But was it seemly or right that a free man should be brought under a “yokeâ€? That was the question I had now to answer. I seemed to have come to the branching of the paths. All depended on the nature of the “yoke.†What was it? On the one hand, Paul said it was “the constraining love of Christ.†He had made me feel that there was nothing base in it, nothing to be ashamed of. Nay, under Paul’s influence, this “yoke†had begun to seem an ensign of the noblest warfare, a sign of royalty, the emblem of service undertaken by God Himself, the yoke of the risen Saviour, the Son of God, enthroned by the Father’s side in heaven, and in the hearts of men on earth. But on the other side stood Scaurus, maintaining that all these Jewish stories were dreams—not falsehoods, but self-deceits more dangerous than falsehoods. He had also convinced me that the gospels contained an unexpected multitude of errors and exaggerations and disproportions. This I could not honestly deny. Thus the gospels flung me back—or at least, as interpreted by Scaurus, seemed to fling me back—from the faith to which I was just on the point of attaining through the epistles. In my bewilderment I was no longer able to say clearly and firmly as before, “Nevertheless the moral power of the gospel is attested by facts that Scaurus and Arrian both admit, facts that Epictetus would be only tooglad to allege for himself—by myriads of souls converted from vice to virtue. Does not this moral power rest on reality?â€
The Christians themselves seemed to attach so much importance to “Christ in the flesh†that I began to attach importance too. The evangelists appeared to say, in effect, “If we cannot prove that Christ in the flesh arose from the dead, then we admit that He has not arisen.†So they—or rather my impression about them—led me away to say the same thing. A few days ago, I had neither desired nor expected that Christ should be demonstrated to have risen in the flesh. Now I said, “I fear it cannot be proved that Christ in the flesh, that Christ’s tangible body, rose from the dead. Nay, more, I feel that the belief in what might be called a tangible resurrection arose from some such causes as Scaurus has specified. So I must give up all belief.â€
I ought to have waited. I ought to have asked, “All belief inwhat?†“Belief inwhat kindof resurrection?†Scaurus himself had casually admitted that visions, though not presenting things tangible, might present things real. If so, then the visions of Israel might be real, the visions to Abraham and the patriarchs, to Moses, to the prophets. These might be a series of lessons given to the teachers in the east to be passed on to the learners in the west. Among the latest of these was a vision of “one like unto a Son of man.†He was represented as “coming†with the clouds of heaven. That was a noble vision. Yet how much better and nobler would be a vision of the Son of man “coming†into the hearts of men, taking possession of them, reigning in them, establishing a kingdom of God in them! Such a Son of man had been revealed to Paul, “defined†as “the Son of God†“from the resurrection of the dead.†Being both God and man He brought (so Paul said) God and man into one, imparting to all men the sense of divine sonship, the light of righteousness and spiritual life, triumphant over spiritual darkness and death. This is what I ought to have thought of, but did not.
Such an all-present power of divine sonship Paul seemed also to have in view when he likened belief in the risen Saviour to the faith described by Moses in Deuteronomy. The truebeliever, said Paul, is not the slave of place, saying, “Who shall go up to heaven?†that is, to bring Christ down to us from the right hand of God. Nor does he say, “Who shall go down to the abyss?†that is, to bring Christ up to us from the dead. The word of faith is “very near.†It is “in the heart.†It says, “Believewith the heartthat God raised Christ from the dead.†Such belief is not from the “eyes†nor from the “understandingâ€â€”as if one saw with one’s own eyes the door of the grave burst open by an angel, or heard the facts attested in a lawcourt by a number of honest and competent eyewitnesses incapable of being deceived and of deceiving. To say, “I believe it because Marcus or Gaius believed it,†is to avow a belief in Marcus or Gaius, not in Christ, unless the avower can go on to say “and because I have felt the risen Saviour within me.â€
He alone really and truly believes in the resurrection of Christ whose belief is based on personal experience. If he has that, he can contemplate without alarm the divergences of the gospels in their narratives of this spiritual reality. He will understand the meaning of Paul’s words, “It pleased God toreveal His Son in meâ€â€”not “to me,†but “in me.†For indeed it is a revelation—not a demonstration from the intellect and senses alone—derived from all our faculties when enlightened by God. God draws back the veil from our fearful and faithless hearts and gives us a convincing sense of Christ at His right hand and in ourselves. This “conviction†is derived from no source but the convincing Spirit of the Saviour, coming to us in various ways, and through many instruments, but mostly through disciples whom the Saviour loves, and who have received not only His Spirit but also the power of imparting it to others.
All these things I knew afterwards, but not at the time I am now describing. I had indeed already some faint conjecture of the truth, but not such as I could put into definite words. I was defeated. In the bitterness of defeat I exclaimed, “There is more beyond, but I cannot reach it. I cannot even suggest it. These evangelists give me no help. They take part with Scaurus against me. I am beaten andmust surrender.†Yet I felt vaguely that I was not fairly beaten. I was like a baffled suitor retiring from a court of justice, crushed by a hostile verdict, victorious in truth and equity, but beaten and mulcted of all his estate on some point of technical law.
In this mood, sullen and sick at heart, weary of evidence and evidential “proofs†that were no proofs, and irritated rather with the evangelists than with Scaurus—who, after all, was doing no more than his duty in pointing out what appeared to him historical errors—I was greatly moved by an appeal to my love of truth with which my old friend concluded his letter. It was to this effect.
“Well, Silanus, now I have really done. I cannot quite understand what induced me to take up so much of my time, paper, and ink—and your time, too, which is worse—and all to kill a dead illusion. Why do I say ‘dead’ if it was never alive? Perhaps it was once nearly alive even in my sceptical soul. I think I have mentioned before that I, even I, have had moments when the dream of that phantom City of Truth and Justice had attractions for me. Perhaps I fancied it might be possible to receive this Jewish prophet as a great teacher and philosopher—helpful for the morals of private life at all events, even though useless for politics and imperial affairs—apart from the extravagant claims now raised for him by his disciples. But it is gone—this illusion—if it ever existed. The East and the West cannot mix. If they did, their offspring would be a portent. This Christian superstition is a mere creature of feeling, not of reason. I do not say it has done me harm to study it. Else I would not have sent you this letter. It is perhaps a bracing and healthful exercise to remind ourselves now and then that things are not as we could wish them to be, and that we must not ‘feign things like unto our prayers.’ A truthful man must see things as they are in truth. The City of Dreams has closed its gates against me, and I am shut out. It is warm in there. I am occasionally cold. So be it! Theirs is the fervour of the fancy, the comfortable warmth of the not-true. I must wrap myself in the cloak of truth—a poor uncomfortable thing, perhaps,but (as Epictetus would say) ‘my own.’ Truth, my dear Silanus, is your own, too—that is to say, truth to your own reason, truth to your own conscience. Never let wishes or aspirations wrest that from you. ‘Keep what is your own!’â€
For the time, this appeal was too strong for me. I wrote to Scaurus briefly confessing that the City of Dreams had had attractions for me, as well as for him, but that I had resolved to put the thought away, though I might, perhaps, continue a little longer the study of the Christian books, which I, too, had found very interesting. When I grew calmer, I added a postscript, asking whether it was not possible that “feeling,†as well as “reason,†might play a certain lawful part in the search after truths about God. My last words were an assurance that, whereas I had been somewhat irregular of late in my attendance at Epictetus’s lectures, I should be quite regular in future. This indeed was my intention. As things turned out, however, the next lecture was my last.
Awaking early next morning, two or three hours before lecture, I spent the time in examining the gospels, and in particular the accounts of Christ’s last words. So few they were in Mark and Matthew that I could not anticipate that Luke would omit a single one of them or fail to give them exactly. They were uttered in public and in a loud voice. According to Mark and Matthew, they were a quotation from a Psalm, of which the Jewish words were given similarly by the two evangelists. They added a Greek interpretation. Luke, to my amazement, omitted both the Jewish words and the Greek interpretation. Afterwards, Mark and Matthew said that Jesus, in the moment of expiring, cried out again in a loud voice. On this occasion they gave no words. But there Luke mentioned words. Luke’s words, too, were from a Psalm, but quite different in meaning from the words previously given by Mark and Matthew.
Still more astonished was I to find what kind of words the two earliest evangelists wrote down as the last utterance of Christ—“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?†That Christ said this I could hardly believe. Reading further, I found that some of the men on guard exclaimed “This man calls for Eliasâ€â€”because the Jewish word “Heli†or “Eli,†“my God,†resembles the Jewish “Elias.†I wished that these men might prove true interpreters. Then I found that, although Luke mentions neither “Eli†nor “Elias,†he nevertheless mentions “Elios†or “Helios,†which in Greek means “sun.†This occurred in the passage parallel to Eli orHeli. What Luke said was that there was an “eclipse,†or “failing,†of “the sun.†I thought then (and I think still) that Luke was glad—as a Christian historian might well be without being at all dishonest—to find that Mark’s “Eli†had been taken, at all events by some, not to mean “my God.†Perhaps some version gave “Elios,†or “Helios,†“sun.†This Luke might gladly accept. Indeed, in the genitive, which is the form used by Luke, the word “Heliou†may mean either “of the sun†or “of Elias.â€
But, on reflection, I could not find much comfort from Luke’s version. For the difficult version seemed more likely to be true. And how could there be an “eclipse†of the sun during Passover, when the moon was at the full? Then I looked at the Psalm from which the words were taken, and I noted that although it began with “Why hast thou forsaken me?†it went on to say that God “hath not hid his face from him, but when he cried unto him he heard him.†Also the Psalm ended in a strain of triumph, as though this cry “Why hast thou forsaken me?†would end in comfort and strength for all the meek, so that “all the ends of the earth shall remember and turn unto the Lord.†Nevertheless this did not satisfy me. And even the help that I afterwards received from Clemens (about whom I shall speak later on) left me, and still to this day leaves me, with a sense that there is a mystery in this utterance beyond my power to fathom, though not beyond my power to believe.
I was still engaged in these meditations when my servant brought me a letter. It was from Arrian, informing me of the death of his father, which would prevent him from returning to Nicopolis. He also requested me to convey various messages to friends to whom he had not been able to bid farewell owing to his sudden departure. In particular he enclosed a note, which he asked me to give to Epictetus. “Add what you like,†he said, “you can hardly add too much, about my gratitude to him. I owe him morally more than I can express. Moreover in the official world, where everybody knows that our Master stands well with the Emperor, it is sometimes a sort of recommendation to have attended his lectures. And perhaps it hashelped me. At all events I have recently been placed in a position of responsibility and authority by the Governor of Bithynia. I like the work and hope to do it fairly well. Even the mere negative virtue of not taking bribes goes for something, and that at least I can claim. I am not able, and never shall be able, to be a Diogenes, going about the province and healing the souls of men. But I try to do my duty, and I feel an interest in getting at the truth, and judging justly among the poor, so far as my limited time, energy and intelligence permit.
“In the towns, among the artisans and slaves, I have been surprised to find so many of the Christians. You may remember how we talked about this sect more than once. You thought worse of them than I did. But I don’t think you had much more basis than the impressions of your childhood, derived from what you heard among your servants and the common people in Rome. I have seen a great deal of them lately and have been impressed by the high average of their morality, industry, and charity to one another.
“You never see a Christian begging. What is more, they set their faces against the exposing of children. I have often thought that our law is very defective in this respect. We will not let a father strangle his infant son, but we let him kill it by cold, starvation, or wild beasts. Every such death is the loss of a possible soldier to the state. It is a great mistake politically, and I am not sure whether it is right morally. When I first came to Nicopolis I used to hear it said that our Epictetus—one of the kindest of men I verily believe—once adopted a baby that was on the point of being exposed by one of his friends, got a nurse for it, and put himself to a lot of trouble. I sometimes wonder why he did not first give his friend the money to find a nurse and food for the baby, and then give him a good sharp reprimand for his inhumanity. For I call it inhuman. But I never heard Epictetus say a word against this practice. The Jews as well as the Christians condemn it. Perhaps the latter, in this point, merely followed the former; but in most points the Christians seem to me superior to the Jews.
“I am proud to call myself a philosopher, and perhaps I should be prouder than Epictetus would like if I could call myself a Roman citizen; but I am free to confess that there are points in which philosophers and Romans could learn something from these despised followers of Christus.Fas est et a Christiano doceri.I have been more impressed than I can easily explain to you on paper by the behaviour of this strangely superstitious sect. There is a strenuous fervour in their goodness—I mean in the Christians, I am not now speaking of the Jews—which I don’t find in my own attempts at goodness. I am, at best, only a second-class Cynic, devoid of fervour.
“You may say, like an orthodox scholar of Epictetus, ‘Let them keep their fervour and leave me calmness.’ But these men have both. They can be seasonably fervid and seasonably calm. I have heard many true stories of their behaviour in the last persecution. Go into one of their synagogues and you may hear their priest—or rather prophet, for priests they have none—thundering and lightening as though he held the thunderbolts of Zeus. Order the fellow off for scourging or execution, and he straightway becomes serenity itself. Not Epictetus could be more serene. Indeed, where an Epictetian would ‘make himself a stone’ under stripes and say, ‘They are nothing to me,’ a Christian would rejoice to bear them ‘for the sake of Christus.’ And even Epictetus, I think, could not reach the warmth, the glow, of their affection for each other. I am devoutly thankful that I did not occupy my present office under Pliny. It has never been my fate to scourge, rack, torture, or kill, one of these honest, simple, excellent creatures, whose only fault is what Epictetus would call their ‘dogma’ or conviction—surely such a ‘dogma’ as an emperor might almost think it well to encourage among the uneducated classes, in view of its excellent results. Farewell, and be ever my friend.â€
The third hour had almost arrived and I had to hasten to the lecture-room taking with me the note addressed to Epictetus. All the way, I could think of nothing but the contrast between what Arrian had said about the Christians, and what Mark and Matthew had said about Christ’s last words—the servantstranquil, steadfast, rejoicing in persecution; their Master crying “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?†It perplexed me beyond measure.
In this bewilderment, I took my accustomed place beside Glaucus, who greeted me with even more than his usual warmth. He seemed strangely altered. It was no new thing for him to look worn and haggard. But to-day there was a strange wildness in his eyes. Absorbed though I was in my own thoughts, I could not help noticing this as I sat down, just before Epictetus began.
The lecture was of a discursive kind but might be roughly divided into two parts, one adapted for the first class of Cynics, those who aspired to teach; the other for the second class, those who were content to practise. The first class Epictetus cautioned against expecting too much. No man, he said, not even the best of Cynic teachers, could control the will of another. Socrates himself could not persuade his own son. It was rather with the view of satisfying his own nature, than of moving other men’s nature, that Socrates taught. Apollo himself, he said, uttered oracles in the same way. I believe he also repeated—what I have recorded before—that Socrates “did not persuade one in a thousand†of those whom he tried to persuade.
I remembered a similar avowal in Isaiah when the prophet declares that his message is “Hear ye indeed, but understand notâ€; and this, or something like it, was repeated by Jesus and Paul. But Isaiah says, “Lord, how long?†And the reply is that the failure will not be for ever. In the Jewish utterances, there was more pain but also more hope. I preferred them. Nor could I help recalling Paul’s reiterated assertions that everywhere the message of the gospel was a “power,â€â€”sometimes indeed for evil, to those that hardened themselves against it, but more often for good—constraining, taking captive, leading in triumph, and destined in the end to make all things subject to the Son of God. Compared with this, our Master’s doctrine seemed very cold.
In the next place, Epictetus addressed himself to the larger and lower class of Cynics, those who were beginning, or whoaspired only to the passive life. These he exhorted to set their thoughts on what was their own, on their own advantage or profit—of course interpreting profit in a philosophic sense as being virtue, which is its own reward and is the most profitable thing for every man. It was all, in a sense, very true, but again I felt that it was chilling. It seemed to send me down into myself, groping in the cellars of my own nature, instead of helping me to look up to the sun. Most of it was more or less familiar; and there was one saying that I have quoted above, to the effect that the universe is “badly managed if Zeus does not take care of each one of His own citizens in order that they like Him may be divinely happy.†Now I knew that Epictetus did not use the wordeudæmon, or divinely happy, referring to the next life, for he did not believe that a “citizen of Zeus†would continue to exist, except as parts of the four elements, in a future life. He meant “in this life.†And if anyone in this life felt unhappy—more particularly, if he “weptâ€â€”that was a sign, according to Epictetus, that he was not a “citizen of Zeus.†For he declared that Ulysses, if he wept and bewailed his separation from his home and wife—as Homer says he did—“was not good.†So it came to this, that no man must weep or lament in earnest for any cause, either for the sins or sorrows of others, or for his own, on pain of forfeiting his franchise in the City of Zeus. I had read in the Hebrew scriptures how Noah, and Lot, and others of the “citizens of God,†lived alone amongst multitudes of sinners; but they, and the prophets too, seemed to be afflicted by the sins around them. Also Jesus said in the gospels, “O sinful and perverse generation! How long shall I be with you and bear you!†as though it were a burden to him. And I had come to feel that every good man must in some sense bear the sins and carry the iniquities of his neighbours—especially those of his own household, and his own flesh and blood. So I flinched from these expressions of Epictetus, although I knew that they were quite consistent with his philosophy.
Glaucus, I could clearly see, resented them even more than I did. He was very liable to sudden emotions, and very quickto shew them. Just now he seemed unusually agitated. He was writing at a great pace, but not (I thought) notes of the lecture. When Epictetus proceeded to warn us that we must not expect to attain at once this perfection of happiness and peace, but that we must practise our precepts and wait, Glaucus stopped his writing for a moment to scrawl something on a piece of paper. He pushed it toward me, and I read “Rusticus expectat.†I remembered that he had replied to me in this phrase when I had given him some advice about “waiting patiently,†saying that all would “come right,†or words to that effect. I did not now feel that I could say, “All will come right.†Perhaps my glance in answer to Glaucus expressed this. But he said nothing, merely continuing his writing, still in great excitement.
Epictetus proceeded to repeat that “pity†must be rejected as a fault. The philosopher may of course love people, but he must love them as Diogenes did. This ideal did not attract me, though he called Diogenes “mild.†The Cynic, he said, is not really to weep for the dead, or with those sorrowing for the dead. That is to say, he is not to weep “from within.†This was his phrase. Perhaps he meant that, although in the antechamber and even in some inner chambers of the soul there may be tearful grief, and sorrow, and bitterness of heart, yet in the inmost chamber of all there must be peace and trust. But he did not say this. He said just what I have set down above. At the words “not from within,†Glaucus got up and began to collect his papers, as though intending to leave the room. The next moment, however, he sat down and went on writing.
The lecture now turned to the subject of “distressâ€â€”which interested me all the more because I had noticed in the morning that Luke had described Christ as being “in distress†when he prayed fervently in the night before the crucifixion. But it seemed to me that Luke and Epictetus were using the same word for two distinct things. Epictetus meant “distress†about things not in our power, and among these things he included the sins of our friends and neighbours. But Luke seemed to mean “distress†about things in Christ’s power,because (according to Luke’s belief) Christ had a power of bearing the sins of others. If so, Luke did not mean what Epictetus meant, namely, nervous, faithless, and timid worry or terror, but rather anagÅn, or conflict, of the mind, corresponding to theagÅn, or conflict, of the body when one is wrestling with an enemy, as Jacob was said by the Hebrews to have wrestled with a spirit in Penuel.
At this point, after repeating what I had heard him say before, concerning the grace and dexterity with which Socrates “played at ball†in his last moments—the ball being his life and his family—Epictetus passed on to emphasize the duty of the philosopher to preserve his peace of mind even at the cost of detaching himself from those nearest and dearest to him. Suppose, for example, you are alarmed by portents of evil, you must say to yourself “These portents threaten my body, or my goods, or my reputation, or my children, or my wife; but they do not threatenme.†Then he insisted on the necessity of placing “the supreme good†above all ties of kindred. “I have nothing to do,†he exclaimed, “with my father, but only with the supreme good.†Scarcely waiting for him to finish his sentence, Glaucus rose from his seat, pressed some folded papers into my hand, and left the room.
I think Epictetus saw him go. At all events, he immediately put himself, as it were, in Glaucus’s place, as though uttering just such a remonstrance as Glaucus would have liked to utter, “Are you so hard hearted?†To this Epictetus replied in his own person, “Nay, I have been framed by Nature thus. God has given me this coinage.†What our Master really meant was, that God has ordained that men should part with everything at the price of duty and virtue. “Duty†or “virtue†is to be the “coin†in exchange for which we must be ready to sell everything, even at the risk of disobeying a father. A father may bid his son betray his country that he, the father, may gain ten thousand sesterces. In such a case the son ought to reply—as Epictetus said—“Am I to neglect my supreme good that you may have it [i.e.what you consider your supreme good]? Am I to make way for you? What for?†“I am your father,†says the father. “Yes, butyou are not my supreme good.†“I am your brother,†says the brother. “Yes, but you are not my supreme good.â€
All this (I thought) was very moral in intention, but might it not have been put differently—“Father, I must needs disobey you for your sake as well as mine,†“Brother, you are going the way to dishonour yourself as well as meâ€? Glaucus could not have taken offence at that. However, this occasional austerity was characteristic of our Teacher. Perhaps it was an ingredient in his honesty. He liked to put things sometimes in their very hardest shape, as though to let his pupils see how very cold, reasonable, definite, and solid his philosophy was, how self-interested, how calculating, always looking at profit! Yet, in reality, he had no thought for what the world calls profit. His eyes were fixed on the glory of God. This alone washisprofit andhisgain. But unless we were as God-absorbed as he was—and which of us could boast that?—it was almost certain that we should to some degree misunderstand him. Just now, he was in one of these detached—one might almost call them “non-humanâ€â€”moods.
A few moments ago, I had been sorry that Glaucus went out. But I ceased to regret it when I heard what followed. It was in a contrast between Socrates and the heroes of tragedy, or rather the victims of calamity. We must learn, he said, to exterminate from life the tragic phrases, “Alas!†“Woe is me!†“Me miserable!†We must learn to say with Socrates, on the point of drinking the hemlock, “My dear Crito, if this way is God’s will, this way let it be!†and not, “Miserable me! Aged as I am, to what wretchedness have I brought my grey hairs!†Then he asked, “Who says this? Do you suppose it is someone in a mean or ignoble station? Is it not Priam? Is it not Å’dipus? Is it not the whole class of kings? What else is tragedy except the passionate words and acts and sufferings of human beings given up to a stupid and adoring wonder at external things—sufferings set forth in metre!â€
This seemed to me gratuitously cruel. If ever human being deserved pity, was it not the poor babe Å’dipus,predestined even before birth to evil, cast out to die on Mount Cithaeron, but rescued by the cruel kindness of a stranger—to kill his own father, to marry his own mother, to beget children that were his brothers and sisters, and to die, an exile, in self-inflicted blindness, bequeathing his evil fate to guilty sons and a guiltless daughter! But Epictetus would not let Å’dipus alone: “It is among the rich, the kings, and the despots, that tragedies find place. No poor man fills a tragic part except as one of the chorus. But the kings begin with prosperity, commanding their subjects (like Å’dipus) to fix garlands on their houses in joy and thankfulness to the Gods. Then, about the third or fourth act, comes ‘Alas, Cithaeron, why didst thou receive and shelter me?’ Poor, servile wretch, where are your crowns now? Where is your royal diadem? Cannot your guards assist you?â€
All this was in stage-play, the agony of the king and the scoffing of the philosopher so life-like as to be quite painful—at least to me. Then Epictetus turned to us in his own person: “Well, then, in the act of approaching one of these great people, remember this, that you are going to a tragedian. By ‘tragedian’ I do not mean anactor, but atragic person, Å’dipus himself. But perhaps you say to me ‘Yes, but such and such a lord or ruler may be called blessed. For he walks with a multitude’â€â€”of slaves, he meant—“‘around him.’ See, then! I too go and place myself in company with that multitude. Do not I also ‘walk with a multitude’? But to sum up. Remember that the door is always open. Do not be more cowardly than the children. When they cease to take pleasure in their game, they cry at once ‘I will not play any more.’ So you, too, as soon as things appear to you to point to that conclusion, say, ‘I will not play any more.’ And be off. Or, if you stay, don’t keep complaining.â€
This was the end of the lecture, and I felt gladder than ever that Glaucus had gone; for he seemed to me to have been just in the mood to take to heart that last suggestion, “The door is always open.†I hastened to his rooms, but he was not there. I found however that he was expected back soon, for he was making preparations for a journey. Leavingword that I should call again in an hour, I determined to use the interval to leave Arrian’s note with Epictetus.
The Master was disengaged and gave me a most kindly welcome, asking with manifest interest about Arrian and his prospects, and giving me to understand that he had heard of me, too, from Arrian and others. His countenance always expressed vigour, but on this occasion it had even more than its usual glow. Perhaps he was a little flushed with the exertion of his lecture. Perhaps he was glad to hear that at least one pupil, likely to do good work in the world, was remembering him gratefully in Bithynia. Possibly he thought another such pupil stood before him. I had never seen him close, face to face. Now I felt strongly drawn towards him, but not quite as pupil to master. From the moment of leaving the lecture-room that day, I had been repeating, “Alas, Cithaeron, why didst thou receive and preserve me?†Poor Å’dipus! He seemed to sum up the cry of myriads of mortals predestined to misery. And what gospel had my Master for them? Nothing but mockery, “Poor, servile wretches!â€
Yet I had felt almost sure, even from the first utterance of the cruel words, that he had not intended to be cruel. Now, as I stood looking down into his face and he up at mine, some kind of subtle fellowship seemed to spring up between us. At least I felt it in myself and thought I saw it in him. And it grew stronger as we conversed. I rapidly recalled the reproach he had just now addressed to himself in his lecture, as coming from one of his pupils, “Are you so hard hearted?†At the moment I had asked “Could it possibly be true?†Now I knew it was not true. Certainly he had been absorbed in God. His God was not the God of Christ. It was a Being of Goodness of some sort, but impersonal, an Alone, not a real Father. Such as it was, however, Epictetus had been absorbed in it. He motioned to me to be seated, and began to question me about friends of his in Rome.
I was on the point of replying, when the door burst open and Glaucus suddenly rushed in, beside himself with fury. Stridingstraight up to Epictetus, he began pouring forth a tale of wrongs, treacheries, outrages and malignities, perpetrated on his family in Corinth. He took no notice of my presence, and I doubt whether he was even aware of it, as he burst out into passionate reproaches on our Master for teaching that a son must witness such sufferings in a father or mother, brother or sister, and say, “These evils are no evils to me.â€
It would serve no useful purpose, nor should I be able, to set down exactly what Glaucus said. Let it suffice that he had only too much reason for burning indignation against certain miscreants in Corinth. He had only that morning received news—which had been kept back from him by treachery—that cruel and powerful enemies had brought ruin, desolation, and disgrace upon his family. His father had been suddenly imprisoned on false charges, his sister had been shamefully humiliated, and his mother had died of a broken heart. “Epictetus,†he cried, “do you hear this? Or do you make yourself a stone to me, as you bid us make ourselves stones when men smite us and revile us? Do you still assert that there are no evils except to the evil-minded? By Zeus in heaven, if there is a Zeus and if there is a heaven, I would sooner torture myself like a Sabazian, or be crucified like a Christian, or writhe with Ixion in hell, that I might at least cry out in the hearing of Gods and men, ‘These thingsareevil, theyare, theyare,’ than be transported to the side of the throne above with you, looking down on the things that have befallen my father, mother, and sister, and repeating my Epictetian catechism,I am in perfect bliss and blessedness; these things are no evils to me! O man, man, are you a hypocrite, or are you indeed a stone?†So saying, without waiting for a word of reply, he rushed from the room.
I went with him. I was not sure—nor am I now—whether Epictetus wished me to stay or to go. But I thought Glaucus needed me most. My heart went out to him when I heard for the first time how shamefully he had been deceived and how cruelly his family had been outraged, and I did not know what he might do in his despair. Besides, if I had stayed, could Epictetus have helped me to help my friend? What would hishelping have been? It could have been nothing more—if he had been consistent—than to repeat for the thousandth time that Glaucus’s “trouble,†and my “trouble†for Glaucus’s sake, were meredogmas, or “convictions,†and that our “convictions†were wrong and must be given up. Would he have been consistent? Would he have said these things?
To this day I cannot tell. As I followed Glaucus out of the room, while in the act of turning round to close the door, I had my Master at a disadvantage. I saw him, but he did not see me. His head was drooping. The light was gone from his face; the eyes were lacking their usual lustre; the forehead was drawn as if in pain. It was no longer Epictetus the God-absorbed, but Epictetus the God-abandoned. If I had turned to him with a reproach, “Epictetus, you are breaking your own rule. You are sorrowing, sorrowing in earnest,†would he have replied, “No, only in appearance, notfrom within� I do not think he would. He was too honest. To this day I verily believe that for once, at least for that once, our Master broke his own rule and felt real “trouble.†And I love him the better for it. That indeed is how I always like to remember his face—as I saw it for the last time, not knowing that it was the last, through the closing door—clouded with real grief, while I was leaving him for ever without farewell, never trusting so little in his teaching, never loving the teacher so much.
We walked on together, both of us silent, till we came to Glaucus’s rooms. “Farewell,†said he. I replied that I would come in to see whether I could help him to make arrangements for his journey. He said nothing, but suffered me to enter. For some time I busied myself with practical matters. So did Glaucus. But every now and then he stopped, and sat down as though dazed. I questioned him about his journey and time of starting. Finding that only two or three hours remained, I urged him to rouse himself. “It will be of no use,†he said, “but you are right.†Then he exclaimed bitterly, “Am I not obeying Epictetus? Am I not making myself a stone?†“Not quite,†said I, “for a stone feels nothing. You are worse than a stone. For you feel much, yet do nothing to help those for whom you feel.†“Thank you for that,†said he. Then he roused himself. He did injustice to Epictetus, yet I perceived, as never before, how harmful this “stone-doctrineâ€â€”if I may so call it—might prove to many people.
I have no space, nor have I the right, to describe more fully Glaucus’s private affairs, the courage, affection, and steadfastness with which he bore the burdens of his family and saved his father and sister from their worst extremity. His course was different from Arrian’s. Arrian remained outside the fold. Glaucus found peace as I did. And I know that many a suffering soul in Corinth suffered the less because Glaucus, having experienced such a weight of sorrow himself, hadlearned the secret of lightening it for others. He died young, thirty years ago, but he lived long enough to “fight the good fight.â€
Our last words together, as he was in the act of departing, I remember well: “What was that you said to me, Silanus, about waiting and having one’s strength renewed?†It was from Isaiah. I repeated it. Then I added, “But I spoke the words, I fear, because I had once felt them to be true. I did not quite feel them to be true at the moment when I repeated them to you. Perhaps I was not quite honest, or at least not quite frank.†“Then you don’t hold to them now?†said he. “God knows,†said I. “Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. For the most part I think I do. I believe that there is good beneath all the evil, if only we could see it, or at least good in the end, good far off.†“Then†replied he, “you believe, perhaps, in a good God?†“I hope I may hereafter believe,†said I, “nay, I am almost certain I believe in a good God now. But, if I do, it is in a God that is fighting against evil, a God that may perhaps share in our afflictions and in our troubles.†“What?†said he, “you, a pupil of Epictetus, believe that God Himself can be troubled! Then of course you believe that a good man may be troubled?†“Indeed I do,†said I. “At least I half believe it about God, and wholly about man.†“Then you think I have a right to be troubled. You are a heretic.†“We are heretics together,†said I. “You have a right to be troubled, and I to be troubled with you.†“Thank you, and thank the Gods, for that at least!†said he. “Do you know,†said I, “that I am certain that Epictetus felt troubled too, for your sake? I saw him when he did not see me, as I was leaving the room; and I could not be mistaken.†“Ah!†said Glaucus, drawing in his breath. Then suddenly, as we were clasping hands in our last farewell, he added “Do not think too much about those scrawls!†And before I had time to ask his meaning, he had ridden away.
Returning to my rooms, I put away my lecture-notes and took out the gospels. But I could not read, and longed to be in the fresh air. As I rose from my seat to go out, my first thought was, “I will take no books with me.†But Markhappened to be in my hand, the smallest of the gospels. “This,†I said, “will be no weight.†But it weighed a great deal in the rest of my life, as the reader will soon see.
Before long, unconsciously seeking familiar solitudes, I found myself on the way to the little coppice where some days ago I had seen Hesperus above the departed sun, and Isaiah had shed on me the influence of his promise of peace. “Now,†said I sadly to myself, “I have with me a book that calls itself the fulfilment of that promise. But it fulfils nothing for me.†As I spoke, and drew the book from the folds of my garment, several pieces of paper fell on the ground. When I picked them up, I found—what I had completely forgotten—Glaucus’s “scrawls.†I thought they would contain some requests to perform commissions for him in Nicopolis, or to convey messages to friends, and that he might have written these in the lecture-room when he expected to hear news that might call him suddenly away. But they were something quite different. The first that I opened was entitled “A Postscript,†written in verse, rallying me upon my advice about “waiting.†It shewed me how Glaucus, too, had been affected, not only by the lecture that drove him from the room, but also by that saying of Epictetus concerning Zeus (“He would have if he could haveâ€) which had disturbed me so much. It was wildly written as Glaucus himself confessed: but I will give it here, because—besides being a rebuke to me, and to all teachers that preach a gospel they do not feel—it shews how Epictetus himself, the perfection of honesty, stirred up in an honest and truthful pupil questionings and doubts that he could not satisfy or silence:
POSTSCRIPT.If you, my Silanus(Who think hopelessness heinous,And lectured me latelySo sweetly, sedately.Discussing, dilating,I will not say “prating,â€On the great use of waiting,You, whom I respectedBut never suspected,Never, no never,Of being so clever)Would but do your endeavourTo find more rhymes for “ever,â€Then cease would I neverBut rhyme on for ever,Like that horrible lecture,Our Master’s conjecture,About Zeus, a kind creature,Whose principal featureWas his frankly regrettingThat the Fates keep upsetting,By their cruel preventions,His noble intentions;“’Tis not that I would not,But I could not, I could not,â€So said Zeus in a lectureOur Master’s conjecture.P.S. Mad, isn’t it? But isn’t the lecture madder?P.P.S. I do hope and trust the Master is mad. I must go out.
POSTSCRIPT.
If you, my Silanus(Who think hopelessness heinous,And lectured me latelySo sweetly, sedately.Discussing, dilating,I will not say “prating,â€On the great use of waiting,You, whom I respectedBut never suspected,Never, no never,Of being so clever)Would but do your endeavourTo find more rhymes for “ever,â€Then cease would I neverBut rhyme on for ever,Like that horrible lecture,Our Master’s conjecture,About Zeus, a kind creature,Whose principal featureWas his frankly regrettingThat the Fates keep upsetting,By their cruel preventions,His noble intentions;“’Tis not that I would not,But I could not, I could not,â€So said Zeus in a lectureOur Master’s conjecture.
If you, my Silanus(Who think hopelessness heinous,And lectured me latelySo sweetly, sedately.Discussing, dilating,I will not say “prating,â€On the great use of waiting,You, whom I respectedBut never suspected,Never, no never,Of being so clever)Would but do your endeavourTo find more rhymes for “ever,â€Then cease would I neverBut rhyme on for ever,Like that horrible lecture,Our Master’s conjecture,About Zeus, a kind creature,Whose principal featureWas his frankly regrettingThat the Fates keep upsetting,By their cruel preventions,His noble intentions;“’Tis not that I would not,But I could not, I could not,â€So said Zeus in a lectureOur Master’s conjecture.
If you, my Silanus
(Who think hopelessness heinous,
And lectured me lately
So sweetly, sedately.
Discussing, dilating,
I will not say “prating,â€
On the great use of waiting,
You, whom I respected
But never suspected,
Never, no never,
Of being so clever)
Would but do your endeavour
To find more rhymes for “ever,â€
Then cease would I never
But rhyme on for ever,
Like that horrible lecture,
Our Master’s conjecture,
About Zeus, a kind creature,
Whose principal feature
Was his frankly regretting
That the Fates keep upsetting,
By their cruel preventions,
His noble intentions;
“’Tis not that I would not,
But I could not, I could not,â€
So said Zeus in a lecture
Our Master’s conjecture.
P.S. Mad, isn’t it? But isn’t the lecture madder?
P.P.S. I do hope and trust the Master is mad. I must go out.
The larger “scrawl†touched me more nearly because it condemned those who indulge in “self-deceiving†and “call it believingâ€â€”a thing that Scaurus dreaded, and taught me to dread; and I was in special dread of it at that time. I have been in doubt whether to give this in full. But I am sure Glaucus, now in peace, would not take it amiss that his wild words of trouble should be recorded if they may help others who have lost peace for a time. So I give it to the reader just as Glaucus gave it to me. Outside was written, in large letters, “RUSTICUS EXPECTAT.†Before the verses came a letter in prose as follows:
Rusticus sends greeting to Silanus.I am scrawling you a little poem, Silanus, to distract myself from this accursed lecture, lest Epictetus should make me absolutely sick with his nauseating stuff about the duty of sons not to be troubled by the troubles of their parents. Some days ago you gave me some edifying advice. Here is the answer to it—a little drama.Dramatis personae only two:—(1) Rusticus, for shortness called Hodge, i.e. Glaucus the Rustic, or perhaps Glaucus persuaded by Silanus, so that Glauco-Silanus is the true Rustic, unless you like to take the rôle entirely for yourself. Anyhow Hodge is a great fool; (2) The River, i.e. Destiny, aliasFate, alias Zeus, alias the God of Epictetus, alias the Whirlpool of the All, alias Nothing in Particular.The metre is appropriate to the subject matter, i.e. whirlpooly, eddyish, chaotic. There is no villain. The River would be if it could. But it can’t—not being able to help being what it is—like Zeus, you know, who said in our lecture-room recently, “I would if I could but I couldn’t.†Hodge starves or drowns. This should make a tragedy. But he is such a fool that he turns it into a comedy—for the amusement of the Gods. They are intensely amused—which perhaps should turn the thing back again into a tragedy. Comedy or tragedy? Or tragicomedy? Or burlesque? I give it up. The one thing certain is, Chaos!RUSTICUS EXPECTAT.Hodge sits by the riverAwaiting, awaiting.Across he is goingIf it will but stop flowing.But when? There’s no knowing.He dare not try swimmingIn those waves full and brimming.On foot there’s no going,And there’s no chance of rowing.So there he sits blinkingAnd calling it “thinkingâ€!God nor man can deliverHis soul from that river,But Hodge won’t believe itHis soul can’t receive it!Himself he’s deceiving,But he styles it “believingâ€!So this simpleton artlessTo a THING that is heartlessPrays!—yes, takes to prayingIn the hope of its stayingHis soul to deliver:“Good river, kind river,Across I’d be goingIf you would but stop flowingStay! pity my moping!I’m hoping, I’m hopingThat you won’t flow for ever.Oh, say, will you neverCease flowing, cease flowing?Across I’d be going,Rest! Flow not for ever!â€Says the river, deep river:“I care not a stiverFor all your long waitingAnd praying and pratingAnd whining and piningAnd hoping and moping.Wait, if you like waiting,Prate, if you like prating,Pray, if you like praying,But think not I’m staying,Dream not I’m delayingFor a man and his praying,For his smiling or frowning,His swimming or drowning.Hope, if you’re for hoping,Mope, if you’re for moping,I’m not made for consolingBut for rolling and rollingFor ever.Time’s stream none can sever.Then cease your endeavourYour soul to deliverBy coaxing the river.Cease shall I neverBut flow on for everFOR EVER.â€
Rusticus sends greeting to Silanus.
I am scrawling you a little poem, Silanus, to distract myself from this accursed lecture, lest Epictetus should make me absolutely sick with his nauseating stuff about the duty of sons not to be troubled by the troubles of their parents. Some days ago you gave me some edifying advice. Here is the answer to it—a little drama.
Dramatis personae only two:—(1) Rusticus, for shortness called Hodge, i.e. Glaucus the Rustic, or perhaps Glaucus persuaded by Silanus, so that Glauco-Silanus is the true Rustic, unless you like to take the rôle entirely for yourself. Anyhow Hodge is a great fool; (2) The River, i.e. Destiny, aliasFate, alias Zeus, alias the God of Epictetus, alias the Whirlpool of the All, alias Nothing in Particular.
The metre is appropriate to the subject matter, i.e. whirlpooly, eddyish, chaotic. There is no villain. The River would be if it could. But it can’t—not being able to help being what it is—like Zeus, you know, who said in our lecture-room recently, “I would if I could but I couldn’t.†Hodge starves or drowns. This should make a tragedy. But he is such a fool that he turns it into a comedy—for the amusement of the Gods. They are intensely amused—which perhaps should turn the thing back again into a tragedy. Comedy or tragedy? Or tragicomedy? Or burlesque? I give it up. The one thing certain is, Chaos!
RUSTICUS EXPECTAT.Hodge sits by the riverAwaiting, awaiting.Across he is goingIf it will but stop flowing.But when? There’s no knowing.He dare not try swimmingIn those waves full and brimming.On foot there’s no going,And there’s no chance of rowing.So there he sits blinkingAnd calling it “thinkingâ€!God nor man can deliverHis soul from that river,But Hodge won’t believe itHis soul can’t receive it!Himself he’s deceiving,But he styles it “believingâ€!So this simpleton artlessTo a THING that is heartlessPrays!—yes, takes to prayingIn the hope of its stayingHis soul to deliver:“Good river, kind river,Across I’d be goingIf you would but stop flowingStay! pity my moping!I’m hoping, I’m hopingThat you won’t flow for ever.Oh, say, will you neverCease flowing, cease flowing?Across I’d be going,Rest! Flow not for ever!â€Says the river, deep river:“I care not a stiverFor all your long waitingAnd praying and pratingAnd whining and piningAnd hoping and moping.Wait, if you like waiting,Prate, if you like prating,Pray, if you like praying,But think not I’m staying,Dream not I’m delayingFor a man and his praying,For his smiling or frowning,His swimming or drowning.Hope, if you’re for hoping,Mope, if you’re for moping,I’m not made for consolingBut for rolling and rollingFor ever.Time’s stream none can sever.Then cease your endeavourYour soul to deliverBy coaxing the river.Cease shall I neverBut flow on for everFOR EVER.â€
RUSTICUS EXPECTAT.
Hodge sits by the riverAwaiting, awaiting.Across he is goingIf it will but stop flowing.But when? There’s no knowing.He dare not try swimmingIn those waves full and brimming.On foot there’s no going,And there’s no chance of rowing.So there he sits blinkingAnd calling it “thinkingâ€!God nor man can deliverHis soul from that river,But Hodge won’t believe itHis soul can’t receive it!Himself he’s deceiving,But he styles it “believingâ€!So this simpleton artlessTo a THING that is heartlessPrays!—yes, takes to prayingIn the hope of its stayingHis soul to deliver:“Good river, kind river,Across I’d be goingIf you would but stop flowingStay! pity my moping!I’m hoping, I’m hopingThat you won’t flow for ever.Oh, say, will you neverCease flowing, cease flowing?Across I’d be going,Rest! Flow not for ever!â€Says the river, deep river:“I care not a stiverFor all your long waitingAnd praying and pratingAnd whining and piningAnd hoping and moping.Wait, if you like waiting,Prate, if you like prating,Pray, if you like praying,But think not I’m staying,Dream not I’m delayingFor a man and his praying,For his smiling or frowning,His swimming or drowning.Hope, if you’re for hoping,Mope, if you’re for moping,I’m not made for consolingBut for rolling and rollingFor ever.Time’s stream none can sever.Then cease your endeavourYour soul to deliverBy coaxing the river.Cease shall I neverBut flow on for everFOR EVER.â€
Hodge sits by the river
Awaiting, awaiting.
Across he is going
If it will but stop flowing.
But when? There’s no knowing.
He dare not try swimming
In those waves full and brimming.
On foot there’s no going,
And there’s no chance of rowing.
So there he sits blinking
And calling it “thinkingâ€!
God nor man can deliver
His soul from that river,
But Hodge won’t believe it
His soul can’t receive it!
Himself he’s deceiving,
But he styles it “believingâ€!
So this simpleton artless
To a THING that is heartless
Prays!—yes, takes to praying
In the hope of its staying
His soul to deliver:
“Good river, kind river,
Across I’d be going
If you would but stop flowing
Stay! pity my moping!
I’m hoping, I’m hoping
That you won’t flow for ever.
Oh, say, will you never
Cease flowing, cease flowing?
Across I’d be going,
Rest! Flow not for ever!â€
Says the river, deep river:
“I care not a stiver
For all your long waiting
And praying and prating
And whining and pining
And hoping and moping.
Wait, if you like waiting,
Prate, if you like prating,
Pray, if you like praying,
But think not I’m staying,
Dream not I’m delaying
For a man and his praying,
For his smiling or frowning,
His swimming or drowning.
Hope, if you’re for hoping,
Mope, if you’re for moping,
I’m not made for consoling
But for rolling and rolling
For ever.
Time’s stream none can sever.
Then cease your endeavour
Your soul to deliver
By coaxing the river.
Cease shall I never
But flow on for ever
FOR EVER.â€
I was walking slowly onward, with the paper in my hand, my eyes bent on the ground. Suddenly a shadow, and a courteous salutation, made me aware that a stranger had met me and was passing by. Surprised and startled, I recovered myself after a moment and turned round to answer his greeting. He, too, turned, a man past threescore as I guessed, but vigorous, erect, with a dignity of carriage that appeared at the first glance. He bowed and passed on. The face reminded me of someone, but I could not think who it was. I turned again to Glaucus’s paper. “Don’t think too much of those scrawls†had been his last words. But how could I help thinking of them? How many myriads were in the same case! The myriads did not say what Glaucus said. But how many of them felt it! They had not suffered perhapsas he had, but they had suffered enough—crushed, maimed, forsaken!
Yes, FORSAKEN! As I uttered the word aloud, there came back to me both the face of the stranger and the face like his, the face that I had not been able to recall. I had been thinking of old Hermas, whom I had seen as a child of five or six and had never forgotten. Scaurus’s letters had recently brought him back to my memory again and again, depicting him just as I remembered him, and suggesting to me all sorts of new questions as to the mystery that lay behind those quiet eyes and that strong gentle look, which even in my childhood had left on me an indelible impression. I had been asking myself, What was the secret of it? Now I knew. Hermas wasnot“forsaken.†And this man, the man I had just met, he too lookednot“forsaken.†“Yet I wonder,†said I, “what that stranger would think if Hermas were to invite him to worship a Son of God whose last words to the Father were, ‘Why hast thou forsaken me?’ Epictetus, I know, would declare that the words expressed an absolute collapse of faith. How would old Hermas explain them? And what would Scaurus say if I confessed that I found no God anywhere in heaven or earth to whom my heart was so drawn as this ‘forsaken’ Christ? What would the Psalmist say if I used his words thus, ‘Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is none on earth that I should desire in comparison with thee, O, thou FORSAKEN SON OF GOD!’â€
By this time I had reached the wood. Pacing up and down, full of distracting thoughts, I came on the place where I had had my first vision of peace. There, tired out in body and mind, I threw myself down to rest. Presently, feeling in the folds of my garment for the gospel of Mark, I could not find it. Yet I had felt it when I first drew out Glaucus’s paper. There was nothing for it but to retrace my steps as exactly as possible in the hope of hitting on the place where I must have dropped it. But I had not gone a hundred paces before I heard a rustling in the bushes, and the tall stranger reappeared and a second time saluted me.
I returned his salutation. Then we were both silent.Nothing was in his hand, yet I felt sure that he had found my book, and I waited for him to speak. But a moment’s reflection shewed me his difficulty. Was he, a stranger, to ask a Roman knight whether he had dropped one of the religious books of a proscribed superstition? It was for me, if for either, to begin. I liked the stranger’s look even better than before and felt that he could be trusted; so I told him of my loss. He at once placed the volume in my hands saying that he had come back to restore it, believing me to be the owner. I thanked him heartily. He replied that I was welcome, then waited a moment or two, as though to allow me to say more if I pleased. I stood silent, wanting to speak, but as it were tongue-bound—not so much afraid as ashamed. At last, I stammered out something about the wood and its distance from Nicopolis. He smiled as though he understood my embarrassment. Then he repeated that I was welcome and moved away.
I had suffered him to go a dozen paces when a voice said within me, “Why do you let him go? Scaurus let Hermas go and repented it. You said that this man did not look ‘forsaken.’ Why do you let him ‘forsake’ you? Why do you make yourself ‘forsaken’? Perhaps he can help you.†I called him back. “Sir,†said I, “pardon me one question. Doubtless you looked at this roll to find some clue to its owner?†“I did,†he replied. “I am interested,†said I, “in this little bookâ€â¸º. Then I paused. I had grown into the habit of adding—in writing to Flaccus, to Scaurus, and in speaking to myself too—“from a literary point of view,†“as a historical investigation,†and so on. But now I could not say such things. In the first place, they would not be true. In the second place, I knew instinctively that the man would know that they were not true. Moreover I had a presentiment that he was to be to me what Hermas had almost been to Scaurus. On the other hand, had I the right to ask a perfect stranger whether he had studied a Christian gospel? He read my thoughts. “You desire,†he said, “to ask me something more. Am I acquainted with this book? That, I think, is your question? If so, I say, ‘Yes’.†“Thereare,†said I, very slowly, and almost as if the words were drawn out of me by force, “some few things that I greatly admire and many things that greatly perplex me, in this little book. I think I might understand some of the latter, had I some guidance.†“I am but a poor guide,†he replied. “Nevertheless, if it is your will, I am quite willing. I have an hour’s leisure. Then I must go on my business. Shall we sit down here?â€
So we sat down, and I began to question him about Mark and the other gospels. But before I describe our conversation, I must remind my readers that at that time, forty-five years ago, in the second year of Hadrian, the gospels of Mark, Matthew, and Luke, were not regarded as on the same level as scripture, nor as entirely different from other writings composed by pious Christians such as, for example, the epistle of Clemens Romanus to the Corinthians. No doubt, some Christians, even at that date, were disposed to rank the three gospels by themselves as superior to all others past or future; and some of them may have asserted that the number three was, as it were, predicted in the Law. For Moses said, “Out of the mouth of two witnesses†(that might be Mark and Matthew) “or three witnesses†(that would include Luke) “shall every word be established.†But if they spoke thus, I do not know of it.
On the contrary, I have heard, that about the very time of our conversation, that is in the second year of Hadrian, there were traditions about Mark (current in the neighbourhood of Ephesus) placing him on a very much lower level than the Hebrew prophets. Some used to accuse him (as I have confessed above that I was perhaps too prone to do) of being disproportioned and lengthy in unimportant detail. An Elder near Ephesus defended Mark. He laid the blame on the necessities of the case, saying that Mark recorded what he had heard from Peter, and that Peter adapted his teachings to the needs of the moment, so that “Mark committed no error†in writing some things as he did. Whether this Elder was right or wrong, his words shewed that neither he, defending Mark, nor his opponents, attacking Mark, regarded theevangelist as perfect. Indeed his gospel was generally underrated, being placed far below that of Matthew and Luke, because people did not perceive that Mark often contained the account that was the truest—although expressed obscurely or in such a way as to cause some to stumble.
At that time it would have been thought profane to put Mark or Luke on the same level with Moses, Samuel, David, Solomon, Isaiah and the prophets, to whom “the word of the Lord†is said to have “come.†Luke never says, “The word of the Lord came to me,†but, in effect, this: “I have traced things back carefully and accurately, and have thought it well to set them forth in chronological order.†Matthew, as being an apostle, might have been placed on a different footing. But as he wrote in Hebrew, and his gospel was circulated in Greek, it was not thought that we had the very words of the apostle. Moreover Matthew’s words often differed in such a way from Luke’s, that even a child could perceive that two writers were describing the same words of the Lord in two different versions, so that both could not be exactly correct. And, very often, Luke’s version appeared better than Matthew’s.
Yet even in the reign of Trajan there had perhaps been springing up among a few people the belief that the three gospels above-mentioned were not only superior to others then extant but also to others that might hereafter be written. These men thought that Luke had said the last word on the things that were to be believed, correcting what was obscure in Mark and adding what was wanting. Perhaps it was natural that those who thus favoured Luke’s gospel should be for a time averse to a fourth gospel. I believe that my friend Justin of Samaria, who suffered as a martyr in this very year in which I am now writing, always retained a prejudice of this kind, favouring the three gospels, and especially Luke. Even though he could not sometimes avoid using some of the traditions that had found a place in the fourth gospel, he disliked to quote it as a gospel, and, as far as I know, never did quote it verbally in his writings.
On the other hand, some of the younger brethren now gointo the opposite extreme, and maintain, not only that the fourth gospel is to be accepted, but also that the number four was, as it were, predestined. This seems to me as unreasonable as it would have been to maintain, in Trajan’s time, that the gospels must be three because of the “three witnesses†prescribed by Moses on earth, and the three in heaven (the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit) and the three angels that visited Abraham, and so on. Yet I have actually heard the teacher Irenæus—the young man about whom I spoke above—asserting that the gospels must needs be four to correspond with the four quarters of the globe, the four elements, the four living creatures in Ezekiel, and other quadruplicities.
However, I thank God that, when I was a young man, no such stumbling-block as this lay between me and my Saviour. Nor was any such belief in the necessity of four gospels entertained by my new friend Clemens—for that was his name, though he was not a Roman but an Athenian. He had long accepted the three gospels as containing the truth about Christ and about His constraining love. Recently, he had accepted the fourth gospel as also containing the same truth. But he neither believed nor expected me to believe that every word in these four writings was so inspired as to convey the unmixed truth. It was in these circumstances and with these preconceptions—or perhaps I should rather say freedom from preconceptions—that Clemens and I began our conversation.
I explained to Clemens that I had been attending the lectures of Epictetus. He had taught us, I said, to neglect external things, and to value virtue, as being placed by God in our own power and a possession open to all. “This,†said I, “has strengthened me—this and the influence of his character—in the determination to lead a life above the mere pleasures of the flesh. But, on the other hand, Epictetus teaches us that we are never to be troubled, not even by the troubles or misdoings of those nearest and dearest to us. We are to say, ‘These things are nothing to us’.†I then explained to Clemens how this doctrine had repelled me, and how I had been led by an accident to study the letters of Paul, in which I found a very different doctrine.
“Paul,†said I, “counts many external things as evil, and especially the errors and transgressions of his converts. These he feels as evils and pains to himself. Yet he always seems hopeful and helpful, full of strength both for himself and for others. I have felt drawn towards him, and, through him, to the prophet Jesus, or Christ, whom he calls Son of God. Paul speaks of himself as led towards this Jesus by a ‘constraining love’ filling the heart with joy and peace. I have felt something of this, or at least have felt the possibility of it. In my childhood, ‘Christus’ was called one of the vilest of the vile, and I believed it. Now I have come to regard him as—I know not what. Just now I said ‘prophet.’ But Epictetus calls Diogenes God’s ‘own son.’ Christ, in myjudgment, stands far above Diogenes and perhaps even above Socrates. When I say ‘above Socrates,’ I do not mean in reason, but in feeling, and in the power to draw men towards kindness and steadfast welldoing. I think I had come almost to the point of calling this Jesus ‘God’s own son’ in a very real sense, as being above all other men, yes, and more—more than I could understand. And then⸺.â€
“And then?†said Clemens. I had paused. He waited an instant longer, questioning, or rather interpreting me, with his eyes. “And then,†said he, “something threw you back?†“Yes,†said I, “something threw me back. And what do you think it was? Paul drew me on. But the author of this little book, he, and Matthew, and Luke—these threw me back. It happened in many ways. I must tell you the last first. A friend, a fellow-student, has just now left me for Corinth, crushed to the earth by the most shameful outrages on his family. I wished to give him some comfort, to point him towards some hope, to give him what you Christians—for surely you are a Christian?†He assented. “Well, what you Christians call ‘good tidings’ or ‘gospel.’
“Now if I could believe Paul, I should have a ‘gospel.’ For then the spirit of Jesus, having risen from the dead, would be travelling about the world everywhere at hand to strengthen His disciples, and to comfort their hearts, and to assure them that all will be well in the end. ‘I have prevailed over death’—so His Spirit would say to us—‘I will always help the poor and oppressed. I will never forsake them till I have made them sharers in my eternal kingdom.’ This it would say to each one of us, ‘You, Gaius, or you, Marcus, I will be with you always. I will never forsake you.’ But how can I believe these beautiful assurances, when I find Mark declaring (and Matthew agreeing with him) that Christ’s last articulate utterance was, ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ How can I assure my friend that God never forsakes the oppressed, if He forsook His own Son? And how can I deny that ‘forsaking,’ when the Son Himself says,Why hast thou forsaken?? Epictetus forbade us to admit that we are ever alone. ‘God,’ said he, ‘is always within you.’ Is not that thebetter and nobler doctrine? If the better and nobler doctrine is not true, does it not follow that the truth is bad and ignoble, and that, in real truth, there is no good and noble power controlling the world? Which of the two is right, Epictetus or Christ?â€
“Both, I think,†said Clemens. He had been listening with attention and manifest sympathy, but without any change in that steadfast look of peace and trust which his face habitually wore. I seemed to read in his countenance at once pain and faith, pain for my burden, faith that he could help me to bear it or to cast it away. Presently he added, “Do not suppose that by answering so briefly and quickly I wished to cut short your objection or to deny the difficulty. Far from it. You have asked, I think, one of the hardest questions, perhaps the very hardest, that could be put to a worshipper of Christ. Often have I thought of it, and I should not like to answer it hastily. You know perhaps that Luke omits these words, and that he mentions, instead, something about the ‘sun’?†“Yes,†said I, “but that seemed to me only to shew that Luke was willing to accept a version that removed the difficulty in the original.†“I agree with you,†said Clemens, “and, if so, that indicates that the difficulty was recognised before Luke compiled his gospel. Certainly, certainly, those wonderful words were really uttered.â€
Then he said, “First let me give you an explanation that is not unreasonable and may have some truth in it. You know, I dare say, that the words are from the Psalms?†“Yes,†I replied, “but the Psalmist changes his mood. He goes on to say, ‘He hath not hid his face from him, but, when he cried unto him, he heard him,’ and afterwards, ‘All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn unto the Lord’.†“You have mentioned,†said Clemens, “the very words that seem to some of our brethren to answer your question; for they say that the Lord had in mind the whole of the Psalm when He quoted the first words, and that He meant this, ‘I cry unto thee, O Father, in the words of scriptureWhy hast thou forsaken me?knowing that thou hast not indeed hidden thy face from me, but thou art hearing me: and all the ends of the earth shall remember my crying and thy hearing and shall turn unto thee’.â€
“And are not you content with this explanation?†said I. “Not quite,†said Clemens. “For, though this may be true, more may be true. I have read in another gospel, later than these three, that the Son did no work on earth and uttered no word, without looking up to the Father in heaven and listening to the Father’s voice, which told Him from time to time what to do and to say. And I have heard one of the brethren, a man full of spiritual understanding, and well read in the scriptures, interpret the question as though it were a real question, not an exclamation—the Son questioning the Father as to His will. If that were so, the Son might be conceived as saying, ‘For what reason, O Father, hast thou forsaken me for a while and hidden the light of thy countenance from me? Teach me, O Father, in order that I also may be willing to be forsaken, and may desire to be deprived of the light of thy countenance.’ And then the Father replies, ‘I forsake thee, O my Son, because thou must needs die, and in my presence is the fulness of life. The time hath come for thee to give up thy life, that is, to lose my presence for a brief space, that all men may gain for ever by thy brief loss and be saved from death by thy sacrifice of life.’ And after this, said the brother, the Lord cried out a second time. What He said then, Mark and Matthew have not recorded; but they write that He then expired or sent forth His Spirit. The brother I am speaking of believed that the Son, by crying aloud ‘Why hast thou forsaken?’ prepared Himself to be willingly forsaken, and to be under the darkness of this momentary forsaking just before He gave up His life as a sacrifice for men.â€
“But you say,†said I, “that Epictetus, too, is right.†“Certainly,†replied Clemens. “Epictetus says that men, God’s children, are never ‘alone.’ And that is true. Indeed I can shew you presently a new Christian gospel—the one I mentioned just now—which represents Christ as saying this very thing, ‘Ye shall leave me alone—and yet I amnot alone, because the Father is with me.’ Look at the matter thus. Do we not know that God may be regarded as being in all places at once, so that to speak of Him as ‘here and not there’ is no less a metaphor than to speak of His ‘hiding His countenance,’ or‘bearing us in His arms’? God therefore is, as Epictetus often affirms, ‘within us.’ But is He not also (as I think Epictetus seldom or never affirms) ‘outside us’? Is not the Psalmist’s metaphor right when he says that God, being outside us, hides His face sometimes from His children? Sometimes He does this because they have sinned, in order that they may seek His face and cease to sin. But does He not also do this when men have not sinned, in order that the righteous may become more righteous and the pure more pure, by longing more than ever for the sight of His countenance and by thirsting anew for His presence?
“I do not quite like to explain the dealings of God with men by anything that frail human creatures do in sport. And yet there is something so sacred (at least I think so) in the relations between parents and young children, that I have been sometimes led to liken God hiding His face from His children to a mother hiding her face from the babe in her arms. She hides it, but only for a moment, only that the child may be the more joyful afterwards. And the arms never let go their embrace.†Then, after a pause, he added, “But perhaps you say, ‘Do not you Christians believe that Christ was already perfectly righteous, and perfectly pure, and that He already rejoiced to the utmost in the Father’s love? Why then should God forsake such a Son? Why should He hide His face from the Holy One, even for a time?’ That, I think, is the question you would like to ask?â€
Reading assent in my face, he proceeded, “Some might reply that this question has been answered by the brother above-mentioned, who says, in effect, ‘The Son was forsaken by the Father, not that the Son might be made purer, or freed from sin, but that He might know the Father’s will and might prepare Himself for His imminent self-sacrifice.’ But is that—I will not say a complete answer, for who will venture to say that he knows completely all the purpose of the Father in causing the Son to feel forsaken?—is it even an answer that ought rightly to satisfy us? Will you be patient with me, my friend—for friends we are already (are we not?) in our joint search after truth⸺†“We are indeed,†said I, “and I wouldgladly hear your fullest thoughts on this matter.†“Permit me then,†said he, “to put another thought before your mind, namely, that the Son of God, being Son of man, may have been forsaken by the Father in order to learn, as a man, the heights and depths of human nature, and to what an abyss of darkness the purest and most faithful saint may sometimes sink; and how even in that abyss, the saint may feel, through faith, that there are still beneath him the arms of God, not indeed supporting him but ready to support him; and that he is—as the prophets say about Israel—‘forsaken’ yet ‘not forsaken.’ No height in saintliness is higher than such a faith as this.
“The scriptures tell us,†he continued, “that man is to love God with all his heart and with all his soul and with all his power, and with all his understanding. You know this?†I nodded assent. “Consider then how you and I will feel in the moments or hours before our departure, if God has decreed that we shall pass away by a slow and tedious passage, with a gradual weakening of our mental and spiritual powers, a chill of the heart, a deadening of the understanding, and a fading away of the fire of the soul; so that it is no longer possible for us, no longer permitted to us by God Himself, to love Him with all our human powers, because our powers themselves are becoming powerless. May we not then perhaps feel our grasp on the hand of the heavenly Father loosening, and our souls slipping back from the supporting strength of His presence, downward, and still downward, into the darkness of the infinite abyss? Should that hour of trial come upon us, would it not be a very present help in our trouble to know that the Lord, the Saviour, the Eternal Son of God, in the form of man, was troubled likewise?â€
Indeed I thought it would—ifonly I “knew†it. I suppose my face must have shewn this, for Clemens, without waiting for an answer, continued with a kindling countenance, “And now, dearest brother, be still more patient with me while I put one more thought before you. You have been talking to me about ‘trouble’ and about your friend’s ‘trouble’: and you said that it made you, as well as your friend, feel ‘forsaken’.†I assented. “And you were not ashamed,†he continued, “offeeling his ‘trouble’ to some extent as yours, nor was your friend ashamed of feeling the ‘trouble’ of his family? Well, then, believe me, the Lord Jesus Christ felt the troubles of all His disciples, friends, followers, yes, all the troubles of all the sinful children of men, as though they were His own troubles. And in feeling ‘troubled’ along with others I venture to think that He also felt ‘forsaken’ along with others.