Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Nineteen centuries!” he exclaimed. “Ah, Cæsar, why could you not have lived on through all those years? Poland would still have been free and the Poles would still have been a people.”

  “The world would have been free,” rejoined the dead conqueror, sadly. “I believed in unity, not in partition. I meant to build, not to destroy. My heart sinks when I see the world divided into nations, of which I would have made one nation.”

  “‘ Every individual man is himself a world,’” said Heine. “‘A world that is born with him and dies with him, and under every gravestone lies the history of a world.’”!

  “That is true,” answered Chopin, “and my world was Poland and is Poland still.”

  “Mine is the whole world of living beings,” returned the poet.

  “Yes,” replied Chopin, with a fine smile. “I know it. But the world according to Saint-Simon would not resemble the world according to Julius Cæsar.”

  “And yet,” said Cæsar, “I watched the development of Saint-Simon’s doctrines with interest. They failed as all socialist movements have failed and always must fail, to the end of time, until they proceed upon a different basis.”

  “Why?” asked Lady Brenda, taking courage.

  “The usual mistake. The followers of Saint-Simon, or the stronger part of them, tried to abolish marriage and they tried to invent a religion. Religions are not easily invented which can be imposed upon any considerable body of mankind, and no considerable body of civilised mankind has ever shown itself disposed to dispense with the institution of matrimony. The desire to obtain wealth without labour, the negation of religion and the degradation of women have ruined all socialistic systems which have ever been tried, and have undermined many powerful nations. It is impossible to govern men except by defending the security of property, upholding the existing form of religion and exacting a rigorous respect for the institution of marriage.”

  “That is true,” said Heine, thoughtfully. “The object of the Saint-Simonists was to create a common property, to be shared equally for ever, and to inculcate a form of religion which they had invented. They might have succeeded in that. But Enfantin had the unlucky idea that free love was a good thing, and that ruined the whole institution just when it was at the point of success.”

  “It could never have succeeded,” answered Cæsar, “even if he had let marriage exist, because the perpetual division of property is an impossibility. But the abolition of marriage would alone have been enough to ruin the scheme. I see in the modern world many nations, and each nation has its own very distinct form of government. Apply as a test to each the question of the stability of property, of religion and of marriage, and you will have at once the measure of its prosperity. I see in Europe a new empire, vast, strong and successful. The government protects wealth, marriage and religion; but religion is the least stable of the three, and there is no country in the world where there are so many who deny religion as there are in Germany. Look closer. You will see that there is no country in the world where there are so many anarchists, and these anarchists are perpetually sapping the sources of the nation’s wealth and trying to undermine the institution of marriage. They are doing their work well. Unless there is a religious revival in Germany, she will soon cease to preponderate in Europe.”

  “That is a novel idea,” said Augustus Chard.

  “I think not,” answered Cæsar, with a quiet smile. “I think it is as old as I am at least. But look at Europe again. Of all European nations, which is the most prosperous? England. In spite of many political mistakes, in spite of many foolish and expensive wars, in spite of the many incompetent statesmen and dissolute monarchs by whom she has been often governed, in spite of civil wars which have overturned her government and religious wars which have changed her dynasties, in spite of the narrowness of her original territory, the inclemencies of her climate, the barrenness of her Scotch mountains and the indolent misery of her Irish peasants — in spite of all these, England is the most prosperous country in modern Europe. Apply my test. Is there any country in Europe where property is better protected, where religion is a more established fact, where the marriage-contract is so scrupulously observed? Certainly not. Look at her neighbours — even at France. Why did France grow prosperous under Napoleon the Third? Because he protected religion, fostered the growth of commerce, and never so much as thought of attacking marriage. Now the existing government is opposed to religion of any kind and has introduced divorce, which in France is a very different matter from divorce in England. France is less prosperous than she was. Italy comes next with her cry of freedom. Religion is tolerated, marriage is respected, but the property of the individual is eaten up to pay the debts of the government. The country is not prosperous. Italy as a nation is a failure, not by her own fault, perhaps, but by force of circumstances. How can a man be healthy whose head is buried in ice while his feet are plunged in hot water? You must cool his feet and warm his head, but you must not apply leeches to every part of his body at once. When a man needs blood you must not bleed him in order to show him that his veins are not yet quite empty.”

  “Nations suffer at first when any great change is made, even when it is a change for the good,” remarked Heine.

  “That is a maxim which has been made an excuse for much harm,” replied Cæsar. “I do not think it is always true. A nation certainly ought not to suffer for twenty years because it has been unified. In twenty years a new generation of men grows up, and if the change has been for good, these young men should find themselves in better circumstances at twenty than their fathers were before them. I have watched the world for nearly two thousand years, and I think the history of that period shows that whenever a change for the better has taken place in a nation’s government it has been followed almost immediately by a great increase of prosperity. Within a very few years after my death the empire of my nephew had eclipsed everything which had preceded it and in some ways, also, everything which has been seen since. The second unification of the empire under Charlemagne gave a fabulous impulse to the growth of wealth. Even the foundation of the present German Empire was followed in a short time by a great development. England became powerful from the time of William’s conquest. She increased in wealth and importance under the great changes made by Elizabeth. She made another stride under the reign of William Third; and she reached the highest point of wealth and influence shortly after the inauguration of Free Trade, which was one of the greatest changes ever introduced into the administration of any country. There is a gigantic republic in America which but a few years ago was struggling in a great civil war, but which is now probably the most prosperous nation in the whole world. No. I believe that great changes, if they are good are followed very soon by an increase of prosperity. This has not taken place in Italy, and there are no signs of it. On the contrary, her lands are ceasing to be cultivated, her men are emigrating in enormous numbers, and those who remain are obliged to pay the taxes, in order to maintain the fictitious credit of an imaginary importance. The best king, the best statesmen, even the best disposition of the people cannot turn thousands of square miles of barren rock into a fertile garden, nor force a small and poor country to maintain the state of a great empire.”

  The dead man spoke calmly and sorrowfully of his country. He alone could realize the vast gulf that lay between his day and the present, and though he was Cæsar yet the rest could hardly believe him. There was silence for a time in the hall, and the great moon rose outside and her rays made the tiles of the terrace gleam like snow, while far down upon the sea the broad path of her light glittered like a river of pearls on dark velvet.

  Then a cool breeze sprang up and the three dead men rose silently and went out from among the living into the wonderful night.

  “We have been dreaming,” sighed Lady Brenda, rising from her chair and looking out.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE LITTLE PARTY sat by the open window of the hall on the next evening. Since the extraordinar
y events of the preceding day they had talked of nothing else. Augustus was endeavouring to explain his theory that by a gigantic experiment upon nature he had accidentally upset some fundamental but wholly unknown law, and he promised that if his mother-in-law would not be frightened he would cause another electric storm and produce even more extraordinary results.

  “But I am quite sure it was all a dream,” objected Lady Brenda. “Only when I think of that man’s hand, I really shiver. Anything more awfully clammy!”

  “I am sure they will come back to-night,” said Gwendoline, in a tone of profound conviction. “It was all very odd, but I know it was quite real.”

  Diana was seated at the piano, running her fingers over the keys in an idle fashion, striking melancholy and disconnected chords and then pausing to listen to the conversation.

  “Yes,” she said presently, “I am sure they will come back.”

  “The question,” remarked Augustus, “is whether such a disturbance is likely to outlast a day unless the forces which produced it are—” he stopped, starting slightly. Lady Brenda dropped her fan, Gwendoline rose swiftly from her chair and drew back, while Diana’s fingers fell upon the keys and made a ringing discord. In the dusky gloom of the long window stood two men. The one was Cæsar; the other a man taller than he, with a long white beard and wrapped in a cloak. Cæsar came forward, followed at a few steps by his companion.

  “I have come back,” said the dead man, quietly. “You do not grudge us poor ghosts an hour’s conversation? It is so pleasant to seem to be alive again, and in such company. We left you too soon last night, but it was late.”

  “But where are the rest?” asked Gwendoline, disappointed at not seeing Chopin, and glancing curiously at the old man who stood by Cæsar’s side.

  “Chopin is at Bayreuth to-night. There is a musical festival and he could not stay away. Heine is sitting by the shores of the North Sea talking to the stars and the sea-foam. But I have brought you another friend — one perhaps greater than they when he lived, though we are all alike here.”

  Cæsar led his companion forward, and in the short silence that followed all eyes were turned upon the new-corner.

  He was a man of tall and graceful figure. The noble features were set off by a snowy beard and long white locks that flowed down upon his shoulders and contrasted with the rich material of his mantle. The wide folds of the latter as he gathered them in one hand did not altogether conceal the dress he wore beneath, the doublet of dark green and trunk hose of scarlet, the tight sleeve, slashed at the elbows where the fine linen showed in symmetrical puffs, the black shoes and the gold chain which hung about his neck. He was old, indeed, but his walk had a matchless grace and his erect form still showed the remains of the giant’s strength. His dark eyes were brilliant still and emitted a lustre that illuminated the pale, regular features, too deathlike to convey any impression of life without that glance of the sparkling soul within.

  He paused before the group and courteously bent his head. All rose to greet him, and if there was less of awe in the action there was perhaps more of reverence, than any had felt when the greater guest had entered.

  “I am Lionardo,” he said in a low and musical voice. “Lionardo, the artist— ‘from Vinci’ they call me, because I was born there. I have joined you and the rest — these dear friends of mine who have made me one of them, and you who have conferred on us the privilege of once more exchanging thoughts and grasping hands with the living.”

  “There is none whom we will more gladly honour,” said Augustus, gravely. “The privilege is ours, not yours. Be seated — be one of us if you will, as well as one of these — whom you have known so long.”

  “Long — yes — it seems long to me, very, very long. But I have not forgotten what it was to live. I loved life well. Men have said of me that I wasted much time — I have been laughed at as a blower of soap-bubbles, as a foolish fellow who spent his time in trying to teach lizards to fly. Perhaps it is true. I have learned the secret now, and I have learned that I could not have attained to it then. But it was sweet to seek after it.”

  “I have read those foolish stories,” said Diana, whose eyes rested in rapt admiration on the grand features of the artist. “No one believes them—”

  “Here in Italy,” said Cæsar, in his placid yet dominating tones, “people may say of you as the English said of their architect — si monumentum quœris, circumspice.”

  “They would have needed to bury my body by the sluices of the Lecco canal, to give the same force to the epitaph,” answered Lionardo, with a soft laugh. Then with the courtesy natural to him he turned to Diana who had been speaking when interrupted by Cæsar’s quotation.

  “I appreciate the kindly thought that makes you say that, Lady Diana — your name is Diana? Yes, it suits your face. I used to think I could guess people’s names from their faces. Another of my foolish fancies. However, I am obliged to say that there is some truth in the report concerning the soap-bubbles. I had a theory that they were like drops of liquid — that each drop had a skin and that I could make drops of air and find out how they would act, by giving them artificial skins like those of other liquids. Something has been produced from the idea by modern students. The mistake I made was in attempting to work out my theory before proclaiming it. That is impossible. Modern students make a fat living by proclaiming their theories first and omitting to demonstrate them afterwards, taking for granted that no one will deny what persons of such importance as themselves choose to suggest.”

  “I have never heard that you were so cynical,” said Lady Brenda.

  “Nor in your presence could I be so long,” rejoined the old artist, with a smile. “But I was not cynical in my time. I am cynical in yours. Save for such company as these gentlewomen, I would not choose to be alive to-day.”

  Cæsar sighed and looked away from the rest, his nervous white hand tightening upon the carved arm of his deep-seated chair. It was a long, deep breath, drawn in with sudden and overwhelming thought of returning vitality and possibility, swelling the breast with the old imperial courage, the mighty grandeur of heart which had ruled the world; then relinquished and breathed out again in despair, deep, inconsolable and heart-rending, in the despair which the dead man whose deeds are all done and whose life-book is closed for ever feels when he gazes on the living whose race is not yet begun.

  “Yes,” said Lionardo, looking kindly at the conqueror’s averted face, “you are right — for yourself. We are not all such as Caius. If I were to live again I should waste more time in disproving theories today than I ever wasted in trying to prove them four hundred years ago. We were all for progress under Ludovico Sforza. Borgia understood progress in his own way — but it was progress, too, for all that. He could have given lessons in more than one thing to many of your moderns. Even Pope Leo understood what progress meant, in spite of his ideas about my methods of painting. But nowadays everything goes backwards. A bag of money is paraded through the world bound on an ass’s back, and everybody worships the ass, and men lie down and let him walk over them, thinking perchance that the beast may stumble, and the sack burst open, and that haply they may scrape up some of the coin in the filth of the road. We were more simple than the moderns. We had less money, but we knew better how to spend it.”

  “Is it true, I wonder,” put in Augustus, “that the amount of money in circulation indicates progress while the way in which men spend it indicates civilisation?”

  “No,” said Cæsar, answering for the rest. “The nation which has the greater wealth may not have progressed further than others, save in power. Power is not progress — it depends on other things. It is the result of a combination of strength and discipline under an intelligent leader. The highest power is generally reached by a people when the spirit of organisation has attained its greatest development in military matters but has not yet spread to the civil professions. The army is then held in the highest esteem and is the favourite profession. When the passion for
order has extended to mercantile affairs, the nation’s actual power as compared with other nations begins to decline. Interests of all kinds become vested in the maintenance of peace, and the warlike element falls into disrepute. It becomes the nation’s business to lend money to other nations who are still in the military stage, herself meanwhile giving and receiving guarantees of peace. But though a people may be rich by commerce they may not have progressed; and again whole nations may be made fabulously wealthy by seizing the wealth of others. We Romans did that. We did not pretend to the culture of the Greeks; we certainly did not possess their skill in making money — but we possessed them and their country, and gold flowed in our streets. It did us very little good. We got it without progress, by force, and we spent it recklessly in paying men to tear each other to pieces. No — a large amount of money in circulation does not indicate progress, though it may be the result of it.”

  “Money is very uninteresting,” said Gwendoline. “It always seems to me that the world would be much nicer without it.”

  “When you are as old as I am, you will appreciate your advantages, my dear,” said Lady Brenda. “It is good to be rich, and I fancy it must be very disagreeable to be poor.”

  “But I know quite well how it feels to have money,” objected Gwendoline. “I would like to know how it feels to have power — power such as you had,” she added, looking at Cæsar.

  “Not many have known what it is,” he answered, with a curious smile. “Each one who has possessed it has probably felt it in a different way. For my part, though I was accused of not being serious in my youth, like Lionardo here, I think I grew more than serious under the responsibility. Perhaps, however, it made less difference to me than it has to others. I was born to wealth, if not to power, and I resolved to make the most of my money. I made use of it by spending it all and then borrowing largely on the security of what I had squandered. They said I was not serious — but they made me leave the country nevertheless.”