It was on board a great merchant galley with three banks of oars, laden with soft Asian carpets and amphoræ of olive-oil, on the voyage between Seleucia, the port of Antioch, and Italy.
Sailing and rowing amongst the islands of the Archipelago, the vessel was now making for Crete, where she was to take on board a cargo of wool, and disembark some ecclesiastics, bound for a Cretan monastery. Old men, seated on the fore-deck, were passing the days in pious gossip, prayer, or in their monkish avocation of weaving baskets from slips of palm-leaf. In the stern, under a light violet awning, other passengers were installed, with whom the monks, considering them Pagans, were anxious to have nothing to do. These were Anatolius, Ammianus Marcellinus, and Arsinoë.
The evening was calm. The rowers—slaves from Alexandria—heaved and lowered their long oars to the beat of an ancient chant. The sun was sinking amid ruddy clouds. Anatolius was gazing at the waves, thinking over the poet's phrase,the many-laughtered sea.
After the hustling, the heat and dust of the streets of Antioch, after the smoke of torches, and the fiery breath of the rabble, he was lulling his mind with the thought: "Thou of the many laughters, take me and cleanse my soul!"
Isles of Calypso, Amorgos, Astypalæa, Thera,arose like visions, now lifting themselves from the sea, now melting away, as if, all round the vessel, the Oceanides were still leading their eternal dance. In those waters Anatolius felt himself far back in the days of the Odyssey.
His companions did not disturb his meditations, for each was absorbed in work. Ammianus Marcellinus was putting in order his memoirs of the Persian campaign and the life of the Emperor Julian; and in the evenings he used to read the remarkable work of the Christian master, Clement of Alexandria, entitled,Stromata: The Patchwork Quilt.
Arsinoë was making models in wax for a large marble statue. It was the figure of some Olympian deity, the face of which wore an expression of super human sadness. Anatolius wished, but hesitated, to ask her whether it represented Dionysus or Christ.
The artist had long ago abandoned the robes of a nun. Pious folk had turned from her with horror, and called her the recreant; but her name, and the recollection of generous gifts formerly made to Christian monasteries, safeguarded her from persecution. Of her great fortune but a small portion remained, just enough to secure independence; and on the shores of the Gulf of Naples, not far from Baiæ, she still owned a small estate, and the same villa in which Myrrha had passed her last days. Thither Arsinoë, Anatolius, and Marcellinus had agreed to retire after the stormy troubles of recent years, to pass their lives in peace as servants of the Muses.
The former nun now wore the same robes as before her consecration. The noble and simple lines of the peplum restored her resemblance to some ancient Athenian vestal. But the stuff was sober in colour,and her splendid hair thickly veiled. A wisdom almost austere lay in those deep unsmiling eyes. Only the white arms of the artist, bare to the shoulder, relieved the sombre hues of her robe. She toiled impatiently, almost feverishly, moulding the soft wax; and her pale hands impressed Anatolius with a sense of extraordinary power.
That evening the galley was coasting an islet of which none knew the name. Far off, it looked like an arid rock. In order to avoid dangerous reefs the trireme had to pass close in to shore. Under the steep cliff the sea-water lay so clear that sand and weed at the bottom could be clearly distinguished. Beyond the grim rocks could be seen green pastures, and sheep feeding round a plane-tree.
Anatolius saw, seated at the foot of the tree, a lad and a young girl, probably children of poor shepherds. Behind them, among cypresses, was a small rough figure of Pan playing the flute. Anatolius turned towards Arsinoë to point out this remote and peaceful nook of a lost Hellas; but the words died on his lips. Wholly rapt, and with a look of strange gaiety, the artist was intent on her creation, the waxen statuette, with its face of haunting sadness, and proud Olympian attitude.
Anatolius felt her mood like a rebuff. He asked Arsinoë in a harsh unsteady voice, pointing at the model—
"Why are you making that? What does the thing stand for?"
Slowly and with effort, she raised her eyes to his; and he mused—
"The sibyls must have eyes like those!" and then aloud: "Arsinoë, do you think that this work of yours will be understood?"
"What matters it, friend?" she answered, smiling gravely. Then she added in a lower tone, as if communing with herself: "He will stretch out His hands toward the world. He must be inexorable and terrible as Mithra-Dionysus in all his strength and beauty; yet merciful and humble...."
"What do you mean? is not that an impossible contradiction?"
"Who knows? For us, yes; but for the future...."
The sun was descending lower. Above him, on the horizon westward, a storm-cloud was impending, and the last rays illumined the island with a soft, almost melancholy, glow.
The shepherd lad and his companion approached Pan's altar to make their evening sacrifice.
"Is it your belief, Arsinoë," continued Anatolius, "is it your faith that unknown brothers of ours shall pick up the threads of our existence, and, following the clue, go immeasurably farther than we? Do you believe that all shall not perish in the barbaric gloom which is sinking on Rome and Hellas? Ah, if that were so? If one could trust the future...."
"Yes!" exclaimed Arsinoë, a prophetic gleam in her sombre eyes, "the future is in us, in our madness and our anguish! Julian was right. Content without glory, in silence, strangers to all, and solitary among men, we must work out our work to the end. We must hide and cherish the last, the utmost spark amongst the ashes of the altar, that tribes and nations of the future may kindle from it new torches! Where we finish they shall begin. Let Hellas die! Men shall dig up her relics—unearth her divine fragments of marble, yea, over them shall weep and pray! From our tombs shall the yellowed leaves of the books welove be unsealed, and the ancient stories of Homer, the wisdom of Plato, shall be spelt out slowly anew, as by little children. And with Hellas, you and I shall live again!"
"And with us, revives the curse on us!" exclaimed Anatolius, "The struggle between Olympus and Golgotha will begin over again!—Why? And when shall that struggle end? Answer, sibyl, if thou canst!"
Arsinoë was silent, and her eyes fell. Then she glanced at Ammianus and pointed to him—
"There is one who will answer you better than I. Like ours, his heart is shared between Christ and Olympus, and yet he keeps the lucidity of his soul."
Ammianus Marcellinus, putting aside the manuscript by Clement, had been quietly listening to the discussion.
"In truth," said the Epicurean, addressing him, "we have now been friends for more than four months, and yet I do not know whether you are a Christian or a Hellenist?"
"Nor I myself," answered the young Ammianus frankly, with a blush.
"What? No torture of doubts? No suffering from the antagonism between the Greek and the Christian doctrine?"
"No, my friend; I think that the two teachings in many points agree...."
"But how—from what point of view—do you intend to write your account of the Roman Empire? One of the two scales of the balance must sink and the other rise?"
"Not consciously, I hope," answered the historian; "My aim is to be just to both. Julian the Emperor Ilove, but even for him I shall be impartial. No one shall know which side I join, any better than I know myself...."
Anatolius had already proved the bravery, the chivalrous friendship of Ammianus, and now he was daily discovering in him other qualities no less rare.
"You are born to be a historian, Ammianus, to be the judge of our passionate age, and to bring its warring philosophies, in some sort, to a reconciliation!"
"I shall not be the first to do that," answered Ammianus. He rose to his feet and pointing with enthusiasm to the parchment-rolls of the great Christian master—
"All you suggest is already written here; and with far ampler powers than mine. This is thePatchworkof Clement of Alexandria, in which he proves that the greatness of Rome and the philosophy of Hellas paved the way for the teaching of Christ, and, by maxims and numberless forecasts, made the first decided steps toward the earthly kingdom of God. Plato is the forerunner of Jesus the Nazarene."
The last words, spoken with perfect simplicity, profoundly impressed Anatolius. He seemed to remember the whole scene as from some previous existence: the island flushed by that setting sun; the smell of tar on board the galley; and the words of Ammianus. The vista of a new world was momentarily opened to his mind.
Meanwhile the trireme was heading round the cape; the little wood of cypress had almost disappeared behind the cliffs. Anatolius threw a last look at the lad and girl before the altar of Pan. The girl was pouring out the evening offering of goat's milk and honey; the boy beginning to play on his reed-pipe.The thin blue smoke of sacrifice could be seen rising above the wood after the human figures had vanished and while the trireme made for open sea.
From the fore-part of the ship there came upon the silence a solemn music; the old monks were chanting in unison their evening prayer....
But over the still water came faint and clear notes of another melody. It was the little shepherd, piping his nocturnal hymn to Pan, the old god of gaiety, of freedom and love.
Anatolius felt a thrill of wonder and surmise.
"Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven," the monks chanted.
The silvery notes of the shepherd's flute, floating high in the sky, mingled with the words of the Christians.
The last beams faded from that happy islet, leaving it dull and hueless in the midst of the sea. Both hymns ceased.
The wind blew sharply in the rigging and whipped up grey and white waves. The straining galley-timbers creaked and groaned. Shadows approached from the southward and the sea grew swiftly dark. Huge clouds massed overhead, and from beyond the horizon came the first long intermittent roll of thunder.
Night and Tempest, hand in hand, were striding on apace.
THE END
Footnotes:1Strasburg.2Brumat near Strasburg.3Saverne (Vosges).4Spires.5Worms.6Mayence.7On the Save, at no great distance from Belgrade.8The Balkans.9Worth about 8d.10Six to the drachma.11Odyssey, xiv. 57, 58.
1Strasburg.2Brumat near Strasburg.3Saverne (Vosges).4Spires.5Worms.6Mayence.7On the Save, at no great distance from Belgrade.8The Balkans.9Worth about 8d.10Six to the drachma.11Odyssey, xiv. 57, 58.
1Strasburg.
2Brumat near Strasburg.
3Saverne (Vosges).
4Spires.
5Worms.
6Mayence.
7On the Save, at no great distance from Belgrade.
8The Balkans.
9Worth about 8d.
10Six to the drachma.
11Odyssey, xiv. 57, 58.