_Lucian. A Friend_
_Fr_. What a haughty and dignified Lucian returns to us from his
journey! He will not vouchsafe us a glance; he stands aloof, and will
hold no further communion with us. Altogether a supercilious Lucian!
The change is sudden. Might one inquire the cause of this altered
demeanour?
_Luc_. 'Tis the work of Fortune.
_Fr_. Of Fortune!
_Luc_. As an incidental result of my journey, you see in me a happy
man; 'thrice-blest,' as the tragedians have it.
_Fr_. Dear me. What, in this short time?
_Luc_. Even so.
_Fr_. But what does it all mean? What is the secret of your elation? I
decline to rejoice with you in this abridged fashion; I must have
details. Tell me all about it.
_Luc_. What should you think, if I told you that I had exchanged
servitude for freedom; poverty for true wealth; folly and presumption
for good sense?
_Fr_. Extraordinary! But I am not quite clear of your meaning yet.
_Luc_. Why, I went off to Rome to see an oculist—my eyes had been
getting worse—
_Fr_. Yes, I know about that. I have been hoping that you would light
on a good man.
_Luc_. Well, I got up early one morning with the intention of paying a
long-deferred visit to Nigrinus, the Platonic philosopher. On reaching
his house, I knocked, and was duly announced and admitted to his
presence. I found him with a book in his hand, surrounded by various
statues of the ancient philosophers. Before him lay a tablet, with
geometrical figures described on it, and a globe of reeds, designed
apparently to represent the universe. He greeted me cordially, and
asked after my welfare. I satisfied his inquiries, and demanded, in my
turn, how he did, and whether he had decided on another trip to Greece.
Once on that subject, he gave free expression to his sentiments; and, I
assure you, 'twas a veritable feast of ambrosia to me. The spells of
the Sirens (if ever there were Sirens), of the Pindaric 'Charmers,' of
the Homeric lotus, are things to be forgotten, after his truly divine
eloquence. Led on by his theme, he spoke the praises of philosophy, and
of the freedom which philosophy confers; and expressed his contempt for
the vulgar error which sets a value upon wealth and renown and dominion
and power, upon gold and purple, and all that dazzles the eyes of the
world,—and once attracted my own! I listened with rapt attention, and
with a swelling heart. At the time, I knew not what had come over me;
my feelings were indescribable. My dearest idols, riches and renown,
lay shattered; one moment I was ready to shed bitter tears over the
disillusionment, the next, I could have laughed for scorn of these very
things, and was exulting in my escape from the murky atmosphere of my
past life into the brightness of the upper air. The result was curious:
I forgot all about my ophthalmic troubles, in the gradual improvement
of my spiritual vision; for till that day I had grovelled in spiritual
blindness. Little by little I came into the condition with which you
were twitting me just now. Nigrinus's words have raised in me a joyous
exaltation of spirit which precludes every meaner thought. Philosophy
seems to have produced the same effect on me as wine is said to have
produced on the Indians the first time they drank it. The mere taste of
such potent liquor threw them into a state of absolute frenzy, the
intoxicating power of the wine being doubled in men so warm-blooded by
nature. This is my case. I go about like one possessed; I am drunk with
the words of wisdom.
_Fr_. This is not drunkenness, but sobriety and temperance. But I
should like to hear what Nigrinus actually said, if that may be. It is
only right that you should take that trouble for me; I am your friend,
and share your interests.
_Luc_. Enough! You urge a willing steed. I was about to bespeak your
attention. You must be my witness to the world, that there is reason in
my madness. Indeed, apart from this, the work of recollection is a
pleasure, and has become a constant practice with me; twice, thrice in
a day I repeat over his words, though there is none to hear. A lover,
in the absence of his mistress, remembers some word, some act of hers,
dwells on it, and beguiles hours of sickness with her feigned presence.
Sometimes he thinks he is face to face with her; words, heard long
since, come again from her lips; he rejoices; his soul cleaves to the
memory of the past, and has no time for present vexations. It is so
with me. Philosophy is far away, but I have heard a philosopher's
words. I piece them together, and revolve them in my heart, and am
comforted. Nigrinus is the beacon-fire on which, far out in mid-ocean,
in the darkness of night, I fix my gaze; I fancy him present with me in
all my doings; I hear ever the same words. At times, in moments of
concentration, I see his very face, his voice rings in my ears. Of him
it may truly be said, as of Pericles,
In every heart he left his sting.
_Fr_. Stay, gentle enthusiast. Take a good breath, and start again; I
am waiting to hear what Nigrinus said. You beat about the bush in a
manner truly exasperating.
_Luc_. True, I must make a start, as you say. And yet… Tell me, did you
never see a tragedy (nay, the comedies fare no better) murdered by bad
acting, and the culprits finally hissed off the stage for their pains?
As often as not the play is a perfectly good one, and has scored a
success.
_Fr_. I know the sort of thing; and what about it?
_Luc_. I am afraid that before I have done you will find that I make as
sad work of it as they do,—jumbling things together pell-mell, spoiling
the whole point sometimes by inadequate expression; and you will end by
damning the play instead of the actor. I could put up with my own share
of the disgrace; but it would vex me indeed, that my subject should be
involved in my downfall; I cannot have _it_ discredited for my
shortcomings. Remember, then: whatever the imperfections in my speech,
the author is not to be called to account; he sits far aloof from the
stage, and knows nothing of what is going forward. The memory of the
actor is all that you are invited to criticize; I am neither more nor
less than the 'Messenger' in a tragedy. At each flaw in the argument,
be this your first thought, that the author probably said something
quite different, and much more to the point;—and then you may hiss me
off if you will.
_Fr_. Bless me; here is quite a professional exordium! You are about to
add, I think, that 'your consultation with your client has been but
brief'; that you 'come into court imperfectly instructed'; that 'it
were to be desired that your client were here to plead his own cause;
as it is, you are reduced to such a meagre and inadequate statement of
the case, as memory will supply.' Am I right? Well then, spare yourself
the trouble, as far as I am concerned. Imagine all these preliminaries
settled. I stand prepared to applaud: but if you keep me waiting, I
shall harbour resentment all through the case, and hiss you
accordingly.
_Luc_. I should, indeed, have been glad to avail myself of the
arguments you mention, and of others too. I might have said, that mine
would be no set speech, no orderly statement such as that I heard; that
is wholly beyond me. Nor can I speak in the person of Nigrinus. There
again I should be like a bad actor, taking the part of Agamemnon, or
Creon, or Heracles' self; he is arrayed in cloth of gold, and looks
very formidable, and his mouth opens tremendously wide; and what comes
out of it? A little, shrill, womanish pipe of a voice that would
disgrace Polyxena or Hecuba! I for my part have no intention of
exposing myself in a mask several sizes too large for me, or of wearing
a robe to which I cannot do credit. Rather than play the hero's part,
and involve him in my discomfiture, I will speak in my own person.
_Fr_. Will the man never have done with his masks and his stages?
_Luc_. Nay, that is all. And now to my subject. Nigrinus's first words
were in praise of Greece, and in particular of the Athenians. They are
brought up, he said, to poverty and to philosophy. The endeavours,
whether of foreigners or of their own countrymen, to introduce luxury
into their midst, find no favour with them. When a man comes among them
with this view, they quietly set about to correct his tendency, and by
gentle degrees to bring him to a better course of life. He mentioned
the case of a wealthy man who arrived at Athens in all the vulgar pomp
of retinue and gold and gorgeous raiment, expecting that every eye
would be turned upon him in envy of his lot; instead of which, they
heartily pitied the poor worm, and proceeded to take his education in
hand. Not an ill-natured word, not an attempt at direct interference:
it was a free city; he was at liberty to live in it as he thought fit.
But when he made a public nuisance of himself in the baths or
gymnasiums, crowding in with his attendants, and taking up all the
room, someone would whisper, in a sly aside, as if the words were not
meant to reach his ears: 'He is afraid he will never come out from here
alive; yet all is peace; there is no need of such an army.' The remark
would be overheard, and would have its educational effect. They soon
eased him of his embroidery and purple, by playful allusions to flower
and colour. 'Spring is early.'—'How did that peacock get here?'—'His
mother must have lent him that shawl,'—and so on. The same with the
rest, his rings, his elaborate coiffure, and his table excesses. Little
by little he came to his senses, and left Athens very much the better
for the public education he had received.
Nor do they scruple to confess their poverty. He mentioned a sentence
which he heard pronounced unanimously by the assembled people at the
Panathenaic festival. A citizen had been arrested and brought before
the Steward for making his appearance in coloured clothes. The
onlookers felt for him, and took his part; and when the herald declared
that he had violated the law by attending the festival in that attire,
they all exclaimed with one voice, as if they had been in consultation,
'that he must be pardoned for wearing those clothes, as he had no
others.'
He further commended the Athenian liberty, and unpretentious style of
living; the peace and learned leisure which they so abundantly enjoy.
To dwell among such men, he declared, is to dwell with philosophy; a
single-hearted man, who has been taught to despise wealth, may here
preserve a pure morality; no life could be more in harmony with the
determined pursuit of all that is truly beautiful. But the man over
whom gold has cast its spell, who is in love with riches, and measures
happiness by purple raiment and dominion, who, living his life among
flatterers and slaves, knows not the sweets of freedom, the blessings
of candour, the beauty of truth; he who has given up his soul to
Pleasure, and will serve no other mistress, whose heart is set on
gluttony and wine and women, on whose tongue are deceit and hypocrisy;
he again whose ears must be tickled with lascivious songs, and the
voluptuous notes of flute and lyre;—let all such (he cried) dwell here
in Rome; the life will suit them. Our streets and market-places are
filled with the things they love best. They may take in pleasure
through every aperture, through eye and ear, nostril and palate; nor
are the claims of Aphrodite forgotten. The turbid stream surges
everlastingly through our streets; avarice, perjury, adultery,—all
tastes are represented. Under that rush of waters, modesty, virtue,
uprightness, are torn from the soul; and in their stead grows the tree
of perpetual thirst, whose flowers are many strange desires.
Such was Rome; such were the blessings she taught men to enjoy. 'As for
me,' he continued, 'on returning from my first voyage to Greece, I
stopped short a little way from the city, and called myself to account,
in the words of Homer, for my return.
Ah, wretch! and leav'st thou then the light of day—the joyous freedom
of Greece,
And wouldst behold—
the turmoil of Rome? slander and insolence and gluttony, flatterers and
false friends, legacy-hunters and murderers? And what wilt thou do
here? thou canst not endure these things, neither canst thou escape
them! Thus reasoning, I withdrew myself out of range, as Zeus did
Hector,
Far from the scene of slaughter, blood and strife,
and resolved henceforth to keep my house. I lead the life you see—a
spiritless, womanish life, most men would account it—holding converse
with Philosophy, with Plato, with Truth. From my high seat in this vast
theatre, I look down on the scene beneath me; a scene calculated to
afford much entertainment; calculated also to try a man's resolution to
the utmost. For, to give evil its due, believe me, there is no better
school for virtue, no truer test of moral strength, than life in this
same city of Rome. It is no easy thing, to withstand so many
temptations, so many allurements and distractions of sight and sound.
There is no help for it: like Odysseus, we must sail past them all; and
there must be no binding of hands, no stopping of our ears with wax;
that would be but sorry courage: our ears must hear, our hands must be
free,—and our contempt must be genuine. Well may that man conceive an
admiration of philosophy, who is a spectator of so much folly; well may
he despise the gifts of Fortune, who views this stage, and its
multitudinous actors. The slave grows to be master, the rich man is
poor, the pauper becomes a prince, a king; and one is His Majesty's
friend, and another is his enemy, and a third he banishes. And here is
the strangest thing of all: the affairs of mankind are confessedly the
playthings of Fortune, they have no pretence to security; yet, with
instances of this daily before their eyes, men will reach after wealth
and power;—not one of them but carries his load of hopes unrealized.
'But I said that there was entertainment also to be derived from the
scene; and I will maintain it. Our rich men are an entertainment in
themselves, with their purple and their rings always in evidence, and
their thousand vulgarities. The latest development is the _salutation
by proxy_; [Footnote: The _spoken_ salutation being performed by a
servant.] they favour us with a glance, and that must be happiness
enough. By the more ambitious spirits, an obeisance is expected; this
is not performed at a distance, after the Persian fashion—you go right
up, and make a profound bow, testifying with the angle of your body to
the self-abasement of your soul; you then kiss his hand or breast—and
happy and enviable is he who may do so much! And there stands the great
man, protracting the illusion as long as may be. (I heartily acquiesce,
by the way, in the churlish sentence which excludes us from a nearer
acquaintance with their _lips_.)
'But if these men are amusing, their courtiers and flatterers are
doubly so. They rise in the small hours of the night, to go their round
of the city, to have doors slammed in their faces by slaves, to swallow
as best they may the compliments of "Dog," "Toadeater," and the like.
And the guerdon of their painful circumambulations? A vulgarly
magnificent dinner, the source of many woes! They eat too much, they
drink more than they want, they talk more than they should; and then
they go away, angry and disappointed, grumbling at their fare, and
protesting against the scant courtesy shown them by their insolent
patron. You may see them vomiting in every alley, squabbling at every
brothel. The daylight most of them spend in bed, furnishing employment
for the doctors. Most of them, I say; for with some it has come to
this, that they actually have no time to be ill. My own opinion is
that, of the two parties, the toadies are more to blame, and have only
themselves to thank for their patron's insolence. What can they expect
him to think, after their commendations of his wealth, their panegyrics
on money, their early attendance at his doors, their servile
salutations? If by common consent they would abstain, were it only for
a few days, from this voluntary servitude, the tables must surely be
turned, and the rich come to the doors of the paupers, imploring them
not to leave such blessedness as theirs without a witness, their fine
houses and elegant furniture lying idle for want of some one to use
them. Not wealth, but the envy that waits on wealth, is the object of
their desire. The truth is, gold and ivory and noble mansions are of
little avail to their owner, if there is no one to admire them. If we
would break the power of the rich, and bring down their pretensions, we
must raise up within their borders a stronghold of Indifference. As it
is, their vanity is fostered by the court that is paid to them. In
ordinary men, who have no pretence to education, this conduct, no
doubt, is less to be blamed. But that men who call themselves
philosophers should actually outdo the rest in degradation,—this,
indeed, is the climax. Imagine my feelings, when I see a brother
philosopher, an old man, perhaps, mingling in the herd of sycophants;
dancing attendance on some great man; adapting himself to the
conversational level of a possible host! One thing, indeed, serves to
distinguish him from his company, and to accentuate his disgrace;—he
wears the garb of philosophy. It is much to be regretted that actors of
uniform excellence in other respects will not dress conformably to
their part. For in the achievements of the table, what toadeater
besides can be compared with them? There is an artlessness in their
manner of stuffing themselves, a frankness in their tippling, which
defy competition; they sponge with more spirit than other men, and sit
on with greater persistency. It is not an uncommon thing for the more
courtly sages to oblige the company with a song.'
All this he treated as a jest. But he had much to say on the subject of
those paid philosophers, who hawk about virtue like any other
marketable commodity. 'Hucksters' and 'petty traders' were his words
for them. A man who proposes to teach the contempt of wealth, should
begin (he maintained) by showing a soul above fees. And certainly he
has always acted on this principle himself. He is not content with
giving his services gratis to all comers, but lends a helping hand to
all who are in difficulties, and shows an absolute disregard for
riches. So far is he from grasping at other men's goods, that he could
anticipate without concern the deterioration of his own property. He
possessed an estate at no great distance from the city, on which for
many years he had never even set foot. Nay, he disclaimed all right of
property in it; meaning, I suppose, that we have no natural claim to
such things; law, and the rights of inheritance, give us the use of
them for an indefinite period, and for that time we are styled
'owners'; presently our term lapses, and another succeeds to the
enjoyment of a name.
There are other points in which he sets an admirable example to the
serious followers of philosophy: his frugal life, his systematic habits
of bodily exercise, his modest bearing, his simplicity of dress, but
above all, gentle manners and a constant mind. He urges his followers
not to postpone the pursuit of good, as so many do, who allow
themselves a period of grace till the next great festival, after which
they propose to eschew deceit and lead a righteous life; there must be
no shilly-shallying, when virtue is the goal for which we start. On the
other hand, there are philosophers whose idea of inculcating virtue in
their youthful disciples is to subject them to various tests of
physical endurance; whose favourite prescription is the strait
waistcoat, varied with flagellations, or the enlightened process of
scarification. Of these Nigrinus evidently had no opinion. According to
him, our first care should be to inure the _soul_ to pain and hardship;
he who aspired to educate men aright must reckon with soul as well as
body, with the age of his pupils, and with their previous training; he
would then escape the palpable blunder of overtasking them. Many a one
(he affirmed) had succumbed under the unreasonable strain put upon him;
and I met with an instance myself, of a man who had tasted the
hardships of those schools, but no sooner heard the words of true
wisdom, than he fled incontinently to Nigrinus, and was manifestly the
better for the change.
Leaving the philosophers to themselves, he reverted to more general
subjects: the din and bustle of the city, the theatres, the
race-course, the statues of charioteers, the nomenclature of horses,
the horse-talk in every side-street. The rage for horses has become a
positive epidemic; many persons are infected with it whom one would
have credited with more sense.
Then the scene changed to the pomp and circumstance attendant upon
funerals and testamentary dispositions. 'Only once in his life' (he
observed) 'does your thoroughbred Roman say what he means; and then,'
meaning, in his will, 'it comes too late for him to enjoy the credit of
it.' I could not help laughing when he told me how they thought it
necessary to carry their follies with them to the grave, and to leave
the record of their inanity behind them in black and white; some
stipulating that their clothes or other treasures should be burnt with
them, others that their graves should be watched by particular
servants, or their monuments crowned with flowers;—sapient end to a
life of sapience! 'Of their doings in this world,' said he, 'you may
form some idea from their injunctions with reference to the next. These
are they who will pay a long price for an entree; whose floors are
sprinkled with wine and saffron and spices; who in midwinter smother
themselves in roses, ay, for roses are scarce, and out of season, and
altogether desirable; but let a thing come in its due course, and oh,
'tis vile, 'tis contemptible. These are they whose drink is of costly
essences.' He had no mercy on them here. 'Very bunglers in sensuality,
who know not her laws, and confound her ordinances, flinging down their
souls to be trampled beneath the heels of luxury! As the play has it,
Door or window, all is one to them. Such pleasures are rank solecism.'
One observation of his in the same spirit fairly caps the famous
censure of Momus. Momus found fault with the divine artificer for not
putting his bull's horns in front of the eyes. Similarly, Nigrinus
complained that when these men crown themselves in their banquets, they
put the garlands in the wrong place; if they are so fond of the smell
of violets and roses, they should tie on their garlands as close as may
be under their nostrils; they could then snuff up the smell to their
hearts' content.
Proceeding to the gentlemen who make such a serious work of their
dinner, he was exceedingly merry over their painful elaborations of
sauce and seasoning. 'Here again,' he cried, 'these men are sore put to
it, to procure the most fleeting of enjoyments. Grant them four inches
of palate apiece—'tis the utmost we can allow any man—and I will prove
to you that they have four inches of gratification for their trouble.
Thus: there is no satisfaction to be got out of the costliest viands
before consumption; and after it a full stomach is none the better for
the price it has cost to fill it. _Ergo_, the money is paid for the
pleasure snatched _in transitu_. But what are we to expect? These men
are too grossly ignorant to discern those truer pleasures with which
Philosophy rewards our resolute endeavours.'
The Baths proved a fertile topic, what with the insolence of the
masters and the jostlings of their men;—'they will not stand without
the support of a slave; it is much that they retain enough vitality to
get away on their own legs at all.' One practice which obtains in the
streets and Baths of Rome seemed to arouse his particular resentment.
Slaves have to walk on ahead of their masters, and call out to them to
'look to their feet,' whenever there is a hole or a lump in their way;
it has come to this, that men must be _reminded that they are walking_.
'It is too much,' he cried; 'these men can get through their dinner
with the help of their own teeth and fingers; they can hear with their
own ears: yet they must have other men's eyes to see for them! They are
in possession of all their faculties: yet they are content to be spoken
to in language which should only be addressed to poor maimed wretches!
And this goes on in broad daylight, in our public places; and among the
sufferers are men who are responsible for the welfare of cities!'
This he said, and much more to the same effect. At length he was
silent. All the time I had listened in awestruck attention, dreading
the moment when he should cease. And when it was all over, my condition
was like that of the Phaeacians. For a long time I gazed upon him,
spellbound; then I was seized with a violent attack of giddiness; I was
bathed in perspiration, and when I attempted to speak, I broke down; my
voice failed, my tongue stammered, and at last I was reduced to tears.
Mine was no surface wound from a random shaft. The words had sunk deep
into a vital part; had come with true aim, and cleft my soul asunder.
For (if I may venture to philosophize on my own account) I conceive the
case thus:-A well-conditioned human soul is like a target of some soft
material. As life goes on, many archers take aim thereat; and every
man's quiver is full of subtle and varied arguments, but not every man
shoots aright. Some draw the bow too tight, and let fly with undue
violence. These hit the true direction, but their shafts do not lodge
in the mark; their impetus carries them right through the soul, and
they pass on their way, leaving only a gaping wound behind them. Others
make the contrary mistake: their bows are too slack, and their shafts
never reach their destination; as often as not their force is spent at
half distance, and they drop to earth. Or if they reach the mark, they
do but graze its surface; there can be no deep wound, where the archer
lacks strength. But a good marksman, a Nigrinus, begins with a careful
examination of the mark, in case it should be particularly soft,—or
again too hard; for there are marks which will take no impression from
an arrow. Satisfied on this point, he dips his shaft, not in the
poisons of Scythia or Crete, but in a certain ointment of his own,
which is sweet in flavour and gentle in operation; then, without more
ado, he lets fly. The shaft speeds with well-judged swiftness, cleaves
the mark right through, and remains lodged in it; and the drug works
its way through every part. Thus it is that men hear his words with
mingled joy and grief; and this was my own case, while the drug was
gently diffusing itself through my soul. Hence I was moved to
apostrophize him in the words of Homer:
So aim; and thou shalt bring (to some) salvation.
For as it is not every man that is maddened by the sound of the
Phrygian flute, but only those who are inspired of Cybele, and by those
strains are recalled to their frenzy,—so too not every man who hears
the words of the philosophers will go away possessed, and stricken at
heart, but only those in whose nature is something akin to philosophy.
_Fr_. These are fearful and wonderful words; nay, they are divine. All
that you said of ambrosia and lotus is true; I little knew how
sumptuous had been your feast. I have listened to you with strange
emotion, and now that you have ceased, I feel oppressed, nay, in your
own language, 'sore stricken.' This need not surprise you. A person who
has been bitten by a mad dog not only goes mad himself, you know, but
communicates his madness to any one whom he bites whilst he is in that
state, so that the infection may be carried on by this means through a
long succession of persons.
_Luc_. Ah, then you confess to a tenderness?
_Fr_. I do; and beg that you will think upon some medicine for both our
wounded breasts.
_Luc_. We must take a hint from Telephus.
_Fr_. What is that?
_Luc_. We want a hair of the dog that bit us.