“Only poetry is immortal,” said Marcus.
Archias shook his head. “Thought is immortal. Look upon man, Marcus, and observe how weak he is. He has no scales like the fish to armor himself, he has no wings with which to fly from danger; he has no hide like the elephant to guard him against stings and thorns; he has no claws and teeth like the tiger, and he is not terrible as is the lion. He is not so agile as the monkey, nor so clever as the fox. He is not carapaced like the insect. He cannot live without shelter nor survive long without food, as does the bear and the other hibernating animals. He cannot swim very far or for prolonged periods. He is the prey of the poisonous fly and of many animals. In all ways he is lesser than the beasts, if one thinks only of his flesh and his life.
“Yet, vulnerable though he is, and weak, and as frail as grass and as tender as the weed, how great is man! He thinks. Does the wolf think as a man thinks? Can the crow build a Parthenon? Can the whale encompass the idea of God? The serpent is wiser, I have heard, but has the serpent ever raised a monument to truth and beauty? Is not Socrates, ugly though he was, mightier than the noblest mountain? Is not Aristotle greater than the physical world and all the creatures upon it? Has not the weakest babe a more enormous value, because he is a potential man, than a grove of the highest trees? It is because man can think, and out of his thinking create heaven and Hades, and stand with the gods and say, ‘I have a mind, therefore I am one of you.’”
He touched Marcus on his arm. “Thought comes in many forms, as life comes in many forms, and who shall say which form is the more marvelous? There are Homers and there are Platos, there are Phidiases and there are Archimedeses. Be thankful that you can command prose, that you have an eloquent voice which can induce even the Lady Helvia to part with an extra sesterce—and I stand in admiration.”
“I should still like to write poetry like Homer,” said Marcus.
“Then, write poetry for your own pleasure,” said Archias. “I have not said it is bad poetry. I have written worse, some of which has been acclaimed. But your destiny lies elsewhere.”
He went on, “I have long wanted to give you the advice which is so necessary for a young man in his adolescence, and which will serve him well all his life. Man, as you know, is a cataloguing animal. He is a creature of reason and rationality, if he cultivates those gifts. Beware, Marcus, of the fervent and enthusiastic man, for he has lost his reason and his rationality! He is hardly more than the exuberant dog, which rushes and barks at every sound and is excited by all things. The truly civilized man is immune to passing exclamations, novelties and fashions in thought, deed, or the written or spoken word, and emotional storms. Be not zealous, Marcus! Be temperate. Cultivate contemplation. Be reverent before the wisdoms and traditions garnered as painfully as grain through the centuries.
“The true man stands apart from the vociferous market rabble, which is constantly acclaiming and then in the next breath denouncing. The man of the street can never be trusted. Consider the noble and tender-hearted Gracchi, with whom I have never been in agreement. (Nevertheless, they were good men and gave all their spirit and their hearts to their people.) The very rabble they wished to elevate and raise to the stature of true men destroyed them in the feverish rage and passions so typical of the common man.
“However, beware as much of the man of the colonnades, who can be trusted no more than his comrade of the streets. The first is like a stone, immured only in his thoughts, which, as they have no contact with reality are dangerous. The second is like a mindless tempest, roaring and uncontrollable, uprooting forests and drowning in tidal waves. The man of the colonnades thinks men are purely thought; he forgets they are also animal with animal instincts and passions. Nothing to excess. The Ionic League brought luxury to Greece, and also her destruction, for then Greece had the leisure to cultivate the body—the idol of the gross and common man—who thinks man’s meaning lies in physical beauty, strength, athletics, sports, feastings. There is nothing wrong in the cultivation of the body so long as it is one step behind the cultivation of the mind, and is always obedient to the will.
“But Greece became like a woman with a mirror, or a man glorying in his muscles. I see these signs of decay in the Roman Republic also. Rome admires her image as seen in the eyes of subject people, and is enamored of her power. Like Greece, she will become subject to a hardier race, and all her splendor will be buried in her own luxuriant dung.”
He picked up a leafy twig and held it out delicately on the cushion of his thumb. “Balance,” he said. “It is the law of nature. Let that man beware who disturbs it. It will crash to the ground. The pedant and the common man—they are the disturbers of the scales, the first without a body, the second without a soul.”
Mindful of his duty, the grandfather sought Marcus out one warm and golden day as he wandered beside the river, composing ardent poetry in his mind.
“It is time,” said the grandfather, “for me to put into brief words the things a young man must know.”
Marcus privately discounted the brevity of the grandfather’s words, but sat down on a smooth stone after courteously putting his cloak on the grass for the old man. But the grandfather shook his head with a mention of rheumatism, and leaned on the staff which he was recently affecting. He stroked his beard, which was showing hardly a trace of gray and contemplated his grandson with a sparkling and youthful eye. His long tunic—for he did not wear a toga in the country—molded itself against strong and heroic limb and broad breast. He studied Marcus, the boy’s smooth forehead, the large and changing eyes under thick dark brows. The excellent nose with the sharply defined nostrils, the grave and almost beautiful mouth, the firm line of the chin and throat, and the long brown hair which rippled below the ears. What he saw pleased him and made him proud, but he kept his Cincinnatus face stern. One should never let the young know of one’s approval.
Marcus smiled up at his grandfather and waited. Then he looked at the river which was all shades of running green under the shadows of the trees, and he looked at the distant bridge which led to Arpinum, cherry-red and white and gold on the flank of the hill.
“A man,” said the grandfather, “is known by his character, by the essence of his God-given manhood. If he honors his manhood and the manhood of others he will be just, brave, patriotic, reliable, strong, inflexible in the right. He owes it to his manhood to be healthy of body, prudent, full of fortitude, honest, proud of himself, fearless, worthy of his ancestors and his history, patient in adversity, intolerant of weakness of character, spare, ascetic, frugal, courageous. He must be honorable, because to be dishonorable is to lower his status as a man. The cowardly man is more to be feared than an evil man, and, by governments, to be feared even more than the traitor.
“Beware of the mendicant mind, the dependent soul. They destroy empires. They will,” said the grandfather with bitter sorrow, “eventually destroy Rome, as they destroyed other nations. They have no honor; they have no patriotism; they have no manhood.”
“Yes,” said Marcus, as soberly as his grandfather could have desired.
The grandfather turned his head and looked at the sky and the river and the earth, but he was seeing a dolorous thing in his mind. “In our history,” he said, “there have been times of danger when we needed swiftness of action, swiftness of thought, unfettered by law in the pressing hour. So, we appointed dictators. But, we were wise then. When we appointed dictators we removed temptation from them by denying them honors, luxuries, and pleasures, and even the decent furniture of life. We prohibited them from riding a horse, or even possessing one. We needed their superior will to action, their speediness, their minds, their indomitable courage. But we did not need the power for which all men lust, the power over the destiny of men’s thoughts and lives, except for the hour. When they had done what they must, we removed all power from them and made them simple and unassuming men again.
“But the day of the dictator is almost upon us again, not the dictator of old, but the di
ctator who wishes illimitable power, prolonged power, over Rome. Rome is not what once she was. We are fast approaching the day when Rome will not be swayed by the temperate middle-class but by the rich, who will preside over whining and bottomless bellies, and slaves. Each serves the other, satisfies the other’s appetite, in an evil symbiosis. For the rabble’s votes the powerful man will betray Rome. Though Marius has lately pushed back the hordes of Germanic invaders, we have not done with turbulence, and turbulence is the climate in which tyrants flourish. Therefore, I fear for my country.
“I have seen a noble Rome, a nation of free men. But you, my grandson, will see terrible times, for Rome has fallen in her spirit and there are fierce carrion birds poised even now on our walls, and within the walls of great rich houses, and in the alleys and crowded back streets of our city. It is your duty, as you stand on the doorstep of your manhood, to hold back the enemy, as Marius held back the Germanii. If enough of you do this thing, resolute and brave and with honor, Rome shall yet be saved, though the hour is late and true patriotism is sickening under our very martial banners. Have you courage, Marcus?”
At first Marcus had listened to his grandfather with youthful indulgence, remembering his age and homilies, of which he had unceasingly heard many. But now his mind was captured and fired; his heart was swiftly beating. “I think I have, Grandfather. I pray I have.”
The grandfather studied him with a deep and passionate intensity. Then he nodded his head. “I believe you have. I have watched you these past two years, for in you is my hope, and in your generation. When you encounter the evil men—and surely you will!—you must say to them, ‘Here I stand, and here is Rome, and you shall not pass!’
“You will look at the faces and the monuments of your country, and you will remember what they mean. You will look at the inscriptions on our noble buildings, and at the arches of our temples. This is the inheritance I leave you. You must never betray them, not out of fear, not for a woman, not for gain, not for honors and powers. This is Rome. Remember always that it once took only three heroic men to save her. Stand on the bridge with Horatius and swear by our gods and by the name of Rome that no one shall reach her heart and halt it. You are only one, but you are one. And remember, above all things, that never was a government but that was a liar, a thief and a malefactor.* When power lies only in the people, and their government is restricted, then that people flourish and no wicked man can conquer them.”
He raised his own hands, and his eyes glittered with tears. Abruptly, then, he turned away and marched off with his long and youthful stride. Marcus watched him go. Then he stood and lifted his hand and swore solemnly that never, so long as he lived, would he forget his grandfather’s words, and that never, so long as he lived, would he forget that he was a Roman.
That night Marcus sat with his father, Tullius, in the latter’s pleasant country library, small and warm and lamp-lit, with the odor of parchment and vellum about them, and the sweet fragrance of the dark earth and water flowing in the opened windows. Here Marcus had spent some of the happiest hours of his happy childhood. But now, as he looked at his father’s gentle and haggard face, he knew that the happiness of those years was passing and that never again would he know their innocence and simplicity and trust.
Tullius did not possess even the strength of his earlier years. He had suffered many attacks of malaria. His kind brown eyes were sunken, his nostrils sharpened. The bones of his face were tight and hot under his drawn skin. His hand trembled as he poured wine for himself and his son. His feet, in their open sandals, were corded and skeletal. His fine brown hair was thin and graying at the temples. His long tunic seemed hung on slats of wood.
Marcus sat forward in his chair, his goblet in his hand, and he said, frightened of the answer, “Phelon is a country physician. Why have you not consulted the physicians of Rome, my father?”
Tullius hesitated. How and in what words did a man tell his son that he was tired of living? What words were these to pour into an ear that heard only the song of youth and the Circe of a golden future? I wish, thought Tullius, that I could say to him, with truth: I have labored hard and long and my life has been burdensome with toil and trouble, and now I wish for my rest. But that would be a lie. I have spent a serene life with my books and my thoughts, and have loved my dear birthplace and the water and all the things about me. I have known no turmoil, no heartbreak, no real despair, no anguish of body or spirit. I have lived in the peace of a quiet bay, in temperate sunshine, and no storm has ever blown upon me nor shattered my lamp or put out my light. Yet—I am tired of living.
Tullius said soothingly, “I have consulted the physicians in Rome. I have malaria. The attacks are very debilitating. Do not be distressed. I have had them many times.”
Marcus put the wine to his lips and it tasted as bitter as death. No matter how much we have talked together, thought the youth, we have never said the things that lie closest to our thoughts.
Years later, remembering that night, he wrote to a friend: “Man lives in an awful isolation, imprisoned by his flesh, unable to stir his tongue of flesh to pronounce the words in his heart, unable to show that heart of flesh to anyone, neither father nor child nor brother nor wife. That is man’s tragedy, that he lives alone from the moment of his birth until the hour he lies upon his funeral pyre.”
Then Tullius, who had been wondering what to say to his son tonight, suddenly thought: I am weary for God! The thought flooded him not with melancholy but with a kind of exultant joy, somewhat sad but all comprehensive. I have loved beauty too much, he thought. I have been engrossed with God from my earliest childhood, therefore I could take no real pleasure in the world, for I was always filled with nostalgia for Him. The world of men was always at variance with what I spiritually understood, therefore I withdrew from it. Now I am weary of the days and hours away from my home.
His pale drawn face filled with radiance and seeing this Marcus was again afraid. It was as if his father had withdrawn from him to a place he could not yet follow and could not understand.
“Let us talk about you, my dear Marcus,” said Tullius, and his voice was youthful again and eager. “For what I must tell you now is the only surety you will ever have, the only certitude. You will have duties in the world, but your first duty is to God. For that He created you, to know Him, to serve Him above all others in this your life, and to join Him forever after death. The world is truly an illusion, for no man sees it as does another man. His reality is not yours, nor yours his. There are some who will say to you: “Politics are the most important, for man is a political animal.’ Others will say, ‘Power is the driving force of all men, therefore to be important, seek power.’ Still others will say, ‘Money is the measure of mankind, for only a poor thing of no consequence is content with poverty and obscurity.’ And yet still others will say, ‘The love of your fellows is all that is necessary, therefore seek popularity.’ These are their realities. They may not be yours, nor will they be the realities of millions of your fellows.
“To a good man happiness in this world is of no importance, and has no reality. This is not our home. A good man can find happiness only in God and in the contemplation of Him, even in this world. Even then, it is a happiness overlaid with sadness, for the soul cannot truly be happy separated by its flesh from its God.”
Marcus leaned toward his father and without knowing it he placed his hand on his father’s bony knee. Tullius laid his fingers over those of his son and pressed warmly, and his mild eyes flooded with tears, and he sighed and smiled.
“Man must have a frame of reference,” said Tullius. “Once Rome had a firm frame of reference compounded of God, country, and just law. So she became strong and mighty, upheld by faith, patriotism and justice.
“The nation which drives out God drives out its soul, and without a soul a nation cannot survive. We have a Republic, but the Republic is declining. The evil heads of plotting men are already outlined against the sunset of our life, and their sw
ords are visible. What is it that Aristotle said: ‘Republics decline into democracies, and democracies degenerate into despotisms.’ We have approached that day.
“Wicked men are born every generation, and it is the duty of a nation to render them impotent. When you discover a man who seeks power for himself, out of hatred or contempt for his fellows, destroy him, Marcus. If a man seeks office because he secretly despises what he calls ‘the mass,’ and wishes to control them into slavery, with promises of luxuries they have not earned, expose him. You must consider Rome.”
Tullius sat before his son and clasped his hands urgently together and said eagerly, “Do you understand, my son?”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “You have spoken of it often, but I did not understand it fully until tonight.” He wanted to rise and kiss his father on the cheek. But he was a young man now. However, he could not entirely restrain himself, so he took one of his father’s hands and laid his lips against it, in a filial gesture. Tullius trembled, closed his eyes, and prayed for his son.
Tullius again spoke of God. “While a knowledge of God brings an ineffable joy, it also brings pain. When I look upon the beauty of the world which He made I am filled with sadness, for it is impossible for me as a mortal man to retain that first moment of exultation and awareness. I know that the beauty I see is only a reflection of greater and more immortal beauty.
“There are moments when the very thought of God fills me with sharp ecstasy, beyond which rapture purely of the senses and mind is feeble. It is an ecstasy self-contained and complete, needing nothing else to ornament it. It lies in the heart like a globe of fire, giving life and joy and radiance as it burns and consumes that which is gross and unworthy. What is this thing beyond the imagination of men, so that it cannot be put truly into words? Memory of life before birth, when the soul recognizes the hand of the Creator? Nostalgia for the celestial vision, long lost, and forever mourned? Or of an existence of man from which we have fallen? If so, how great was that fall from knowledge!