It is a prerogative of the Gods that, when they do speak sooth, mortals
must needs believe them. Elenko hence felt no incredulity at the
revelation of Prometheus, or sought other confirmation than the bonds
and broken links of chain at his wrists and ankles.
“Now,” he cried, or rather shouted, “is the prophecy fulfilled with
which of old I admonished the Gods in the halls of Olympus. I told them
that Zeus should beget a child mightier than himself, who should send
him and them the way he had sent his father. I knew not that this child
was already begotten, and that his name was Man. It has taken Man ages
to assert himself, nor has he yet, as it would seem, done more than
enthrone a new idol in the place of the old. But for the old, behold
the last traces of its authority in these fetters, of which the first
smith will rid me. Expect no thunderbolt, dear maiden; none will come:
nor shall I regain the immortality of which I feel myself bereaved
since yesterday.”
“Is this no sorrow to thee?” asked Elenko.
“Has not my immortality been one of pain?” answered Prometheus. “Now I
feel no pain, and dread one only.”
“And that is?”
“The pain of missing a certain fellow-mortal,” answered Prometheus,
with a look so expressive that the hitherto unawed maiden cast her eyes
to the ground. Hastening away from the conversation to which,
nevertheless, she inly purposed to return.
“Is Man, then, the maker of Deity?” she asked.
“Can the source of his being originate in himself?” asked Prometheus.
“To assert this were self-contradiction, and pride inflated to madness.
But of the more exalted beings who have like him emanated from the
common principle of all existence, Man, since his advent on the earth,
though not the creator, is the preserver or the destroyer. He looks up
to them, and they are; he out-grows them, and they are not. For the
barbarian and Triballian gods there is no return; but the Olympians, if
dead as deities, survive as impersonations of Man’s highest conceptions
of the beautiful. Languid and spectral indeed must be their existence
in this barbarian age; but better days are in store for them.”
“And for thee, Prometheus?”
“There is now no place,” replied he, “for an impeacher of the Gods. My
cause is won, my part is played. I am rewarded for my love of man by
myself becoming human. When I shall have proved myself also mortal I
may haply traverse realms which Zeus never knew, with, I would hope,
Elenko by my side.”
Elenko’s countenance expressed her full readiness to accompany
Prometheus as far beyond the limits of the phenomenal world as he might
please to conduct her. A thought soon troubled her delicious reverie,
and she inquired:
“Peradventure, then, the creed which I have execrated may be truer and
better than that which I have professed?”
“If born in wiser brains and truer hearts, aye,” answered Prometheus,
“but of this I can have no knowledge. It seems from thy tale to have
begun but ill. Yet Saturn mutilated his father, and his reign was the
Golden Age.”
While conversing, hand locked in hand, they had been strolling
aimlessly down the mountain. Turning an abrupt bend in the path, they
suddenly found themselves in presence of an assembly of early
Christians.
These confessors were making the most of Elenko’s dilapidated temple,
whose smoking shell threw up a sable column in the background. The
effigies of Apollo and the Muses had been dragged forth, and were being
diligently broken up with mallets and hammers. Others of the
sacrilegious throng were rending scrolls, or dividing vestments, or
firing the grove of laurel that environed the shrine, or pelting the
affrighted birds as they flew forth. The sacred vessels, however, at
least those of gold and silver, appeared safe in the guardianship of an
episcopal personage of shrewd and jovial aspect, under whose inspection
they were being piled up by a troop of sturdy young ecclesiastics, the
only weapon-bearers among the rabble. Elenko stood riveted to the
ground. Prometheus, to her amazement, rushed forward to one of the
groups with a loud “By all the Gods and Goddesses!” Following his
movements, she saw that the object of his interest was an enormous dead
eagle carried by one of the mob. The multitude, startled by his cry and
his emotion, gazed eagerly at the strangers, and instantly a shout went
up:
“The heathen woman!”
“With a heathen man!”
And clubs began to be brandished, and stones to be picked up from the
ground.
Prometheus, to whom the shouts were unintelligible, looked wistfully at
Elenko. As their eyes met, Elenko’s countenance, which had hitherto
been all disdain and defiance, assumed an expression of irresolution. A
stone struck Prometheus on the temple, drawing blood; a hundred hands
went up, each weighted with a missile.
“Do as I,” cried Elenko to him, and crossed herself.
Prometheus imitated her, not unsuccessfully for a novice.
The uplifted arms were stayed, some even sank down.
By this time the Bishop had bustled to the front, and addressed a
torrent of questions to Prometheus, who merely shook his head, and
turned to inspect the eagle.
“Brethren,” said the Bishop, “I smell a miracle!” And, turning to
Elenko, he rapidly proceeded to cross-examine her.
“Thou wert the priestess of this temple?”
“I was.”
“Thou didst leave it this morning a heathen?”
“I did.”
“Thou returnest a Christian?”
Elenko blushed fire, her throat swelled, her heart beat violently. All
her soul seemed concentrated in the gaze she fastened on the pale and
bleeding Prometheus. She remained silent—but she crossed herself.
“Who then has persuaded thee to renounce Apollo?”
Elenko pointed to Prometheus.
“An enemy of Zeus, then?”
“Zeus has not such another enemy in the world.”
“I knew it, I was sure of it,” exclaimed the Bishop. “I can always tell
a Christian when I see him. Wherefore speaks he not?”
“He is ancient, for all his vigorous mien. His martyrdom began ere our
present speech was, nor could he learn this in his captivity.”
“Martyrdom! Captivity!” exclaimed the prelate gleefully, “I thought we
were coming thither. An early martyr, doubtless?”
“A very early martyr.”
“Fettered and manacled?”
“Behold his wrists and ankles.”
“Tortured, of course?”
“Incredibly.”
“Miraculously kept alive to this day?”
“In an entirely supernatural manner.”
“Now,” said the Bishop, “I would wager my mitre and ring that his life
was prolonged by the daily ministrations of yonder fowl that he
caresses with such singular affection?”
“Never,” replied Elenko, “for one day did that most punctual bird omit
to visit him.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the Bishop. “And now, its mission accomplished, the
blessed creature, as I am informed, is found dead at the foot of the
mountain. Saints and angels! this is glorious! On your knees, ye
infidels!”
And down they all went, the Bishop setting the example. As their heads
were bowed to the earth, Elenko made a sign to Prometheus, and when the
multitude looked up, it beheld him in the act of imparting the
episcopal blessing.
“Tell him that we are all his brethren,” said the Bishop, which
announcement became in Elenko’s mouth, “Do as I do, and cleave to thy
eagle.”
A procession was formed. The new saint, his convert, and the eagle,
rode in a car at the head of it. The Bishop, surrounded by his
bodyguard, followed with the sacred vessels of Apollo, to which he had
never ceased to direct a vigilant eye throughout the whole proceedings.
The multitude swarmed along singing hymns, or contending for the stray
feathers of the eagle. The representatives of seven monasteries put in
their claims for the links of Prometheus’s fetters, but the Bishop
scouted them all. He found time to whisper to Elenko:
“You seem a sensible young person. Just hint to our friend that we
don’t want to hear anything about his theology, and the less he talks
about the primitive Church the better. No doubt he is a most
intelligent man, but he cannot possibly be up to all the recent
improvements.”
Elenko promised most fervently that Prometheus’ theological sentiments
should remain a mystery to the public. She then began to reflect very
seriously on the subject of her own morals. “This day,” she said to
herself, “I have renounced all the Gods, and told lies enough to last
me my life, and for no other reason than that I am in love. If this is
a sufficient reason, lovers must have a different code of morality from
the rest of the world, and indeed it would appear that they have. Will
you die for me? Yes. Admirable. Will you lie for me? No. Then you don’t
love me. Βαλλ εισ κορακασ εισ Ταιναρον εισ Όγγ Κογγ.”