XXI
It was on board a great merchant galley with three banks of oars,laden with soft Asian carpets and amphorae of olive-oil, on the voyagebetween Seleucia, the port of Antioch, and Italy.
Sailing and rowing amongst the islands of the Archipelago, the vesselwas now making for Crete, where she was to take on board a cargo ofwool, and disembark some ecclesiastics, bound for a Cretan monastery.Old men, seated on the fore-deck, were passing the days in piousgossip, prayer, or in their monkish avocation of weaving baskets fromslips of palm-leaf. In the stern, under a light violet awning, otherpassengers were installed, with whom the monks, considering themPagans, were anxious to have nothing to do. These were Anatolius,Ammianus Marcellinus, and Arsinoe.
The evening was calm. The rowers--slaves from Alexandria--heaved andlowered their long oars to the beat of an ancient chant. The sun wassinking amid ruddy clouds. Anatolius was gazing at the waves, thinkingover the poet's phrase, _the many-laughtered sea_.
After the hustling, the heat and dust of the streets of Antioch, afterthe smoke of torches, and the fiery breath of the rabble, he waslulling his mind with the thought: "Thou of the many laughters, takeme and cleanse my soul!"
Isles of Calypso, Amorgos, Astypalaea, Thera, arose like visions, nowlifting themselves from the sea, now melting away, as if, all roundthe vessel, the Oceanides were still leading their eternal dance. Inthose waters Anatolius felt himself far back in the days of theOdyssey.
His companions did not disturb his meditations, for each was absorbedin work. Ammianus Marcellinus was putting in order his memoirs of thePersian campaign and the life of the Emperor Julian; and in theevenings he used to read the remarkable work of the Christian master,Clement of Alexandria, entitled, _Stromata: The Patchwork Quilt_.
Arsinoe was making models in wax for a large marble statue. It was thefigure of some Olympian deity, the face of which wore an expression ofsuper human sadness. Anatolius wished, but hesitated, to ask herwhether it represented Dionysus or Christ.
The artist had long ago abandoned the robes of a nun. Pious folk hadturned from her with horror, and called her the recreant; but hername, and the recollection of generous gifts formerly made toChristian monasteries, safeguarded her from persecution. Of her greatfortune but a small portion remained, just enough to secureindependence; and on the shores of the Gulf of Naples, not far fromBaiae, she still owned a small estate, and the same villa in whichMyrrha had passed her last days. Thither Arsinoe, Anatolius, andMarcellinus had agreed to retire after the stormy troubles of recentyears, to pass their lives in peace as servants of the Muses.
The former nun now wore the same robes as before her consecration. Thenoble and simple lines of the peplum restored her resemblance to someancient Athenian vestal. But the stuff was sober in colour, and hersplendid hair thickly veiled. A wisdom almost austere lay in thosedeep unsmiling eyes. Only the white arms of the artist, bare to theshoulder, relieved the sombre hues of her robe. She toiledimpatiently, almost feverishly, moulding the soft wax; and her palehands impressed Anatolius with a sense of extraordinary power.
That evening the galley was coasting an islet of which none knew thename. Far off, it looked like an arid rock. In order to avoiddangerous reefs the trireme had to pass close in to shore. Under thesteep cliff the sea-water lay so clear that sand and weed at thebottom could be clearly distinguished. Beyond the grim rocks could beseen green pastures, and sheep feeding round a plane-tree.
Anatolius saw, seated at the foot of the tree, a lad and a young girl,probably children of poor shepherds. Behind them, among cypresses, wasa small rough figure of Pan playing the flute. Anatolius turnedtowards Arsinoe to point out this remote and peaceful nook of a lostHellas; but the words died on his lips. Wholly rapt, and with a lookof strange gaiety, the artist was intent on her creation, the waxenstatuette, with its face of haunting sadness, and proud Olympianattitude.
Anatolius felt her mood like a rebuff. He asked Arsinoe in a harshunsteady voice, pointing at the model--
"Why are you making that? What does the thing stand for?"
Slowly and with effort, she raised her eyes to his; and he mused--
"The sibyls must have eyes like those!" and then aloud: "Arsinoe, doyou think that this work of yours will be understood?"
"What matters it, friend?" she answered, smiling gravely. Then sheadded in a lower tone, as if communing with herself: "He will stretchout His hands toward the world. He must be inexorable and terrible asMithra-Dionysus in all his strength and beauty; yet merciful andhumble...."
"What do you mean? is not that an impossible contradiction?"
"Who knows? For us, yes; but for the future...."
The sun was descending lower. Above him, on the horizon westward, astorm-cloud was impending, and the last rays illumined the island witha soft, almost melancholy, glow.
The shepherd lad and his companion approached Pan's altar to maketheir evening sacrifice.
"Is it your belief, Arsinoe," continued Anatolius, "is it your faiththat unknown brothers of ours shall pick up the threads of ourexistence, and, following the clue, go immeasurably farther than we?Do you believe that all shall not perish in the barbaric gloom whichis sinking on Rome and Hellas? Ah, if that were so? If one could trustthe future...."
"Yes!" exclaimed Arsinoe, a prophetic gleam in her sombre eyes, "thefuture is in us, in our madness and our anguish! Julian was right.Content without glory, in silence, strangers to all, and solitaryamong men, we must work out our work to the end. We must hide andcherish the last, the utmost spark amongst the ashes of the altar,that tribes and nations of the future may kindle from it new torches!Where we finish they shall begin. Let Hellas die! Men shall dig up herrelics--unearth her divine fragments of marble, yea, over them shallweep and pray! From our tombs shall the yellowed leaves of the bookswe love be unsealed, and the ancient stories of Homer, the wisdom ofPlato, shall be spelt out slowly anew, as by little children. And withHellas, you and I shall live again!"
"And with us, revives the curse on us!" exclaimed Anatolius, "Thestruggle between Olympus and Golgotha will begin over again!--Why? Andwhen shall that struggle end? Answer, sibyl, if thou canst!"
Arsinoe was silent, and her eyes fell. Then she glanced at Ammianusand pointed to him--
"There is one who will answer you better than I. Like ours, his heartis shared between Christ and Olympus, and yet he keeps the lucidity ofhis soul."
Ammianus Marcellinus, putting aside the manuscript by Clement, hadbeen quietly listening to the discussion.
"In truth," said the Epicurean, addressing him, "we have now beenfriends for more than four months, and yet I do not know whether youare a Christian or a Hellenist?"
"Nor I myself," answered the young Ammianus frankly, with a blush.
"What? No torture of doubts? No suffering from the antagonism betweenthe Greek and the Christian doctrine?"
"No, my friend; I think that the two teachings in many pointsagree...."
"But how--from what point of view--do you intend to write your accountof the Roman Empire? One of the two scales of the balance must sinkand the other rise?"
"Not consciously, I hope," answered the historian; "My aim is to bejust to both. Julian the Emperor I love, but even for him I shall beimpartial. No one shall know which side I join, any better than I knowmyself...."
Anatolius had already proved the bravery, the chivalrous friendship ofAmmianus, and now he was daily discovering in him other qualities noless rare.
"You are born to be a historian, Ammianus, to be the judge of ourpassionate age, and to bring its warring philosophies, in some sort,to a reconciliation!"
"I shall not be the first to do that," answered Ammianus. He rose tohis feet and pointing with enthusiasm to the parchment-rolls of thegreat Christian master--
"All you suggest is already written here; and with far ampler powersthan mine. This is the _Patchwork_ of Clement of Alexandria, in whichhe proves that the greatness of Rome and the philosophy of Hellaspaved the way for
the teaching of Christ, and, by maxims andnumberless forecasts, made the first decided steps toward the earthlykingdom of God. Plato is the forerunner of Jesus the Nazarene."
The last words, spoken with perfect simplicity, profoundly impressedAnatolius. He seemed to remember the whole scene as from some previousexistence: the island flushed by that setting sun; the smell of tar onboard the galley; and the words of Ammianus. The vista of a new worldwas momentarily opened to his mind.
Meanwhile the trireme was heading round the cape; the little wood ofcypress had almost disappeared behind the cliffs. Anatolius threw alast look at the lad and girl before the altar of Pan. The girl waspouring out the evening offering of goat's milk and honey; the boybeginning to play on his reed-pipe. The thin blue smoke of sacrificecould be seen rising above the wood after the human figures hadvanished and while the trireme made for open sea.
From the fore-part of the ship there came upon the silence a solemnmusic; the old monks were chanting in unison their evening prayer....
But over the still water came faint and clear notes of another melody.It was the little shepherd, piping his nocturnal hymn to Pan, the oldgod of gaiety, of freedom and love.
Anatolius felt a thrill of wonder and surmise.
"_Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven_," the monks chanted.
The silvery notes of the shepherd's flute, floating high in the sky,mingled with the words of the Christians.
The last beams faded from that happy islet, leaving it dull andhueless in the midst of the sea. Both hymns ceased.
The wind blew sharply in the rigging and whipped up grey and whitewaves. The straining galley-timbers creaked and groaned. Shadowsapproached from the southward and the sea grew swiftly dark. Hugeclouds massed overhead, and from beyond the horizon came the firstlong intermittent roll of thunder.
Night and Tempest, hand in hand, were striding on apace.
THE END
The Death of the Gods Page 45
