her that a woman like herself could make of such a man, of such a
great man, whatever she desired. Was not this the moment to put her
experience to the test, to try with another that fortune which before
had played her false? The flood of hope rose quickly. It came from
the depths of her being, like a magic stream, washing away her grief
in a single wave. The future, full of beautiful vistas, spread out
before her. The walls of her room seemed to cramp her vision and she
went out on the terrace. Night was almost gone. A mist of silver
floated between the sea and sky. A sudden light gleamed through the
haze, the horizon was transfused with rose-coloured clouds, and
through the limpid light shot the gold and scarlet rays of the rising
sun.
III
MARK ANTONY
In the accounts written by the admirers of Cæsar Augustus, Mark
Antony is depicted as a combination of all the vices. His
adversaries undoubtedly had good grounds for denouncing a man whose
name reeked of scandals and whose passions had driven him to fight
against his own country. It is easy to see how conservative men
would have taken exception to his free ways, his bragging, his
notorious wine-drinking, his extravagant habits; his gold plates
carried, along with his mistresses, his mimes, and buffoons, into his
very camps during the wars; the lions that were harnessed to his
chariot, all the eccentricities which had caused him to be described
as "an overgrown child who might have conquered the world and who did
not know how to deny himself the least pleasure."
On the other hand, what charming characteristics he had, which they
ignored! Without these delightful qualities, this foundation, so to
say, which shone through the deceptive masquerade, how can we
understand the continuous, irresistible attraction which he possessed
for everyone who came in contact with him? People attract, not by
the virtues that they strive for, but by their own natural charm.
Mark Antony was blessed with this magnetism. Superb in face and
figure, a nobleman full of enthusiasm, whose gay spirits were
contagious, brutal perhaps, at times, but never malicious, he
possessed all the gifts to make life a thing of joy for himself and
for those about him. He was noted for his generosity and his friends
knew that they could appeal to it and did not hesitate to do so. On
one occasion, Curion, a man of gay life like himself, being in sudden
need of money to pay a gambling debt, came to him early one morning
before he had finished dressing. Antony was in exactly the same
predicament, having lost his last penny at the gaming table the night
before. The two friends were dismayed. What could be done? They
were out in the country at some distance from Rome and the need was
pressing. How could they procure the necessary funds? Antony looked
about him. The furnishings, the weapons, the skins of wild beasts,
nothing had any money value. Suddenly his eyes lighted on a gold
basin filled with water for his morning toilet. With a quick
movement he emptied it. "There," he said, "take that. The goldsmith
will certainly give you two talents for it."*
*NOTE: In Plutarch's "Life of Antony" a like incident is related of
Antony's father.
Though he spent money recklessly, he never used evil means to get it.
Even Cicero, his mortal enemy, who brought many charges against him,
did him the justice to say: "No one can accuse Mark Antony of
dishonesty in money matters, of selfishness, or of any meanness of
that kind."
In spite of his lax morals and of his deplorable habit of hard
drinking, Antony was not lacking in nobility. It was his enemy,
Seneca, who recognized this and described him: _Magnum virum ingenii
nobilis_. And what finer keynote to his character as a man could be
found than his loyal submission to his chief, whose glory he never
coveted? As long as Cæsar lived, his young comrade-in-arms
recognized that his own place was in the second rank. He never had
any idea of usurping Cæsar's power, and aspired to his place only
when he had Octavius for a rival.
It was chiefly on the battle-field that his real character was shown.
Patient, steady, imperturbable, a model both of endurance and of
submission to discipline, Antony won universal admiration. His
soldiers, who had seen him in dangerous crises, would have followed
him to the ends of the earth. They looked on him as a god. A man of
Antony's temperament naturally had violent reactions. The more he
had been restrained, the more he demanded when he was free. During
the heroic retreat from Modena he slept on the hard ground, drank
stagnant water, lived on roots and herbs; but when it was over, and
peace was declared, the high-liver demanded his rights, and the
orgies he held were not exceeded by Silenus himself. Just as
moderation is the safe rule for most men, Antony thrived on excess.
From every fatigue, from every indulgence, he came forth stronger,
more keenly alive, invigorated.
Nature, with all her generous gifts to this grandson of Jupiter and
Semele, had, however, denied him the one thing needful, without which
the others were practically useless: Mark Antony had no commonsense.
How could he have made great decisions? His passions were so
compelling that he was carried away by them before he had time to
reflect. They were irresistible, bearing him on with the force of a
hurricane which is appeased only after having devastated all that
lies in its path. Two elements fought for mastery in his ardent yet
weak spirit: ambition and sensuality. Each, in turn supreme, carried
him to extremes. Ambition, pre-eminent in his youth, had inspired
those valorous deeds which had made him a leader in the invasions of
Gaul and Sicily, and at the death of Cæsar had rendered him
all-powerful in subduing the conspirators; between two campaigns it
had led him to follow in Alexander's path and undertake the conquest
of Persia. But sensuality was the stronger and conquered him at
last. Little by little it took possession of its noble prey, binding
him, engrossing all his faculties, stifling them, one by one, and at
the end throwing him into the abyss of despair.
The morning after the battle of Philippi, before he had set foot on
the soil of that Orient which was to be his triumph and his undoing,
Antony was well balanced. Though his senses were exultant, his mind
was filled with mighty projects. As he left that wild Macedonian
country, where victory had been gained only after cruel sacrifices,
the memory of whose bitter cold still made him shiver, he dreamed of
those sunny southern lands, with their warmth and abundance, which
his valour had won. Which one should he visit first? Each had its
own attraction, each shore held some new charm. On the other side of
Ossa and Pelion, whose snow-capped summits shut him in, lay the
fascination and culture of Greece; beyond that, the coast of Asia,
crowded with cities, each richer and more famous than the other:
Smyrna, Ephesus, Pergamus; then Syria, with her palm trees, her
gardens filled with luscious fruits; Lebanon, the stopping-place of
the caravans from the Far East, laden with silks and precious stones.
Then Palestine, arid beneath her gray olive trees, but crowned by
holy Jerusalem, that sacred shrine calling a perpetual pilgrimage of
Jews from the four corners of the earth; and above all, Egypt, Egypt
fragrant with incense and violets, the kingdom of the incomparable
Cleopatra!
Ever since the catastrophe of the Ides of March had so abruptly
separated them, Antony had dreamed of the beautiful Queen. Often, in
the heat of battle, or during the dreary watches in his tent at
night, he had conjured up her fair image. Sometimes he saw again
that indefinable look with which, when quite sure that she was
unobserved, the mistress of Cæsar had returned his passionate regard.
Tender and enticing, her glance, which stole toward him from between
her long, dark lashes, seemed to demand his adoration. So vivid had
been his sensations that at moments he was thrilled by the memory.
The unspoken words of those evenings at the Transtevera would come
back to him and, with the hunger of unsatisfied desire, he went over
those scenes again and again. Unceasingly he repeated to himself the
comforting thought that what had been impossible to him in the
lifetime of Cæsar, he was no longer barred from taking. Cleopatra
was free, and he, in his turn, had become one of the pillars of the
world, a man whom any woman, even were she a queen, would be proud to
call her lord. Above all, he had that magic gift of youth, to which
all things are possible, and that ever-buoyant hope which, dreaming
of the fairest fortune that the future may hold, whispers: "Why
should not this be mine?"
But Antony was tormented by one ever-recurring doubt: what did
Cleopatra really feel in regard to him? She had always been most
gracious in her manner, but discreet at all times, careful not to
give Cæsar the least ground for jealousy. What had she thought of
him that day when, alone together for a moment, he had not been able
to resist kissing her exquisite bare shoulder? She seemed like a
beautiful sphinx, as, without remonstrance, without a smile, she had
turned away and silently left the room. Was it love of the great
Cæsar that made her so prudent, or the fear of losing his powerful
protection? He had never understood her complex personality; he
could not forget her feline grace, and those eyes which had stirred
his innermost depths and had left him wondering, as does the
mysterious beauty of a night in spring. What had she been doing for
the past two years? He was utterly ignorant of her life, of her
interests, and he longed to see her once more.
Antony, however, was not yet entirely in the power of these desires.
The duties and responsibilities of his position were the chief
factors in his life. He was fully alive to the necessity of visiting
the new provinces that had come under his care, of giving them the
protection which they had a right to expect from him. What excuse
did he have for going first to Egypt? It was not, strictly speaking,
a Roman province and could well afford to wait. Besides, it was not
a good season for crossing.
So Antony sailed for Greece. It was not his first visit to that
noble country. He had already trod the fields of Thessaly when, as a
young commander, he had opposed Pompey. He had seen the wonderful
temples of Delphi, Corinth, Olympia, with their wealth of sculpture
and incomparable jewels. He had lingered in the forest of Eleusis,
and in the theatre of Epidaurus he had been transported in spirit to
the prophetic realms of the art of Æschylus. How thrilling it would
be to revisit all these scenes! To come to them, clothed in majesty
and with unlimited power!
The Greeks had become accustomed to foreign rule and no longer hated
their conquerors. Indeed they had a certain regard for this Roman
soldier who was said to be as handsome as Alcibiades and comparable
to Themistocles in his warlike virtues. Among a people who counted
physical strength and beauty as the highest gifts the gods could
bestow, this son of Hercules had every chance of winning all hearts.
He was welcomed graciously according to the custom of the country.
The villages sent groups of men, bearing branches by day and torches
by night, to escort his litter. As he entered the cities young girls
greeted him with showers of roses, and a chorus of young men sang and
danced to the music of lyres.
These acclamations were accompanied by alternate petitions and songs
of praise. Wishing to prove how worthy he was of the latter, he
showed his characteristic generosity in granting the requests. Ten
thousand talents were donated to restore the theatre at Megara; at
Thebes and Larissa he rebuilt the dwellings which Pompey's hordes had
burned; and at Corinth he restored the ancient temple devoted to the
worship of Venus Pandenus. While thus scattering gold broadcast he
quickened his march over the slopes of Hymettus, for beyond them lay
Athens, and he was eager to hear her honey-sweet praises.
Although badly damaged by Sulla's troops, pillaged by the greedy
government which had succeeded him, poverty-stricken as she now was,
and inconvenient as her narrow streets, small houses, and irregular
squares had always made her, the city of Pericles kept her old charm.
The magic light, which at sunrise and sunset illuminated the
rose-coloured sides of the Pentelicus, would alone have made her
worthy of adoration; and the birthplace of Phidias still possessed
nearly all his wonderful creations. The monuments of the Acropolis
were undisturbed; no profane hand had touched the pure glory of the
Parthenon; the Poecile still held her brilliantly coloured
decorations, fresh as the day they were completed, and the five doors
of the Propylea were yet open to the blue sky.
Antony was not artistic by nature, and his career as a soldier had,
naturally, not developed any love of art; yet he was not insensible
to the charm of beautiful things. Rome had many rich sculptures, and
he had grown up among them; and the Greek education which, in common
with most Patrician youths, he had received had made him familiar
with the works of Homer and the wisdom of Plato. He therefore
approached the bridge of Ilisos in a spirit of reverence.
Athens was not only a venerated sanctuary with the glory of four
centuries behind her, who had given the world a radiance of wisdom
and culture which had never been equalled; she was still a centre of
life and prosperity. Her colleges, though fewer and not so richly
endowed as the schools of Alexandria, kept their ancient standards of
excellence. Although not the equals of those of the old days,
philosophers, poets, and artists still gathered there, together with
fencers, horsemen, athletes, disk and javelin throwers; all youths
who were faithful to the tradition of keeping a sound mind in a
healthy body. Educated in the ideals of that republican past which
had made their country great, these young men were full of fire and
enthusiasm. A generous instinct gave them a natural sympathy for
high aims, for all that recalled the heroes of their native land. On
hearing of the death of Cato, they covered their heads with ashes; at
the call of Brutus the elite of the country had perished at Philippi;
and to-day Mark Antony, as opposed to Octavius, represented to them
the old liberal spirit of Rome.
The Triumvir was careful not to check this flattering popularity.
Knowing how these sons of Themistocles respected military pomp, he
entered Athens on horseback, clad in cuirass and helmet, with
clashing arms; then, in accordance with the simplicity of the
civilian customs, he partook of the unpretentious hospitality that
was offered him in the ancient palace of the Archons. His customary
gold plate, silken togas, and couches were banished; he had a frugal
meal prepared and, recalling the example set by Cæsar, he put on a
woollen cloak and, preceded by a solitary lictor, went on foot up the
hill of the Acropolis.
During his stay at Athens he never deviated from this simple manner
of living; whether his unlimited power had wrought a sudden change in
his views, or breathing the air of Greece had made him feel the
beauty of moderation, his attitude astonished all those who had known
him. His conduct was that of a real chief, and the sentences that he
was called upon to pronounce all bore the stamp of balanced judgment.
Not content with merely edifying the Athenians, it was soon apparent
that he wished to win them. It was the season for the festival of
Adonis. He consented to celebrate this with them and ingenuously
joined in the rite of the quickly blooming, quickly fading flowers
which symbolized the premature death of the son of Myrrha. He
graciously listened to the elegies recited by the mourning women, who
wept for the young god; and to the hymns with which these same women,
now crowned with roses, filled the air the following day, in token of
his resurrection. He presided over the different competitions held
on the Pnyx, and, surrounded by a group of distinguished Athenians,
awarded prizes to those who had won distinction in either athletics
or oratory.
Had Antony become a convert to the virtuous life? Could such a
sudden transformation be genuine? Was the former worshipper of Venus
given over to gaining the affections of the masses? Some people who
were interested in his future greatness believed this and rejoiced in
it. But the real reason for this abrupt change lay in his craving
for new sensations. Did he want to amuse? Did he hope to mystify?
Not exactly; but the blood which bubbled in his veins was too strong
and active to be satisfied with living one life only. By playing
many parts this sturdy actor sought the illusion of crowding more
into his life.
But his real character quickly came out. He suddenly grew weary of
these simple pleasures and dull duties. The shores of Asia with its
gracious fields were within easy reach, and its cities offered every
luxury and entertainment. So one fine morning he shook the sacred
dust of the Acropolis from his buskins, and taking ship, set sail for
Antioch.
This metropolis, at that time the third in importance in the world,
seemed, at a distance, to hang from the sides of the Coryphean
mountains. Long before entering the harbour of Seleucia, voyagers
were astonished to see the gigantic military forts which scaled the
rocky slopes and crowned the summit with their crenelated walls. The
city itself was on the banks of the Orontes, a white mass gleaming
through the cypress trees. In addition to the theatres, gymnasiums,
aqueducts, circuses, and race-courses, common to all large capitals,
that of Syria had a Corso, a wide avenue, bordered from one end to
the other by quadruple lines of columns. This splendid boulevard was
a rendezvous for the world of fashion, and a constant stream of
people passed up and down it day and night; on certain days the life
and animation surpassed even that of the Roman Forum. The
innumerable attractions of Antioch, especially since the decline of
Athens, had brought many people to settle there, and it had, as well,
a large floating population: Persians, Jews, Orientals of every
country, to say nothing of the courtesans who flocked there from
Susa, Ecbatana, often from the banks of the Ganges. Under the
influence of these transient dwellers and of its tremendous
commercial power, equalled only by that of Alexandria, manners and
morals had gradually become corrupt. It was declared to be the most
depraved city between Paphlagonia and Palmyra, a region noted for its
scandalous living. As an example of the loose customs of the day,
when the feast of Maia was celebrated, groups of naked girls ran
through the streets, waving torches, while others, in like state,
swam in the clear waters of the fishing pools, in full sight of the
crowds.
This corrupt atmosphere had an immediate effect upon Mark Antony.
The instant he breathed it his spirits rose; he was exhilarated,
cheerful, full of his old keen desire for the pleasure of living.
But did not everything in the palace of the Seleucides--a restoration
of the one which had made Sardanapalus famous--tend to increase this
feeling? As he strolled along the Corso, watching the beautiful and
fascinating women file past, their look seemed to say: "Every hour
cheated of its joy is empty as the grave!" How far he was from those
austere assemblies of the Pnyx, or the house of the Archons! With
impetuous vehemence, he stripped off his disguise of Athenian
simplicity and was once more his natural self. The grave demeanour
and governmental cares with which he had been occupied since the
Macedonian days were succeeded by a period of license proportionate
to his tedious term of self-restraint. No longer influenced by any
fear of criticism, as everyone about him was of the same mind,
yielding to the flattering libertines who surrounded him he put aside
all dignity and, oblivious of his rank, joined in their orgies of
debauchery. Every evening a group of perfumed courtesans, brought in
by Anaxanor, the flute-player, swayed in rhythmic movement on the
rich carpets, displaying the grace of their bodies, accompanied by
languorous melodies upon the flute. The dancer, Xantos, directed the
performances of the mimes and buffoons, and Medrador, whose father
had grown rich by means of the wine-cellars of King Tissaphernus, had
charge of the table which, in extravagant abundance and delicacy, had
never been surpassed, even in the most famous Asiatic courts.
Such an establishment necessarily entailed great expense. How could
the money for this be supplied save by the usual methods of the
conqueror in a vanquished country--an increase of taxation? Antony
did not fail to follow the example of his predecessors. He claimed
that, as Brutus and Cassius had drawn heavily upon the resources of
these provinces, he was entitled to get even more. Certain towns
that had already been severely taxed were called upon for new
contributions. "That will teach them the folly of upholding a bad
cause," said Antony, with his genial smile.
These hardships, however, were not accepted everywhere with equal
submission. Hybreas, the champion of Cappadocia, made bold to say,
when the master appeared: "If Mark Antony demands a double, a triple
tribute from us, will he provide a double, a triple crop each year?"
So far from annoying him, this remark pleased the Triumvir, for he
had a sense of humour, and appreciated it in others, even though the
joke was at his own expense. He replied with a jest and let the
province of Cappadocia go free of extra taxes.
The good faith which he usually showed in his dealings gained him
indulgence, and his generosity was an antidote to his plundering. He
often restored with one hand what he had taken with the other. The
day before he left Antioch, wishing to reward the chef who had
prepared the feasts which he and his friends had enjoyed, he gave him
a palace which had served as a ransom for a wealthy citizen of
Magnesia.
His stay at Ephesus brought about the undoing of Mark Antony. Though
not less dissolute than Antioch, this celebrated city was in a way
different. Entirely under the influence of the priests, since the
temple of Diana had been erected with its marble columns, it had
impressed on everything, even the most objectionable, the stamp of
her worship. Magnificent festivals attracted not only pilgrims, but
hordes of suspicious characters, to whom the sanctuary afforded a
safe refuge. All this mass of men, this mixture of charlatans,
mountebanks, magicians, jugglers, and sorcerers, skilful in
exploiting vice as well as superstition, helped to transform these
fêtes into wild revels. And these horrors, these infamous liberties,
took place at the shrine of Diana and under the guise of her worship.
In leaving Delos and approaching the Syrian coast, where all things
became tainted and corrupt, the character of the chaste goddess was
changed. She who on the other side of the water breathed forth
strength and modesty had become a coarse idol of the flesh. It
seemed as though in changing her dwelling-place the very essence of
her being was altered; the divine huntress had abandoned her bow and
arrow, and the decadent imagination of some unknown sculptor had
coarsened and distorted the lines of her virginal body. Oh, nymph of
the woods, in what profane regions have your flying feet strayed!
When the Ephesians heard that the Triumvir was on his way to visit
their city they determined, with their passion for deifying
everything, to welcome him as they would Dionysos. Chariots preceded
him, filled with girls representing Bacchantes; a group of Pans and
Satyrs surrounded him, dancing to the accompaniment of the flute.
They saluted him with the names given to the god himself, greeting
him with the verses sacred to his worship: "Hail to thee, Heracles,
giver of all joys! Oh, Bacchus, to whom we owe the juicy fruit of
the vines! Omestes, sweet as tender figs, thou art welcome!" The
whole town, wherever Antony's chariot passed, was decorated with ivy
and garlands of flowers. Music resounded and blue clouds of incense
mounted heavenward.