Part 6

His interests extended in many directions: he was concerned in the mines of Spain; he owned a fleet of ships which sailed to Rome, and beyond, even to Corinth; his agents followed the army to buy slaves; and he lent money, though principally for political purposes, to the young officials, half civil and half military, for whom the government of a province was a means to fortune and imperial favour at Rome. At first this villa in the country had been used only in the hottest months of the year, and the site chosen because there seemed always to be some mysterious currents of air flowing about it from the cool hills toward the sea, and because innumerable springs had their sources in the rocks; but gradually there woke in him that living interest in rural pleasures and labours, which was always an instinct with the Romans even during their worst decadence; he became glad at any time to visit it, and drink in its mild delicious air in that peaceable garden overlooking the mysterious sea.

The need for leisure grew upon him, and he added a wing to the originally modest house in order that he might transport thither his libraries from Gades; he transported also his Greek statues, his tables of citrus wood and ivory, his myrrhine vases; he built a roofed colonnade, pierced with windows on both sides, and with movable shutters, so that the weather-side might be closed at will; he devised rooms to catch all the winter sun, and rooms shaded by vines which were cool through the hottest days; he built sumptuous baths, and a new triclinium, and new guest-chambers; by every window, colonnade, and walk he planted roses and violets to sweeten the air; and he stocked his fish ponds with rare fish for the table.

But in spite of the later more sumptuous buildings, and new elegances which he brought with him, he did not forget that he had come into the country in order to be with the elementary conditions of life. He felt very near to this earth which furnished him with everything he ate. From the time the wheat was sown until it came upon his table in little loaves it had been handled by none except his own slaves. At the vintage, he would go out to the wine-press and gaze on the wine-jars, as they were carried into the cellar to stand with the older jars, in which mellowed the fragrance of earlier autumns; and day after day, in a broad-brimmed hat and worn military cloak, he would walk down to the farm and listen to the pleasant, familiar noises, the clamour of the geese, the lambs calling to their full mothers, the cooing of the pigeons in the tower, the murmur of the bees about the populous hives; and the children hung shyly about him, for he generally brought them some nuts, and would tempt the wild-eyed things toward him, holding the nuts in his open hand, as a man might tempt a bird with crumbs.

He was still fond of hunting, fond of the deep shadow of the woods, the stealthy alertness, the cunning and science of wood-craft, he felt that he could best repel the advance of age by such exercises; but even in the woods perhaps his chief pleasure was in a kind of meditation, a conversation with himself, induced by that silence which the sport imposed; and, when the boars had been finally driven into the nets and slain, he would sit beside them, eating bread which he dipped in wine, and writing on his tablets, in a small, fine hand, the thoughts suggested by the day's journey. It seemed to him that the physical exercise, the free play of the air on face and limbs, awakened an equal vivacity and alertness in the mind; and that Minerva, no less than Diana, was a goddess of the deep solitudes. Two Roman officers from Gades, Sulpicianus Rufus and Marcus Licinius were his usual hunting companions.

After his morning exercise, Serenus was used to take a cold bath, and then sleep for a little while during the heat of the day. Coming from his bath one morning, a little before noon, he found his two friends in the hall.

"Seneca is dead;" was the news they brought him.

Then, in one of the libraries, he learned the details.

Rufus had been a friend of Seneca, and the story had come direct to him. The three friends were strangely moved. Marcus and Serenus listened in silence as Rufus described the scene at the villa.

"He asked for his will, that he might make some bequests to his friends; but this was forbidden. Turning then, to his wife and the two friends who were dining with him, he said that since Nero had murdered his mother and brother it was not to be expected that he might spare the instructor of his youth. Paulina desired to die with him, and the physician opened the veins of both. But Seneca's blood would not flow, and he drank poison; finally, he was carried to a warm bath, and died. Paulina's wounds were bound up, by command of Nero, and she still lives."

"She is more to be pitied," said Serenus. "What others died?"

Rufus gave their names.

"Lucan, too!" exclaimed Serenus. "Does Gallio still live?"

"I have not heard of his death; but it is impossible that he would escape."

"Yes," said Serenus; "Seneca's family is annihilated. It is like the working of Nemesis. We have been the spectators of one of Fate's tragedies, which are so rare. It is complete, large, full of irony; and Seneca's own words, 'the murderer of his mother and brother would not spare the instructor of his youth!' One thinks of them less as Seneca's own words, than as the sardonic comment of a later historian. They are too apt."

"You were not one of Seneca's friends," said Rufus.

"No," said Serenus; "Nero is the direct result of Seneca's teachings. So brutal a voluptuary could hardly issue from any but a Stoic school. It is at once raw, crude, and narrow; it coarsens our natural appetites instead of refining them. For Stoicism the human emotions, love and pity, are but weaknesses, which it denies and attempts to stifle. It is very far from the secret of human sympathy. Nero as a young man had many excellent qualities, which an artistic and delicate training might have developed into fine accomplishments: he might have learned the art of life; and instead he has learned only rhetoric, the sort of rhetoric that vitiates every action, and makes our emotions the subject for a stage declamation, makes life a mere piece of acting. Yet I must not forget, Rufus, that Seneca was your friend. Perhaps he was better than his philosophy; but I have never been able to forgive him either for his adulation of Claudius during his life, or his satire upon him after his death."

"Seneca was un-Roman," said Marcus.

"Why do you say that?" enquired Serenus.

"All his ideals were un-Roman," answered Marcus. "His notions of the brotherhood and natural equality of man, his unpractical nature and sentimentalism, his absolute lack of a grasp upon realities and their significance, his condemnation of war and of slavery. His life was composed almost entirely of noble maxims, and of trivial actions."

"He died well," said Rufus tersely.

"A final gesture," said Marcus, rubbing his arm. "We Romans are superbly self-conscious. We die in public, with appropriate speeches."

"What you think peculiar to Seneca, his sentimentalism and idealism, are really parts of the present spirit, and common to all schools," answered Serenus. "Rome has broken down the ancient national barriers, and given to all peoples the notion of humanity as a whole. It is from this cause that the idea of a world-state has its origin. But Rome governs by force; other nations are tributary to her; she has enslaved them; they are the base upon which she has raised her grandeur. They feel that they are unjustly treated. We have created new conditions. We have shut them off from their legitimate activities by refusing to allow them to govern themselves, or to make war upon their neighbours; so that the whole life of the Empire is centralised in Rome, and the provinces have become stagnant. And from these new conditions has been born a new spirit. Life seems too full of suffering; the poor and the oppressed are many, and because they are so many they are becoming articulate. They would build a new heaven and a new earth. I learnt of this first at Corinth."

"The whole corruption of the world comes from the Greeks and the Jews," said Rufus contemptuously. "What is the use of clamouring against life? It is a problem that we must each solve for ourselves, and no theory will help us. If society were wrong, if Rome were wrong, if force were wrong, we should not be sitting here in comparative comfort. To talk of the tyranny of the State is nonsense; individual liberty is what each man wins for himself, and the State merely offers the most convenient mechanism by which it may be gained. As an example we have the growth of a large class of rich freedmen. The disease, from which we are suffering at present, is simply a form of sentimentality. What is morality? What is justice? What is good? The only answer is: 'That which law orders.'"

"Do you believe in the gods, Rufus?" enquired Marcus, with amusement.

"I follow the customs of my forefathers," answered Rufus bluntly.

"The gods are dead," said Marcus, still rubbing his arm.

"They are not dead," answered Serenus gently; "but they have changed their names. The people will always worship the same Divinity, the Giver of rain and good crops and victory in battle, and health in life, and peace toward death."

"I never understood Seneca's philosophy; but I loved the man," said Rufus. "The greater part of him was weakness, but he had strength. He was a good man of business, Serenus."

"He was a clever man, with admirable opportunities," answered Serenus. "I am an Epicurean, and Seneca's teaching is not mine. Yet, in some of its details his teaching is also Epicurean. With him, philosophy was less an affair of the mind than of the imagination, and of good taste; it is always the artist, the orator, who is teaching, and his eloquence is never quite persuasive, because the artist is never quite persuaded. He belongs to no school, he is an eclectic; and he seeks rather to inculcate the practice of virtue than to show what virtue is. He neither asks nor answers a question. The vices and weaknesses which he condemned in others he had found in himself; his was a subjective, a poetic, a romantic mind. And it was precisely for this reason that his disciples loved him, because of that emotional and many coloured nature, which saw virtue, the most austere virtue, ever as a god, and found it unattainable."

"Yes, that is true," said Rufus.

"But did Seneca believe in the gods, and in the immortality of the soul?" enquired Marcus.

Serenus smiled.

"Yes," he answered; "Seneca spent his whole life in seeking for the truth, but the truth for which he sought was one which should be agreeable to his own nature. A divinity was necessary to his well-being. He speaks of a loving God, of a God who orders the world aright and whose will we should obey without a murmur; and in consequence his hatred for the Epicureans was great. He could not forgive us for showing the gods serene and untroubled in their abode, into which penetrates no whisper of mortal anguish; and for saying that no voice of prayer troubles their endless pleasure, and that without tears or anger they gaze at once upon our sorrow and our sin, and are heedless of the hands uplifted in supplication from every corner of the earth. Yes; God is necessary to a Stoic. But we Epicureans have called upon the gods and they have not answered us; we have sought them throughout the world and have not found them; neither are they in the seas nor in the skies; we have not seen them destroy the wicked nor protect the innocent; we think that they are not interested in our humble affairs; they are neither our masters nor our creators, but belong to the same order of things as we do, though of a finer and less perishable nature: if, indeed, they exist at all."

"Stoicism is a hatred of humanity," said Marcus; "perhaps Epicureanism is a love of it. Rufus, do you not think the Epicureans are clever? They do not deny the existence of gods; but they make their gods of such a divinely intangible substance that doubt becomes in itself almost an act of worship. It is as if they feared to profane the sanctuary with human feet soiled by the dust of travail."

"I have given you my opinion of philosophy and philosophers," said Rufus. "Once a man begins to think of the difference between right and wrong he is lost, morally and mentally. I studied philosophy in order to learn how to write despatches; and in the short course I took, I acquired enough knowledge of the subject to know that good and evil belong to the category of reflex actions, they are spasmodic movements over which we have no control. Do I praise my legionaries because they are brave? I do, as a matter of fact. It makes an admirable prelude to the imposition of another task. Seneca imagined that men could be disciplined into virtue. It was a great mistake, because discipline is not applicable to the individual, it is only applicable to a crowd. It is easy to fill a regiment with courage; but it is impossible to make one man brave."

"You do not think that it is possible to form individual habits?" said Serenus.

"Yes, of course," answered Rufus; "it is possible to accustom a man to sleep on a hard bed, to deny himself wine or flesh, even in some degree to control his temper. But an action is good or bad, only in so far as it is a reflex action."

"What you say is very curious," said Serenus quickly.

"In fact Rufus is a complete philosopher," said Marcus, laughing. "I should like to drink a little wine."

Serenus struck a sounding-bowl of silver, and a Greek boy entered.

"Wine," said Serenus, and the boy left them. "Rufus, you have heard of a sect of Jews called Christians; do you know their belief?"

"No," said Rufus contemptuously; "I only know that it is against the Jewish religion to pay tribute. I believe that they have no religion; they are contemptuous of all known gods; they will eat no flesh which has been offered in the temples; and they loathe the whole human race: a feeling which, I think, is reciprocated. The Christians seem to be one of the numerous sects given over to the practice of a depraved and fantastic superstition. The East is full of such monstrous cults."

The Greek boy set wine before them, threw a few grains of incense on a brazier, and departed softly. Marcus drank a white Greek wine; Rufus poured himself out a large bowl of Falernian.

"I take mine with a great deal of water," said Serenus; "because my stomach is weak. Alas! sometimes I think it is my stomach which has taught me the virtue of moderation. I have heard a man, who was a Christian, speak in almost the identical words of Seneca. The cardinal point of his doctrine was not the Stoic apathy, but the recommendation of sympathy, that is the difference between them. Here and there he uses the same phrases and illustrations as Seneca. It shows how widespread the new spirit is."

"Seneca's teaching did not interest me," answered Rufus. "It was the man I loved. Though it is long since saw him, I cannot believe that he was contaminated by Judaism."

Serenus felt a curious desire to disburden himself.

"I went a great deal among the Christians once," he said softly.

The two men looked at him for a moment, with that curious expression of distrust which men adopt when another confesses to some social indiscretion.

"It was nearly nine years ago, and perhaps my nature resembled Seneca's then; my philosophy was an affair of the heart. I was seeking for a beauty that is not of this world. It was at Corinth. I met a man named Paul."

"All things are possible at Corinth," said Rufus. "Tell us your story, Serenus."

"And then we shall stay to dinner," said Marcus, as he finished his wine.

"It is a long story," said Serenus, smiling. "I have written it on a roll, and shall read it to you. Let us go out into the garden; it is cool and pleasant there now. Lysis will bring you what you want. Do you remember telling me, Rufus, that Seneca drew you to him by his weakness? Paul drew me to him by his strength."

* * * * *

Passing out of the library through the atrium the friends crossed a small courtyard enclosed on three sides, and turning sharp to the left began to climb the slope which sheltered the house. The walk was shaded by a thick hedge of ilex, and there were tall, slim cypresses at irregular intervals. Leaving the path, they crossed a plot of grass, starry with little flowers, and, passing through a thicket of myrtles, came presently to a semicircular stone seat shaded by beeches which stood, eastward, a little way behind it. Falling water tinkled like little silver bells somewhere close to them; and the leaves made a pleasant whispering noise. Lysis covered the seat with rugs, and left them. The seat faced westward, overlooking the olive-yards which the winds flushed to silver; and the friends had a magnificent view of the Atlantic. In the declining light the distant promontories, blue and lemon, seemed to jut out into a bath of liquid colours, as if suspended in the vague; and the horizon was indeterminate. A fleet of fishing-boats, some miles from the shore, seemed like small, brown moths with motionless wings that had settled upon a flat screen of transparent blue gauze, and about them the light gleamed and flickered upon innumerable little dancing waves. It was all blue and green, but so pale and silent as to seem a mirage. Marcus, lounging easily upon the wide seat, looked over the prospect with unconscious enjoyment. Rufus sat with his chin in his hands.

"I love to sit here on tranquil evenings," said Serenus; "and listen for the cry of the halcyon, or the heavy plunge of a dolphin, drifting up through the delicious air from the bay."

He unrolled his manuscript, and presently began to read, in a smooth, low voice:--

* * * * *

"When Venus rose out of the foam and froth of Ocean it was upon the prow of a Phœnician trader, that carried her into every part of the known world; and when her worship fell away and her votaries became few, the cult of Venus Pandemos still flourished at Corinth, and her temples there were served by a thousand priestesses. There she loves to have her abiding place, where she can look out upon two seas, and watch the sail-winged ships bringing her tribute from distant lands; she is the lure, beckoning them over the pathless sea. The port Cenchrea is surrounded by green hills and pine forests, and through the stone-pines at dawn the sun sends his first level rays, so that their trunks show black against the gold. The streets are infested with traders of all nations; Jews and Syrians swarm there; child courtesans with delicate and innocent faces pluck strangers by the sleeve and smile; the quays and streets are crowded with the booths of merchants and moneychangers, whose gay awnings striped red or yellow glare vividly in the sunlight; and doves are everywhere, fluttering about the streets, fanning the air with a soft pulse of wings, alighting upon awnings and architraves to preen their feathers, running swiftly among the passengers on their pink feet and cooing, cooing softly like the young girls who touch men on the sleeve, the very gentle, insinuating whisper of Aphrodite.

"I arrived at Corinth in the beginning of December, and remember well the gaiety, animation, and bustle of the scene as I watched it from the steps of the temple; for a long time I fed my sight upon that busy, amorous, wholly pleasure-loving crowd, until, at last, the red and yellow awnings so hot and vivid even in the winter sunlight, the perpetual passing to and fro of men and women, the continual change and motion of colours, and the humming noise, all combined in a curious hypnotic effect upon my nerves. What had seemed the very epitome of life became a mere stage-scene, and then again nothing but the dance of motes in a sunbeam.

"It irritated me and then tired me. I turned from the Temple of Venus and sought that of Apollo, where I rested a little time in peace. Then I went to the house of my agent, with whom I was to lodge until I had taken a house for my own use. The man was kindly, but tactless; his tedious anxiety to please distracted and irritated me, he was so much at my service that I could find no possible use for him. I said I wished to bathe, and my host insisted on coming with me. It was amusing to watch his air of importance as he conducted me through the crowded ways, for he was a notable person in the city, and every other man we met greeted us; as we paused a moment before a funeral procession I heard a voice saying: 'That is Serenus, a cousin of Acte's Serenus,' and once again I felt the intolerable stare of curious eyes, that dropped obsequiously when I met them. After my bath, my host led me to the Prefect's palace, for I had letters to Gallio, and then at last he left me. Gallio received me charmingly; his manners are those of a man who has known and forgotten everything. He begged me to dine, and to stay with him until I had found a house; but I excused myself on the score of business and fatigue. He smiled, answered that he would always be glad of my company, and I left him.

"Once again in the streets, that vivid and passionate life appealed to me with a new sympathy; I read beneath the superficial gaiety and glitter, the human tragedy, the flight of pleasures and the irrevocable advance of death; women passed me in soft murmuring draperies, smiled at me languorously and passed on leaving the air tainted with Eastern perfumes. I noticed that even as they smiled their eyes were wistful. The delicate winter sunset began. I called a boy to me and asked him to guide me to the house of Caius, whom I wished to see personally on some business connected with the outfit of my ship. He led me to a house in the Jews' quarter and I tapped at the door. A freedwoman admitted me, looked at me with surprise, and was just going to speak but changed her mind and led me toward the doorway of a room whence came a sound of some one reading. Light fell through the doorway as she drew back the curtain; and she motioned me to enter; but I drew back in astonishment, for a voice was reading aloud these words: 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And if I give away in food all my goods, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.'

"The grave voice ceased, for the servant had beckoned the reader, and presently Caius came toward me. I gave him my orders with reference to the sails and tackling of my ship, and spoke of other ships of mine which he had refitted for me; and then asked him what author he had been reading. For a moment he hesitated, and then answered that he had been reading to some friends a letter by Paul, an apostle of Christ. I enquired if I might look a little more closely at it as I had been interested in what I heard; and after hesitating again for a moment he brought it me. The scroll half opened in my hands and I read:--