Part 4

The Districts muster for the August race, And take their glossy racers to be blessed, Each in its own rich church, where, held in trace Of gold, the startled barb with hoof-steps loud Is led through flaunting banner, shield and crest To the high altar’s rail, where kneel close pressed The pages and the soldiers and the crowd, Who scan the gleaming limbs that shall efface Last year’s defeat and win the August race.

The huge old square scooped like a palmer’s shell, Siena’s forum and its hippodrome, Echoes a roar that drowns the mighty bell From battlemented belfry in the sky; The ring of olden palaces, become Ablaze with crimson hangings, looks like some Enchanted Coliseum, in which vie Scutcheon and standard; so you scarce could tell The strange old square scooped like a palmer’s shell.

In bright procession ere the race is run The rival Districts wind around the course, Each with its banner in the evening sun, Its clarions, and its Captain capped with steel, Its pages and its men that lead the horse Caparisoned and guarded by a force Of gaudy pikemen; while the clarions peal And the crowd cheers the Panther that has won Its fickle favour ere the race is run.

And as the standard-bearers one and all March by in motley blazonry, they cast Their standards high in air, and as they fall Catch them above the throng with rapid hand And twirl and twist them dexterously and fast In one unceasing play, until at last The whole vast square is by the bright silk fanned, And they have marched before the great Town Hall Where stand the city’s rulers one and all.

Then comes, drawn by six bullocks of huge size All white as milk, with many-coloured strings About their horns, broad brows and large black eyes, The old Republic’s standard-bearing wain, With its great Martinella bell that rings Oft o’er the battle’s roar, and whose sound brings Fear to the heart of her who plots in vain, Perfidious Florence. From its high mast flies Siena’s She-Wolf’s standard of huge size.

And now the course is clear, and those who don The colours of the Panther feel no fear; A hundred thousand partizans look on With inborn urban rivalry, and hail The horses one by one as they appear, And hoot the Shell, or Wave, or wildly cheer The Hedgehog, or the Dragon, or the Snail, Or the great Eagle that so oft has won, Whose knaves and rider yellow colours don.

At last they start, and at terrific pace In dreadful crush adown the slope they tear, The Tortoise leading for a little space; Then from the crowd the Panther shooting out, Maintains the lead thrice round the perilous square; Then suddenly a great shout rends the air: “The Snail! The Snail!” all cry; and in hushed doubt All watch the two. The Snail has won the race, And slowly slackens its terrific pace.

And in the District of the Snail to-night Is revelry and feasting in the street; From great wrought-iron torch-holders the light Falls red and flaring on grim palace walls Decked with bright banners; boards where all may eat Who care, are crowded; while the old repeat Many an oft-told story that recalls What things the Snail had done in race and fight. Sleep shuns the District of the Snail to-night.

THE WONDER OF THE WORLD.

When this shall reach you I shall be no more; For do not men in presence of some score Too great for payment constantly prefer Quick death to base insolvency, and spur A trembling self across life’s brink. And yet They owe but gold--perhaps a paltry debt To some vile Jew; while I, alas, alas! Owe all mankind a thing which did surpass All other treasures; a grand peerless thing Beyond all pricing and all wondering, Which should be man’s, but which to save my own Mean life I sacrificed. And days have grown To be long months, and months to be long years; And with each year the frightful debt appears More insupportable. Oh, how immense Has grown its weight! How horrible the sense Of utter helplessness! But I have now To tell the fatal tale of when and how I lost it for the world, and not to speak Of these sad days when conscience loves to wreak Her retribution on me in such vast And unremitting anguish.

I had passed Six idle years since taking my degree, When I fell in at Athens casually With one called Richard Strongclyffe, who had been My college friend, but whom I had not seen Since then, and who meanwhile had made a name Through study of Greek Art. We soon became As intimate as of old; and as no claim Of work or pleasure summoned me elsewhere, He let me roam through Greece with him, and share His own strong daily life--the sheer reverse Of my accustomed life of waste, and worse Than waste, the aimless life of which my soul Was more than sick; it had become so foul. He had an iron will; his hand was rough; His heart was gentle. God had used strong stuff In making him--weak stuff in making me. And yet I was not worthless utterly. Spite all my sins there were some better strings In my weak heart; the wind of angels’ wings Made them vibrate--but with faint echo, like Æolian chords that gusts too fitful strike. Mine is a double nature, which depends Wholly on its surroundings, and which blends With good or evil, with the low or high, With the same drifting weak facility. In Strongclyffe’s hands my nature’s worthier side Alone found vent; pure tastes that had not died Grew strong, while half-forgotten culture found A sudden use, and from all things around Increased its wealth. I think that he enjoyed His power over me; his strong soul toyed With my soft malleable mind, which had, In spite of degradations many and sad, Affinities of taste, and could admire And understand him. Oh what strength and fire Beneath his quiet ways! What scorn could burst From his cold lip! what ceaseless ceaseless thirst He had for knowledge! Even as my mind Grew intimate with his, new worlds defined Their shape on my horizon, like the grey Faint, shadowy Greek Isles which far away Loomed through the mists of dawn, but which became, As we approached them in the sunrise flame, Each minute more distinct.

We seldom stayed Long in one self-same spot; but we obeyed The needs of Strongclyffe’s studies, which entailed Research in many places; and we sailed From isle to isle, or rode from place to place, Now in the less-known parts of Greece and Thrace, And now in rocky Lydia. Oh, what fields Where men dig gold, what far Golconda yields Such wealth, such gems, as those impoverished plains In which the spade turns up the scant remains Of bygone genius; where the obedient earth, Summoned to yield her buried dead, gives birth, As if compelled by an enchanter’s rod, To what is ever young--now to some god In all his strength and beauty, now to some Fantastic child of Pan, who seems fresh come From dewy woods that long have ceased to be? And Strongclyffe had the art to make one see The hidden through the seen--to reconstruct Past life and loveliness, and to conduct The mind through perished worlds; and everywhere He showed the same keen interest and a rare Persistence of research. Yet what he did Seemed somehow trifling; oft I thought it hid Higher preoccupation--some great aim Which time was ripening; so that when there came One day a sudden change in him--when all Was thrown aside, and when I heard him call Upon my help, with triumph on his lips, In a great enterprise which should eclipse Even the greatest, I received his words Not wholly unprepared.

How my heart’s chords Vibrate as I recall them! ’Twas about The third year’s close; and we were sitting out Upon our terrace looking on the sea At Thyna, after sundown. Purposely, As I now fancy, Strongclyffe had led on Our idle talk to what might yet be won Back by mankind, of the great wreck we call Antiquity; and then we talked of all That splendid half of antique art which must From the materials used have turned to dust Almost as soon as did the artist’s hands. Where be thy works, Apelles? where now stands, Phidias, thy gold and ivory gems, renowned Through the broad world? and where stands she who owned As her fit seat the new-born Parthenon, Thy gold and ivory Pallas? What would man Not give to-day if only he could scan In one short glimpse the splendour of that shape Which Fancy’s restorations vainly ape, If he for one short minute could behold That ivory face, that drapery of gold As Phidias modelled it?

“And yet,” I said, “That Art was not so frail; for I have read That that same effigy of Pallas, spared From age to age, existed unimpaired Till the Crusaders, under Baldwin, took And sacked Constantinople.”

A strange look Flashed out from Strongclyffe’s eyes. “There is no truth In that old tale,” he answered; “and Time’s tooth Still spared the statue when it many a year Had gnawed the bones of Baldwin in his bier, Ay, and of Baldwin’s sons.”

“How know you that?” I asked.

He left the bench on which we sat, And with a strange excitement he began To pace the terrace. “I am not the man,” He cried, “to make rash statements; yet I say Deliberately, Percy, that to-day That Pallas still exists. Oh, Earth has still Surprises for mankind; and with God’s will And patient work, the world shall see her yet! Think not that I am mad: wait till I set My proofs before your eyes. When you behold The text in John Ionides, the old Byzantine Chronicler, which had defied All guesses to this day, and by its side A certain passage in the life of Paul Of Trebizond--and when you’ve counted all The links of evidence which year by year I have augmented both at home and here, Until I now have found the very spot-- Then call me mad. ’Tis years since I have got The certainty that long ere Baldwin’s sack The Emperor, in fear of some attack Upon the palace, had her safe conveyed By vessel to a distance, and (by aid Of trusty workmen) carefully concealed In crypts beneath a temple. Nought revealed The secret at the time; the Emperor died Soon after; and, none caring to unhide The statue, men forgot her. But where lay The temple--or the ruins which to-day No doubt replace it? Here I seemed to lose My way and reach mere nothing. All my clues Led to one spot--Thelopis; and that spot, In spite of all my search, I found it not. Oh, with what patience in these three long years Have I not sought! Oh, with what hopes and fears Have I not searched the present and the past To find that place Thelopis! And at last I have found out. Thelopis was a town, If town it could be called, that was burnt down Ten centuries ago, and where has grown The present village Thos--the place that is Nearest the temple of Peripolis: The temple is Peripolis. And see, The distance and direction both agree: The passage says, ‘a five days’ eastward sail, And then three days of road.’ No clues now fail; There under Peripolis, girt round By solitude and silence, will be found The gold and ivory Pallas. Oh, I know That you will answer that she long ago Must have become mere shapeless mouldering dust-- That after seven centuries she must Have blent with earth; and yet I say she stands As grand and splendid as when all Greek lands First hailed her beauty! Do you think that they Who used such pains, in safety to convey And hide her in that distant spot, would spare The slight pains needed to exclude the air And ward away the damp? Again I say She lives--she lives!”

And so the following day We started for Peripolis--a long And arduous journey; for it lies among Wild unfrequented mountains, in a small And fever-stricken plain. The hills are all Possessed by tribes which, though uncouth and wild, Are not unfriendly. When you once have toiled Through the last defiles, and behold the lone Still distant ruins below you, that seem thrown There to die slow, like those whom in its haste A routed host abandons in the waste, There creeps across your soul a sort of fear, A sense of isolation such as ne’er Has filled your heart. The broken columns throw Their shadows on bare shingle; nought will grow For miles around save thin scorched grass that feeds A few lean goats, and some few clumps of reeds Where there is water. Oh, the tract around Speaks utter desolation; and we found The task not easy even to collect The workmen we required. The heaps of wrecked And weed-grown marble where the spade was tried Had more than once been searched, and seemed to hide Nought worth men’s pains--at most some shattered bit Of Greco-Roman sculpture; but we lit On some strange crypts; and in a few more days We had discovered a bewildering maze Of subterranean chambers, large and small, And catacomb-like passages, which all Were cut in soft dry stone, and stretched away Far underground, beyond the ruins that lay In the sun’s light; and all were wholly bare. Strongclyffe at once, pretending not to care For empty crypts, employed the men elsewhere; While he and I, by torch-light and alone, Explored the maze. But sometimes, as loose stone Obstructed here and there the way, we had A boy to help--a dull half-witted lad Of whom we felt no fear. For days we sought With boundless care, but all our searching brought Nothing to light; we sounded every wall, We grew familiar with each inch of all The lonely crypts; and even Strongclyffe seemed To grow depressed. But suddenly there gleamed Fresh ardour in his eyes: “Look there!” he said, And showed me something like an arrow’s head Cut in the wall; a small, scarce visible mark Which led to others like it through the dark Perplexing crypt; and where the last marks were We scrutinized the wall with greater care, And found its surface rougher, as if there It had been tampered with. “This is the spot,” He whispered. “She is here;” and having got A pick, he struck. And as, beneath the stroke Of Vulcan’s hammer once, the aching brow Of Zeus was cleft for Pallas’ birth, so now The stricken cloven stone exposed to sight The long-sought Goddess; and the flickering light Of the red torch flashed in a tremulous flood Upon her golden breastplate as she stood Intact, in all the glory and the glow Of her incomparable beauty.

So Was she discovered; I must now compel My weak and miserable self to tell How she was lost. There was no time to lose, And we agreed, or rather Strongclyffe chose That he should start at once for the chief town Of that wild province, as he long had known The there commanding Pasha, to obtain A guard of men; while I was to remain To watch the workmen. He was to be back Within three days. Alas! I had no lack Of buoyant thoughts at first; my soul was filled With our immense success; my nerves still thrilled With triumph and delight; and the first day Of Strongclyffe’s absence lightly passed away. The men worked on as usual, and my mind Conceived no fear. But when the sun declined There crept across my spirit, with the tide Of slowly creeping shadow as day died, A vague uneasiness; and my hands felt For the revolver hanging at my belt, I thought; and I remembered that when we Had found the prize, we were not two but three. The boy had seen the whole; and though I knew That he was dull of wit and had no clue To find the spot again in that vast maze Of hidden crypts and subterranean ways, I wished he had not seen. The men had gone Back to their distant huts. I sat alone Upon a broken column; one by one The large stars twinkled forth from out the blue; The shattered standing columns dusky grew, And very solemn; and the wakening bat Began to flit around me. As I sat, I thought of Strongclyffe’s generosity; How he had said ere setting out that I, His faithful friend, must have an equal share In the world’s praise; that it would not be fair That I----

O God!

I gave a strangled shout And fell, dragged backwards by a noose about My throat. Three men were kneeling on my chest Binding me tight with cords, while others pressed All round about me, uttering no sound As if all dumb. When I was firmly bound All save my feet, which, purposely let loose To let me walk, were in a running noose, One of the men addressed me: “Listen well To what I say,” he said. “If you rebel We take your life; and none can help you now. We have no wish to harm you; but we know That you have found a treasure, and have got The clue. Lead on.”

“I understand you not,” I said. He took a pistol from his sash And held it at my ear. “Come, be not rash,” He said, “but lead the way.” Oh, would to God That he had fired! But though like a mere clod I still moved not, he did not fire, but placed Once more the gleaming pistol in his waist, And whispered with the others; then they drew The cords still tighter round my limbs, and threw My unresisting body on the bed In my own hut hard by. “Mark well,” they said, “Ere dawn we come. Thy blood be on thy head!”

At first I had no thoughts, nought but the sense Of cramped and swelling limbs, and an intense Desire to burst my bonds. But by-and-by A sense of infinite calamity Began to weigh upon me; and at last, The sense came home that time was slipping fast, That I was there to make an awful choice ’Twixt Life and Death; and then an inner voice Began to state the argument each way, Not clearly, coldly, as I may to-day Do in this letter, but confused, close-pressed, Repeated and repeated in my breast In every shape, until my weary brain, Exhausted by the conflict and the pain, Yielded to sleep. And even in my sleep The struggle still went on; I felt it keep Possession of my dreams, and take the shape Of shifting nightmare, leaving no escape. I saw the glorious Pallas, calm no more, But threatening and terrific, kneeling o’er My prostrate body, with red eyes that gleamed So fiery in the darkness, that it seemed As if one of the Furies had put on Her golden panoply. Then, wild and wan, I saw the face of Strongclyffe looming out From a black whirling gulf; and heard him shout Like some spent swimmer half sucked down. And there I think I woke, and with a vague despair Resumed the pleadings of each adverse side; While, ever louder, something in me cried: “Choose death, choose death! in fifty years from this, When thou art swallowed in the dark abyss Of Time, what will it be to thee or thine Whether thou diedst to-day at twenty-nine, Or knew’st old age? But man whom Time devours Not, and who lives by centuries, not hours, Will be possessed of one transcendent gift, To add to his small store of things that lift The soul to higher spheres--a gift from which Will flow perennial charm for poor and rich, For young and old. If but mankind could know That some great treasure lost long, long ago-- A famed Greek play, for instance--had been lost Because a certain man had grudged the cost Of his brief life to save it, that man’s name, For ever handed down in scorn and shame, Would be all nations’ by-word. Who can say That some great work which man enjoys to-day-- The Melos statue, Hamlet or Macbeth, Or the Gioconda--was not saved from death, In some great unknown peril that it ran, By some unknown, unthanked and nameless man Who gave his life instead? And then, in place Of something rarer yet, wouldst have the face To give the world thy mean half-wasted life With which it can do nought? Thou hast no wife, No child to need thy care. Choose death, choose death, While yet ’tis time!”

But oh the pleasant breath Of life; the strong, strong stream of youth and health That bounds along the veins; the unused wealth Of what we call the Future, with its schemes, Emotions, friendships, loves, surprises, dreams; The thing we call Identity, the I To which the wretched cling, they know not why, And which no evils press me to destroy; The simple pleasures which I now enjoy-- What, give up all? What right has Fate, what right, To thrust me from Life’s hearth into the night, The darkness and the cold? What right or need Has Fate to come, and while I sit and read Life’s pleasant page, to summon me to shut The open book, and leave two thirds uncut? Who dares to tell me that a living man Whom God has made, who feels the cool winds fan His heated brow, is not in God’s sight worth A thing that is man’s work, upon this earth? My life is mended now; each passing day Now rolls, though idly, harmlessly away. The bright green fields, the flowers and the trees, The rippling streams, the sun, the passing breeze, The million things that in their life rejoice And gladden mine, call out with mighty voice, “Choose life, choose life!”

And when at dawn they came, And bade me show the spot--O shame! O shame! I nodded an assent. Oh let me now, With shame’s familiar brand upon my brow, For once spare my base self, and hurry by Those monstrous minutes! Slowly, silently, I led them to the spot. I saw their eyes With excusable rapture scan the prize To which their souls were dead. I saw them take Their hatchets in their impious hands, and break Into small fragments hideous to behold, And shapeless dust of ivory and of gold, The beauty which the world would have despaired To match, and twenty centuries had spared In vain--in vain! Awhile, I think, I heard Ferocious wrangling, oath and threatening word Over the booty; but my sickened brain Took little note. And when I sought again To see and hear and think, all sounds had ceased; I was alone, and free.