priest and hurled him into
the lake. Still the Egyptian spoke not, nor raised a hand against him.
Then arose a faint cry, yet a cry which seemed in its purpose naturally
strong enough to have shaken the temple to the ground, from the
multitude who filled the temple. Yet they moved not, but with all their
efforts could only look their hatred, and mutter faintly. Then followed
a deep silence, for Philetos, after slaying the priest, seemed struck
with deep sorrow, for never before had he slain a man. At length the
father of all these haters of men, in a tremulous voice, thus spoke,
and as he spoke, not one of his descendants, nor Philetos, moved ever
so slightly, but in the deepest silence all gave heed to him:—
“Verily thou art born in my image, and I should think thee my own
son, but that a multitudinous murmuring, which only hundreds of my
descendants could have uttered, has cursed thee, as I curse thee now.
Think not that I, who have waited for my vengeance these thousands of
years, will now stoop to entreat thee, puny weakling, to do what do
thou must; for I command thee on the instant to slay this man, and
unlock the gates of death. Thinkest thou because I am feeble and but
half aroused from this deathly sleep, that therefore thou canst with
impunity mock me thus? Nay, rather, but that Will which has kept me
fixed in my resolve, and has made these hundreds keep most strictly
all my laws, that Will, though now it be manifested by a feeble voice,
cannot fail to force thy sickly nature as it listeth. By the wrongs I
suffered from the foolish race of men, who would none of my counsel,
though to every tribe I offered life and peace; by the blood which
flows in thy veins, by the mighty ties of nature, by the oath I and
these have sworn, I charge thee to do my bidding; tarry an instant
and I curse thee with the fatal curse. Darest thou look on me, and
these thy forefathers, and still let doubt divide thy mind? I charge
thee, pour out on the world the measure of my hate; unlock these
fatal gates, and, unworthy as thou art, look no longer on us, but
cast thyself headlong, having fulfilled thine oath. My voice already
fails—slay—slay—slay!”
Thus ended the father of the haters of men, and the Egyptian drawing
his sword, struck fiercely at Philetos; but less violent was the
stroke than that with which the grass, bent by a gentle wind, smites
the earth. He muttered—
“I cannot; thrice before have I thus purposed, and thrice have I
failed.”
Then arose a shriek of horror from those dying men, and the father of
them all, with a low, feeble, passionate voice, broke forth—
“By the stars of heaven, by the caves of the sea, by mighty nature,
mother of all things, who once articulately promised me this power over
one man, I consign thee to unfathomable misery for a thousand thousand
years. On the instant thou shalt die, and thy spirit herd with the
loathliest animals. In murky darkness and loathsome air, now sinking
in mire, with reptiles for thy pillow, now in burning sands alive with
fiery serpents, thou shalt pass a miserable afterlife; more horrors
than ever I could devise shall be thy portion. It is spoken! I curse
thee with the fated curse!”
And from the lips of those dying men arose the cry of “We curse thee!”
They spoke no more, but with tottering steps advanced towards the two
who were still in the flush of life. Then murmured the Egyptian—
“Philetos, thou seest what I have done for thee; and now I cannot have
my reward in simply clasping thy hand, for then thou must share my
fate.”
But Philetos, turning his back on the advancing hosts, clasped his
friend by the hand, and in a ringing voice said—
“Shake off thy terror; look out on the plains beneath; seest thou not
the sun smiling on the forests?—hearest thou not the cries of the wild
animals? Let us away and hunt, and forget this horror; see, all nature
smiles, and mocks at the curse.”
But that other answered in a melancholy voice—
“Compared with mine, thy sight is dim, and thine ears are dull;
but seest thou not that black cloud arising?—hearest thou not the
gathering storm?”
But Philetos answered—“Truly there is a cloud, but we shall hunt the
more pleasantly; and what is rain in its season?”
“Speak no more,” answered his friend; “but if thou canst not read the
meaning of the storm, look over the abyss and tell me what thou seest
in the poisonous lake.”
Philetos darted to the edge of the abyss and recoiled in horror.
“I see,” he said, “a huge monster with gaping jaws, rearing his snaky
folds out from the mire; and its eyes are like the eyes of men that
hate, and it hisses death and misery. Let us flee—let us flee!”
“Alas!” replied the Egyptian, “thou hast clasped my hand, and thou too
must die, and suffer torment with me; say thou dost not hate me—say
thou wilt not curse me when we two shall be deep in horror.”
Philetos looked once more on the monster, which had now reared its
slimy head above the precipice, and he read his doom in its vengeful
eyes. But he quailed not, but pressing the hand of his friend, cried—
“Fear not thou! What if we must be in torment for a thousand thousand
years, shall we not ever after receive homage from thousands of men
whom we have saved from death?—will not the shades after these few
years pay us homage?—and shall we not again and for ever hunt together
and live life in life?”
Then murmured the Egyptian—“If I am ever with thee, even such misery
were bliss; yet let us not die by this loathsome monster.”
So saying, he clasped Philetos, and turned the key of the gate of life!
Then with a shout of triumph they hurled themselves into the abyss,
and were lost in the depth of the poisonous lake.
Then arose a mighty storm, and the day was changed to night, and the
temple rocked to its foundations. The haters of men fell to the earth,
and with deep curses gasped out their breath. And the storm increased,
and the earth trembled, till, with a shriek of despair, all the
structure was buried beneath the waters.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).