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THE MAN. Take some food! Empty the full cup which you hold in your hand!
WEAVER. I have not strength enough left to carry it to my lips! I am so tired; I could scarcely crawl up here—it is the day of freedom! but a day of freedom is not for me—it comes too late, too late!—(He falls, and gasps out:) Curses upon the manufacturers who make silks! upon the merchants, who buy them! upon the nobles, who wear them! Curses! curses! curses!
He writhes on the ground and dies.
THE BAPTIZED. What a ghastly corpse!
THE MAN. Baptized Jew, citizen, poltroon of freedom, look upon this lifeless head, shining in the blood-red rays of the setting sun! Where are now your words and promises; the equality, perfectibility, and universal happiness of the human race?
THE BAPTIZED (aside). May you soon fall into a like ruin, and the dogs tear the flesh from your rotting corpse!—(Aloud.) I beg that your excellency will now permit me to return, that I may give an account of my embassy!
THE MAN. You may say that, believing you to be a spy, I forcibly detained you.—(Looking around him.) The tumult and noise of the carousal is dying away behind us; before us there is nothing to be seen but fir and pine trees bathed in the crimson rays of sunset.
THE BAPTIZED. Clouds are gathering thick and fast over the tops of the trees: had you not better return to your people, Count Henry, who have been waiting so long for you in the vault of St. Ignatius?
THE MAN. Thank you for your exceeding care of me, Sir Jew! But back! I will return and take another look at the festival of the citizens.
VOICES (under the trees). The children of Ham bid good night to thee, old Sun!
VOICE (on the right). Here's to thy health, old enemy! Thou hast long driven us on to unpaid work, and awaked us early to unheeded pain! Ha! ha! When thou risest upon us to-morrow, thou wilt find us with fish and flesh: now off to the devil, empty glass!
THE BAPTIZED. The bands of peasants are coming this way.
THE MAN. You shall not leave me. Place yourself behind this tree trunk, and be silent!
CHORUS OF PEASANTS. Forward, forward, under the white tents to meet our brethren! Forward, forward, under the green shade of the beeches, to rest, to sleep, to pleasant sunset greetings!
Our maidens there await us; there await us our slaughtered oxen, the old teams of our ploughs!
A VOICE. I am pulling and dragging him on with all my strength—now he turns and defends himself—down! down among the dead!
VOICE OF THE DYING NOBLE. My children, pity! pity!
SECOND VOICE. Chain me to your land and make me work without pay again—will you!
THIRD VOICE. My only son fell under the blows of your lash, old lord; either wake him from the dead, or die to join him!
FOURTH VOICE. The children of Ham drink thy health, old lord! they beg thee for forgiveness, lord!
CHORUS OF PEASANTS (passing on out of sight). A vampire sucked our blood, and lived upon our strength:
We have caught the vampire, he shall escape no more!
By Satan, thou shalt hang as high as a great lord should!
By Satan, thou shalt die high, high above us all!
Death to the nobles; tyrants were they all!
Drink, food, and rest for us; poor, weary, hungry, thirsty, naked!
Your bodies shall lie like sheaves upon our fields; the ruins of your castles fly like chaff beneath the flail of the thresher!
VOICE. The children of Ham will dance merrily round their bonfires!
THE MAN. I cannot see the face of the murdered noble, they throng so thickly round him.
THE BAPTIZED. It is in all probability a friend or relation of your excellency!
THE MAN. I despise him, and hate you!
Poetry will sweeten all this horror hereafter. Forward, Jew, forward!
They disappear among the trees.
* * * * *
Another part of the forest. A mound upon which watchfires are burning. A procession of people bearing torches.
THE MAN (appearing among them with the Baptized). These drooping branches have torn my liberty cap into tatters.
Ha! what hell of flame is this throwing its crimson light into the gloom, and leaping through these heavily fringed walls of the forest?
THE BAPTIZED. We have wandered from our way while seeking the pass of St. Ignatius. We must retrace our steps immediately, for this is the spot in which Leonard celebrates the solemnities of the New Faith!
THE MAN. Forward, in the name of God! I must see these solemnities. Fear nothing, Jew, no one will recognize us.
THE BAPTIZED. Be prudent; our lives hang on a breath!
THE MAN. What enormous ruins are these scattered around us! This ponderous pile must have lasted centuries before it fell!
Pillars, pedestals, capitals, fallen arches—ha! I am treading upon the broken remnants of an escutcheon. Bas-reliefs of exquisite sculpture are scattered about upon the earth! Heavens! that is the sweet face of the Virgin Mother shining through the heart of the darkness! The light flickers, I can see it no more. Here are the slight-fluted shafts of a shrine, panes of colored glass with cherub heads, a carved railing of bronze, and now, in the light of yonder torch, I see the half of a monumental figure of a reclining knight in armor thrown upon the burnt and withered grass: Where am I, Jew?
THE BAPTIZED. You are passing through the graveyard of the last church of the Old Faith; our people labored forty days and forty nights without intermission to destroy it; it seemed built for eternal ages.
THE MAN. Your songs and hymns, ye new men, grate harshly on my ears!
Dark forms are moving forward in every direction, from before us, behind us, and from either side; lights and shadows, driven to and fro by the wind, float like living spirits through the throng.
A PASSER-BY. I greet you, citizens, in the name of freedom!
SECOND PASSER-BY. I greet you in the name of the slaughter of the nobles!
THIRD PASSER-BY. The priests chant the praise of freedom; why do you not hasten forward?
THE BAPTIZED. We cannot resist the pressure of the throng; they drive us on from every side.
THE MAN. Who is this young man standing in front of us, mounted upon the ruins of the shrine? Three flames burn beneath him, his face shines from the midst of fire and smoke, his voice rings like the shriek of a maniac; and his gestures are rapid and eager?
THE BAPTIZED. That is Leonard, the inspired and enthusiastic prophet of freedom. Our priests, our philosophers, our poets, our artists, with their daughters and loved ones, are standing round him.
THE MAN. Ha, I understand; your aristocracy! Point out to me the man who sent you to seek an interview with me.
THE BAPTIZED. He is not here.
LEONARD. Fly to my arms; cling to my lips; come to me, my beautiful bride! Independent, free, stripped of the veils of hypocrisy, full of love, untrammelled from the chilling fetters of prejudice, come to me, thou chosen one of the lovely daughters of freedom!
VOICE OF A MAIDEN. I fly to thee, beloved one!
SECOND MAIDEN. Look upon me! I stretch forth my arms to thee, but have sunk fainting among the ruins; I cannot rise, and have only strength left to turn to thee, beloved!
THIRD MAIDEN. I have outstripped them all; through cinders and ashes, flame and smoke, I fly to thee, beloved!
THE MAN. With long, dishevelled hair far floating on the wind, with snowy bosom panting with wild excitement, she clambers up the smoking ruins to his arms!
THE BAPTIZED. Thus is it every night.
LEONARD. To me! to me! my bliss, my rapture! Lovely daughter of freedom, thou tremblest with delicious, god-like madness!
Inspiration, flood my soul! Listen to me, all ye people, for now will I prophesy unto you!
THE MAN. Her head sinks on his bosom; she faints in his arms.
LEONARD. Look upon us, ye people! we offer you an image of the human race, freed from trammels, and risen into new life from the death of forms. We stand upon the ruins of old dogmas, of old gods; yea, glory unto us, for we have torn the old gods limb from limb!
They have rotted into dust; our spirits have conquered theirs; their very souls have fallen into the abyss of nothingness!
CHORUS OF WOMEN. Happy among women is the bride of the prophet: we stand below and envy her glory!
LEONARD. I announce to you a new world; to a new god I have given the heavens; to the god of freedom and of bliss, the god of the people; every offering of their vengeance, the piled corpses of their oppressors, be his fitting altar! The old tears and agonies of humanity will be forever swept away in an ocean of blood!
We now inaugurate the perpetual happiness of men; freedom and equality belong of right to all!
Damnation and the gallows to him who would reorganize the Past; to him who would conspire against the common fraternity!
CHORUS OF MEN. The towers of superstition, of tyranny, of pride, have fallen, have fallen! To him who would save one stone from the old buildings—damnation and death!
THE BAPTIZED (aside). Ye blasphemers of Jehovah, I thrice spew you forth to destruction!
THE MAN. Keep but thy promise, Eagle, and I will build on this very spot and upon their bowed necks a new temple to the Son of God, the Merciful!
A CONFUSED CRY FROM MINGLING VOICES. Freedom! Equality! Bliss! Hurrah! hurrah!
CHORUS OF THE NEW PRIESTS. Where are the lords, where are the kings, who lately walked the earth with crown and sceptre, ruled with pride and scorn?
FIRST MURDERER. I killed King Alexander.
SECOND MURDERER. I stabbed King Henry.
THIRD MURDERER. I murdered King Immanuel!
LEONARD. Go on without fear; murder without a sting of conscience!
Remember that you are the Elect of the Elect; the Holy among the Holy; the brave heroes and blessed martyrs of equality and freedom!
CHORUS OF MURDERERS. We go in the darkness of night; we move in the gloom of the shadow! With the dagger firmly clutched in our unsparing hands, we go, we go!
LEONARD (to the Maiden). Arouse thee, my beautiful and free!
A loud clap of thunder is heard.
Reply to the living god of thunder: raise high the hymn of strength! Follow me all, all! Let us once more trample under our feet the ruined temple of the dead God!
THE MAIDEN. I glow with love to thee and to thy god! I will share my love with the whole world: I glow! I glow!
THE MAN. Some one blocks the way; he falls upon his knees, raises his joined hands, struggles, sighs, sobs....
THE BAPTIZED. He is the son of a famous philosopher.
LEONARD. What do you demand, Herman?
HERMAN. High priest, give me the Sacrament of Murder!
LEONARD (to the Priests). Give me the oil, the dagger, and the poison!—(To Herman.) With the sacred oil once used to anoint kings, I now anoint thee to their destruction!
The arm once used by knights and nobles, I give thee now for their destruction!
I hang upon thy breast this flask of poison, that where the sword cannot reach, it may gnaw, corrode, and burn the bowels of the tyrants!
Go, and destroy the old race in all parts of the world!
THE MAN. He is gone! I see him, at the head of a band of assassins, crossing the crest of the nearest hill.
THE BAPTIZED. They turn, they approach us, we must move out of their way!
THE MAN. No. I will dream this dream to its end!
THE BAPTIZED (aside). I thrice spew thee forth to destruction!—(To the Man). Leonard might recognize me, your excellency. Do you not see the knife glittering upon his breast?
THE MAN. Wrap yourself up in my cloak. What ladies are those dancing before him you call Leonard?
THE BAPTIZED. Princesses and countesses who have forsaken their husbands.
THE MAN. Once my angels!!
The people now surround him on every side, I can see him no longer, I only know by the retreating music that he is going farther from us. Follow me, Jew, we can see him better up here!
He clambers up the parapet of a wall.
THE BAPTIZED. Woe! woe! We will certainly be discovered.
THE MAN. There, now I can see him again! Ha! other women are with him now, pale, confused, trembling, following him convulsively; the son of the philosopher foams and brandishes his dagger; they are stopping by the ruins of the North Tower.
They remain standing for a moment, they climb upon the ruins, they tear them down, they pull the shrine apart, they throw coals upon the prostrate altars, the votive wreaths, the holy pictures; the fire kindles, columns of smoke darken all before me: Woe to the destroyers! Woe!
LEONARD. Woe to the men who still bow down before the dead God!
THE MAN. Dark masses of the people turn and drive upon us.
THE BAPTIZED. O Father Abraham!
THE MAN. Old Eagle of glory, is it not true that my hour is not yet come?
THE BAPTIZED. We are lost!
LEONARD (stopping immediately in front of Count Henry). Who are you with that haughty face, citizen, and why do you not join in the solemnities?
THE MAN. I hastened here when I heard of the revolution; I am a murderer of the Spanish league, and have only arrived to-day.
LEONARD. Who is that man hiding himself in the folds of your mantle?
THE MAN. He is my younger brother. He has taken an oath to show his face to no one, until he has at least killed a baron.
LEONARD. Of whose murder can you yourself boast?
THE MAN. My elder brothers consecrated me only two days before my departure, and....
LEONARD. Whom do you think of killing?
THE MAN. You in the first place, if you should prove false to us!
LEONARD. For this use, brother, take my dagger!
Hands it to him.
THE MAN. For such use my own will suffice me, brother!
MANY VOICES. Long live Leonard! Long live the Spanish murderer!
LEONARD. Meet me to-morrow in the tent of Pancratius, our citizen general.
CHORUS OF PRIESTS. We greet thee, stranger, in the name of the Spirit of Liberty: we intrust to thy hand a share of our emancipation!
To men who combat without cessation, who kill without pity or weakness, who work for freedom by day, and dream of it by night, will be at last the victory!
They pass on out of sight.
CHORUS OF PHILOSOPHERS. We have wakened the human race, and torn them away from the days of childhood! We have found truth, and brought it to light from the womb of darkness! Combat, murder, and die for it, brethren!
THE SON OF THE PHILOSOPHER (to the Man). Brother and friend, I drink your health out of the skull of an old saint! May we soon meet again!
A MAIDEN (dancing). Kill Prince John for me!
SECOND MAIDEN. Count Henry for me!
CHILDREN. Bring us back the head of a noble for a ball.
OTHER VOICES. Good fortune guide your daggers home!
CHORUS OF ARTISTS. On these sublime old ruins we build no temples more; we paint no pictures, mould no statues for forgotten shrines; our arches shall be formed of pointed pikes and naked blades; our pillars built of ghastly piles of human skulls; the capitals of human hair dyed in gushing streams of crimson blood; our altar shall be white as snow, our god will rest upon it, the cap of liberty: Hurrah! hurrah!
OTHER VOICES. On! on! the morning dawn already breaks!
THE BAPTIZED. They will soon catch and hang us; we are but one step from the gallows.
THE MAN. Fear nothing, Jew, they follow Leonard, and observe us no longer. I see with my own eyes, I understand with my own mind, and for the last time before it engulfs me, the chaos now generating in the abyss of Time, in the womb of Darkness, for my own destruction, for the annihilation of my brethren!
Driven on by madness, stung by despair, my thoughts awake in all their strength....
O God! give me again the power which Thou didst not of old deny me, and I will condense this new and fearful world, which does not understand itself, into one burning word, but which one word will be the Poetry of the entire Past!
VOICE IN THE AIR. Poet, thou chant'st a drama!
THE MAN. Thanks for thy good counsel!
Revenge for the desecrated ashes of my fathers—malediction upon the new races! their whirlpool is around me, but it shall not draw me into the giddying and increasing circles of its abyss! Keep but thy promise, Eagle; Eagle of glory!
Jew, I am ready now for the vault of St. Ignatius!
THE BAPTIZED. The day dawns; I can go no farther.
THE MAN. Lead me on until we strike the right path; I will then release you!
THE BAPTIZED. Why do you drag me on through mist, through thorns and briers, through ashes and embers, over heaps of ruins? Let me go, I entreat!
THE MAN. Forward! forward! and descend with me!
The last songs of the people are dying away behind us; a few torches here and there just glimmer through the gloom!
Ha! under those hoary trees drooping with the night dew, and through this curdling, whitening vapor, see you not the giant shadow of the dead Past? Hark! hear you not that wailing chant?
THE BAPTIZED. Everything is shrouded in the thickening mist; at every step we descend, deeper, deeper!
CHORUS OF WOOD SPIRITS. Let us weep for Christ, the persecuted, martyred Jesus!
Where is our God; where is His church?
THE MAN. Unsheathe the sword—to arms! to arms!
I will restore Him to you; upon thousands and thousands of crosses will I crucify His enemies!
CHORUS OF SPIRITS. We kept guard by day and night around the altar and the holy graves; upon untiring wings we bore the matin chime and vesper bell to the ear of the believer; our voices floated on the organ's peal! In the glitter of the stained and rainbow panes, the shadows of the vaulted domes, the light of the holy chalice, the blessed consecration of the Body of our Lord—was our whole life centred!
Woe! woe! what will become of us?
THE MAN. It is growing lighter; their dim forms fade and melt into the red of morn!
THE BAPTIZED. Here lies your way: this is the entrance to the Pass.
THE MAN. Hail! Christ Jesus and my sword! (He tears off the liberty cap, throws it upon the ground, and casts pieces of silver upon it.) Take together the Thing and the Image for a remembrance!
THE BAPTIZED. You pledge your word to me for the honorable treatment of him who will visit you at midnight?
THE MAN. An old noble never repeats or breaks a promise!
Hail! Christ Jesus and our swords!
VOICES (from the depths of the Pass). Mary and our swords! Long live our lord, Count Henry!
THE MAN. My faithful followers, to me—to me!
Aid me, Mary, and Christ Jesus!
* * * * *
Night. Trees and shrubbery. Pancratius, Leonard, and attendants.
PANCRATIUS (to his attendants). Lie upon this spot with your faces to the turf, remain perfectly still, kindle no fires, beat no signals, and, unless you hear the report of firearms, stir not until the dawn of day!
LEONARD. I once more conjure you, citizen!
PANCRATIUS. Lean against this tall pine, Leonard, and pass the night in reflection.
LEONARD. I pray you, Pancratius, take me with you! Remember, you are about to intrust yourself alone with an aristocrat, a betrayer, an oppressor....
PANCRATIUS (interrupting him, and impatiently gesturing to him to remain behind). The old nobles seldom broke a plighted promise!
* * * * *
A vast feudal hall in the castle of Count Henry. Pictures of knights and ladies hang upon the walls. A pillar is seen in the background bearing the arms and escutcheons of the family. The Count is seated at a marble table upon which are placed an antique lamp of wrought silver, a jewel-hilted sword, a pair of pistols, an hourglass, and clock. Another table stands on the opposite side, with silver pitchers, decanters, and massive goblets.
THE MAN. At the same hour, surrounded by appalling perils, agitated by foreboding thoughts, the last Brutus met his Evil Genius.
I await a like apparition. A man without a name, without ancestors, without a faith or guardian angel; a man who is destroying the Past, and who will, in all probability, establish a new era, though himself sprung from the very dust, if I cannot succeed in casting him back into his original nothingness—is now to appear before me!
Spirit of my forefathers! inspire me with that haughty energy which once rendered you the rulers of the world! Give me the lion heart which erst throbbed in your dauntless breasts! Give me your peerless dignity, your noble and chivalric courtesy!
Rekindle in my wavering soul your blind, undoubting, earnest faith in Christ and in His church: at once the source of your noblest deeds on earth, your brightest hopes in heaven! Oh, let it open for me, as it was wont to do for you; and I will struggle with fire and sword against its enemies! Hear me, the son of countless generations, the sole heir of your thoughts, your courage, your virtues, and your faults!
The castle bell sounds twelve.
It is the appointed hour: I am prepared!
An old and faithful servant, Jacob, enters, fully armed.
JACOB. My lord, the person whom your excellency expects is in the castle.
THE MAN. Admit him here.
Exit Jacob.
He reappears, announcing Pancratius, and again retires.
PANCRATIUS. Count Henry, I salute you! The word 'count' sounds strangely on my lips.
He seats himself, throws off his cloak and liberty cap, and fastens his eyes on the pillar on which hang the arms and shield.
THE MAN. Thanks, guest, that you have confided in the honor of my house! Faithful to our ancient forms, I pledge you in a glass of wine. Your good health, guest!
He takes a goblet, fills, tastes, and hands it to Pancratius.
PANCRATIUS. If I am not mistaken, this red and blue shield was called a coat of arms in the language of the Dead; but such trifles have vanished from the face of the earth.
He drinks.
THE MAN. Vanished? With the aid of God, you will soon look upon them by thousands!
PANCRATIUS. Commend me to the old noble! always confident in himself, though without money, arms, or soldiers; proud, obstinate, and hoping against all hope; like the corpse in the fable, threatening the driver of the hearse at the very door of the charnel house, and confiding in God, or at least pretending to confide in Him, when confidence in himself is no longer even possible!
Pray, Count Henry, give me but one little glimpse of the lightning which is to be sent from heaven, for your especial benefit, to blast me and my millions; or show me at least one angel of the thousands of the heavenly hosts, who are to encamp on your side, and whose prowess is so speedily to decide the combat in your favor!
He empties the goblet.
THE MAN. You are pleased to jest, leader of the people; but atheism is quite an old formula, and I looked for something new from the new men!
PANCRATIUS. Laugh, if you will, at your own wit, but my faith is wider, deeper, and more firmly based than your own. Its central dogma is the emancipation of humanity. It has its source in the cries of despair which rise unceasingly to heaven from the hearts of tortured millions, in the famine of the operatives, the grinding poverty of the peasants, the desecration of their wives and daughters, the degradation of the race through unjust laws and debasing and brutal prejudices—from all this agony spring my new formulas, the creed which I am determined to establish: 'Man has a birthright of happiness.' These thoughts are my god, a god which will give bread, rest, bliss, glory to man!
He fills, drinks, and casts and goblet from him.
THE MAN. I place my trust in that God who gave power and rule, into the hands of my forefathers!
PANCRATIUS. You trust Him still, and yet through your whole life you have been but a plaything in the hands of the Devil!
But let us leave such discussions to the theologians, if any such still linger upon earth:—to business, Count Henry, to stern facts!
THE MAN. What do you seek from me, redeemer of the people, citizen-god?
PANCRATIUS. I sought you, in the first place, because I wished to know you; in the second, because I desire to save you.
THE MAN. For the first, receive my thanks; for the second, trust my sword!
PANCRATIUS. Your God! your sword! vain phantoms of the brain! Look at the dread realities of your situation! The curses of the millions are upon you; myriads of brawny arms are already raised to hurl you to destruction! Of all the vaunted Past nothing remains to you save a few feet of earth, scarcely enough to offer you a grave. Even your last fortress, the castle of the Holy Trinity, can hold out but a few days longer. Where is your artillery? Where are the arms and provisions for your soldiers? Where are your soldiers? and what dependence can you place on the few you still retain? You must surely know there is nothing left you on which to hang a single hope!
If I were in your place, Count Henry, I know what I would do!
THE MAN. Speak! you see how patiently I listen!
PANCRATIUS. Were I Count Henry, I would say to Pancratius: 'I will dismiss my troops, my few retainers; I will not go to the relief of the Holy Trinity—and for this I will retain my title and my estates; and you, Pancratius, will pledge your own honor to guarantee me the possession of the things I require.'
How old are you, Count Henry?
THE MAN. I am thirty-six years old, citizen.
PANCRATIUS. Then you have but about fifteen years of life to expect, for men of your temperament die young; your son is nearer to the grave than to maturity. A single exception, such as yours, can do no harm to the great whole. Remain, then, where you are, the last of the counts. Rule, as long as you shall live, in the house of your fathers; have your family portraits retouched, your armorial bearings renewed, and think no more of the wretched remnant of your fallen order. Let the justice of the long-injured people be fulfilled upon them! (He fills for himself another cup.) Your good health, Henry, the last of the counts!
THE MAN. Every word you utter is a new insult to me! Do you really believe that, to save a dishonored life, I would suffer myself to be enslaved and dragged about, chained to your car of triumph?
Cease! cease! I can endure no longer! I cannot answer as my spirit dictates, for you are my guest, sheltered from all insult while under my roof by my plighted honor!
PANCRATIUS. Plighted honor and knightly faith have, ere this, swung from a gallows! You unfurl a tattered banner whose faded rags seem strangely out of place among the brilliant flags and joyous symbols of universal humanitarian progress. Oh, I know you, and protest against your course! Full of life and generous vigor, you bind to your heart a putrefying corpse! You court your own destruction, clinging to a vain belief in privileged orders, in worn-out relics, in the bones of dead men, in mouldering escutcheons and forgotten coats of arms—and yet in your inmost heart you are forced to acknowledge that your brother nobles have deserved their punishment, that forgetfulness were mercy for them!
THE MAN. You, Pancratius, and your followers, what do you deserve?
PANCRATIUS. Victory and life! I acknowledge but one right, I bow to but one law, the law of perpetual progress, and this law is your death warrant. It cries to you through my lips: 'Worm-eaten, mouldering aristocracy! full of rottenness, crammed with meat and wine, satiated with luxury—give place to the young, the strong, the hungry!'
But I will save you, and you alone!
THE MAN. Cease! I will not brook your arrogant pity!
I know you, and your new world; I have visited your camp at night, and looked upon the restless swarms upon whose necks you ride to power! I saw all: I detected the old crimes peering through the thin veils of new draperies, shining under new shams, whirling to new tunes, circling in new dances—but the end was ever the same which it has been for centuries, which it will forever be: adultery, license, theft, gold, blood!
But I saw you not there; you were not with your guilty children; you know you despise them in the depths of your soul; and if you do not go mad yourself in the mad dances of the blood-thirsty and blood-drunken people, you will soon scorn and despise yourself!
Torture me no more!
He rises, moves hurriedly to and fro, then seats himself under his escutcheon.
PANCRATIUS. It is true my world is in its infancy, unformed and undeveloped; it requires food, ease, material gratifications; but it is growing, and the time will come—(He rises from his chair, approaches the count, and leans against the pillar supporting the escutcheons)—the time will come when my world will arrive at maturity, will attain the consciousness of its own strength, when it will say, I AM; and there will be no other voice on earth able to reply, 'I ALSO AM!'
THE MAN. And then?
PANCRATIUS. A race will spring from the generation I am now quickening and elevating, stronger, higher, and nobler than any the world has yet produced; the earth has never yet seen such men upon her bosom. They will be free, lords of the globe from pole to pole; the earth will be a blooming garden, every part of her surface under the highest culture; the sea will be covered with floating palaces and argosies of wealth and commerce; a universal exchange of commodities will carry civilization, mutual recognition, and comfort to every clime; prosperous cities will crown every height, and expand their blessings of refinement and culture o'er every plain; earth will then offer happy and tranquil homes to all her children, she will be one vast and united house of blissful industry and highest art!
THE MAN. Your words and voice dissemble well, but your pale and rigid features in vain struggle to assume the generous glow of a noble enthusiasm, which your soul cannot feel.
PANCRATIUS. Interrupt me not! Men have begged on bended knees before me for such prophecies.
The world of the Future will possess a god whose highest fact will not be his own defeat and death upon a cross; a god whom the people, by their own power and skill, will force to unveil his face to them; a god who will be torn by the very children whom he once scattered over the face of the earth in his anger, from the infinite recesses of the distant heavens in which he loves to hide! Babel will be no more, all tribes and nations will meet and understand their mutual wants, and, united by a universal language, his scattered children, having attained their majority, assert their right to know their creator, and claim their just inheritance from a common father: 'the full possession of all truth!'
The god of humanity at last reveals himself to man!
THE MAN. Yes, He revealed Himself some centuries ago; through Him is humanity already redeemed.
PANCRATIUS. Alas! let the redeemed delight in the sweetness of such redemption! let them rejoice in the multiplied agonies which have in vain cried to a Redeemer for relief during the three thousand years which have elapsed since His defeat and death!
THE MAN. Blasphemer, cease! I have seen the Cross, the holy symbol of His mystic love, standing in the heart of the eternal city, Rome; the ruins of a power far greater than thine were crumbling into dust around It; hundreds of gods such as those you trust in, were lying prostrate on the ground, trampled under careless feet, not even daring to raise their crushed and wounded heads to gaze upon the Crucified. It stood upon the seven hills, stretching its mighty arms to the east and to the west, its holy brow glittering in the golden sunshine; men wistfully gazed upon its perfect lesson of self-abnegating Love; it won all hearts, it RULED THE WORLD!
PANCRATIUS. An old wife's tale, hollow as the rattling of these vain escutcheons! (He strikes the shield.) These discussions are in vain, for I have read all the secrets of your yearning heart! If you really wish to find the infinite which has so long baffled your search; if you love the truth, and are willing to suffer for it; if you are a man, created in the image of our common humanity, and not the impossible hero of an old nursery song—listen to me! Oh, let not these rapidly fleeting moments, the last in which you can possibly be saved, pass in vain! The race renews itself, man of the Past; and of the blood we shed to-day, no trace will be found to-morrow! For the last time I conjure you, if you are what you once appeared to be, A MAN, rise in your former might, aid the down-trodden and oppressed people, help to emancipate and enlighten your fellow men, work for the common good, forsake your false ideas of a personal glory, quit these tottering ruins which all your pride and power cannot prevent from crumbling o'er you, desert your falling house, and follow me!
THE MAN. O youngest born of Satan's brood!—(He paces up and down the hall, speaking to himself:) Dreams, dreams, beautiful dreams—but their realization is impossible! Who could achieve them? Adam died in the desert—the flaming sword still guards the gates—we are never more to enter Paradise! In vain we dream!
PANCRATIUS (aside). I have driven the probe to the core of his heart; I have struck the electric nerve of Poetry, which quivers through the very base of his complicated being!
THE MAN. Progress of humanity; universal happiness; I once believed them possible! There—there—take my head—my life—if that were possi—.... (He sighs, and is silent for a moment.) It is past! two centuries ago it might have been—but now.... But now I have seen and know there will be nothing but assassination and murder—murder on either side—nothing can satisfy now but an unceasing war of mutual extermination!
PANCRATIUS. Woe then to the vanquished! Falter not, seeker of universal happiness! Cry but once with us: 'Woe to the oppressors of the people!' and stand preeminent o'er all, the First among the Victors!
THE MAN. Have you already explored all the paths in the dark and unknown country of the Future? Did Destiny, withdrawing at midnight the curtains of your tent, stand visibly before you, and, placing her giant hand upon your scheming brain, impress upon it the mystic seal of victory? or in the heat of midday, when the world slept, and you alone were watching, did she glide pale, pitiless, and stern before you, and promise conquest, that you thus threaten me with defeat and ruin? You are but a man of clay as fragile as my own, and may be the victim of the first well-aimed ball, the first sharp thrust of the sword! Your life, like mine, hangs on a single thread, and you have no immunity from death!
PANCRATIUS. Dreams! idle dreams! Oh do not deceive yourself with hopes so vain, for no bullet aimed by man will reach me, no sword will pierce me, while a single member of your haughty caste remains capable of resisting the task which it is my destiny to fulfil. And what doom soever may befall me, after its completion, count, will be too late to offer you the least advantage. (The clock strikes.) Hark! time flies—and scorns us both!
If you are weary of your own life, save at least your unfortunate son!
THE MAN. His pure soul is already saved in heaven: on earth he must share the fate of his father.
His head sinks heavily, and remains for some time buried in his hands.
PANCRATIUS. You reject too all hope for him?... (Pauses.) Nay—you are silent—you reflect—it is well: reflection becomes him who stands upon the brink of the grave!
THE MAN. Away! away! Back from the passionate mysteries now surging through the depths of my soul! Profane them not with a word; they lie beyond your sphere!
The rough, wide world belongs to you; feed it with meat; flood it with wine; but press not into the holy secrets of my heart! Away! away from me, framer of material bliss!
PANCRATIUS. Shame upon you, warrior, scholar, poet, and yet the slave of one idea and its dying forms! Thought and form are wax beneath my plastic fingers!
THE MAN. In vain would you seek to follow my thoughts; you will never understand me, for all your forefathers were buried in a common ditch, as dead things, not as men of individual character and bold distinctive spirit. (He points to the portraits of his ancestors.) Look upon these pictures! Love of country, of family, of the home hearth, feelings at war with all your ideas, are written in every line of their firm brows—their spirit lives entire in me, their last heir and representative. Tell me, O man without ancestors, where is your natal soil? You spread your wandering tent each coming eve Upon the ruins of another's home, every morning roll it up again that it may be unrolled anew at night to blight and spoil! Yon have not yet found a home, a hearth, and you will never find one as long as a hundred men live to cry with me: 'Glory to our fathers!'
PANCRATIUS. Yes, glory to your fathers in heaven and upon earth; but it will repay us to look at them a little more closely. (He points to one of the portraits.) This gentleman was a famous Starost; he shot old women in the woods, and roasted the Jews alive: this one with the inscription, 'Chancellor,' and the great seal in his right hand, falsified and forged acts, burned archives, stabbed knights, and sullied the inheritance with poison; through him came your villages, your income, your power. That dark man played at adultery with the wife of his friend. This one, with the golden fleece on his Spanish cloak, served in a foreign land, when his own country was in danger.
This pale lady with the raven ringlets carried on an intrigue with a handsome page. That one with the lustrous braids is reading a letter from her gallant; she smiles, as well she may, for night approaches, and love is bold.
This timid beauty with the deep blue eyes and golden curls, clasping a Roman hound in her braceleted arm, was the mistress of a king, and soothed his softer hours.
Such is the true history of your unbroken, ancient, and unsullied line! But I like this jolly fellow in the green riding jacket; he drank and hunted with the nobles, and employed the peasants to run down the tall deer with the hounds. Indeed, the ignorance, stupidity, and wretchedness of the serf were the strength of the noble, and give convincing proof of his own intellect.
But the Day of Judgment is approaching: I promise you that none of your vaunted ancestors, that nought of their fame shall be forgotten in the dark award.
THE MAN. You deceive yourself, son of the people! Neither you nor your brethren could have preserved existence, had not our noble ancestors nourished you with their bread, and defended you with their blood. In times of famine, they gave you grain, and when the plague swept over you with its hot breath of death, they built hospitals to receive you, found nurses to take care of you, and educated physicians to save you from the grave. When from a herd of unformed brutes they had nurtured you into human beings, they built schools and churches for you, sharing everything with you save the dangers of the battle field, for war they knew you were not formed to bear. As the sharp lance of the pagan was wont to recoil, shattered and riven, from the glittering armor of my fathers, so recoil your vain words as they strike the dazzling record of their long-consecrated glory. They disturb not the repose of their sacred ashes. Like the howlings of a mad dog, who froths, bites, and snaps as he runs, until he is driven out of the pale of humanity, so fall your accusations, dying out in their own insanity.
But it is almost dawn, and time you should depart from the halls of my ancestors! Pass in safety and in freedom from their home, my guest!
PANCRATIUS. Farewell then, until we meet again upon the ramparts of the Holy Trinity. And when your powder and ball shall be utterly exhausted?
THE MAN. We will then approach within the length of our swords. Farewell!
PANCRATIUS. We are twin Eagles, but your nest is shattered by the lightning! (He takes up his cloak and liberty cap.) In passing from your threshold, I leave the curse, due to decrepitude, behind me. I devote you and your son to destruction!
THE MAN. Ho! Jacob!
Enter Jacob.
Conduct this man in safety through my last post on the hill!
JACOB. So help me God the Lord!
Exit Jacob with Pancratius.
DEATH IN LIFE.
In some dull hour of doubt or pain, Who has not felt that life is slain— And while there yet remain
Long years, perhaps, of joyless mirth, Ere earth shall claim its kindred earth, Such years were nothing worth
But that some duty still demands The sweating brow, the weary hands? And so Existence stands
With an appeal we cannot shun, To make complete what Life begun, With toil from sun to sun.
And so we keep the sorry tryst, With all its fancied sweetness missed— Consenting to exist
When Life has fled beyond recall, And left us to its heir in thrall, With chains that will not fall.
Belated stars were waning fast As through an open gate I passed, And crossed a meadow vast—
And, still descending, followed still The path that wound adown the hill And by the ruined mill—
Till in its garden I espied The cottage by the river side Where dwelt my promised bride.
Beneath the porch no lantern flared, No watch dog kept his faithful ward, The window blinds were barred.
Entering with eager eye and ear, And ushered by the phantom Fear, I stood beside the bier
Of one who, passing hence away, Left something more than lifeless clay, As twilight lingers after day,
The pulseless heart, the pallid lips, The eyes just closed in death's eclipse, The fairy finger tips
So lightly locked across the breast, Seemed to obey the sweet behest By angels whispered—Rest!
That beauty had been mine alone, Those hands had fondly pressed my own, Those eyes in mine had shone.
The open door was banged about, As wailing winds went in and out With sigh and groan and shout.
And darkly ran the river cold, Whose swollen waters, as they rolled, A tale of sorrow told.
I could not choose but seek that stream, Whose sympathetic moan did seem The music of a dream.
O River, that unceasing lay Charms each fair tree along thy way, Until it falls thy prey!
O endless moan within my heart, Thy constancy has made me part Of what thou wert and art!
And while I stood upon the brink, And tried to think, but could not think, Nor sight with reason link—
A form I had not seen before Came slowly down the dismal shore; A sombre robe she wore,
And in her air and on her face There was a sterner kind of grace, Heightened by time and place—
A sort of conscious power and pride, A soul to substance more allied— Than that of her who died.
With scarce a semblance of design, Toward me her steps she did incline, And raised her eyes to mine
So sweetly, so imploringly, I scarcely wished, and did not try, To put their pleading by,
And, ere a movement I had made, Her hand upon my arm she laid, And whispered: I obeyed.
While one into the darkness sped, I followed where the other led; Yet often turned my head,
As one who fancies that he hears His own name ringing in his ears Shouted from far-off spheres.
Oh! bliss misplaced is misery! I love the life I've lost, but, see! The life that's here loves me.
And while I seem her willing slave, My heart is hid in weeds that wave Above a distant grave.
AENONE:
A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.
CHAPTER XIV.
In an hour from that time the banqueting hall of the palace was prepared for its guests. Silken couches had been drawn up around the table. Upon it glittered a rich array of gold and silver. Between the dishes stood flasks of rare wines. Upon the buffet near by were other wines cooling in Apennine snow. Tall candelabras in worked and twisted bronze stood at the ends and sides of the table, and stretched overhead their arms hung with lamps. From the walls were suspended other lamps, lighting up the tapestries and frescoes. At one end of the hall, richly scented spices burned upon a tripod. With a readiness and celerity for which the Vanno palace was famous, a feast fit for the emperor had been improvised in a few minutes, and nothing was now wanting except the guests.
These now began to drop in one by one. The poet Emilius—the comedian Bassus—the proconsul Sardesus—others of lesser note; but not one who had not a claim to be present, by reason of intimate acquaintance or else some peculiarly valuable trait of conviviality. In collecting these, the armor bearer had made no mistake; and knowing his master's tastes and intimates, he had made up the roll of guests as discreetly as though their names had been given him. One he had met in the street—others he had found at their homes. None to whom he gave the invitation was backward in accepting it upon the spot, for there were few places in Rome where equal festal gratification could be obtained. To have been called to the house of Sergius Vanno and not to have gone there, was to have lost a day to be forever regretted. None, therefore, who had been spoken to, among that club of congenial spirits, was absent. Of those who did not come, one was sick and two were at their country villas. These, however, were lesser lights, valuable by themselves, perhaps, but of no account in comparison with others who had come; and therefore their absence was scarcely noticed.
Sergius stood at the door receiving his guests as each arrived. He had arrayed himself in his most festive costume, and had evidently resolved that whatever might happen on the morrow, that night at least should be passed in forgetfulness and unbridled enjoyment. Even now his face was flushed with the wine he had taken in anticipation, in the hope of giving an artificial elation to his spirits. But it seemed as though for that time the wine had lost its accustomed charm. Although at each greeting he strove to wreathe his face in smiles, yet it was but a feeble mask, and could not hide the more natural appearances of care and gloom which rested upon his features; and while his voice seemed to retain its old ring of joyous welcome, there was an undertone of sad discordance. As the guests entered and exchanged greetings with their host, each, after the first moment, looked askant at him, with the dim perception that, in some way, he was not as he was wont to be; and so, in a little while, they sank, one by one, into a troubled and apprehensive silence. He, too, upon his part, looked furtively at them, wondering whether they had yet heard the thing that had befallen him. It was but a short time ago, indeed, and yet in how few minutes might the unrestrained gossip of a slave have spread the ill tidings! For the moment, Sergius recoiled from the difficult task of entertainment which he had taken upon himself. Why, indeed, had he called these men around him? How could he sit and pledge them in deep draughts, and all the time suspect that each one knew his secret, and was laughing about it in his sleeve? And if they knew it not, so much the worse, for then he must tell the tale himself. Was it not partly for this purpose that he had assembled them? Far better to speak of it himself—to let them see how little he regarded the misfortune and the scandal—to treat it as a brave jest—to give his own version of it—than to have the matter leak out in the ordinary way, with all conceivable distortions and exaggerations. But how, in fact, could he tell it? Was there one among them who would not, while openly commiserating him, laugh at him in the heart? Did there not now sit before him the lieutenant Plautus, who, only a month before, had met with a like disgrace, and about whom he had composed derisive verses? Would not the lieutenant Plautus now rejoice to make retaliatory odes? Would it not b e better, then, after all, to forbear any mention of the matter, and, letting its announcement take the usual chance course, to devote this night, at least, to unbroken festivity? But what if they already knew it?
Thus wandering in his mind from one debate to another, and ever, in a moment, coming back to his original suspicion, he sat, essaying complimentary speeches and convivial jests, and moodily gazing from face to face, in a vain attempt to read their secret thoughts. He was wrong in his suspicions. Not one of them knew the reason of the burden upon his mind. All, however, perceived that something had occurred to disturb him, and his moody spirit shed its influence around, until the conversation once again flagged, and there was not one of the party who did not wish himself elsewhere. The costliest viands and wines spread out before them were ineffective to produce that festive gayety upon which they had calculated.
'By Parnassus!' exclaimed the poet Emilius, at length, pushing aside his plate of turbot, and draining his goblet 'Are we to sit here, hour after hour, winking and blinking at each other like owls over their mice? Was it merely to eat and drink that we have assembled? Hearken! I will read that to you which will raise your spirits, to a certainty. To-morrow the games and combats commence in the arena of the new amphitheatre. Well; and is it known to you that I am appointed to read a dedicatory ode before the emperor and in honor of that occasion? I will give you a pleasure, now. I will forestall your joy, and let you hear what I have written. And be assured that this is no small compliment to your intelligence, since no eye hath yet looked upon a single verse thereof.'
With that the poet dragged from his breast his silken bundle, and carefully began to unwind the covering.
'You will observe,' he said, as he brought the precious parchment to light, and smoothed it out upon the table before him, 'you will observe that I commence with an invocation to the emperor, whom I call the most illustrious of all the Caesars, and liken to Jove. I then congratulate the spectators, not only upon the joy of living in his time, but also upon being there to bask in the effulgence of—'
'A truce to such mummery!' cried Sergius, suddenly arousing from his spiritual stupor and bursting into a shrill laugh. 'Do we care to listen to your miserable dactyls? Is it not a standing jest through Rome that, for the past month, you have daily read your verses to one person after another, with the same wretched pretence of exclusive favoritism? And do we not know that no warrant has ever been given to you to recite a single line before the emperor, either in or out of the arena? We are here to revel, not to listen to your stale aphorisms upon death and immortality. Ho, there, more wine! Take off these viands, which already pall upon us! Bring wine-more wine!'
The guests were not slow to respond to the altered mood of their host; for it was merely the reflection of his sullen gravity that had eclipsed their own vivacity. The instant, therefore, that he led the way, the hall began to resound with jest and laughter. The poet, with some humiliation, which he endeavored to conceal beneath an affectation of wounded dignity, commenced rolling up his manuscript, not before a splash of wine from a carelessly filled flagon had soiled the fair-written characters. More flasks were placed upon the table by ready and obedient hands—and from that moment the real entertainment of the evening commenced.
Faster than any of his guests, as though care could be the better drowned by frequent libations, Sergius now filled and refilled his flagon; and though the repeated draughts may not have brought forgetfulness, yet, what was the nearest thing, they produced reckless indifference. No longer should the cloud which he had thus suddenly swept away from his brow be suffered to remain. Was he not master in his own house? If woman deceives, was that a reason why man should mourn and grow gray with melancholy? What though a random thought might at times intrude, of one who, in the next room, with her head against the wall, lay in a half stupor, listening to the ring of goblets and the loud laugh and jest? Had she not brought it all upon herself? He would fill up again, and think no more about it! And still, obedient to his directing tone, the guests followed him with more and more unbridled license, until the hall rang with merriment as it had never rung before.
Then, of course, came the throwing of dice, which, at that time, were as essential a concomitant of a roystering party as, in later centuries, cards became. Nor were these the least attraction of the feasts of Sergius; for though the excellence of his viands and wines was proverbial, the ease with which he could be despoiled at the gambling table was not less so. Already he was known to have seriously crippled his heritage by continued reverses, springing from united ill luck and want of skill; but it was as well understood that much still remained. And then, as now, the morality of gambling was of a most questionable character—invited guests not thinking it discreditable to unite in any combinations for the purpose of better pillaging their host. This seemed now the general purpose; for, leaving each other in comparative freedom from attack, they came forward one by one and pitted their purses, great and small, against Sergius, who sat pouring down wine and shaking the dicebox, while he called each by name, and contended against him. The usual result followed; for, whether owing to secret signs among the players, or to superior skill, the current of gold flowed but one way, from the host to his guests. For a while he bore the continued ill luck with undiminished gayety, deeming that in meeting their united prowess he was doing a brave thing, and that, whatever befell him, he should remember that in character of host, he must consent to suffer. But at length he began to realize that his losses had been carried far enough. He had never suffered so severely in any one evening before. Even his duty to them as their host did not demand that he should completely ruin himself, and he began to suspect that he had half done so already. With a hoarse laugh he pushed the dice away, and arose.
'Enough—quite enough for one night,' he exclaimed. 'I have no more gold, nor, if I had, could I dare to continue, with this ill run against me. Perhaps after another campaign I may meet you again, and take my revenge; which, if the Fates are just, must one day or another be allotted me. But not now.'
He thought that he was firm in his refusal, but his guests had not yet done with him. It needed but gentle violence to push him back again upon his seat, and to replace the dicebox in his hand.
'Art weary, or afraid to continue?' said the praetorian captain. 'Well, let there be one more main between us, and then we will end it all. Listen! I have won this night two hundred sestertia. What is the worth of that quarry of yours to the south of the Porta Triumphalis?'
'Three hundred sestertia—not less,' responded Sergius.
'Nay, as much as that?' rejoined the captain, carelessly throwing down his own dice. 'Then it is useless to propose what I was about to. I had thought that as the quarry had been well worked already, and was now overrun with fugitive slaves and Nazarenes, and the like, to ferret out whom would require half a legion, I could offer to put the two hundred sestertia against it, so that you might chance to win them back. But it is of little consequence.'
Sergius sat for the moment nervously drumming upon the table. He knew that the other was purposely disparaging the property and trying to tempt him into an equal stake; and yet he suffered himself to be tempted. The luck might this time be with him. It were worth while to try it, at least. If he lost, it would be but one more buffet of fortune. And if he won, how easily would those two hundred sestertia have been regained, and what a triumph over the one who had enticed him! And therefore they threw—five times a piece; and after a moment of breathless excitement, the play was decided in favor of the captain.
'The quarry is mine, therefore,' he said, endeavoring to assume a nonchalant air of indifference. 'Would you still win it back, Sergius? And the sesteria also? Well, there is that vineyard of yours on the slope of Tivoli, which—'
'Stay!' exclaimed the proconsul Sardesus, who, of all the party had not as yet touched the dicebox. 'Let this be enough. Will you plunder him entirely? Have you no regard for my rights over him? Do you not know that to-morrow, at the amphitheatre, Sergius and I are to match gladiators against each other for a heavy wager, and that I expect to win? How, then will I get this money, if you now strip him of all that he owns?'
Probably the proconsul felt no fear about collecting what he might win, and spoke jestingly, and with the sole intention of putting a stop to a system of pillage which seemed to him already too flagrant and unscrupulous. But his words were too plainly spoken not to give offence at any time, more particularly now that all present were heated with excitement; and the usual consequence of disinterested interference ensued. The other guests in no measured language, began to mutter their displeasure at the insinuations against themselves; while the host, for whose benefit the interruption had been intended, resented it most strongly of all. He needed no counsel, but was well able to take care of himself, he intimated. And he remembered that he had entered into some sort of a wager about the result of a gladiatorial combat, and he had supposed that no one would have doubted his ability to pay all that he might lose therein. It was proper, at least, to wait until there had been some precedent of the kind proved against him. No one, so far, had found him wanting. And the like.
'And yet,' he continued, as after a moment of reflection he began to realise the value of the wager, and how inconvenient it would be to lose, and that he had not yet succeeded in making any preparation for the contest, 'when I tell you that I have not yet found a gladiator to my mind, you will not force this match upon me to-morrow? You will forbear that advantage, and will consent to postpone our trial to another time?'
The proconsul shrugged his shoulders.
'Was it in the bond,' he said, 'that one should await the convenience of the other? Has there not been time enough for each to procure his man? This wager was made between us mouths ago, Sergius—before even you went into the East.'
'And it was while I was there,' exclaimed Sergius eagerly, 'that I found my man—a Rhodian, with the forehead, neck, and sinews of a bull. He could have hugged a bull to death almost. Having him, I felt safe, for who could you obtain to stand up against him? But in an evil hour, not over a month ago, this play actor here—this Bassus—by a stupid trick gained him from me. What, then, have I been able to do for myself since? I have sought far and near to replace him, but without success; and had made up my mind, if you would not postpone the trial, to pay up the forfeit for not appearing, and think no more about it. But by the gods! I will, even at this late hour, make one more attempt. Harkee, Bassus! Whenever I have asked you about this Rhodian, you have said that you have sold him; and, for some low reason, you have refused to tell who owns him now. Tell me, now, to whom you sold him, so that I can purchase him at once! Tell me, I say; or there will be blood between us!'
'What can he say,' interrupted the proconsul, 'but that he sold his Rhodian to me, the day thereafter? You do well to praise him, Sergius. Never have I seen such a creature of brawn and muscle. And with the training I have given him, who, indeed, could overcome him? You will see him to-morrow, in the arena. You will see how he will crush in the ribs of your gladiator, like an egg shell.'
Sergius gave vent to a groan of mingled rage and despair.
'And you will not postpone this trial?' he said. 'Will you, then, take up with an offer to play off that Rhodian against ten of my slaves? No? Against twenty, then? What else will tempt you? Ah, you may think that I have but little to offer to play against you, but it is not so. I have no gold left, and my last quarry is gone. But I have my vineyards and slaves in plenty. What say you, therefore?'
'Tush! Beseech him not!' interrupted Emilius, to whom the mention of vineyards and slaves gave intimation of further spoils. 'Do you not see that he shakes his head? And do you not know his obstinacy? You could not move him now were you to pay him in full the amount of the forfeit. It is not the gold that he longer cares for, but the chance to distinguish himself by the exhibition of the slave of greatest strength and prowess. So let that matter go for settled. Rather strive, in some other manner, to win the money with which to pay your forfeit. This, with good luck, you may do—a little here and a little there—who knows? Perhaps even I can help you. Have I not won fifty sestertia from you? I will now wager it back against a slave.'
'Against any slave?'
'By Bacchus, no! I have enough of ordinary captives to suit me, and care but little for any accession to the rabble of them. But you have one whom I covet—a Greek of fair appearance and pleasing manners—fit not for the camp or the quarries, but of some value as a page or cupbearer. It was but lately that I saw him, writing at your lady's dictation, and I wished for him at once. Shall we play for him?'
'No! a thousand times, no!' exclaimed Sergius, striking the table so heavily with his open hand that the dice danced and the flagons shook. 'Were you to offer me thrice his value—to pay off my forfeit to Sardesus to the last sestertium—to gain me back my quarry and my vineyards—all that I have lost—I would not give up that slave. My purpose is sweeter to me than all the gold you could offer, and I will not be cheated out of it. That slave dies to-morrow in the amphitheatre—between the lion's jaws!'
'Dies? In the arena?' was the astonished exclamation.
'Is there aught wonderful in that?' Sergius fiercely cried. 'Have you never before known such a thing as a master giving up his slave for the public amusement? And let no man ask me why I do it. It may be that I wish revenge, hating him too much to let him live. It may be that I seek to be a benefactor like others, and furnish entertainment to the populace at my own expense. It is sufficient that I choose it. Will not any other slave answer, Emilius?'
'Nay, no other will do,' remarked the poet, throwing himself carelessly back, with the air of one dismissing a fruitless subject from his mind. 'This was the only one whom I coveted. For any other I would not care to shake the dicebox three times, though I might feel sure to win.'
'Will you offer the same to me, Sergius?' eagerly cried the comedian. 'I also have won heavily from you. Will you play any other slave than this page against fifty sestertia?'
For his only answer, Sergius seized the dice, and began impatiently to rattle them. The eyes of Bassus sparkled with anticipated victory.
'You hear?' he cried, to all around him. 'Against my fifty sestertia he will stake any of his slaves excepting this Greek page?'
'They all hear the terms,' retorted Sergius. 'Now throw!'
'Whether male or female?' continued Bassus, still looking around to see that all understood.
'Are they fools? Can they not hear? Will you throw or not?' shouted Sergius.
In a wild delirium of excitement, the comedian began the game, and in a few minutes it was concluded. Then he leaped from his seat, crying out:
'I have won! And there can be no dispute now! You all heard that he gave the choice of his slaves, whether male or female?'
'Fool!' sneered Sergius, throwing himself back. 'What dispute can there be? Do you think that I would deny my word? And do you suppose I did not know your aims, cunningly as you may think you veiled them? Would I have given up Leta to you, if she had been of any further value to myself? By the gods! had you waited a while, I do not know but what I would have made her a present to you; not however, to oblige you, but to punish her!'
The comedian listened in chopfallen amazement. Already it seemed to him that his prize had lost half its value.
'Be at rest, though,' Sergius continued, in a contemptuous tone. 'I have merely tired of her, that is all. Her eyes are as bright and her voice as silvery as ever. She may not ever come to love you much, but she will have the wit to pretend that she does; and if she makes you believe her—as you doubtless will—it will be all the same thing to you. Who knows, too, with what zeal she may worm herself into your affection, under the guidance of her ambition? For, that she has ambition, you will soon discover. By Bacchus! since you have no wife or household to fetter your fancies, it would not surprise me were you to succumb to her wiles, and to make of her your wife. You may recline there and smile with incredulity; but such things have been done before this, and by men who would not condescend to look upon one in your poor station. Yes, I will wager that, in the end, you will make of her your wife. Well, it would be no harm to you. She will then deceive you, of course; but what of that? Have not better men submitted to that inevitable lot? Yes, she will deceive you; and then will smile upon you, and you will believe her word, and be again deceived. But you will have only yourself to blame for it. I have warned you in advance.'
CHAPTER XV.
As the shouts of laughter elicited by the host's remark rang through the hall, drowning the muttered response of the comedian, Leta glided softly and rapidly from behind the screen of tapestry which veiled the open doorway. There, crouching out of sight, she had remained concealed for the last hour—watching the revellers through a crevice in the needlework, and vainly hoping, either in the words or face of Sergius, to detect some tone or expression indicative of regretful thought or recollection of herself. When at last her name had been mentioned, for a moment she had eagerly held her breath, lest she might lose one syllable from which an augury of her fate could be drawn. Then, repressing, with a violent effort, the cry of despair which rose to her lips, upon hearing herself thus coolly and disdainfully surrendered as the stake of a game of dice, and with less apparent regret than would have been felt for the loss of a single gold piece, she drew the folds of her dress closely about her and passed out.
Out through the antechamber—down the stairway—and into the central court; no other purpose guiding her footsteps than that of finding some place where she could reflect, without disturbance, upon the fate before her. In that heated hall she must have died; but it might be that in the cool, open air, she could conquer the delirium which threatened to overwhelm her, and could thus regain her self-control. If only for five minutes, it might be well. With her quick energy and power of decision, even five minutes of cool, deliberate counsel with herself might suffice to shape and direct her whole future life.
Hardly realizing how she had come there, she found herself sitting upon the coping of the courtyard fountain. The night was dark, for thick clouds shut out the gleam of moon and stars. No one could see her, nor was it an hour when any one was likely to be near. From one end to the other the court was deserted, except by herself. No light, other than the faint glow from the windows of the banquet hall upon the story above her. No sound beyond the sullen splash of the water falling into the marble basin of the fountain. There was now but little to interfere with deliberate reflection.
What demon had possessed the Fates that they should have brought this lot upon her? It could not be the destiny which had been marked out for her from the first. That had been a different one, she was sure. Her instinct had whispered peace and success to her. Such were the blessings which should have been unravelled for her from off the twirling spindle; but some malignant spirit must have substituted another person's deserved condemnation in place of her more kindly lot.
That she had failed in attaining the grand end of her desires was not, of itself, the utmost of her misfortune. She had aimed high, because it was as easy to do that as to accept a lower object of ambition. She had taken her course, believing that all things are possible to the energetic and daring, but, at the same time, fully realizing the chances of failure. But to fail had simply seemed to her to remain where she was, instead of ascending higher—to miss becoming the wife of the imperator, but to continue, as before, the main guide and direction of his thoughts, impulses, and affections.
And now, without previous token or warning, had come upon her the terrible realization that she had not only gained nothing, but had lost all, and that the fatal chance which had fettered her schemes, had also led to her further degradation. Thrown aside like a broken toy-with a jeering confession that she had wearied her possessor—with a cool, heartless criticism upon her character, and with cruel prophecies about her future—gambled for with one whose sight filled her with abhorrence—and, when won, made over to him as a bone is tossed to a dog—what more bitterness could be heaped upon her?
But there was now no use in mourning about the past. What had been done could not be altered. Nor could she disguise from herself the impossibility of ever regaining her former position and influence. Those had passed away forever. She must now look to the future alone, and endeavor so to shape its course as to afford herself some relief from its terrors. Possibly there might yet be found a way of escape.
Should she try to fly? That, she knew, could not be done—at least, alone. The world was wide, but the arm of the imperial police was long; and though she might, for a little while, wander purposelessly hither and thither, yet before many hours the well-directed efforts of a pursuer would be sure to arrest her. She could die—for in every place death is within reach of the resolute; but she did not wish to die. For one instant, indeed, she thought of the Tiber, and the peace which might be found beneath its flow—but only for an instant. And she almost thanked the gods in her heart that it had not yet gone so far with her as that.
Burying her face in her hands, she sat for a moment, endeavoring to abstract her thoughts from all outward objects, so as the more readily to determine what course to adopt. But for a while it seemed as though it was impossible for her to fix her mind aright. Each instant some intruding trifle interfered to distract her attention from the only great object which now should claim it. A long-forgotten incident of the past would come into her mind—or perhaps some queer conceit which at the time had caused laughter. She did not laugh now, but none the less would she find herself revolving the merits of the speech or action. Then, the soft fall of the water into the fountain basin annoyed her, and it occurred to her that it might be this—which prevented undivided reflection. Stooping over, therefore, and feeling along the edge of the basin, she found the vent of the pipes, and stopped the flow. At once the light stream began to diminish and die away, until in a moment the water was at rest, except for the few laggard drops which one by one rolled off the polished shoulders of the bronze figures. These gradually all trickled down, and then it seemed as though at last there must be silence. But the murmur of the evening breeze among the trees intervened; and, far more exasperating than all, she could now hear the bursts of merriment which rang out from the banqueting room overhead. Therefore, once more putting her hand into the basin, she turned on the flow, and the gentle stream again sprang from the outstretched cup and fell down, deadening all lesser sounds.
Then Leta looked up at the sky, overspread with its thick pall of clouds, and wondered vacantly whether there would be rain upon the morrow, and if so, whether the games appointed for the new amphitheatre would take place. But she recovered herself with a start, and again buried her face in her hands. What were games and combats of that kind to her? She was to enter upon a different kind of struggle. She must reflect—reflect!—and when she had reflected, must act!
For ten minutes she thus remained; and now, indeed, seemed to have gained the required concentration of thought. No outward sound disturbed her. Once a Nubian slave, who had heard the stoppage of the fountain's flow, emerged from beneath an archway, as though to examine into the difficulty. Finding that the water was still playing as usual, he imagined that he must have been mistaken, gave utterance to an oath in condemnation of his own stupidity, slowly walked around the basin, looked inquiringly at Leta, and, for the moment, made as though he would have accosted her—and then, changing his mind, withdrew and walked back silently into the house. Still she did not move.
At length, however, she raised her head and stood upright. Her eyes now shone with deep intensity of purpose, and her lips were firmly set. Something akin to a smile flickered around the corners of her mouth, betraying not pleasure, but satisfaction. She had evidently reflected to some purpose, and now the trial for action had arrived.
'Strange that I should not have thought of it before,' she murmured to herself. Then stepping under the archway which led from the courtyard into the palace, she reached up against the wall and took down two keys which hung there. Holding them tightly, so that they might not clink together, she glided along, past the fountain—through the clump of plane trees—keeping as much as possible in the deeper shadows of arch and shrubbery—and so on along the whole length of the court, until she stood by the range of lower erections which bounded its farther extremity. Then, fitting one of the keys into an iron door, she softly unlocked it.
Entering, she stood within a low stone cell. It was the prison house of the palace, used for the reception of new slaves, and for the punishment of such others as gave offence. It was a long, narrow apartment, paved with stone and lighted by a single grated aperture set high in the wall upon the courtyard side. The place was of sufficient dimensions to hold fifty or sixty persons, but, in the present case, there was but one tenant—Cleotos—-Not even a guard was with him, for the strength of the walls and the locks were considered amply sufficient to prevent escape.
Cleotos was sitting upon a stone bench, resting his head upon his right hand. At the opening of the door he looked up. He could not see who it was that entered, but the light tread and the faint rustle of a waving dress sufficiently indicated the sex. If it had been daylight, a flush might have been seen upon his face, for the thought flashed upon his mind that it might be AEnone herself coming to his assistance. But the first word undeceived him; and he let his head once more fall between the palms of his hands.
'Cleotos,' whispered Leta, 'it is I. I have come to set you free.'
'It is right,' he said, moodily. 'All this I owe to you alone. It is fit that you should try to undo your work.'
'Could I foresee that it would come to this?' she responded, attempting justification. 'How was I to know that my trivial transgression would have ended so sorrowfully for you? But all that is easily mended. You have money, and a token which will identify you to the proper parties. There is yet time to reach Ostia before that ship can sail.'
'How knew you that I had gold—or this signet ring; or that there was a ship to sail from Ostia?' he exclaimed with sudden fierceness. 'You, then, had been listening at the door! And having listened, you must have known with what innocence we spoke together! And yet, seeing all this, you called him to the spot and left him to let his eyes be deceived and his heart filled with bitter jealousy, and have played upon his passion by wicked misrepresentation, until you have succeeded in bringing ruin upon all about you! I see it all now, as clearly as though it were written upon a parchment rolled out before me! To think that the gods have beheld you doing this thing, and yet have not stricken you dead!'
'I have sinned,' she murmured, seizing his hand and bending over, so that a ready tear rolled down upon it. He felt it fall, but moved not. Only a few days before, her tears would have moved him; but now his heart was hardened against her. He had found out that her nature was cruel and not easily moral to repentance, and that, if emotion was ever suffered to overcome her, it was tolerated solely for some crafty design. The falling tear, therefore, simply bade him be upon his guard against deceit, lest once again she might succeed in weaving her wiles about him. Or, if she really wept with repentance, he knew that it was not repentance for the sin itself, but rather for some baffled purpose.
'Go on,' he simply said.
'I have sinned,' she repeated, still clinging to his hands. 'But, O Cleotos! when I offer to undo my work and set you free, you will surely forgive me?'
'Yes, it is right that you should repair the mischief you have caused,' he repeated; 'and I will avail myself of it. To-night, since you offer to set me free, and claim that you have the power to do so—to-night for Ostia; and then, then away forever from this ruthless land! But stay! What of our mistress? I will not go hence until I know that she is safe and well.'
'She is well,' responded Leta, fearful lest the truth might throw a new obstacle before her plans. 'And all is again right between her lord and herself, for I have assured him of her innocence.'
'Then, since this is so, there is no motive for me to tarry,' he said. He believed her, and was satisfied; not that he esteemed her worthy of belief, but because it did not seem to him possible that such a matter as a grateful kiss upon a protecting hand could require much explanation. 'I would like well once more to see her and bid her farewell, and utter my thanks for all her kindness; but to what purpose? I have done that already, and could do and say no more than I have already done and said. There remains, therefore, nothing more than to fulfil her commands, and return to my native home. But tell her, Leta, that my last thought was for her, and that her memory will ever live in my heart.'
'I cannot tell her this,' slowly murmured Leta, 'for I shall not see her again. I—I go with you.'
Cleotos listened for a moment in perplexed wonderment, and then, for his sole answer, dropped her hand and turned away. She understood him as well as though he had spoken the words of refusal.
'You will not take me with you, then; is it not so?' she said. 'Some nice point of pride, or some feeling of fancied wrong, or craving for revenge, or, perhaps, love for another person, tells you now to separate yourself from me! And yet you loved me once. This, then, is man's promised faith!'
'You dare to talk to me of faith and broken vows!' he exclaimed, after a moment of speechless amazement at her hardiness in advancing such a plea. 'You, who for weeks have treated me with scorn and indifference—who have plotted against me, until my life itself has been brought into danger—who, apart from all that, cast me off when first we met in Rome, telling me then that I was and could be nothing to you, yes, even that our association from the first had been a mistake and a wrong! Yes, Leta, there was a time when I truly loved you, as man had never then done, or since, or ever will again; but impute not to me the blame that I cannot do so now.'
'I was to blame,' she said; and it seemed that this night must be a night of confession for her, in so few things could she justify herself by denial or argument. 'I acknowledge my fault, and how my heart has been drawn from you by some delusion, as powerful and resistless as though the result of magic. But when I confess it freely, and tell you how I now see my duty and my heart more clearly, as though a veil of after all, I find no forgiveness in your heart, said I not truly that man's faith cannot be trusted? Am I not the same Leta as of old?'
'The same as of old?' he exclaimed. 'Can you look earnestly and truthfully into your soul, and yet avow that you are the pure-hearted girl who roamed hand in hand with me only a year ago, in our native isle, content to have no ambition except that of living a humble life with me? And now, with your simple tastes and desires swept away—with your soul covered with love of material pleasures as with a lava crust—wrapt up in longing for Rome's most sinful, artificial excesses—having, for gold or position or power or ambition, or what not, so long as it was not for love, given yourself up a willing victim to a heartless master—do you dare, after this, to talk to me of love, and call yourself the same?'
'And are you one of those who believe that there can be no forgiveness for repentant woman?'
'Of forgiveness, all that can be desired; but of forgetfulness, none. There is one thing that no man can forget; and were I to repulse the admonitions of my judgment, and strive to pass that thing by, who would sooner scorn me than yourself? Let all this end. Know that I love you not, and could never love you again. Your scorn, indifference, and deceit have long ago crushed from my heart all the love it once held. Know further, that if I did still love you, my pride would condemn the feeling, and I would never rest until I had destroyed it, even were it necessary to destroy myself rather than to yield.'
'These are brave words, indeed!' she exclaimed, taunted by his rebuke into a departure from her assumption of affection. 'But they better suit the freeman upon his own mountain side than the slave in his cell. Samos is still afar off. The road from here to Ostia has not yet been traversed by you in safety. Even this door between you and the open street has not been thrown back. And yet you dare to taunt me, knowing that I hold in my hand the key, and, by withdrawing it, can take away all hope from you. Do you realize what will be your fate if you remain here—how that on the morrow the lions and leopards of the amphitheatre will quarrel over your scattered limbs?' |
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