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“Have the gods also become Sophists?”
“The gods have become dumb.”
“Then you can shut the temple—the sooner, the better.”
The incorrigible Alcibiades had really fled from Sicily to the enemy at Sparta, and now sat at table with King Aegis; for Sparta had retained the monarchy, while Athens at an early date had abjured it.
“My friend,” said the King, “I do not like your dining at the common public table, after being accustomed to Aspasia’s brilliant feasts in Athens.”
“I! Oh no! My rule was always the simplest food: I went to sleep with the sun, and rose with the sun. You do not know what a severe ascetic I have been.”
“If you say so, I must believe it. Rumour, then, has slandered you?”
“Slandered? Yes, certainly. You remember the scandal about the statues of Hermes. I did not mutilate them, but they have become my destruction.”
“Is that also a lie?”
“It is a lie.”
“But tell me something else. Do you think that it is now the will of the gods that Sparta should conquer Athens?”
“Certainly, as certainly as virtue will conquer vice. Sparta is the home of all the virtues, and Athens of all the vices.”
“Now I understand that you are not the man I took you for, and I will give you the command of the army. Shall we now march against Athens?”
“I am ready!”
“Have you no scruple in marching against your own city?”
“I am a Hellene, not an Athenian, Sparta is the chief city of Hellas.”
“Alcibiades is great! Now I go to the general, and this evening we march.”
“Go, King! Alcibiades follows.”
The King went, but Alcibiades did not follow, for behind the curtains of the women’s apartment stood the Queen, and waited. When the King had gone, she rushed in.
“Hail! Alcibiades, my king!”
“Queen, why do you call your servant ‘king’?”
“Because Sparta has done homage to you, because I love you, and because you are a descendant of heroes.”
“King Aegis the Second lives.”
“Not too long! Win your first battle, and Aegis is dead.”
“Now life begins to smile on the hardly-tried exile. If you knew my childhood with its sorrows, my youth with its privations! The vine had not grown for me, woman had not been made for me; Bacchus knew me not; Aphrodite was not my goddess. The chaste Artemis and the wise Pallas guided me past the devious ways of youth to the goal of knowledge, wisdom, and glory. But when I first saw you, Timia, my queen....”
“Hush!”
“Then I thought that beauty was more than wisdom.”
“Hush! some one is listening.”
“Who?”
“I, Lysander, the General,” answered a sharp voice, and the speaker stood in the middle of the room.
“Now I know you, Alcibiades, and I have your head under my arm, but I have the honour of Sparta under the other. Fly before I strangle you!”
“Your ears have deceived you, Lysander!”
“Fly! do us the kindness to fly! Fifty hoplites stand without, waiting for your head.”
“How many do you say? Fifty? Then I will fly, for I cannot overcome more than thirty. My queen! farewell! I have thought better of Sparta. This would never have happened in Athens. Now I go to the Persian King; there they understand better what is fitting, and there I shall not be obliged to eat black broth!”
Alcibiades sat with the Persian satrap Tissaphernes, and Alcibiades the eloquent spoke. “Yes, my teacher Protagoras taught me once, that everything is born from its opposite; therefore you see my heart can embrace all opposites. Sparta and Athens are both dear to me; that is to say, both hateful—the state—gods of the one, and the virtues of the other.”
“You have a great heart, stranger! Is there room in it for Persia?”
“For the whole world.”
“What do you think of our chief city?”
“I love all large cities!”
“But at the present moment, you ought to love ours the most.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You must also love our allies.”
“Pardon me, who is your present ally?”
“At present, it is Sparta.”
“Very well, then, I love Sparta.”
“And suppose it is Athens to-morrow?”
“Then I will love Athens to-morrow.”
“Thank you. Now I understand that it is all over with Hellas. Old Greece is so corrupt, that it is hardly worth conquering.”
“Protagoras taught that man is the measure of all things; therefore I measure the value of all things by myself; what has value for me, that I prize.”
“Is that the teaching of your prophets? Then we have better ones; do you know Zarathrustra?”
“If it would do you a pleasure, I wish I had known him from childhood.”
“Then you might have been able to distinguish good and evil, light and darkness, Ormuzd and Ahriman. And you would have lived in the hope that light will eventually conquer; and that all discordances will be reconciled through suffering.”
“I can at any rate try. Is it a large book?”
“What are the names of your sacred books?”
“Sacred! What is that?”
“From whence do you get your religion, the knowledge of your gods?”
“From Homer, I believe.”
“You do not believe that Zeus is the supreme ruler of the world?”
“Yes, I do certainly.”
“But he was a false swearer and a lecher.”
“Yes! But how can that be helped?”
Tissaphernes rose. “Listen, my guest; we cannot share any common undertaking, for we do not serve the same gods. You call us barbarians. I, on my part, know no term of reproach strong enough for people who honour such gods. But the Athenians are as rotten as you, for they have pardoned you. Outside there stands an envoy from Athens come to beg you to return. Go to Athens; that is your place.”
“To Athens? Never! I do not trust them.”
“Nor they, you! That is appropriate. Go to Athens, and tell your countrymen—the Persian does not want them. The vine tendrils seek the sound elm, but turn away from the rotten cabbage-top.”
Alcibiades had begun to walk up and down the room. That meant that he was irresolute.
“Is the Athenian really outside?” he asked.
“He kneels outside in order to beg the traitor Alcibiades to be their lord. But listen, you are a democrat, are you not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you must change your point of view, for now an oligarchy governs Athens.”
“Yes, ah! yes, yes—but I am an aristocrat, the most aristocratic in the State.”
“Spinning-top! Seek for a whip!”
Alcibiades stood still. “I think, I must speak with the Athenian after all.”
“Do that! Speak the Athenian language to him! He does not understand Persian.”
Alcibiades returned to Athens; the death-sentence against him was annulled; and as a commander who had won a battle, he was able to have a triumphal procession from Piraeus to the city. But popular favour was fickle, and, becoming suspected of aspiring to be king, he fled again, this time to the Persian satrap Pharnabazes. Since he could not live without intrigues, he was soon entangled in one, unmasked, and condemned, without his knowing it, to death.
One day he was sitting with his paramour, and chatting quietly at his ease: “You think, then, Timandra, that Cyrus marches against his brother Artaxerxes, in order to seize the throne of Persia.”
“I am sure of it, and equally sure that he has ten thousand Athenians under Xenophon with him.”
“Do you know whether Artaxerxes has been warned?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Who could have warned him?”
“You did.”
“Does Cyrus know that?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Who has betrayed me?”
“I did.”
“Then I am lost.”
“Yes, you are.”
“To think that I must fall through a woman!”
“Did you expect anything else, Alcibiades?”
“No, not really! Can I not fly?”
“You cannot, but I can.”
“I see smoke! Is the house on fire?”
“Yes, it is. And there are archers posted outside!”
“The comedy is over! We return to tragedy....”
“And the satyr-play begins.”
“My feet are hot; generally cold is a precursor of death.”
“Everything is born from its opposite, Alcibiades.”
“Give me a kiss.”
She kissed him, the handsomest man of Athens.
“Thank you!”
“Go to the window; there you will see!”
Alcibiades stepped to the window. “Now I see.”
At that moment he was struck by an arrow. “But now I see nothing! It grows dark, and I thought it would grow light.”
Timandra fled, as the corpse began to burn.
SOCRATES
Sparta had conquered Athens, and Athens lay in ruins. The government by the people was over, and the rule of the Thirty Tyrants had succeeded it. Socrates and Euripides walked with sad faces among the ruins on the Agora.
Socrates spoke: “We are on the ruins of Athens’ walls! We have become Spartans. We would have no tyrants, and now thirty rule over us.”
“I go to the North,” said Euripides, “to Macedonia, whither I am invited.”
“In that you are right, for the Tyrants have forbidden the acting of your tragedies.”
“That is true.”
“And they have forbidden me to teach.”
“Have they forbidden Socrates to speak? No! Then he can teach, for he cannot speak without teaching. But they must have forbidden the oracles to speak, for they have ceased to prophesy. Everything has ceased! Hellas has ceased to be! And why?”
“You may well ask. Has Zeus begotten the son who is to overthrow him, as Aeschylus foretold?”
“Who knows? The people have introduced a new God called Adonai or Adonis. He is from the East, and his name signifies the Lord.”
“Who is the new god?”
“He teaches readiness for death, and the resurrection. And they have also got a new goddess. Have you heard of Cybele, the mother of the gods, a virgin, who is worshipped in Rome like Vesta by vestal priests.”
“There is so much that is new and obscure, like wine in fermentation. There comes Aristophanes. Farewell, my friend, for the last time here in life.”
“Wait! Aristophanes beckons! No, see! he weeps! Aristophanes weeps!”
Aristophanes approached. “Euripides,” he said, “don’t go till I have spoken to you.”
“Can you speak?” answered Euripides.
“I weep.”
“Do not quit your role. Shall that represent tears?”
“Sympathise with a companion in distress, Euripides; the Tyrants have closed my theatre.”
“Socrates, shall I sympathise with my executioner?”
“I believe that the Temple of Nemesis has been opened again,” answered Socrates. “Aristophanes has never been ingenuous hitherto; now he is so with a vengeance. Very well, Aristophanes, I sympathise with you that you can no more scoff at me. I pardon you, but I cannot help you to stage your comedies. That is asking too much. Now I follow Euripides home.”
Socrates sat by Aspasia, who had grown elderly. “Euripides has gone to Macedonia,” he said.
“From his wives.”
“You have become bitter.”
“I am tired of seeing ruins and all the rest. The Tyrants are murdering the citizens.”
“That is the occupation of tyrants.”
“Shall we soon have rest?”
“In the Ceramicus, in a cedar coffin.”
“I will not die; I will live, but quietly.”
“Life is not quiet.”
“Yes, if one is well off.”
“One never is.”
“No, not if one is unhappily married, like you, Socrates.”
“My wife is certainly the worst possible; if she had not had me for a husband, she would long ago have been murdered.”
“Xantippe betrays you with her gossiping; and when she does not understand what you say, she gives others distorted ideas of your opinions and your person.”
“Yes, I know that, but I cannot alter it.”
“Why do you continue in such a state of humiliation?”
“Why should I fly? One is only justified in flying from superior force, and Xantippe is not a superior force to me.”
“You are forbidden, on pain of death, to give instruction; that is her work and that of Anytos.”
“She may bring about my death, if she likes, for then she has only brought about my freedom.... Aspasia, I hear that our friendship is on the decline; you have found new friends, you have become another person. Let me say farewell before Lysicles comes.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, and the whole town speaks of your coming marriage.”
“With the cattle-dealer, Lysicles?”
“Yes, that is your affair; I don’t talk about it.”
“But you think I should have cherished Pericles’ memory better?”
“I would fain have seen Aspasia’s memory better preserved; but since I have seen Athenians adorn themselves with garlands to celebrate Athens’ overthrow; since I have seen Phidias....”
“How, then, will Socrates end?”
“Certainly not like Aspasia.”
“The gods jest with us. Beware! O Socrates!”
Socrates was at last in prison, accused of having seduced the youth, and blasphemed or repudiated the gods of the State. Among the accusers were a young poetaster, Melitos, the tanner Anytos, and the orator Lykon.
Socrates made his Apology, and declared that he had always believed on God, and the voice of his conscience, which he called his “demon.” He was condemned to drink hemlock, and kept in prison, where, however, he was allowed to see his wife and his few remaining friends.
Just now his wife was with him, and wept.
“Weep not,” said Socrates; “it is not your fault.”
“Will you see the children?”
“Why should I lacerate their little souls with a useless leave-taking? Go to them and comfort them; divert their minds with an expedition to the woods.”
“Shall we rejoice while you are dying?”
“Rejoice that my sufferings come to an end! Rejoice that I die with honour.”
“Have you no last wish?”
“I wish for nothing, except peace and freedom from your foolish tears and sighs, and your disturbing lamentations. Go, woman, and say to yourself that Socrates wants to sleep for he is tired and out of humour; say to yourself that he will wake again, refreshed, rejuvenated, happy and amiable.”
“I wish you had taught me all this before.”
“you had nothing to learn from me.”
“Yes! I have learnt from you patience and self-control.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“I cannot, for I have done it already. Say farewell now, as though I were going on a journey. Say ‘We meet again,’ as though I were soon returning!”
“Farewell, then, Socrates, and be not angry with me.”
“No, I am always well-disposed towards you.”
“Farewell, my husband, for ever.”
“Not for ever. You wish to see me again, don’t you? Put on a cheerful face, and say, ‘We meet again.’”
“We meet again.”
“Good! and when we meet again, we will go with the children together into the woods.”
“Socrates was not what I thought he was.”
“Go! I want to sleep.”
She went, but met in the doorway Plato and Crito.
“The hour approaches, friends,” said Socrates wearily, and with feverish eyes.
“Are you calm, Master?”
“To say the truth, I am quite calm. I will not assert that I am joyful, but my conscience does not trouble me.”
“When, Socrates, when—will it happen?”
“You mean, When is it to happen,—the last thing? Plato, my friend, my dearest… it hastens.... I have just now enjoyed a sleep. I have been over the river on the other side; I have seen for a moment the original forms of imperishable Beauty, of which things on earth are only dim copies.... I have seen the future, the destinies of the human race; I have spoken to the mighty, the lofty, and the pure; I have learnt the wise Order which guides the apparent great disorder; I trembled at the unfathomable secret of the Universe of which I had a glimmering perception, and I felt the immensity of my ignorance. Plato, you shall write what I have seen. You shall teach the children of men to estimate things at their proper value, to look up to the Invisible with awe, to revere Beauty, to cultivate virtue, and to hope for final deliverance, as they work, through faithful performance of duty and self-renunciation.”
He went to the bed, and lay down.
Plato followed him, “Are you ill, Master?”
“No, I have been; but now I am getting well.”
“Have you already....”
“I have already emptied the cup!”
“Our Wisest leaves us.”
“No mortal is wise! But I thank the gods who gave me modesty and conscience.”
There was silence in the room.
“Socrates is dead!”
FLACCUS AND MARO
After the death of Socrates, the greatness of Athens was no more. Sparta ruled for a time, and then came the turn of Thebes. Subsequently the Macedonians invaded the country, and governed it till the year 196 B.C., when the Romans conquered both Macedonia and Greece, and completely destroyed Corinth, but spared Athens, which was deprived of its fortifications under Sulla, on account of the great memories which gathered round it.
Now, in Julius Caesar’s time, it had become the fashion to send youths to Athens to study Grammar, Rhetoric, and Philosophy there. There was no great philosopher there, but they studied the history of philosophy. There was also no religion, for no one believed on the gods of the State, although, from old habit, they celebrated the sacrificial feasts.
Athens was dead, and so was the whole of the ancient world—Egypt, Syria, Asia Minor. In Rome they lived on the memories of the past of Greece, and the greatest Roman, Cicero, when he wished to discuss some philosophic theme, always commenced by citing the opinions of the ancient Greeks on the subject; he also closed in the same way, for he had no original opinion of his own on any subject, such as the nature of the gods, &c.
One early spring day, during the last years of Julius Caesar, two students sat in an arbour below Lykabettos, opposite the college of Kynosarges. Wine was on the table, but they did not seem very devoted to their yellow “Chios.” They sat there with an air of indifference, as though they were waiting for something. The same atmosphere of lethargy seemed to pervade their surroundings. The innkeeper sat and dozed; the youths in the college opposite lounged at the door; pedestrians on the high road went by without greeting anyone; the peasant in the field sat on his plough, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The elder of the two students fingered his glass, and at last opened his mouth.
“Say something!”
“I have nothing to say, for I know nothing.”
“Have you already learnt everything?”
“Yes.”
“I came yesterday from Rome with great hopes of being able to learn something new and of hearing something remarkable, but I hear only silence.”
“My dear Maro, I have been here for years, and I have listened, but heard nothing new. I have heard in the Poikile that Thales maintained that there were no gods, but that everything had been produced from moisture. I have further heard Anaximines’ doctrine that air was the source of all things; Pherecydes’ doctrine of ether as the original principle; Heraclitus’ doctrine of fire. Anaximander has taught me that the universe came from some primitive substance; Leucippus and Democritus spoke to me of empty space with primitive corpuscles or atoms. Anaxagoras made believe that the atom had reason. Xenophanes wished to persuade me that God and the Universe were one. Empedocles, the wisest of the whole company, despaired at the imperfection of reason, and went in despair and flung himself head foremost into Etna’s burning mountain.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No! it may well be a lie like everything else. Then I learnt a number of interesting doctrines from Plato which were subsequently all confuted by Aristotle. At last I took up my position with the wisest of the wise—Socrates, who openly declared, as you know, that he knew nothing.”
“That is the same as the Sophists said,—that one knew nothing, and hardly so much.”
“You are right, and our good Socrates was a Sophist, without wishing to be one. But there is one, a single one, who.... Yes, I mean Pythagoras. He has proclaimed this and that doctrine in the East and the West, but I have found one anchor in his philosophy, and I have gripped firm ground with it. I certainly swing in the wind, but I do not drift away from it.”
“Tell me.”
“Do what you think right at the risk of being banished from your country; the mob cannot judge what is right. Therefore you should think little of their praise, and despise their blame. Cultivate the friendship of kindred spirits, but regard the rest of mankind as a worthless mass. Always be at war with ‘the beans’ (he means the democrats). ‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo!’”
“You ought to live at home in Rome, Flaccus, where....”
“Yes, what are you doing now in Rome?”
“Caesar is Caesar; he conquers the world, and unites all the highest functions, even the priestly, in his own person. I have nothing against it, but they say he is aiming at his own deification.”
“Why not? All gods have first been heroes, and many gods have not been so great as Caesar. Romulus was certainly no giant, though he had the luck to come first, as someone must. Now he is a god, has a temple, and they sacrifice to him.”
“It is probably a lie, like everything else.”
“Probably.”
“Yes, I have heard another legend of the founding of Rome by Aeneas’ son Ascanius, who fled from Troy; and I intend to take it as the starting-point of my great poem....”
“You mean the Aeneid, of which I have heard mention.”
“Yes, the Aeneid.”
“Is it difficult to write poetry?”
“No; one follows good patterns. Hitherto Theocritus has been mine, but now I shall go to Father Homer himself.”
“By Heracles! Now there you will be undisturbed—so long, that is, as Maecenas sends you the sesterces regularly.”
“Yes, he does! But how do you get along?”
“My father, a freedman, toils as quaestor, and will find me a place.”
“Have you no interests, no passions, no ambitions?”
“No; what should I do with them? ‘Nihil admirari.’ That is my motto. If there are gods who guide the destinies of men and nations, why should I interfere and wear myself out in a useless struggle? Think of Demosthenes, who for thirty years delivered speeches against the Macedonian, and warned his countrymen, who would not listen to him! The gods were with the Macedonian, and condemned Hellas to be overthrown. Demosthenes was imprisoned. Comically enough, he was accused of having been bribed by the same Macedonian. That was, of course, a lie. This patriot who sacrificed himself for the salvation of his fatherland, who believed he was fighting on the gods’ side, had to take poison, and fell, fighting against the gods! Vestigia terrent!”
During their conversation, the sun had gone down, and now in the twilight beacons were visible flaming on Aegina, on Salamis, by Phaleros, in the Piraeus, and finally on the Acropolis. The murmurs from the city became louder till they rose to one immense paean of joy. Men came down the streets, and brought their wives and children with them, some on foot, others riding and driving. The worthy innkeeper Agathon was aroused, and went out into the highway to learn the cause of the confusion. The two students had gone on the inn roof to look out. But they surmised danger for foreigners like themselves, and, alarmed by the ever louder shouting, descended again, and concealed themselves in the wine-press. At last Agathon’s voice was heard: “Caesar is assassinated! Death to the Romans! Freedom for Hellas!”
Such was the news. The garden of the inn filled with people, wine flowed, and shouts of joy resounded, varied by sarcastic remarks on the passing Romans who were fleeing northwards from the town in order to reach the Macedonian frontier.
Maro and Flaccus underwent great anxiety, hidden as they were in the vat of the wine-press, from which hiding-place they heard the whole news, with its accompanying details. Caesar had been assassinated by Cassius and Brutus in the Capitol.
“Brutus?” whispered Maro. “Then it is certainly over with the Caesars, just as the old Brutus made an end of the Kings!”
And Brutus was flying to Hellas to rouse the Greeks against the Romans. “Long live Brutus!” they cried in the garden.
“Then we shall live also!” said the pliant Flaccus. “Caesar is dead; let us do homage to Brutus for the present.”
Many years had passed when the former student of Athens, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, was walking one day in the garden of his villa on the Sabine Hills. This villa he had received as a gift from his friend Maecenas, who possessed a splendid country-house close by in Tibur itself.
Horace was now a very famous poet, but still essentially the same as he had been when a student in Athens. Destiny or the gods had played with him, but the poet had taken it as a good joke on the part of the Higher Powers, and answered it with a satire. After the murder of Caesar, Brutus had fled to Greece, and been so well received there, that the Athenians had erected a statue to him, and raised troops for him against Antonius and the other generals, among whom was the invalid Octavianus (afterwards Augustus).
Horace was compelled to serve as a soldier, and actually commanded a legion at Philippi, where Brutus fell. The poet, who was no warrior, fled from the superior force of the enemy, and came to Rome, where, after the amnesty had been proclaimed, he became a clerk in a public office. At the same time he had begun to write verses, was discovered by Maecenas, and received his reward in the form of an estate.
The Emperor Augustus admired him, and offered him a position as secretary, but Horace refused, partly because he could never see anything else but an usurper in this Emperor, partly because he loved freedom and independence above all things.
Just now he was walking in his garden, whose fruit-trees he had himself cultivated. He plucked roses and hyacinths, for he awaited the visit of a favourite guest, his old friend and fellow-student of Athens, Publius Virgilius Maro, as well known as Horace himself, although he had not yet allowed his Aeneid to appear in manuscript.
A table was laid in a vine-arbour; flagons of old Massisian and Falernian lay already on ice, oysters and eels were there; a kid and some quails were roasting on the spit in the kitchen; fruit had been plucked in the garden; and the only thing wanting on the table, which had been laid for two persons, were flowers.
A little slave, who was able to write, ran to and fro between the garden-gate and the dove-tower, in order to look out for the expected guest. The poet was standing at the water-barrel and washing his hands, after he had finished plucking flowers, when someone clapped him on the shoulder.
“Virgil! Which way have you come, then?”
“Over the hills of Tibur from Maecenas.”
“Welcome, wanderer, whichever way you have come! Sit down—you must be tired—in my hemicyklion, under the olives I planted myself, while the spits turn, and they ply the chopping-knife. Here you see my plot of land which represents the world to me.”
Their first greetings and questions were over, and the two friends sat down to the table. The host was certainly an Epicurean or votary of pleasure; but in order to be able to enjoy, one must be moderate, and the meal, judging by Roman customs, was quite a frugal one, but simple and brilliant. Then the cups were passed round, and the wine awoke memories in spite of its supposed lethal capacity of quenching them.
“Well, you were in the war, friend?” began Virgil.
“Yes, and I fled disgracefully, as you know.”
“I have read so in one of your poems, but it is said not to be true, and you have slandered yourself.”
“Have I? Perhaps! One talks nonsense when one writes.”
“You poet, do you remember how you asked me in Athens whether it were difficult? How did you come to write?”
“I needed money!”
“Now you slander yourself again! If all clients who needed money could write, the world would be full of poets.”
“Well, perhaps it was not so. But speak of yourself—of your Aeneid.”
Virgil looked gloomy: “Of that I will not speak.”
“Is it finished?”
“More than that! It is done with!”
“Done with?”
“Yes! When I read it, I found it a failure! It was not Homer; it was nothing. It was a punishment, because I wished to outshine my father.”
“Have you destroyed it?”
“Not yet; but it is sealed up, in order to be destroyed after my death.”
“Now you are slandering yourself, and you are depressed, Maro, not by years, not by work, but by something else.”
“Yes, by something else. The future disturbs me!”
Horace shook his cup and recited: [Footnote: Hor. Od. I. ii.] “Do not go to the astrologers, Leuconoe. Better bear life as it comes. Be wise, clear your wine! While we speak, envious life is flying. Enjoy the present, and think as little as possible about the future.”
“That I cannot!” broke in Virgil. “I cannot drown myself in my cups, when I see my fatherland perishing.”
“Has Rome ever been so powerful as it is now? Do we not possess the whole known world—Egypt, Syria, Greece, Italy, Spain, Germany, Gaul, Britain? And yet we live in a time of peace: the Temple of Janus is closed; the earth rejoices; the arts flourish; and commerce was never so active as at present.”
“Yes, the peace that precedes a war. For all these conquered nations are awake, and have an eye on Rome. Not on Greece as before, for Greece is barren and laid waste, and passes into the great silence. Do you know that Sulla and Mithridates have gone slaying and pillaging over Hellas, so that science and art have fled to the Egyptian Alexandria or the growing Byzantium? Do you know that pirates, whose origin is unknown, from the East, have recently plundered every temple in Hellas, so that hardly any religious service can be held there? The oracles are dumb, the poets are silent like song-birds in a storm, the great tragedies are no longer performed; people rather go to see farces and gladiatorial shows. Hellas is a ruin, and Rome will soon be one.”
“Times are bad, I grant, but every time has been one of decay, and has, however, prepared the way for a new epoch. The fallen leaves of autumn form a forcing-bed for the coming spring; Nature, life, and history ever renew themselves through death. Therefore death is to me only a renewal, a change, and whenever I meet a funeral, I always say to myself, ‘O how pleasant it is to live!’”
“My dear Flaccus, you live with your dreams in the Golden Age, while we others only drag ourselves through this life of the Iron Age. Do you remember how Hesiod complains already of his own time?”
“No, I have forgotten that, but in order to oblige you I will listen.”
“‘The people of to-day are an iron race, and never rest from the burden of work, neither by day nor by night. They are a sinful folk, and the gods send them heavy troubles. But even when they send joy, this turns to their misfortune. Some day Zeus will destroy them, these many-tongued people, when they are born with grey locks on their temples. Yes, our children are born old men already, toothless, wrinkled and with bald heads. The father is not gracious to the child, nor the child to the father, nor the guest to his host, nor servant to fellow-servant, nor brother to brother. Children dishonour their old parents, revile them and speak unfriendly words—these young scoundrels who know nothing of divine vengeance, and never thank their ageing parents for their fostering care of them as children. Might is right, and one city destroys another. Honesty and faithfulness in keeping vows are never rewarded, as little as kindness or justice. Oh no, they who practise sin and break the law, demand honour. Scoundrels betray noble men, and commit perjury without scruple. Envy follows men, these unhappy ones with their harsh voices and dreadful faces, who rejoice over the evil and the mischief which they do.’”
