That evening M. Bergeret, having done a hard day’s work, was feeling
tired. He was taking his customary stroll in the town, accompanied by
M. Goubin, his favourite disciple since the treachery of M. Roux, and
as he ruminated over the work he had accomplished he fell to wondering,
like so many others before him, what profit a man hath of all his
labours. M. Goubin asked:
“Master, do you think that Paul Louis Courrier would be a good subject
to choose for an essay?”
M. Bergeret made no reply. He was just then passing the shop of Madame
Fusellier, the stationer, and, stopping in front of the window in which
sundry drawing models were displayed, he looked with interest at the
Farnese Hercules who was showing off his muscles amid these examples of
scholastic art.
“I feel kindly disposed towards him,” remarked M. Bergeret.
“Towards whom?” asked M. Goubin, wiping his glasses.
“Hercules,” replied M. Bergeret. “He was a good man. He himself said:
‘My life is laborious and tends to a high ideal.’ He toiled much upon
this earth ere he received the reward of death, which, in truth, is
the only guerdon of life. He had no time to give to meditation, and
prolonged thought never marred the simplicity of his soul. But when
evening came a feeling of melancholy would steal over him, and, in
default of an enquiring mind, his great heart would reveal to him
the vanity of effort, and the necessity which compels all men, even
the best, to do evil even when they do good. This man of might was
extraordinarily gentle. Like the rest of us when we commit ourselves to
action, he found that he destroyed indiscriminately both the innocent
and the guilty, the meek and the violent, and, when he mused over
all this, it doubtless caused him more than one regret. Perhaps he
even felt compassion for the unhappy monsters he had destroyed for
the benefit of mankind: the poor Cretan bull, the poor Lernæan hydra,
or the beautiful lion who, when he died, provided him with such an
excellently warm cloak. More than once, when the day was over and his
work done, his club must have weighed heavily upon him.” M. Bergeret
raised aloft his umbrella with an effort as though it had been a heavy
weapon. Then he continued his discourse. “He was strong, yet weak. We
love him because he is like ourselves.”
“Hercules?” asked M. Goubin.
“Yes,” replied M. Bergeret. “Like ourselves, he was born unhappy, the
child of a god and a woman. From this mixed origin he derived the
sadness of a thoughtful spirit and the cravings of a ravening body. All
his life long he was subject to the caprices of a whimsical king. Are
not we too the children of Zeus and the hapless Alcmena, and the slaves
of Eurystheus? I am at the mercy of the Minister of Public Instruction,
who may take it into his head at any moment to ship me off to Algiers,
just as Hercules was sent to the land of the Nasamones.”
“You are not leaving us, dear Master?” asked M. Goubin anxiously.
“See how sad he is!” went on M. Bergeret. “How wearily he leans upon
his club, letting his arm hang limply at his side! His head is bowed,
he is thinking of his heavy labours. The Farnese Hercules was certainly
conceived after the statue by Lysippus, who was a blacksmith’s
apprentice before becoming a sculptor, and it is undoubtedly that
sturdy sculptor of a sturdy hero who fixed the type of Hercules.”
Having wiped his glasses once again with his handkerchief, M.
Goubin tried to catch a glimpse of the principal points mentioned
by the master, and while he was thus engaged Madame Fusellier,
the proprietress of the shop, on hearing the clock strike nine,
extinguished the gas under the disciple’s peering eyes. The poor man
had no idea why he could see nothing, for he was so short-sighted as
to be an utter stranger to that imaginary world in which most men have
their being.
And, as M. Bergeret continued to walk and talk, he followed the sound
of his voice, for he trusted only to what he heard others say to guide
him along those pathways of the earth whereon his youthful prudence
told him he might venture.
“His strength,” continued the Professor, “was the cause of his
weakness. He was under the yoke of his own strength, subject to the
exigencies of his nature, which compelled him to devour whole sheep,
drink great jars of dark wine, and to do foolish deeds for women of
little worth. The hero whose club brought peace and happiness and
justice to the world, the son of the great god Zeus, would seek sleep
anywhere like a mere tramp, or tarry for weeks and weeks with a wench
whose lover he was. And this was the cause of his melancholy. With his
simple soul, his submissiveness, his love of justice, and his mighty
muscles, it was to be feared that he could be nothing more than an
excellent soldier or a glorified gendarme. But his very weaknesses,
his errors, his unhappy experiences broadened his soul, opened out his
vision upon the manifold diversity of life and mellowed with gentleness
his terrible capacity for good works.”
“Dear Master,” said M. Goubin, “do you not think that Hercules is the
sun, that his twelve labours are the signs of the zodiac, and that
Dejanira’s fiery robe represents the flaming clouds of the setting sun?”
“That is possible,” replied M. Bergeret, “but I do not wish to
believe it. It pleases me to have the same idea of Hercules that a
barber of Thebes or a herb-vendor of Eleusis would have had in the
time of the Median wars. I think this idea from the point of view of
force, fullness and vivacity is worth all your systems of comparative
mythology put together. Hercules was a kind-hearted man. When he went
to seek the steeds of Diomedes he crossed through Pheræ and stayed his
steps before the palace of Admetus. He called for food and drink, and
spoke very roughly to the servants, who had never set eyes on such an
uncouth guest. He crowned himself with myrtles, and drank enormous
quantities of wine, and, being very drunk, and not at all proud, he
tried to force the cup-bearer to drink with him; but the latter, very
shocked at such manners, replied severely that it was no time for
eating and drinking, when the good Queen Alcestis had just been borne
to the grave. She had consecrated herself to Thanatos in place of her
husband Admetus. It was, therefore, not an ordinary death, but a kind
of spell which had been cast over her.
“Good Hercules immediately recovered from his drunkenness, and
asked whither they had taken Alcestis. Beyond the suburb on the way
to Larissa she lay in a tomb of polished marble. Thither hastened
Hercules, and when Thanatos, robed in black, came to taste of the
offering of cakes dipped in blood, the hero, who was lying in ambush
behind the funeral pile, threw himself upon the King of Darkness, held
him prisoner in the circle of his arms, and forced him, all bruised and
broken, to give up Alcestis, who, veiled and silent, returned with him
to the palace of Admetus. This time he would accept of no refreshment,
he was in haste, for he had barely time to fetch the steeds of Diomedes.
“That was a wonderful adventure, but I think I prefer the tale about
the Cercopes. Do you know the story of the two brothers, M. Goubin? One
was called Andolous and the other Atlantos, and they had faces like
monkeys. Their name leads me to believe that they were also possessed
of tails like the smaller species of the monkey tribe. They were
very cunning thieves, and robbed the orchards, and their mother was
continually warning them to beware of the hero, Melampyges. This, you
know, was the name familiarly given to Hercules, whose skin was not
white. The two rash little creatures disdained their mother’s wise
counsels, and one day, having surprised the ‘Melampyges’ asleep on
the mossy banks of a stream, they crept up to him to try and steal
his club and lionskin. But the hero, waking suddenly, seized them,
tied them by the feet to the branch of a tree, and slinging them over
his shoulder went upon his way. The Cercopes were doubtless very
uncomfortable, both in mind and body, but as the latter was extremely
supple and the former happy-go-lucky, they were amused and interested
in everything they could see, and what they chiefly saw was the reason
for the hero’s nickname of mélampyge. Atlantos pointed this out to his
brother Andolous, who replied that their captor was indeed the hero of
whom their mother had spoken. And as they hung like squirrels from a
hunter’s spear they whispered, ‘Melampyges! Melampyges!’ with a mocking
laugh like the cry of the forest lapwing.”
Hercules was a very irritable man, and did not like being made fun of,
but he was not over proud, and never imagined that the whole of his
body was as white as that of poor little Hylas. The name that had been
bestowed upon him appeared to him an honourable one, and quite worthy
of a strong man who journeyed about accomplishing great labours. He
was a simple soul and easily moved to laughter. The remarks of the two
Cercopes struck him as so funny that he stopped short, and, placing
his game upon the ground, sat down by the wayside and began to shout
with laughter. For a long time he remained there filling the valley
with the sounds of his mirth. The setting sun spread his crimson rays
over the clouds and gleamed on the mountain tops, and still the hero’s
laughter rang out from beneath the dark pines and tufted larches.
At last, however, he rose, untied the two little monkey-men, and,
having admonished them, let them go, while in the falling darkness he
continued his rough journey across the mountains. You see he was a
kind-hearted man!”
“Dear Master,” said M. Goubin, “allow me to ask you a question. Do you
consider Paul Louis Courrier a good subject for my essay? Because as
soon as I have got my degree----”