one of the bystanders what all this meant about 'fire,' and what
Heracles and Empedocles had got to do with Proteus?--'Proteus,' he
replied, 'will shortly cremate himself, at the Olympic games.'--'But
how,' I asked, 'and why?' He did his best to explain, but the Cynic
went on bawling, and it was quite out of the question to attend to
anything else. I waited on to the end. It was one torrent of wild
panegyric on Proteus. The sage of Sinope, Antisthenes his master,--nay,
Socrates himself--none of them were so much as to be compared with him.
Zeus was invited to contend for the pre-eminence. Subsequently however
it seemed advisable to leave the two on some sort of equality. 'The
world,' he cried in conclusion, 'has seen but two works of surpassing
excellence, the Olympian Zeus, and--Proteus. The one we owe to the
creative genius of Phidias; the other is Nature's handiwork. And now,
this godlike statue departs from among mankind; borne upon wings of
fire, he seeks the heavens, and leaves us desolate.' He had worked
himself up into a state of perspiration over all this; and when it was
over he was very absurd, and cried, and tore his hair,--taking care
not to pull too hard; and was finally taken away by some compassionate
Cynics, sobbing violently all the time.
Well, after him, up jumped somebody else, before the crowd had time
to disperse; pouring his libation upon the glowing embers of the
previous sacrifice. He commenced operations with a loud guffaw--there
was no doubting its sincerity--after which he addressed us as follows.
'Theagenes (Heaven forgive him!) concluded his vile rant with the
tears of Heraclitus: I, on the other hand, propose to begin with the
laughs of Democritus.' Another hearty guffaw, in which most of us were
fain to join. 'One simply can't help it,' he remarked, pulling himself
together, 'when one hears such sad stuff talked, and sees old men
practically standing on their heads for the public amusement,--and all
to keep their grubby little reputations alive! Now, if you want to know
all about this "statue" which proposes to cremate itself, I'm your man.
I have marked his career from the first, and followed his intellectual
development; and I learnt a good deal from his fellow citizens, and
others whose authority was unquestionable.
'To begin then, this piece of perfect workmanship, straight from
Nature's mould, this type of true proportion, had barely come of age,
when he was caught in adultery; in Armenia this was; he received a
brisk drubbing for his pains, and finally made a jump of it from the
roof, and so got off. His next exploit was the corruption of a handsome
boy. This would have brought him before the Governor, by rights; but
the parents were poor, and he bought them off to the tune of a hundred
and twenty pounds. But perhaps it is hardly worth while mentioning
trifles of this kind. Our clay, you see, is yet unwrought: the "perfect
workmanship" is still to come. That business about his father makes
rather good hearing: only you know all about that;--how the old fellow
would hang on, though he was past sixty already, till Proteus could
stand it no longer, and put a noose about his neck. Well, this began to
be talked about; so he passed sentence of banishment on himself, and
wandered about from place to place.
'It was now that he came across the priests and scribes of the
Christians, in Palestine, and picked up their queer creed. I can
tell you, he pretty soon convinced them of his superiority; prophet,
elder, ruler of the Synagogue--he was everything at once; expounded
their books, commented on them, wrote books himself. They took him
for a God, accepted his laws, and declared him their president. The
Christians, you know, worship a _man_ to this day,--the distinguished
personage who introduced their novel rites, and was crucified on that
account. Well, the end of it was that Proteus was arrested and thrown
into prison. This was the very thing to lend an air to his favourite
arts of clap-trap and wonder-working; he was now a made man. The
Christians took it all very seriously: he was no sooner in prison,
than they began trying every means to get him out again,--but without
success. Everything else that could be done for him they most devoutly
did. They thought of nothing else. Orphans and ancient widows might
be seen hanging about the prison from break of day. Their officials
bribed the gaolers to let them sleep inside with him. Elegant dinners
were conveyed in; their sacred writings were read; and our old friend
Peregrine (as he was still called in those days) became for them "the
modern Socrates." In some of the Asiatic cities, too, the Christian
communities put themselves to the expense of sending deputations, with
offers of sympathy, assistance, and legal advice. The activity of
these people, in dealing with any matter that affects their community,
is something extraordinary; they spare no trouble, no expense.
Peregrine, all this time, was making quite an income on the strength of
his bondage; money came pouring in. You see, these misguided creatures
start with the general conviction that they are immortal for all time,
which explains the contempt of death and voluntary self-devotion which
are so common among them; and then it was impressed on them by their
original lawgiver that they are all brothers, from the moment that they
are converted, and deny the gods of Greece, and worship the crucified
sage, and live after his laws. All this they take quite on trust, with
the result that they despise all worldly goods alike, regarding them
merely as common property. Now an adroit, unscrupulous fellow, who
has seen the world, has only to get among these simple souls, and his
fortune is pretty soon made; he plays with them.
'To return, however, to Peregrine. The governor of Syria perceived
his mental warp: "he must make a name, though he die for it:" now
philosophy was the governor's hobby; he discharged him--wouldn't
hear of his being punished--and Peregrine returned to Armenia. He
found it too hot to hold him. He was threatened from all quarters
with prosecutions for parricide. Then again, the greater part of his
property had disappeared in his absence: nothing was left but the
land, which might be worth a matter of four thousand pounds. The whole
estate, as the old man left it, would come perhaps to eight thousand.
Theagenes was talking nonsense when he said a million odd. Why, the
whole city, with its five nearest neighbours thrown in, men, cattle,
and goods of every description, would never fetch that sum.--Meanwhile,
indictments and accusations were brewing: an attack might be looked
for at any moment: as for the common people, they were in a state of
furious indignation and grief at the foul butchery of a harmless old
man; for so he was described. In these trying circumstances, observe
the ingenuity and resource of the sagacious Proteus. He makes his
appearance in the assembly: his hair (even in these early days) is
long, his cloak is shabby; at his side is slung the philosopher's
wallet, his hand grasps the philosopher's staff; truly a tragic figure,
every inch of him. Thus equipped, he presents himself before the
public, with the announcement that the property left him by his father
of blessed memory is entirely at their disposal! Being a needy folk,
with a keen eye to charity, they received the information with ready
applause: "Here is true philosophy; true patriotism; the spirit of
Diogenes and Crates is here!" As for his enemies, they were dumb; and
if any one did venture an allusion to parricide, he was promptly stoned.
'Proteus now set out again on his wanderings. The Christians were meat
and drink to him; under their protection he lacked nothing, and this
luxurious state of things went on for some time. At last he got into
trouble even with them; I suppose they caught him partaking of some of
their forbidden meats. They would have nothing more to do with him, and
he thought the best way out of his difficulties would be, to change his
mind about that property, and try and get it back. He accordingly sent
in a petition to the emperor, suing for its restitution. But as the
people of Parium sent up a deputation to remonstrate, nothing came of
it all; he was told that as he had been under no compulsion in making
his dispositions, he must abide by them.
'Pilgrimage number three, to Egypt, to see Agathobulus. Here he went
through a most interesting course of discipline: shaved half his head
bare; anointed his face with mud; grossly exposed himself before a
large concourse of spectators, as a practical illustration of "Stoic
indifference"; received castigation with a birch rod; administered the
same; and mystified the public with a number of still more extravagant
follies. Thus prepared, he took ship to Italy, and was scarcely on dry
land again when he began abusing everybody, especially the Emperor, on
whose indulgence and good nature he knew that he could safely rely.
The Emperor, as you may suppose, was not greatly concerned at his
invectives; and it was his theory that no one in the garb of philosophy
should be called to account for his words, least of all a specialist in
scandal. Proteus's reputation throve upon neglect. The crack-brained
philosopher became the cynosure of unsophisticated eyes; and he grew
at last to be so unbearable that the city prefect judiciously expelled
him: "we do not require philosophers of your school," he explained.
Even this made for his notoriety: he was in every one's mouth as the
philosopher who was banished for being too outspoken, and saying what
he thought. He took rank with Musonius, Dion, Epictetus, and others who
have been in the same predicament.
'Finally, Proteus arrives in Greece; and what does he do there? He
makes himself offensive in Elis; he instigates Greece to revolt against
Rome; he finds a man of enlarged views and established character[6],
a public benefactor in general, and in particular the originator of
the water-supply to Olympia, which saved that great assembly from
perishing of thirst--and he has nothing but hard words for him; "Greece
is demoralized," he cries; "the spectators of the games should have
done without water, ay, and died if need be,"--and so many of them
would have done, from the violence of the epidemics then raging in
consequence of the drought. And all the time Proteus was drinking of
that very water! At this there was a general rush to stone him, which
pretty nearly succeeded; it was all our magnanimous friend could do,
for the time being, to find salvation at the altar of Zeus. He spent
the four following years in composing a speech, which he delivered in
public at the next Olympic games; it consisted of encomiums on the
donor of the water-supply and explanations of his flight on the former
occasion. But by this time people had lost all curiosity about him;
his prestige was quite gone; everything fell flat, and he could devise
no more novelties for the amazement of chance-comers, nor elicit the
admiration and applause for which he had always so passionately longed.
Hence this last bold venture of the funeral-pyre. So long ago as the
last Olympic Games he published his intention of cremating himself at
the next. That is what all this mystification is about, this digging
of pits we hear of, and collecting of firewood; these glowing accounts
of fortitude hereafter to be shown. Now, in the first place, it seems
to me that a man has no business to run away from life: he ought to
wait till his time comes. But if nothing else will serve, if positively
he must away,--still there is no need of pyres and such-like solemn
paraphernalia: there are plenty of ways of dying without this; let him
choose one of them, and have done with it. Or if a fiery end is so
attractively Heraclean, what was to prevent his quietly selecting some
well-wooded mountain top, and doing his cremation all by himself, with
Theagenes or somebody to play Philoctetes to his Heracles? But no; he
must roast in full concourse, at Olympia, as it might be on a stage;
and, so help me Heracles, he is not far out, if justice is to be done
on all parricides and unbelievers. Nay, if we look at it that way, this
is but dilatory work: he might have been packed into Phalaris's bull
years ago, and he would have had no more than his deserts,--a mouthful
of flame and sudden death is too good for him. For by all I can learn
burning is the quickest of deaths; a man has but to open his mouth, and
all is over.
'But I suppose what runs in his mind is the imposing spectacle of a
man being burnt alive in the holy place, in which ordinary mortality
may not so much as be buried. There was another man, once on a time,
who wanted to be famous. I dare say you have heard of him. When he
found there was no other way, he set fire to the temple of Artemis at
Ephesus. Proteus's design reminds me of that. The passion for fame must
wholly possess him, body and soul. He says, of course, that it is all
for the benefit of the human race,--to teach them to scorn death, and
to show fortitude in trying circumstances. Now I should just like to
ask you a question; it is no use asking him. How would you like it, if
the criminal classes were to profit by his lesson in fortitude, and
learn to scorn death, and burning, and so on? You would not like it at
all. Then how is Proteus going to draw the line? How is he going to
improve the honest men, without hardening and encouraging the rogues?
Suppose it even to be practicable that none should be present at the
spectacle but such as will make a good use of it. Again I ask: do you
want your sons to conceive an ambition of this sort? Of course not.
However, I need not have raised that point: not a soul, even among his
own disciples, will be caught by his enthusiasm. That is where I think
Theagenes is so much to blame: in all else he is a zealous adherent:
yet when his master sets out "to be with Heracles,"--he stops behind,
he won't go! though it is but a single header into the flames, and in a
moment endless felicity is his. It is not zeal, to have the same kind
of stick and coat and scrip as another man; any one can do that; it is
both safe and easy. Zeal must appear in the end, in the consummation:
let him get together his pyre of fig-tree faggots, as green as may
be, and gasp out his last amid the smoke! For as to merely being
burnt, Heracles and Asclepius have no monopoly there: temple-robbers
and murderers may be seen experiencing the same fate in the ordinary
course of law. Smoke is the only death, if you want to have it all to
yourselves.
'Besides, if Heracles really ever did anything so stupendous at all,
he was driven to it by frenzy; he was being consumed alive by the
Centaur's blood,--so the play tells us. But what point is there in
Proteus's throwing himself into the fire? Ah, of course: he wants to
set an example of fortitude, like the Brahmins, to whom Theagenes
thought it necessary to compare him. Well, I suppose there may be
fools and empty-headed enthusiasts in India as elsewhere? Anyhow, he
might stick to his models. The Brahmins never jump straight into the
fire: Onesicritus, Alexander's pilot, saw Calanus burn himself, and
according to him, when the pyre has been got ready, they stand quietly
roasting in front of it, and when they do get on top, there they sit,
smouldering away in a dignified manner, never budging an inch. I see
nothing so great in Proteus's just jumping in and being swallowed by
the flames. As likely as not he would jump out when he was half done;
only, as I understand, he is taking care to have the pyre in a good
deep hole.
'Some say that he is beginning to think better of it; that he reports
certain dreams, to the effect that Zeus will not suffer the holy place
to be profaned. Let him be easy on that score. I dare swear that not a
God of them will have any objection to a rogue's dying a rogue's death.
To be sure, he won't easily get out of it now. His Cynic friends egg
him on and thrust him pyre-wards; they keep his ambition aglow; there
shall be no flinching, if _they_ can help it! If Proteus would take a
couple of them with him in the fatal leap, it would be the first good
action he has ever performed.
'Not even "Proteus" will serve now, they were saying: he has changed
his name to Phoenix; that Indian bird being credited with bringing a
prolonged existence to an end upon a pyre. He tells strange tales too,
and quotes oracles--guaranteed old--to the effect that he is to be a
guardian spirit of the night. Evidently he has conceived a fancy for an
altar, and looks to have his statue set up, all of gold. And upon my
word it is as likely as not that among the simple vulgar will be found
some to declare that Proteus has cured them of the ague, and that in
the darkness they have met with the "guardian spirit of the night."
And as the ancient Proteus, the son of Zeus, the great original, had
the gift of prophecy, I suppose these precious disciples of the modern
one will be for getting up an oracle and a shrine upon the scene of
cremation. Mark my words: we shall find we have got Protean priests
of the scourge; priests of the branding-iron; priests of some strange
thing or other; or--who knows?--nocturnal rites in his honour, with a
torchlight procession about the pyre. I heard but now, from a friend,
of Theagenes's producing a prophecy of the Sibyl on this subject: he
quoted the very words:
What time the noblest of the Cynic host
Within the Thunderer's court shall light a fire,
And leap into its midst, and thence ascend
To great Olympus--then shall all mankind,
Who eat the furrow's fruit, give honour due
To the Night-wanderer. His seat shall be
Hard by Hephaestus and lord Heracles.
That's the oracle that Theagenes says he heard from the Sibyl. Now I'll
give him one of Bacis's on the same subject. Bacis speaks very much to
the point as follows:
What time the Cynic many-named shall leap,
Stirred in his heart with mad desire for fame,
Into hot fire--then shall the Fox-dogs all,
His followers, go hence as went the Wolf.
And him that shuns Hephaestus' fiery might
Th' Achaeans all shall straightway slay with stones;
Lest, cool in courage, he essay warm words,
Stuffing with gold of usury his scrip;
For in fair Patrae he hath thrice five talents.
What say you, friends? Can Bacis turn an oracle too, as well as the
Sibyl? Apparently it is time for the esteemed followers of Proteus to
select their spots for "evaporation," as they call burning.'
A universal shout from the audience greeted this conclusion: 'Away with
them to the fire! 'tis all they are good for.' The orator descended,
beaming.
But Nestor marked the uproar--
The shouts no sooner reached Theagenes's ears, than he was back on the
platform, bawling out all manner of scandal against the last speaker
(I don't know what this capital fellow was called). However, I left
Theagenes there, bursting with indignation, and went off to see the
games, as I heard the stewards were already on the course. So much for
Elis.
On our arrival at Olympia, we found the vestibule full of people,
all talking about Proteus. Some were inveighing against him, others
commended his purpose; and most of them had come to blows about it
when, just after the Heralds' contest, in came Proteus himself, with
a multitudinous escort, and gave us a speech, all about himself;--the
life he had lived, the risks he had run, the trials he had undergone
in the cause of philosophy. He had a great deal to say, but I heard
very little of it; there was such a crowd. Presently I began to think
I should be squeezed to death in the crush (I saw this actually happen
to several people), so off I went, having had enough of this sophist
in love with death, and his anticipatory epitaph. Thus much I heard,
however. Upon a golden life he desired to set a golden crown. He had
lived like Heracles: like Heracles he must die, and mingle with the
upper air. ''Tis my aim,' he continued, 'to benefit mankind; to teach
them how contemptible a thing is death. To this end, the world shall
be my Philoctetes.' The simpler souls among his audience wept, crying
'Live, Proteus; live for Greece!' Others were of sterner stuff, and
expressed hearty approval of his determination. This discomposed the
old man considerably. His idea had been that they would never let him
go near the pyre; that they would all cling about him and insist on his
continuing a compulsory existence. He had the complexion of a corpse
before: but this wholly unexpected blow of approbation made him turn
several degrees paler: he trembled--and broke off.
Conceive my amusement! Pity it was impossible to feel for such morbid
vanity: among all who have ever been afflicted with this scourge,
Proteus stands pre-eminent. However, he had a fine following, and
drank his fill of notoriety, as he gazed on the host of his admirers;
poor man! he forgot that criminals on the way to the cross, or in the
executioner's hands, have a greater escort by far.
And now the games were over. They were the best I had ever seen,
though this makes my fourth visit to Olympia. In the general rush
of departure, I got left behind, finding it impossible to procure a
conveyance.
After repeated postponements, Proteus had finally announced a late hour
of the night for his exhibition. Accordingly, at about midnight I got
up (I had found lodgings with a friend), and set out for Harpine; for
here was the pyre, just two miles and a half from Olympia, going East
along the racecourse. We found on arrival that the pyre had been placed
in a hole, about six feet deep. To ensure speedy ignition, it had been
composed chiefly of pine-torches, with brushwood stuffed in between.
As soon as the moon had risen--for her presence too was required at the
glorious spectacle--Proteus advanced, in his usual costume, accompanied
by the chiefs of the Cynics; conspicuous among them came the pride of
Patrae, torch in hand; nobly qualified for the part he was to play.
Proteus too had his torch. They drew near to the pyre, and kindled it
at several points; as it contained nothing but torches and brushwood,
a fine blaze was the result. Then Proteus--are you attending,
Cronius?--Proteus threw aside his scrip, and cloak, and club--his club
of Heracles--and stood before us in scrupulously unclean linen. He
demanded frankincense, to throw upon the fire; being supplied he first
threw it on, then, turning to the South (another tragic touch, this
of the South), he exclaimed: 'Gods of my mother, Gods of my father,
receive me with favour.' And with these words he leapt into the pyre.
There was nothing more to be seen, however; the towering mass of flames
enveloped him completely.
Again, sweet sir, you smile over the conclusion of my tragedy. As for
me, I saw nothing much in his appealing to his mother's Gods, but when
he included his _father's_ in the invocation, I laughed outright; it
reminded me of the parricide story. The Cynics stood dry-eyed about the
pyre, gazing upon the flames in silent manifestation of their grief.
At last, when I was half dead with suppressed laughter, I addressed
them. 'Intelligent sirs,' I said, 'let us go away. No pleasure is to be
derived from seeing an old man roasted, and there is a horrible smell
of burning. Are you waiting for some painter to come along and take a
sketch of you, to match the pictures of Socrates in prison, with his
companions at his side?' They were very angry and abusive at first, and
some took to their sticks: but when I threatened to pick a few of them
up and throw them on to the fire to keep their master company, they
quieted down and peace was restored.
Curious reflections were running in my mind, Cronius, as I made my way
back. 'How strange a thing is this same ambition!' I said to myself;
''tis the one irresistible passion; irresistible to the noblest of
mankind, as we account them,--how much more to such as Proteus, whose
wild, foolish life may well end upon the pyre!' At this point I met
a number of people coming out to assist at the spectacle, thinking
to find Proteus still alive; for among the various rumours of the
preceding day, one had been, that before entering the fire he was
to greet the rising sun, which to be sure is said to be the Brahmin
practice. Most of them turned back when I told them that all was
over; all but those enthusiasts who could not rest without seeing the
identical spot, and snatching some relic from the flames. After this,
you may be sure, my work was cut out for me: I had to tell them all
about it, and to undergo a minute cross-examination from everybody.
If it was some one I liked the look of, I confined myself to plain
prose, as in the present narrative: but for the benefit of the curious
simple, I put in a few dramatic touches on my own account. No sooner
had Proteus thrown himself upon the kindled pyre, than there was a
tremendous earthquake, I informed them; the ground rumbled beneath us;
and a vulture flew out from the midst of the flames, and away into the
sky, exclaiming in human accents
'I rise from Earth, I seek Olympus.'