Part 3

"Let us go out into the desert. I do not like this place. The water is not good; the air is heavy; it is a morass; the home of frogs and the abode of scorpions. At night I lie awake, looking through the door of our cabin, and I see the moonlight lying upon the water, and I hear a chorus of frogs; all night I hear the croaking of the frogs. It will make me mad."

"Last night you crept into my arms and slept like a child," said Adam. "You did not stir all night; but I lay awake looking at the moonlight and listening to the frogs. They chanted a spell to fill my soul with terror, and the moon also was full of evil. Then the whole earth dissolved like a dream, and the stars vanished as things that slip through water; and I seemed to be falling, falling through an endless sea of moonlight, falling towards the moon, and beyond the moon there was nothing; but I felt you in mine arms, and I did not dare to move, lest you, too, should vanish with the world. This vision was sent to me by God that I might learn how unsubstantial is the world, as if it were but the shadow of His thought, a dream within a dream."

"Do not let us talk of it," said Eve, trembling. "Perhaps if I had not been here you would have fallen into nothing. It was because you held me that you did not fall. This place will make me mad. Why are the leaves falling from the trees?"

"I do not know."

"The palm-trees in the desert do not lose their leaves. My heart is sick for the palm-trees in the desert with the little slender moon shining above them, and shining at the bottom of the deep wells. My heart is sick for the song of the nightingales. Why have the tops of the mountains turned white?"

"I do not know," answered Adam; "but once I saw from the desert a range of mountains, and their tops were white. They also had trees; but the leaves of the trees did not fall. These trees must be dead. Some great unhappiness is come upon the world. Last night I was cold."

"The sand of the desert is always warm," said Eve.

"O Eve, I am unhappy," said Adam, after a silence; "I do not know what has come upon the world. Last night when you crept into mine arms I was troubled; never before have I been troubled while you were with me; but last night, when you touched me, I trembled. I was unhappy, and I did not know why I was unhappy; but I feared to lose you, Eve. Though I touched you it seemed that you were far away. You were but a child when I first saw you with your mother; and I was twelve years old. It was last moon that we came together again; in the day that the djinns came down from the mountains and slew our kinsfolk. I was pasturing the sheep, and as I came back, leading my flock with my pipe, I saw the dying embers and the dead bodies. Then you called to me, and we fled together. Do you remember? That night we slept in the desert. I did not tremble when you touched me. You will never leave me, Eve? We are alone in the world. There are only ourselves, and the angels and the djinns."

"The djinn who came to us yesterday has made us unhappy," said Eve. "He has withered the trees and made the tops of the mountains white."

"He was not a djinn," said Adam; "he was an angel. He smelt of roses, his raiment was wonderful, he was clothed in glory."

"What is that noise?" said Eve. "What is that pillar of cloud that goeth up out of the earth?"

And they saw in the distance the army of Merodach, and, being afraid, they fled.

"It is a pleasant site," said Merodach, as the elephants entered the valley; "the autumnal landscapes have always a certain melancholy which charms me."

"The fallen leaves in the valleys are like fallen light," said Mekerah; "that slender birch flamed yellow a moment ago, but, at a touch, went out in a shower of sparks."

"It must be delightfully cool in summer," said the Queen Parysatis.

"The best time is the spring," said the Princess Candace.

"The almond and cherry blossom will be out then," said Mekerah; "these slopes will be all pink and white, with petals drifting in the wind. The hyacinths and daffodils will be out then; and the red flower of Tammuz will fall upon the river."

"I should like to come here in the spring, and go naked, and live in a cabin of boughs like Adam," said the Princess Candace.

Adam could not be found. Merodach ordered that his men should encircle the whole valley, and drive whatever game there was toward him.

"In this way, if he is still here we shall find him; and in any case we shall have some sport."

Then the servants of Merodach drove all the game that was in Eden past the elephant of the Great King; and Merodach pierced the beasts and the birds with his arrows, and the herds of Adam were scattered in the wilderness, bleating dispersedly, and the hollow caves answered their bleating, while the ewes sought their lambs, and the she-goats the kids of the flock. But Adam, the servants of Merodach could not find. Then the slaves erected a pavilion of purple silk, upon which was embroidered the whole story of Ut-Napishtim and the flood; the gods cowering like dogs at the fury of Rimmon, while Ishtar cried like a woman in travail, and the Anunnaki brought lightnings; and the race of man strewn like leaves upon the waters; and the waters like a great host rioting in the fury of battle, white-plumed squadrons of angry and tumultuous waves. Yea, and therein was figured Ut-Napishtim looking from the window of the ark; and the sending forth of the birds, the sending of the dove, the sending of the swallow, and the sending of the raven, who saw the decrease of the waters, and ate, and waded, and croaked, and turned not back. And there was embroidered upon it the bow which Ishtar hung in the heavens, and the sacrifice which Ut-Napishtim offered unto the gods upon the mountain, setting Adagur vases seven by seven, strewing reeds, cedar-wood, and incense before them, so that the gods smelt the goodly savour, and gathered like flies over the sacrifice. The Princess Candace was delighted with the tapestry, which she had never seen before. Mekerah told her the story, handling the details with rare imagination, while the Princess ate larks stuffed with cherries. Then she turned toward Bagoas.

"Priest of Bel," she said, "how long is it since all this trouble came upon the world?"

And Bagoas smiled faintly, his smile expressive of many things.

"It happened, little Princess, in the time when the animals spoke with the tongues of men."

But the Princess found this chronology too vague.

"When did the animals speak the language of men?" she enquired.

"It is all a tale, little Princess. The animals never spoke as men do; but once upon a time the speech of men was like that of animals."

"Then it never happened?" enquired the Princess regretfully.

"No; it never happened," answered Bagoas.

But the King was outraged, for he claimed to be descended from Ut-Napishtim.

"Candace," he said, "the story is quite true. Gilgamesh builded a ship and pitched it within and without, and he took with him Ia-bani, and some chosen comrades, and journeyed over the waters which engirdle the earth, and he crossed the river of death, which flows round these waters without mixing with them, and he landed in the country of the shades. Then he dug a trench, and cut the throat of a black bull so that the blood flowed into the trench, and the shades flocked to drink of the warm blood; but Gilgamesh drove them from it with his sword until Ut-Napishtim came to drink of it, and had drank his fill. And of all these who came to drink of it only Ut-Napishtim and his wife had life and substance; but all the others were unsubstantial shades. Then Ut-Napishtim told Gilgamesh all the things which had befallen him in this life, and how that the gods had given him and his wife, alone of all human kind, imperishable bodies and immortal youth; but he said it was sad to dwell among the shades, whom he could not touch with his hands, and to see loved faces, which, whenever the wind blew, lost their remembered contours, and became as wreaths of vapour drifting over the desolate marshes. And he bade Gilgamesh to make haste and get him into his ship again, for that if night found him there, he would become even as the shades himself, and his bones would rot by the bitter flood. Then Gilgamesh made haste into his ship with his companions, and they lifted the creaking sail, and bent to the oars, and departed over the sea. But Ut-Napishtim stood upon the beach where the waves broke at his feet, and his eyes strained after the vessel; for he was like an exile there, who sees a ship bound to his own country, and his heart goes with it. So the body of Ut-Napishtim stood upon the beach, but his heart was with the living offspring of his race; for a long time he stood thus, until the ship was a mere speck on the waters, while tears blinded his eyes; then he sighed and went back into the shadowy ways of that twilit land."

His audience listened to Merodach with astonishment, his voice was full of emotion. He had hurried through the story, careless of whither it led him, like a man blind with grief, who stumbles against all the obstacles in his path. When he had finished there was silence.

"And Gilgamesh," he added after a pause, "wrote all these things in a book, which is preserved in the Temple of Bel at Nippur."

He glanced at Bagoas indignantly as he spoke. Bagoas was eating a dish of leverets stewed with rice and prunes; he looked up from his plate, and wiped his mouth with a fine napkin.

"There is preserved in our Temple at Nippur a book which purports to be the work of Gilgamesh," he said. "It is the work of a poet, such a history as Mekerah might invent for you, which it would be ridiculous to consider as a true and serious narrative of actual events."

Mekerah caught a malicious glance from the Queen Parysatis, and rose angrily.

"There is, O Priest, a higher truth and a higher seriousness," he said. "In the epic of Gilgamesh is enshrined the religious consciousness of Babylonia. It is sacred. It is not to be touched. It contains those great truths which are not a peculiar feature of any one age, but are true for all time. It was directly inspired by Bel, and shall we set our pitiful human wisdom above the wisdom of the divine word?"

Bagoas once again wiped his mouth before he began to speak.

"I deny," he said, "that it has any truth as an historical document. It is valuable, historically, as an instance of the narrow limits of human knowledge in the age which produced it. That is all its value to the historian. Its value to the theologian is different. He finds in it the first concrete expression of man's relation to God, as he understands it. The truth may be veiled in a mist of fable and metaphor, but he feels it to be there. At the same time, he gives it an extended sense, and interprets it in a larger spirit than that in which it was originally interpreted. It means to us at once something more and something less than it did to the ancient world; for religion is not a definite revelation of an eternal truth, but the contemplation of the unknown from the sum of man's experience. It is consequently susceptible of infinite development and extension, it reacts to every new discovery of science; and its chief glory is that it is part of man's daily life.

"We, the priests of Bel, recognise our sacred books as the starting-point of a living, growing truth; in our hands is the duty of interpreting it, and our interpretation is of the nature of a commentary. We are continually rejecting some details as unsound, and developing others to the utmost limits of their power; that is our value and duty as an hierarchy: to criticise, to prune, to graft. And if we consider the nature of the books, in which are enshrined those great spiritual truths, we see how necessary this work of selection and rejection is; for they do not form one inseparable, concrete whole, but each has arisen under the impulse of different circumstances, each had its own separate development and origin before it became joined on to the main body.

"Before philosophy came into being men spoke in fables, and their minds, not being able to grasp as yet the significance of abstract ideas, dealt exclusively with things and actions. They were curious of the destiny of man after death, and they felt the need for some answer, so they imagined the hero, the Babylonian semi-divinity, Gilgamesh, setting out on a ship fashioned by human hands to bring them back the answer which they needed. For us it was the first voyage of man's mind into the unknown, the first adventure beyond the realm of actualities, and as such it demands our reverence. We do not, however, believe either in Gilgamesh, Ia-bani, or the ship which crossed the river of death. The story is a mere fable, and the actions described in it are only the unconscious vehicles of a half-recognised truth, or rather of the germ of a new spirit. There is only one form of truth, and one form of seriousness."

He drank a little wine.

"Let us walk in the garden," said Merodach.

* * * * *

Merodach, after a moment's consideration, found that the conclusions of Bagoas with reference to the epic of Gilgamesh were reasonable, so he conversed with the High-priest amiably as they walked by the river. The Princess Candace interrupted the conversation.

"Yesterday was my birthday, and you have given me no present, now let me ask one," she said.

"Ask then," said Merodach, smiling.

"Give me this garden to be my garden, and build me a palace where Adam had his cabin of boughs; a little palace of blue porcelain, which I may visit in the spring, and in the hot months of the year, and set at all the entrances into the valley great winged cherubim, that the wandering tribes may see that it is a royal palace, and fear to enter."

"So be it," said the King; and the Princess went off to inspect the site of the new palace.

"She is discreet, and charming, wise beyond her years," said Merodach. "We shall consider the son of Na'amah, my cousin, at Nippur. How is he called?"

"His name is Adamaharon," answered Bagoas, smiling; "and he is even now on his way to visit me at Uruk, where he has never been. He may turn aside to hunt. It is his ambition at present to kill a lion, for which he has a permit from the King's huntsman."

"He shall hunt with me," said the King; "but the Princess is still a little young for marriage."

She, unconscious of her fate, drew close to the cabin of Adam. That part of the valley had been deserted by the King's servants, and she was alone. She saw the glitter of a spear which lay in the doorway, and then the eyes of a young man watching her.

"I came for an apple," she said, turning toward the tree in the branches of which the great snake hung; "but Adam must have eaten them all."

"There is one at the top of the tree," said the boy. "Look! right at the top."

"It is too high. Perhaps you could knock it down with your spear?"

"That would bruise it. I shall climb up and get it for you."

He swung himself up, avoiding the great snake which looked at him warily.

"Do not go any higher," cried the Princess; "the branch will break, and you will be killed."

But he laughed at her, and climbing higher seized the apple, then the branch did break. She screamed a little.

"You are bruised instead of the apple," she said, as he picked himself up.

He laughed.

"I have done wonderful things to-day," he said. "At dawn I killed a lion; and at eve I got an apple for a Princess."

"But are you not one of the court-pages? I thought you were. Who are you to kill lions, which are preserved for the King?"

"I am Adamaharon, the son of Na'amah, the cousin of the King."

She offered him the apple, and he bit a large piece out of it.

"Come and look at the lion's skin," he said, and led her into Adam's cabin. She felt a curious pleasure in being with him, and listened with delight to the story of how he killed the lion. But they did not talk much, they seemed to understand each other so well that they had nothing to say; and at last they kissed each other.

It was at that precise moment, when their souls seemed to meet with their lips that Merodach entered. For a moment he paused, anger falling about him like darkness in which all things writhed, confused. Then he drew his sword. The Princess Candace fell before him and embraced his knees; he was lifting the sword to strike her when Bagoas seized his arm.

"It is the son of Na'amah," he said quickly.

The King paused, and then lowered his sword slowly. He stared at the young man in silence, and the young man met his gaze quietly. Then the King let his eyes wander over the other's form, and he saw that the young man was well-thewed, spare, and muscular, with a beauty to make him desired of the maidens; and his heart softened toward his cousin's son.

"You are Adamaharon," he said slowly, as he sheathed his sword. "I had intended to send for you to come unto Uruk, that I might wed you to my daughter. This is the will of the gods, and it is mine, also."

The young man came to him, and bowed down before, touching his feet; and Merodach let his hand rest upon the bowed head, caressing the thick curls.

"A young lion of our race," said Merodach exultingly; "look at the yellow mane rippling over the firm neck. A child of my cousin Na'amah. A child of the race of the gods."

And he embraced Adamaharon kindly, and he raised up Candace and kissed her fondly, bidding her go to her mother, and tell her how she had found a husband in the cabin of Adam. And Candace left them; and as she went she wept, for her fear had given place to joy. Then Adamaharon rose up, and stood before the King.

"I have done wonderful things to-day," he said proudly. "At dawn I slew a lion; and at eve I kissed the desire of my heart. My mouth is filled with honey."

"It is the will of the gods," said Merodach.

Then he began to lead the son of Na'amah toward the river where the Queen Parysatis was listening to her daughter's tale; but Bagoas paused before the apple-tree and looked into the eyes of the great serpent.

"It is the will of the gods," he said, with his ironical smile. "I am but their minister, the mere instrument of their designs; so what part shall I claim in this adventure?"

The snake watched him fixedly.

"The boy is like a son to me," said Bagoas. "He was born to be fortunate."

And then he followed them toward the river, leaving the wise snake wreathed in the branches of the fruitless tree.

On the journey back to Uruk the three royal elephants walked abreast. Adamaharon rode with Merodach, Bagoas with the Princess Candace, and the Queen Parysatis with her attendant poet. And Adamaharon made delicate songs for his beloved.

"The old look upon the stars," he sang; "but I look into the eyes of my beloved. What stars are like her eyes? What wisdom can compare with the wisdom of love?"

"He is a true poet," said Parysatis to Mekerah. "What spirit, what fire!"

"I have said the same thing an hundred times," said Mekerah crossly.

"Precisely," said Parysatis; "he has said it once, perfectly."

"The kisses of her mouth are sweeter than honey," sang Adamaharon; "more fragrant than apples. She has filled me with the joy of morning, and gladdened my soul as with wine."

Bagoas leaned toward the Queen's elephant.

"Adam said of love that----"

But the Queen put a finger on her lips.

"I do not believe that Adam ever existed," she said.

Bagoas, looking at Candace, smiled.

* * * * *

But many years afterwards a woman sitting by the door of a hut in the desert, watching the quiet stars quicken as the day died, drew two young boys toward her, and told them the story of the garden. Her face was tranquil, like the face of one who has grief for a companion; and the boys were clothed in goat-skins.

"And," she said, looking into the embers of the fire, "the man counselled me to eat, saying, if ye eat of the fruit ye shall know."

Adam suddenly appeared in the firelight. He had heard the last words.

"It was the serpent," he said suspiciously. "You always told me it was the serpent."

And Eve answered quickly, drawing her children closer to her.

"Yea, it was the serpent! I forgot. It was the serpent!"

_TO MRS SHAKESPEARE_

II

AT THE HOUSE OF EURIPIDES

II

AT THE HOUSE OF EURIPIDES

Euripides ordered the tables to be removed, and then some musicians entered, followed by a girl, who danced as Persephone among the flowers of Enna. While the guests were admiring the grace of her gestures, and the swift movements of her thin, naked feet, Callias came in with Lysis and Antisthenes. They had been unable to come earlier; and after making their excuses to Euripides, Callias and Antisthenes took a couch close by Protagoras, and Lysis went to Socrates. The company included Glaucon, Hermogenes, Pythodorus, Philip the buffoon, who never missed a feast, and Apollodorus, the friend of Socrates. Protagoras had a couch to himself on the right of Euripides, who was also without a companion. Others came in during the evening until the room was very full. When the girl had finished her dance there was a murmur of admiration, and she leaned back on the bench, smiling with pleasure, her slim body trembling and palpitating beneath its crocus-coloured veils.

"You are magnificent, Euripides," said Socrates. "You not only feast us sumptuously; but you amuse us with dancing and music."

"I am glad that you are amused, Socrates. Why are you so silent to-night?"

"I feel like one about to be initiated into the mysteries. When there are so many older and wiser men than myself present I listen rather than talk. It is more interesting. I wish that I had come with flowers and ribbons like Lysis, so that I might have occupied myself in making a garland. Are you going to crown Protagoras when he has read his discourse, Lysis?"

"Yes, Socrates; Callias said it would be worthy of a crown."

"Protagoras must be the happiest of men." said Socrates. "He has health, riches, and honour from all. I am impatient to hear what he has to say."

"I am old," said Protagoras, "and like to rest a little while after eating; but I shall not keep you long. In the meantime, why do you not have a discussion with Euripides?"

"Well, as you have given me leave to speak, I should like to ask Euripides a few questions."

"Very well," said Euripides.

"Do not encourage him," shouted Philip. "If he once begins asking questions we shall not know where we are. He will tell us that Protagoras is not Protagoras, and that this banquet is not a banquet."

"Why do you attack me like this, Philip? What harm have I ever done to you?" said Socrates.

"Why, ever since you have taken to frequenting the tables of the rich you have done me harm," said Philip, with a pretence to excitement. "At one time I was always a welcome guest; but since you have come upon the scene no one laughs at me. Your talk is all about justice, wisdom, and virtue. What does a poor man like myself know of such things? But these are all that amuse the company now; and, if I want a dinner in mine old age, I shall have to play the sophist too."

Philip was a great favourite with the company, and his exaggerated gestures as he railed at Socrates amused them extremely. He advanced into the middle of the room.

"Laugh at me as you will," he cried; "it is true. Socrates cannot deny it. The more wine a man has now, the more solemn he looks; until sometimes I think I have strayed to a funeral instead of to a feast. If I chose, I could be the greatest sophist of you all. I should teach you not only the knowledge of good, and truth, and virtue, but the knowledge of all things."