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A CLUSTER OF FLOWERS
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THE CROCUS Spring.
THE ROSE Summer.
THE WATER-REEDS Autumn.
THE MARIGOLD Winter.
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THE CROCUS
“Temperance it a bridle of fold; he who uses it rightly is more like a god than a man” – BURTON.
I HAD been long ill all the dreary winter months had been spent by me on a sick bed, and it was already spring weather when at length my friends suffered me to emerge from my imprisonment, and to take my accustomed place in the family sitting-room.
Flowers were peering above the hard earth in the garden-beds, and here and there a bee hummed across the lawn, but the air was still bleak, and no one listened to my petition, “for a walk in the sunshine.” So I betook myself instead to a little conservatory connected with our parlour, and there having ensconced myself luxuriously in my arm-chair with my favourite book within reach, I fell into a reverie. At my feet, in a long porcelain box, bloomed a row of yellow crocuses, upon whose gay petals streamed a bright sunray, illumining them with a still richer gold than their own, and attracting my attention forcibly to their wealth of colour and beauty. And I, – always fond of mystic speculation, and now, perhaps in this first day of convalescence, unusually predisposed towards it, – fell, little by little, into a reverie over the symbolism of the beautiful flowers with which God so lavishly decks our earthly heritage; a symbolism which we, dimly apprehending, have sought to express and trans-late into common meaning, in our fanciful “language of flowers.” In that pretty poetic glossary, I knew that the crocus was adopted as the emblem of cheerfulness, and it was easy enough to perceive in the smiling aspect of the golden blooms before me, in what manner the connection between the earthborn type and its spiritual signification had been established. But this mere fantasy of correspondence between colour and quality did not satisfy me. I wished to explore the idea I had conceived to its utmost depth, and with this end in view I turned my thoughts on the nature of cheerfulness itself, and sought among its many manifestations for some clue to its true source. “What,” l asked myself, “is that condition of spirit which engenders cheerfulness?” The answers I returned myself were vague, – religion – a good conscience – health of mind, – all these seemed to me synonyms for general virtue. Then I called to my remembrance the classical story of the origin of the crocus, if perchance I might find in its details some indication of a mystical significance. But in vain; and so with
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my thoughts full of old-world mythologies, and of modern speculation, I yielded myself insensibly to the drowsy influence of the warm sunshine, and dropped into a pleasant sleep. And sleep suggested to me the parable I had vainly attempted to weave in my wakeful moments, – a parable tinctured indeed with my former conjectures, but so wonder-fully connected in its parts, and didactic in its signification, that on awaking, I deemed it worth while to write out the story of my dream as follows.
I thought I found myself standing in the very core and centre of a brilliant sunrise glory: in the midst of a dancing, sparkling, happy brightness, that bathed my face like the light of a summer’s morning, and tinted my dress with a sheen as of gold. And before me an apparition came out of the impalpable air, taking a misty substance and gathering shape and features like a cloud, – a fair spirit, radiant-eyed and buoyant, whose very presence distilled an atmosphere of warmth and genial kindliness. In the sweet wise countenance of the phantom, I noted an expression of homely grace, a human sympathy that freed me at once from all sense of awe and set me altogether at ease in the strange Presence. Then I perceived, as I looked steadily upon this bright spirit, that all her slender form and shining yellow robes, were illumined with the flame of a lamp which she carried within her transparent vest. And while I wondered at the sight, a clear childlike voice, less like music and more like a voice than I should have fancied possible to hear from such ethereal lips, addressed me thus in answer to my thoughts: –
“Daughter of earth, you know me well, I am the Spirit of the Crocus, the flower which is the emblem of cheerfulness. And I am cheerful because I am temperate. For it is temperance only that is able to beget true health of mind and of body, whence arises that joy and peace which no immoderate man can obtain. For cheerfulness, so precious in value, so pure in consistency, so attractive in brightness, so durable in quality, is indeed most fitly likened to refined and burnished gold, – a gold which cannot be bought by any wealth of earth, nor garnered by any avarice. And here, beneath my vesture, l bear in my bosom the light of the third holy Fire which burns before the Throne of God in heaven, (1) the Spirit of Counsel, which gives wariness of choice, and prudence, and power of judgment, and wise advice, adoring the blessed company of confessors in the kingdom of the Lord, with the grace of godliness, and giving to men of lowlier life the virtue of moderation and of
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self-control. For it is evident that a just regulation of life can proceed only from a right apprehension of its ends and its significance.”
She paused, floating before me in the sunny lustre that surrounded her; and, looking into her soft smiling eyes, I took occasion to praise her delicate beauty, and the golden brightness of her floating flower-like robe.
“Yet,” she rejoined gently, “the crocus is not merely fair to the eye, it has its hidden virtues and uses, and these are the similitude of Temperance. For its chives and filaments yield the golden saffron, with which in old times the Romans dyed the sacred garments of their augurs, and the marriage veils of their maidens; because to the Seer, yellow is the colour of counsel, and to the bride it is the emblem of gladness. And indeed, it was a very beautiful and significant custom that adorned the young wife with the vestment of cheerfulness and temperance. For it was a type that henceforward her chief duty should be to make home a place of smiles, and to rule her household in moderation and health and sobriety. Therefore also, to all the nations of the earth, saffron has been a balsam of healing and of gladness, – the companion of cassia, frankincense, and spikenard, betokening the counsel of Christ to His Church, a fragrant and pleasant balm in the treasure-garden of His Kingdom. (1)
“Yet more beside this I do, daughter of earth, for as a medicine I soothe, and warm, and sustain. I am an anodyne to assuage pain, I am a sudorific to reduce and temper, I am an aromatic cordial to comfort and invigorate. And all that I do for the body by means of extracted essence, temperance, whose symbol the crocus is, is able to do for the mind. For temperance is that virtue which like an anodyne allays the pangs of desire and intolerance, – like a sudorific humbles, chastens and subdues, – like a cordial cheers, strengthens and diffuses a pleasant warmth of charity and kindliness, so that it trebly enriches with the graces of moderation, limit, and regularity. It is that virtue which levels and restrains the mind of man in such manner that he shall be neither too greatly elated by success, nor too much depressed by misfortune; it moderates his passions, rules his expectations, preserves his health, and secures him from the agitation with which the passing affairs of life affect the luxurious and misgoverned. Temperance is a continual law, and they who submit to its benign control are known by their unvarying cheerfulness, as the balm-yielding saffron is manifested by the bright garb of the crocus. Melancholy is the peculiar attribute of the lawless,
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the special malady which most readily besets the irregular and the immoderate man. And yet, mistake not my meaning. Cheerfulness is not levity. It is simple case. That mind is dissolute and ungoverned which must be hurried out of itself by loud laughter or sensual pleasure, or else be wholly inactive. (1) But temperance, like the sun in a clear sky, diffuses throughout the mind which contains it, a pervading and modulated lustre, which men call cheerfulness. Therefore mark that the most manifest sign of Divine wisdom is continued cheerfulness, (2) since philosophy, by exposing the folly of regret, and by supplying the means of health, tempers the mind with an even warmth and brightness. And to add yet further testimony, remember these words long since written by one of your great men, ‘It is most becoming and most wise, so to temper gravity with cheerfulness, that the former may not imbue our minds with sadness, nor the latter sink into licentious living.” (3)
“Bright one,” said I, seeing that she paused in her speech, “it seems to me that temperance is not so simple a matter as I had supposed; to be thus truly temperate one must require continual thought and vigilance.”
As I spoke I looked earnestly upon the face of the Crocus Spirit, and saw that her ghostly eyes were fixed seriously upon me.
“To be really temperate,” she repeated slowly, “one must be continually thoughtful and continually vigilant, for as fortitude is the right endurance of pain, so temperance is the right endurance of pleasure. But now listen, for I will tell you a story about myself, and you shall judge there from of my value and of my mission upon earth. Long since it was given me to lighten with my helpful smile the mind of one whom the power of temperance made a king among mortal men.”
Then as the bright eyes of the Spirit turned towards the earth I marked that there came into their clear depths a passionate light of tender remembrance, and she stretched forth her shadowy anus as though to recall and clasp some dear and vanished past. And when again her sweet voice broke the silence, I fancied its tones were yet softer than before, as though a reverence for something hallowed and precious restrained their wonted gaiety.
“Centuries ago,” pursued the Spirit, “I bloomed with many thousand others of my sister flowers upon the shadow-less downs of one of the Seven Hills of Rome. Before us lay the broad undulating reaches of the Campagna, rich in vivid colouring and splendid contrast, here purple and
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there saffron with beds of crocuses – for we love the open ground – and above us, unbroken by any intervening foliage, spread the open sky, sometimes like ourselves, purple in its intense blue, sometimes golden-hued with the glory of the southern sunlight.
“Early in the morning the flower-girls of Rome were wont to come out into the Campagna to gather blossoms for their chaplets and posies, and often, if they lighted on a tuft of fine blossoms, would dig up the whole plant, and transfer it to a painted or an earthen vase for the decoration of some patron’s indoor flower garden. And that, one of these wandering Floras did with me. She found me in the dawn of a certain misty morning, as she climbed the slopes, and darting upon me as upon a rare prize, loosened the light earth from my bulbous roots, and carried me off rejoicing, in a basket full of wreaths and flower-knots. She took me into the city, and wound her way swiftly through many narrow streets and alleys, eating her scanty breakfast as she went, till she came to the fashionable quarter of Rome, where she hoped to lighten her fragrant load; and there, leaning against the corner pillar of a colonnade opposite to one of the most frequented thoroughfares, deposited her burden upon the pavement at her feet, and waited for customers.
“For some time the only persons who passed that way were slaves from the great houses, who came abroad early to make purchases for the culinary needs of the establishments to which they respectively belonged. Many of them, especially the younger ones, stopped now and then to gossip with my flower-girl, and several bargained with her for a gar-land or a few blossoms to help in the adornment of cates and wine-beakers. Some white roses which lay beside me in the basket were all speedily sold, for the white rose was regarded by the Romans in old days as an emblem of secrecy, and for that reason they used it to ornament their drinking-cups and flagons, and frequently introduced its painted semblance into the fresco pictures of their banquet-rooms, as an admonition to the guests that nothing spoken or heard during the symposia should be repeated elsewhere. But crocuses were not the fashion, and though one or two of my Flora’s clients condescended to admire me, no one seemed anxious to become my purchaser, nor offered for me so much as a single sorry coin. I wondered, this being the case, why Flora had evinced so much delight at first sight of me, and to what end she had dug me up so carefully and borne me off with so much glee. ‘Perhaps,’ I meditated, ‘I am reserved for a more dignified fate than that of festooning wine-vessels or crowning the brows of aristocratic topers. Certainly, such a destiny would be strangely ill-suited to my character!’
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“While thus I speculated, a citizen, singular for his upright figure and artistic garb, crossed the square which fronted the colonnade, and approached the flower-girl. She seemed to brighten when she perceived him, and catching up her basket from the ground ran towards him, exclaiming joyfully,
“ ‘See, noble patron l I have secured for you today such a root of yellow crocus as one does not often behold l This very morning, on the Alban hills, I lighted on it! The colour is magnificent – you could wish no better!’
“The man thus accosted took me in his hand, tenderly as though he really thought me a sentient thing, examined me for a moment, then without more ado paid the price which the flower-girl named, and carried me away. He was a young man, hardly yet in his third decade, and the serenity ‘and peace of his countenance gave it that peculiar beauty of expression which is so much more attractive than mere regularity of feature – the beauty of sweetness and light. Looking at his deep serious eyes, broad smooth brow, and the curved softened lines of his lips, it was easy to perceive that this man was both wise and happy. For the body is only the soul made visible, and every one carries his character on his face, written in type as legible to eyes which are able to read the writing of Nature, as those curious fragments of Hebrew scripture which the devout Pharisees were wont to fasten across their foreheads.
“With a swift elastic step my new possessor traversed the broad squares and streets, pausing now and then to greet a passing acquaintance or to return the respectful salute of some household servitor. At length, in a narrow place, remote from the gardens, baths, and the statelier porticoes of the city, the man who had bought me arrested his steps on the threshold of a small unimportant looking building, and crossing its paved vestibule, entered the atrium, which I observed to be more artistic in its adornment than I should have anticipated from the exterior of the house and the indifferent locality of its site. A curtain suspended before the entrance of an apartment communicating with the hall, was raised gently as my bearer advanced, and a young woman, with a beautiful face and radiant hair bound in the Grecian manner by a fillet of purple silk, appeared before us.
“ ‘Crocuses!’ cried she gaily, – ‘what fine blossoms! Are you going to paint them, my husband?’
“With the same tender care he had before used in hand-ling me, he now placed the jar in which I was planted upon a stone pedestal in the tiny parterre which bounded the atrium, for in these old times most Roman houses occupied by citizens of the better class included in their precincts such indoor gardens.
“ ‘Yes, Irene. I have just bought them from a flower-girl
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opposite to the Forum. Some time ago I bade her look me out a cluster like this. I have an idea – to paint them as a background to my medallion head of Aglaia.’
“ ‘Too much colour! too much colour, my Felix!’ said ‘a voice behind him. It was that of a visitor who had entered the atrium unperceived, and who now approaching, saluted the master and mistress of the house with the familiar courtesy of an intimate acquaintance.
“ ‘Not so, my Luctus,’ answered the other with a sober smile; ‘clear colour when used judiciously is but the fit interpreter of bright thought. It is meet that the face of Aglaia should be encircled with gold, – the idea is ethical and didactic.’
“ ‘Felix,’ said the visitor again, after a moments pause,’ have you sent your designs yet to the villa of the Senator Crassus?’
“ ‘I took them there yesterday.’
“Luctus flashed a keen glance at him. ‘I also took mine yesterday,’ said he. ‘Perhaps,’ he added, his voice faltering into huskiness,’ we shall hear the decision of the judges in a day or two. The artist to whom Crassus gives the preference will indeed be a happy man! Thy name, my Felix, is but an evil augury for me!’
“There Irene interposed a gentle remonstrance.
“ ‘But perhaps,’ said she, ‘the senator may divide the favour? Perhaps he may commit to Felix the decoration of but part of his new villa, and to you, Luctus, the rest.’
“ ‘It seems then, fair Irene,’ rejoined Luctus, with some bitterness, ‘that you are at least assured of your husband’s success! But I cannot stay to discuss probabilities; tonight I entertain my cousin, Laxus, and three of his friends. You will not be of our company, Felix?’
“ ‘Nay,” replied the other, shaking his head and smiling; ‘I should be out a sorry guest at a table such as thine, my Luctus! Besides, I care not to leave Irene alone in the evening, with no companions save the slaves, while I make merry elsewhere.’
“ ‘Ah, I doubt not you are in the right,’ cried Luctus, turning towards the portico; ‘would that I too had as sweet a reason for remaining sober! We bachelors are but pitiable creatures, gay flies disporting ourselves in a treacherous sun, that by-and-by will singe our fine wings! Farwell, charming lady!’ Then he pursued in low tones which were not meant to reach the ear of the wife, ‘Thou art too domestic for Rome, my Felix! No man of any taste or style in these days lives at home! One’s own house is for sleeping in – the houses of one’s friends for all other uses! Wine and mirth, – these are the pleasures of manhood, and life is a poor affair without them!’
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“But as he passed by the open casement a moment later, he looked envious and discontented, notwithstanding his protest against sobriety.
“Scarcely had this brief conversation ended, when a page appeared in the outer vestibule, and being beckoned by Irene to enter, advanced and presented Felix with a letter written upon papyrus, and bearing an elaborate seal of imposing dimensions.
“ ‘It is from my master, the Senator Crassus,’ said the messenger, delivering the packet; and retiring respectfully a few paces, he stood waiting for any reply that might be entrusted to him. The painter opened the letter with calmness, but had scarcely glanced over the first two lines of it when his face shone with a great joy, and he cried aloud as he read, – ‘Irene mine! the choice hath fallen upon me! I am commanded to begin the frescoes if possible this very day! Crassus hath also written to Luctus telling him of this decision! “The best connoisseurs of art were consulted on the matter,” writes the senator, and all unanimously gave their approval to my design. Ah, little wife! how happy l am!’
“Indeed he looked the picture of happiness, as his wife, laying her hand fondly upon his, smiled up in his radiant face, and kissed him with a simple delight in his pleasure, that was better evidence of the love between them than a thousand passionate vows would have been. She said no word that I could hear, but congratulation between husband and wife needs not expression in uttered sound, – wedded spirits have sweeter ways of sympathy. Felix turned to the slave.
“ ‘Tell your lord,’ said he, ‘that at noon I shall do myself the honour to attend at his house.’
“With that the messenger withdrew, and Irene and her husband retired into a little side chamber, which served, I suppose, as her boudoir, for the curtains that ordinarily screened it from the outer court were pushed aside, and I saw disposed within the room such feminine toys and garniture as women everywhere delight in, and a roll of embroidery, glowing with the sheen of web-like silks, lay outspread upon a tiny table in the centre of the apartment. There the two sat together and talked, a little about them-selves, more about this new villa on the Pincian hill which Felix was to adorn with fresco-painting, and most about art and its relation to morality. From their discourse I gathered that my owner and his wife had been but lately married. Felix, visiting Athens for purposes of study, as it was customary for young Roman artists to do, had lodged in the house of Irene’s uncle, a citizen of that great metropolis
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whose patroness was the wise goddess, Pallas, divine guardian of the arts, and queen of all loveliness and maiden grace. There Felix found Irene, for she lived then under her uncle’s roof, having been an orphan since her childhood. And in her he found also the real and living Pallas of his heart, he loved the sweet mild face and pure soul of the Grecian girl, and from that day set himself to woo and win her. And she loved him, and he returned to Rome with Irene for his guardian and directress, and all that Pallas, the blue-eyed maid, was to the land of philosophy and beauty, Irene became to Felix the painter. She was indeed his peace, and he her happiness!
“About noon my painter went up to the villa of Crassus, the senator, and I saw nothing of him again until the evening, when he returned to his wife full of a great content, but so little flushed with his triumph that he rather seemed to me the humbler for it.
“ ‘Read me something out of the poets, sweet,’ said he, ‘for I have a work before me now, and service to do for art, and I would fain store my mind with visions of the beautiful, that my hand may convey true images, and that my thoughts may have better power in creation, and my eyes in discernment.’
“And Irene read and recited poem after poem in the sweet-flowing tongue of her own land, which has no equal in modern language, – tender Sapphics like the refluent music of the sea, graceful hexameters, and the stately melody of the Alcaic verse: for these things exalt and teach and refine the spirit of man. Felix Sobrius, as his companions were wont to call him in those days of pertinent appellations, knew that all worthy and precious art has its foundation in virtue, and is not merely a means of delighting the sense, but of educating the heart. Therefore also, he knew that no man can be a great artist who is not first inly great in idea, for art is the work, not of the hand alone, but of the whole man, and as he is, such likewise will be the thing he makes. ‘Neither is it enough,’ reasoned Felix, ‘to lay on colour; one must have joy, and wonder, and reverence, and compassion of soul to make art didactic, mythic, endurable. Into the forms which his pencil creates, the maker must be able to breathe the breath of a ‘living soul’
“The days wore swiftly away in the home of Felix and Irene. Springtide drew towards summer, and the work at the villa on the Pincian hill went on steadily. And where still I bloomed like a tiny sun in the midst of the house, I saw and heard many things of the daily life about me, which I have no time to tell – others which I can touch
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upon but briefly. Now and then I saw Luctus in the atrium, but he always looked discontented and restless, always deplored his destiny, always desired something he had not, and envied men whom he conceived to be more blessed than himself.
“ ‘I know not how it comes about, charming Irene,’ said he, ‘that thine husband is so much luckier than l! All Rome is beginning to talk about him and his paintings, while not one so much as knows my name, and yet the food gifts of fortune find no such welcome from him as should give them! Is Felix invited to a banquet with some gay spirits? behold he refuses to be of the party; or is a fete proposed to do honour to his genius, he will have nothing to say to it! He is always learning – learning, and never enjoys! While as for me, since the public does not give me my due, I treat myself perpetually. Never a night passes that I do not spend in the adoration of Bacchus, nor is there an expense I grudge to entertain my friends. Thus would I unite art with pleasure, – and Io! both elude me! I clasp only bitterness and melancholy! My wine is drugged with disappointment, – every cup is watered with disgust!’
“The last fresco in the senator’s villa was almost finished. It was an Idalian Oread reposing on a bed of crocuses, and I was carried up to the villa to serve as a model for this fancy, which Felix had already found successful in his treatment of the Aglaia. While he was at work late in the morning, and the picture neared its completion, Luctus lounged into the chamber, red-eyed and scarce sobered from the previous night’s excesses, but as usual, voluble with complaint and grievance, which were in no wise diminished by the sight of the painting before him.
“ ‘Apollo!’ cried he, starting as he beheld it, while a sudden light that flashed and died again in his dark eyes betrayed his resentment, ‘you have indeed been industrious, my Felix! What progress! what colour l what form! Was ever any man so fortunate in his undertakings!’
“With Luctus, good fortune was a synonym for genius, perseverance, or virtue. It was at least a comprehensive term.
“ ‘Have you heard,’ he continued, lounging against a porphyry column behind Felix, ‘whether it is true that Crassus means to give a great banquet here shortly? I was told so in the city today, and I came up here to ask if you know anything of it.’
“ ‘Yes,’ replied Felix. ‘It is quite true. I am working especially hard now to get this last fresco finished in time.’
“ ‘Ah?’ responded Luctus, in a tone that seemed like
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a gasp for breath, so impossible was it to repress his spleen, ‘you know everything in Rome, my Felix, while other men can only surmise l May be, you will also inform me who are the invited guests?’
“There is no secret about the affair, Luctus. The entertainment is to be most magnificent. The Emperor himself is expected, and nearly the whole of the Senate.”
“‘ ’Tis a marvel that Crassus omitted to bid you also, my dear Felix, among such illustrious visitors.’
“These words were accompanied with a sneer of so much malignity, that Felix could not fail to perceive the harshness it imparted to the tone of his companion’s voice.
“ ‘Crassus did invite me,” replied he with some pardonable acridity.
“Luctus was beside himself with fury. He could not utter a syllable.
“ ‘But,’ resumed Felix, ‘I shall certainly decline to be present.’
“ ‘Decline! Heavens! Felix are you a fool?’
“ ‘I should merit the reproach of being one if I accepted the invitation,’ returned the painter quickly. ‘Crassus did me the courtesy to request my company, because I have helped to prepare for the entertainment by adorning his apartments, but his kindness would not justify me for intruding on his guests. I know none of them, and some of their number might perhaps regard me as a vain upstart, should I presume to impose myself upon men of their position. Moreover, I have no fondness for wine, nor for delicate meats and dainties; banquet dalliance wearies me, and the golden bloom of yonder flowers is to my sight a thousand times more attractive, than the ruddy glow of all the Falernian and Chian draughts that were ever poured into jewelled cups at the imperial table itself. My Art is my nectar and ambrosia. I desire no other.’
“Luctus was silent for a little while. Then he recommenced abruptly:
“ ‘No doubt, then, my friend, you are so addicted to this all-absorbing profession of yours, that nothing would ever allure you from its charms, or rive the enchantment it possesses for you?’
“ ‘Nothing,’ answered Felix, fervently: ‘nothing, except loss of sight.
“Again the dangerous-looking eyes of the man who stood behind him seemed to me to lighten grimly, and his hands clutched one another convulsively as though they would crush the life out of some noxious thing that lay in their grasp. But after that he spoke no more until he took his departure.
* * * * * * * * * *
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“I was back again upon the pedestal in the court of my owner’s house, and it was the evening of the senator’s great banquet.
“Irene and her husband sat together in the atrium by the side of the hospitable hearth-fire of which the Roman poets sing; for though the spring was advanced, the nights were often cold, and the air keen and piercing. While thus the painter and his wife conversed together in the dim glow of the flickering light, the flame of a lamp suspended outside the portico projected the shadow of a man’s figure upon the drapery about the doorway. Felix took note of it and rose to admit the coming guest, but when he lifted the curtain, the face which met his own was unfamiliar, and a strange voice accosted him in imperfect Latin, against whose martial utterances the Grecian accent did tender trespass.
“ ‘Fair sir, I crave your pardon for this intrusion. But the night is bitter and stormy, and l scarce can stand against the violence of the wind. I have journeyed far, and am sorely tired, and the yellow light of the lamp above your door discovered to me a place where perhaps I may be suffered to rest awhile.’
“ ‘Whoever you are,’ responded the painter, cordially, ‘be sure you are welcome. Enter and be seated at the hearth of our sacred Lares. Methinks you are a Greek, – my wife Irene will be glad to meet a compatriot.’
“As he spoke, he admitted the stranger, who, having shaken the hail from his garments, advanced to the entrance of the hall, where for a moment he paused, and pronounced these words in a clear solemn voice: –
“ ‘Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.’ (1)
“Then he saluted Irene, and took the seat she placed for him.
“He was an old man with a long flowing beard, and the aspect of his whole person was grave and subdued; perhaps even a touch of austerity lurked in his deep grey eyes. His attire, like his speech, was Grecian, and though his years must have numbered almost seven decades, there was in his manner a strange youthfulness that seemed to have its source within him, as though the soul were renewing itself even while the outer frame decayed.
“ ‘You are a traveller?’ questioned Felix, as the slaves set bread and wine upon the table, ‘and no doubt you come from our cherished and beautiful Greece? Are you perchance an Athenian?’
“ ‘Not so, my kind host,’ answered the pilgrim, ‘I come from Corinth, a messenger to certain sojourners in Rome, to whom I bear tidings and letters from distant friends. This
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evening only have I reached the city after a long and tedious journey. And my name, if you care to know it, is Olympas. May I ask, in return, that of my hospitable entertainer?’
“ ‘I am called Felix,’ answered the painter, as he offered his visitor a goblet of tempered wine, ‘and thereto some add the surname of Sobrius, But my family is not noble, nor have I any relatives in Rome.’
“ ‘Brief as my time has yet been in this city,’ returned the stranger, ‘it has yet sufficed me to learn something of you. Two men whom I overtook on my way, spoke as I passed them of Felix Sobrius the painter, and of some marvellous frescoes he had resently designed and executed. But I did not divine I should so soon be honoured with your actual acquaintance.’
“ ‘It is a strange incident,’ replied Felix, ‘but not inexplicable. Such things belong to metaphysical phenomena, and make a part of the destiny which governs the affairs of men.’
“The old man cast a wistful look upon him.
“ ‘Are you a philosopher, my son?’ he asked, gently.
“ ‘I am a humble lover of wisdom,’ responded Felix, with a smile, ‘although indeed I am not wise.’
“ ‘Philosophy doubtless assists you in art,’ pursued the pilgrim, ‘and that is perhaps the secret of your success. You are not a man of pleasure, like these debased Romans who surround you on every side, – these lawless, disorderly crowds of patricians and freedmen, who have corrupted so horribly the doctrine of our Garden Teacher, (1) – who put light for darkness, and darkness for light, and call their Latin debauchery, Athenian Epicureanism. The soul of your Grecian wife has saved you from that unhappy fate.’
“The painter turned his loving- eyes upon the face of Irene, and drew her hand tenderly to his lips.
“ ‘Rightly you divine, my wise guest,’ he answered. ‘Here is my good genius. Whatever grace I have, she gave it me; whatever good I possess, she taught me how to win it; if in anything l be wiser or better than other men, it is she who has made me their superior.”
“Irene laughed, and shook her golden head and blushed, but she hid the blush against her husband’s cheek.
“ ‘There are,’ said the old man, watching them, ‘three things which endure, three things for which there is a place for ever: beauty, justice, and truth, If you know this in your soul, fed it in your heart, and understand it with your mind, my son, you are indeed an artist.’
“The painter’s clear eyes kindled.
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“ ‘True, my guest!’ he cried. ‘The highest pleasure of humanity is the good such understanding gives. But the Roman people of today say that the highest good is the pleasure of sense.’
“The old man looked at him keenly, and the strange youth I had noted in his worn face, shone out like a light as he answered reverently: –
“ ‘He that liveth in pleasure is dead while he liveth. The night is far spent, the day is at hand.’
“ ‘It is not night with us,’ said Irene, gently, ‘my husband and I have light in our hearts.’
“ ‘Yes,’ returned the stranger, ‘you are happy because you have love one towards the other. That is beautiful. But the world of Rome about you, what does it know of love or of beauty? It knows nothing of the very beginning of moral loveliness, nothing of that most admirable quality which alone can free the soul from the dominion of the body, and elevate her into a true spiritual atmosphere; I mean the virtue of temperance. For if our corporal life depend upon the adjustment of humours and elements, it is no wonder that an orderly temperance should preserve the body, and disorder destroy it. Order makes arts easy, armies victorious, and kingdoms prosperous. Cities and families thereby are retained in peace. (1) It teaches, elevates, and exalts. True art is not possible to an intemperate man.’
“ ‘I know said Felix, thoughtfully, ‘that no one can attain to be a master, unless he learn first as a pupil so to order and control himself that pure beauty and justice and truth may be apprehended by his soul, and may content him. I know that if I desire to excel in art, I must rule my life, control, exercise and overcome myself. I know that the following of pleasure or of superstition clouds the spirit and renders art impossible. Therefore, as much as lies in my power, I regulate my life by order and temperance. And my reward is with me.’
“Olympas regarded him yet more wistfully, as though he yearned towards him with a great love, and asked in a low voice: –
“ ‘What reward is that, my son?’
“ ‘The joy of my own heart answered the painter, the joy of my life from day to day. That is my laurel crown.’
“ ‘But you must die,’ said the old Greek. ‘What becomes of it then? It must perish.’
“Felix looked perplexed. ‘Would you have more?’ said he, ‘all things perish.’
(p. 91)
“ ‘Yet, we said just now that beauty and justice and truth endure for ever.’
“ ‘The joy of the soul may remain, perhaps hesitated the painter. ‘Socrates believed that it would. He says, you remember, that “the soul takes with it to another life the discipline it gains here.” But at the best, this is uncertain, speculative. I know only one thing, that it is good for me to be temperate, in order that I may earn present joy. More I know not, all is hazardous – doubtful – obscure.’
“He turned away his eyes restlessly, and his face wore a shadow of sadness; but the Grecian smiled, and putting his hand in his bosom drew forth an opened scroll.
“ ‘This,’ said he, ‘is one of the letters l am bringing from Corinth to Rome. The writer, methinks, my son, seems to have written something for you.’
“Then he found a certain place in the manuscript, and read these words aloud: –
“ ‘Every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we, an incorruptible. I therefore so run, NOT as uncertainly.’ (1)
“He refolded the scroll, and putting it back into his vest, rose from his seat to take leave.
“ ‘Must you go, wise guest?’ cried the artist. ‘Come soon again, and talk with us! Our hearth shall always welcome you!’
“ ‘I thank you for your hospitality, my son,’ answered the Greek. ‘I will gladly return. Until we meet again then – farewell!’
“A gust of wind rushing into the hall from behind the lifted curtain of the doorway, shook my yellow petals, and as they bent beneath the invisible” hand of God’s Spirit, my heart awoke and I murmured softly: –
“ ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers. For some have entertained angels unawares.’
“ ‘Who can that old man be?’ said Felix to his wife, as he returned to his scat beside her.
“I think,’ she replied, thoughtfully, ‘that he is one of the new society of philosophers from Antioch. I think he is a Christian.’
* * * * * * * * * *
“Two days after this there came another stranger into the atrium of the painter’s house – a retainer from the household of the greatest gourmet of the age – Cælius Apicius. This man Apicius had infected the times by establishing a regular school of professors and pupils of the science of good eating,
(p. 92)
and certain extravagant cates and sweetmeats in demand at Rome were named ‘Apician’ in celebration of his renown as the most luxurious glutton of the great city. The messenger from Apicius brought a letter to Felix, and was besides charged to entreat him that he would not refuse to undertake the commission proposed in it, ‘so warm and profound the slave had directions to say, ‘was that esteem which Apicius entertained for the exalted talents of the distinguished artist whom he addressed.’
“But Felix was not entangled by this high talk. He opened the letter with a good deal of indifference, and having read through a preliminary page of fulsome adulation, discovered that the undertaking required of him was the decoration of a new triclinium (1) at the Apician villa. The gourmet wished to have painted on the principal wall of the apartment a large fresco representing a celestial banquet, the chief feature of the composition being the figure of Jove, as presiding deity and founder of the feast, arrayed in all the glorious pomp of divine majesty, and surrounded by a halo of mystical radiance, the centre of supreme homage and admiration; which god-like figure was to be the portrait of no more spiritual a being than Apicius himself! The letter concluded with promises of liberal payment, and begged an immediate response.
“A request so vain and puerile was not altogether unparalleled in the days of Caligula and Nero. Felix read it to Irene as they stood together under the colonnade of their indoor garden. She smiled, with far more of gentle sadness in the expression of her face, than of scorn or indignation, but she did not question what her husband’s reply would be. I knew there would indeed be no question about it. And I breathed my sweet savour of strength upon his brows as he stooped and kissed her, and turned away. Not for the sake of any gain or renown would the artist prostitute his genius or degrade the work he loved. In his ordered soul, the power of temperance had over come both avarice and ambition.
“ ‘Say to Cælius Apicius,’ said Felix, returning to the messenger, ‘that I will write to him today. You need not wait, – I can carry the letter to his villa myself.’
“The servant quitted the house. But just outside the door he appeared to encounter some one, and stopped. I heard voices, – the voice of Luctus, vehement with earnest interrogation, and the messenger of Apicius replying with equal volubility.
“ ‘From Cælius Apicius?’ questioned the first voice nervously,
(p. 93)
‘Great gods! are you sure? Felix is to paint his triclinium?’
“ ‘I am certain,’ answered the other confidently, ‘I carried the letter, and as I amused myself by reading its contents on my way hither, there can be no mistake on the matter.’
“ ‘Nor any doubt what answer our painter will send,’ added Luctus.
“ ‘Indeed, I fancy not l He dismissed me empty-handed, for he says he means to visit the Apician villa today. You see he is not willing to lose time over the affair.’
“I almost believed I could hear Luctus gnash his teeth as he listened, but there was no further discourse. If he had come up to the house with the intention of visiting Felix, he evidently changed his mind, for his steps presently departed in another direction, and the gourmet’s messenger went on his way chuckling audibly. He had made mischief, and that delighted him. Minds of such an order as his are always pleased when they have managed to set richer men by the ears.
“Two hours after this, Felix having written [his letter of refusal to Apicius, went out to deliver it at the great man’s villa. U was drawing towards evening, and the lamps of the city began to sparkle here and there through the gathering haze. But the haze grew into shadow, and the shadow deepened into night, and yet Felix did not return. Irene, anxious and disturbed, paced up and down the court alone, listening to every sound without, but waiting in vain for that sound which had tarried already so long. Suddenly she paused, and hurried across the atrium with a sharp cry of alarm. Some neighbours were bringing her husband home, – guiding him to his own door, leading him to the familiar threshold like a little child: for he. could no longer see.
“He was blind; blinded by a strange and terrible accident that had left its mark like a scar upon his forehead, and had burnt the youth out of his features as though with fire, and had for ever quenched the joy of his life. All in one little moment! She took him to her heart, she held him there in her agony, as though, since he could not see her face, she wished that he might yet hear how her love for him beat strong and fast within her bosom. She rained her tears and kisses on his wounded brow like healing balm, and soothed him with tender words in low soft tones, calling him her blessing, – her darling, – her beloved.
“So the pitying neighbours left them.
“When they were alone, he told her how it had happened. As he came back from the villa of Apicius and re-entered the city, a casement above him in one of the smaller streets suddenly opened, and a voice called him by name, ‘Felix,
(p. 94)
Felix Sobrius!’ He lifted his head and looked up. In that instant a hand, – he knew not whose, – flashed like a light from behind the lattice and flung into his face a burning liquid, that thrilled his nerves with intense pain and struck the light of day from his sight When he came to himself after the first shock of that awful anguish, the people had gathered about him, and were leading him home. None knew what ad become of the person who had injured him. The casement was closed, and not a creature could be found within that fatal house.
“Three days passed away.
“On the fourth came Luctus, full of condolence and lamentation. He had heard the terrible news from his friends. He was inexpressibly grieved. Was his dear friend real l y blind, – would he never recover his sight? What said the learned surgeon who had been consulted?
“Irene was hopeful. The surgeon believed that in time her husband would partially recover his vision. But the scars which the vitriol had left, the terrible seaming scars that were like marks of flame, would never be effaced.
“Luctus was inconsolable. ‘What a calamity!’ cried he, wringing his hands. ‘Just when he was appointed decorator at the Apician villa, – an undertaking which would certainly have made his fame for all time! What a loss! what a cruel disappointment!’
“ ‘Nay, my good Luctus,’ quoth Irene, interrupting the torrent of his lamentation, ‘you are in error. Whoever informed you on that point, was clearly at fault. It is true that Apicius desired Felix to perform the task you speak of, but Felix unconditionally declined it. He was on his way home, after delivering the letter which contained his refusal, when the disaster you deplore with so much kindly grief, befell him, and destroyed his sight.’
“Great gods! Declined! Refused!’
“Luctus whitened to the temples, a hideous look rose into his eyes, his lips trembled like withered leaves, and his breath came sharp and quick between them, like the breath of some fainting creature sore-pressed and hunted by insatiate pursuers.
“ ‘What have I done?’ he muttered, as he fled from the house. But Irene did not hear those last words.
“That very evening the old Grecian, Olympas, came again. He had learned the story of the accident, for all Rome was busy over the sad tidings, and curious about the details of so strange an adventure. He had come, said he, not to ask questions, but if he could, to console; if that were not possible, at least to offer his help and sympathy.
“He found Felix reclining on a seat beside the pedestal
(p. 95)
upon which the crocuses were placed, for the painter had asked to have his couch set there, that, if he might not see, he might at least be near the blossoms he loved and had cherished so long.
“ ‘Beautiful flowers,’ said he, bending over them. ‘I cannot behold you, but your sweet scent and soft touch tell me you are still here, and I know your colours are rich and bright as ever. Even so, though art is no more for me, and I can no longer guide the pencil nor limn the fair vermillion and gold, I know that beauty and virtue, which are the root and blossom of all pure and lovely art, are still real, and so indeed flourish evermore.’
“Then as the old pilgrim stood before him, and looked into Irene’s fair face, where she sat watching tenderly by her husband, the gentle voice with the Grecian accent broke softly on the car of the blind man.
“ ‘I perceive, my son, that although God hath sent you pain, He hath still left you peace.’
“ ‘Peace and cheerfulness, wise Olympas,’ replied the painter, smiling as he turned from his wife to the crocuses. ‘The gods are good. I am content.’
“ ‘Son,’ resumed Olympas, regarding him with admiration, ‘I perceive also that thy temperance is real. It enables the to meet adversity with a smile, and suffering with courage, neither is the joy of thine heart destroyed because thou hast ceased to he fortunate. Whence hast thou this wisdom?’
“ ‘The philosophers and poets whom I loved in my success, are my resource now,’ he answered. ‘Seneca tells us that “true joy is a serene and sober motion, the seat of it is within, and there is no cheerfulness like the resolution of a brave mind.” And again, I call to remembrance the words of our Roman poet Horace, “The mind that is cheerful in its present state, will be averse to all solicitude as to the future, and will meet the bitter occurrences of life with a placid smile.” ’
“ ‘Young man pursued Olympas, looking at him earnestly, ‘thou knowest so much, that it grieves me thy much should be so little. For of such as thou art is that great army which God hath sent forth to make war upon the world, heroes who carry in their hearts a brighter light of happiness than even thine, on the badge of whose panoply is written for a token of their service, “Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” For upon every wave that rises against them they behold through the shadows the approaching form of their dearest Lord, and they hear above the roar and din of the world’s tempest, a voice that speaks to their heart continually, “Be of good cheer, it is I, be not afraid.” ’
“The blind painter could not see upon the face of his
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visitor the light which was there, but he seemed, in the midst of his darkness, to fed its shining, and lifted his dimmed eyes towards it.
“ ‘Father,’ said he, ‘for you call me son, and the reverence I bear you is indeed filial, – will you teach me your philosophy? Now that life is become to me a more sombre thing than it was when last I spoke with you, I would fain behold that divine glory of which you tell me. I would fain wear upon my brows the incorruptible crown that fadeth not away. Whence then is that Light, and whose is that crown?’
“ ‘Dear son,’ answered the aged Greek, ‘if thou wilt join the company of philosophers to which I belong, thou must forego the corruptible for the fadeless laurel. Thou canst not, in these days, obtain both. Our school of wisdom is a persecuted one, and if thou cast in thy lot with us, the times will change for thee. Men will shun, as hitherto they have sought thy friendship, the old familiar ways of art will become hard and bitter and thorny to thy tread, because for thee there will be no longer renown or reverence, nor sweet meed of human praise.’
“ ‘The gods have been kind, father,’ said Felix, touching his eyes significantly. ‘All that, they have already removed from me.’
“The Greek looked at him still with infinite compassion. ‘Thou hast then no hatred against thine unknown enemy?’ he asked. ‘Thou seekest no vengeance for the injury that has befallen thee?’
“ ‘None,’ replied the painter simply. ‘My anger never endures.’
“He spoke truly. It had been overcome by the rule of temperance.
“Upon the grave face of Olympas, where youth and age mingled so harmoniously, I saw the strange light again, stronger and brighter than ever.
“ ‘And thy wife?’ he asked presently. ‘What says the angel of thy peace?’
“Irene knelt down before her husband, and laying his hands upon her heart with a gesture of unutterable love, turned her beautiful eyes towards the guest.
“ ‘My husband will lose nothing by his choice,” she answered. ‘He has ruled his mind with temperance, and to him all paths are equal. He had no expectations of greatness, no passion for the praise of men. His art was his praise, and his genius its own reward. What then can he lose or regret?’
“How beautiful she was! How tender, how helpfully wise! More beautiful now than ever in this wifely office of sustainer and counsellor!
(p. 97)
“ ‘Listen then, my children,’ resumed the old Greek, after a minute’s pause. ‘For my philosophy is a Message.’
“And straightway, beginning with the sign of the holy Cross, he poured forth to them the glad tidings of great joy.
* * * * * * * * * *
“As for Luctus I heard by-and-by that he had contrived to obtain from Apicius that coveted commission which had first been offered to Felix. For Luctus, like all intemperate men, was greedy and avaricious, and he longed with passionate desire for the rich reward that Apicius promised.
“But it was never paid; for before the fresco was half completed, his patron, the would-be Divinity, had eaten his last banquet, and hanged himself. (1)
“It was on the eve of the day that was fixed for the baptism of Felix and Irene, that the wind, the messenger of God, came for me.
“Without, the air was full of the new-born summer, and the crocuses which had long been languishing, were parched at heart with the hot breath of the Italian May. Their heads sank upon their flexible stems, and the pure spirit that dwelt within them sought to free itself from the drooping petals which yet restrained its course, and to be exhaled into the clear and bodiless ether.
“For my mission in the house of the painter was finished, and on the morrow he was to enter upon a higher and diviner way than I could teach, the Way of the Cross, the Life of the saints which is hid with Christ in God.
“But before I passed out into the dim unknown heights, I floated through the silent atrium into the chamber beyond it, and hovered awhile above the couch whereon Felix and his wife lay sleeping. Side by side they lay, the woman’s beautiful face serene in its wonderful loveliness, with its unblemished features and smooth while brows, – and the face of the blind artist, – scarred and scared and branded; but more kingly so, and more divine in its repose, than any other face I had seen upon earth. l think that man must have died a martyr.”
* * * * * * * * * *
So the childlike voice of the golden-eyed spirit ceased.
And as the sunny radiance around me faded and dissolved into shadow, I awoke from my sleep, and found myself again in the little familiar conservatory among the spring-tide
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flowers. But my slumber had lasted long, and the sun was already so far on his way westward that the hazy gloom of twilight began to darken the glass roof above me, the March wind was chanting its evensong amid the garden trees with-out, and at my feet, the yellow crocuses one by one were closing their bright petals and composing themselves to sleep.
NOTES
(78:1) Rev. IV, 5.
(79:1) Canticles IV, I4.
(80:1) Steele.
(80:2) Montaigne.
(80:3) Pliny.
(88:1) S. Luke X, 5.
(89:1) Epicurus.
(90:1) A Treatise of Temperance and Sobriety. Translated from the Italian of Ludovicus Cornarus, by George Herbert.
(91:1) I Cor IX, 25 and 26. This epistle was written A.D. 59.
(92:1) Banquet-hall.
(97:1) The inordinate expense of the culinary establishment of Apicius reduced his fortune and involved him in debt; when, finding that, after clearing off his incumbrances, he should have left only a pittance utterly inadequate to keep such and soul together, he took poison, as some say, – according to others, hanged himself, in preference to pining after unattainable luxuries. Apicius is celebrated by Pliny, Juvenal, and Martial.
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