The Twilight of the Gods, and Other Tales - Richard Garnett
"Nay," said he who had escaped thence, "if my experience suffices not to
deter you, learn that they who have known Truth can never taste of
Illusion. Illusion is for life's golden prime, its fanes and pavilions may
be reared but by the magic wand of Youth. The maturity that would recreate
them builds not for Illusion but for Deceit. Yet, lest mortality should
despair, there exists, as I have learned, yet another palace, founded
midway between that of Illusion and that of Truth, open to those who are
too soft for the one and too hard for the other. Thither, indeed, the
majority of mankind in this age resort, and there appear to find themselves
comfortable."
"And this palace is?" inquired Truth's runaways simultaneously.
"The Palace of Convention," replied the youth.
NEW READINGS IN BIOGRAPHY
I.--Timon of Athens
No, it was not true that Timon was dead, and buried on the sea-shore. So
the first party discovered that hastened to his cave at the tidings,
thinking to seize his treasure, and had their heads broken for their pains.
But the second party fared better; for these were robbers, captained by
Alcibiades, who had taken to the road, as many a man of spirit, has done
before and since. They took Timon's gold, and left him bound in his chair.
But on the way home the lesser thieves mysteriously disappeared, and the
gold became the sole property of Alcibiades. As it is written, "The tools
to him that can handle them."
Timon sat many hours in an uncomfortable position, and though, in a general
way, he abhorred the face of man, he was not displeased when a gentleman of
bland appearance entered the cavern, and made him a low obeisance. And
perceiving that Timon was bound, the bland man exclaimed with horror, and
severed his bonds, ere one could say Themistocles. And in an instant the
cavern was filled with Athenian senators.
"Hail," they cried, "to Timon the munificent! Hail to Timon the
compassionate! Hail to Timon the lover of his kind!"
"I am none of these things," said Timon. "I am Timon the misanthrope."
"This must be my Lord's wit and playfulness," said the bland man, "for how
else should the Senate and the people have passed a decree, indited by
myself, ordering an altar to be raised to Timon the Benefactor, and
appointing him chief archon? But come, hand over thy treasure, that thy
installation may take effect with due observance."
"I have been deprived of my treasure," said Timon.
But the ambassadors gave him no credit until they had searched every chink
and crevice in the cavern, and dug up all the earth round the entrance.
They then regarded each other with blank consternation.
"Let us leave him as we found him," said one.
"Let us hang him up," said another.
"Let us sell him into captivity," said a third.
"Nay, friends," said the bland gentleman, "such confession of error would
impeach our credit as statesmen. Moreover, should the people learn that
Timon has lost his money, they will naturally conclude that we have taken
it. Let us, therefore, keep this misfortune from their knowledge, and trust
for relief to the chapter of accidents, as usual in State affairs."
They therefore robed Timon in a dress of honour, and conducted him to
Athens, where half the inhabitants were awaiting him. Two triumphal arches
spanned the principal street, and on one was inscribed "Timon the
Benefactor," and on the other "Timon the Friend of Humanity." And all
along, far as the eye could reach, stood those whom his bounty, as was
stated, had rescued from perdition, the poor he had relieved, the sick he
had medicined, the orphans he had fathered, the poets and painters he had
patronised, all lauding and thanking him, and soliciting a continuance of
his liberality. And the rabble cried "Largesse, largesse!" and horsemen
galloped forth, casting among them nuts enveloped in silver-leaf and apples
and comfits and trinkets and brass farthings in incredible quantities. At
which the people murmured somewhat, and spoke amiss respecting Timon and
the senators who escorted him, and the bland gentleman strove to keep Timon
between himself and the populace. While Timon was pondering what the end of
these things should be, his mob encountered another cheering for
Alcibiades, and playing pitch and toss with drachmas and didrachmas and
tetradrachmas, yea, even with staters and darics.
"Long live Alcibiades," cried Timon's followers, as they attacked
Alcibiades's supporters to get their share.
"Long live Timon," cried Alcibiades's party, as they defended themselves.
Timon and Alcibiades extricated themselves from the scuffle, and walked
away arm in arm.
"My dear friend," said Timon, "how inexpressibly beholden I am to you for
taking the burden of my wealth upon yourself! There is nothing I would not
do to evince my gratitude."
"Nothing?" queried Alcibiades.
"Nothing," persisted Timon.
"Then," said Alcibiades, "I will thank thee to relieve me of Timandra, who
is as tired of me as I am of her."
Timon winced horribly, but his word was his bond, and Timandra accompanied
him to his cavern, where at first she suffered much inconvenience from the
roughness of the accommodation. But Timon, though a misanthrope, was not a
brute; and when in process of time Timandra's health required special care,
rugs and pillows were provided for her, and also for Timon; for he saw that
he could no longer pass for a churl if he made his wife more comfortable
than himself. And, though he counted gold as dross, yet was he not
dissatisfied that Timandra had saved the gold he had given her formerly
against a rainy day. And when a child was born, Timon was at his wits' end,
and blessed the old woman who came to nurse it. And she admonished him of
his duty to the Gods, which meant sacrifice, which meant merry-making. And
the child grew, and craved food and drink, and Timon possessed himself of
three acres and a cow. And not being able to doubt his child's affection
for him, he came to believe in Timandra's also. And when the tax-gatherer
oppressed his neighbours, he pleaded their cause, which was also his own,
in the courts of Athens, and gained it by the interest of Alcibiades. And
his neighbours made him demarch, and he feasted them. And Apemantus came to
deride him, and Timon bore with him; but he was impertinent to Timandra,
and Timon beat him.
And in fine, Timon became very like any other Attic country gentleman, save
that he always maintained that a young man did well to be a misanthrope
until he got a loving and sensible wife, which, as he observed, could but
seldom happen. And the Gods looked down upon him with complacency, and
deferred the ruin of Athens until he should be no more.
II.--Napoleon's Sangaree
Napoleon Buonaparte sat in his garden at St. Helena, in the shadow of a
fig-tree. Before him stood a little table, and upon the table stood a glass
of sangaree. The day was hot and drowsy; the sea boomed monotonously on the
rocks; the broad fig-leaves stirred not; great flies buzzed heavily in the
sultry air. Napoleon wore a loose linen coat and a broad brimmed planter's
hat, and looked as red as the sangaree, but nowise as comfortable.
"To think," he said aloud, "that I should end my life here, with nothing to
sweeten my destiny but this lump of sugar!"
And he dropped it into the sangaree, and little ripples and beads broke out
on the surface of the liquid.
"Thou should'st have followed me," said a voice.
"Me," said another.
And a steam from the sangaree rose high over Napoleon's head, and from it
shaped themselves two beautiful female figures. One was fair and very
youthful, with a Phrygian cap on her head, and eager eyes beneath it, and a
slender spear in her hand. The other was somewhat older, and graver, and
darker, with serious eyes; and she carried a sword, and wore a helmet, from
underneath which her rich brown tresses escaped over her vesture of light
steel armour.
"I am Liberty," said the first.
"I am Loyalty," said the second.
And Napoleon laid his hand in that of the first spirit, and instantly saw
himself as he had been in the days of his youthful victories, only beset
with a multitude of people who were offering him a crown, and cheering
loudly. But he thrust it aside, and they cheered ten times more, and fell
into each other's arms, and wept and kissed each other. And troops of young
maidens robed in white danced before him, strewing his way with flowers.
And the debts of the debtor were paid, and the prisoners were released from
captivity. And the forty Academicians came bringing Napoleon the prize of
virtue. And the Abbe Sieyes stood up, and offered Napoleon his choice of
seventeen constitutions; and Napoleon chose the worst. And he came to sit
with five hundred other men, mostly advocates. And when he said "Yea," they
said "Nay"; and when he said "white," they said "black." And they suffered
him to do neither good nor evil, and when he went to war they commanded his
army for him, until he was smitten with a great slaughter. And the enemy
entered the country, and bread was scarce and wine dear; and the people
cursed Napoleon, and Liberty vanished from before him. But he roamed on,
ever looking for her, and at length he found her lying dead in the public
way, all gashed and bleeding, and trampled with the feet of men and horses,
and the wheel of a tumbril was over her neck. And Napoleon, under
compulsion of the mob, ascended the tumbril; and Abbe Sieyes and Bishop
Talleyrand rode at his side, administering spiritual consolation. Thus they
came within sight of the guillotine, whereon stood M. de Robespierre in his
sky-blue coat, and his jaw bound up in a bloody cloth, bowing and smiling,
nevertheless, and beckoning Napoleon to ascend to him. Napoleon had never
feared the face of man; but when he saw M. de Robespierre great dread fell
upon him, and he leapt out of the tumbril, and fled amain, passing amid the
people as it were mid withered leaves, until he came where Loyalty stood
awaiting him.
She took his hand in hers, and, lo! another great host of people proffering
him a crown, save one little old man, who alone of them all wore his hair
in a queue with powder.
"See," said the little old man, "that thou takest not what doth not belong
to thee."
"To whom belongeth it then?" asked Napoleon, "for I am a plain soldier, and
have no skill in politics."
"To Louis the Disesteemed," said the little old man, "for he is a
great-great-nephew of the Princess of Schwoffingen, whose ancestors reigned
here at the flood."
"Where dwells Louis the Disesteemed?" asked Napoleon.
"In England," said the little old man.
Napoleon therefore repaired to England, and sought for Louis the
Disesteemed. But none could direct him, save that it behoved him to seek in
the obscurest places. And one day, as he was passing through a mean street,
he heard a voice of lamentation, and perceived a man whose coat and shirt
were rent and dirty; but not so his pantaloons, for he had none.
"Who art thou, thou pantaloonless one?" asked he, "and wherefore makest
thou this lamentation?"
"I am Louis the Esteemed, King of France and Navarre," replied the
distrousered personage, "and I lament for my pantaloons, which I have been
enforced to pawn, inasmuch as the broker would advance nothing upon my coat
or my shirt."
And Napoleon went upon his knees and divested himself of his own nether
garments, and arrayed the king therein, to the great diversion of those who
stood about.
"Thou hast done wickedly," said the king when he heard who Napoleon was,
"in that thou hast presumed to fight battles and win victories without any
commission from me. Go, nevertheless, and lose an arm, a leg, and an eye in
my service, then shall thy offence be forgiven thee."
And Napoleon raised a great army, and gained a great battle for the king,
and lost an arm. And he gained another greater battle, and lost a leg. And
he gained the greatest battle of all; and the king sat on the throne of his
ancestors, and was called Louis the Victorious: but Napoleon had lost an
eye. And he came into the king's presence, bearing his eye, his arm, and
his leg.
"Thou art pardoned," said the king, "and I will even confer a singular
honour upon thee. Thou shalt defray the expense of my coronation, which
shall be the most splendid ever seen in France."
So Napoleon lost all his substance, and no man pitied him. But after
certain days the keeper of the royal wardrobe rushed into the king's
presence, crying "Treason! treason! O Majesty, whence these republican and
revolutionary pantaloons?"
"They are those I deigned to receive from the rebel Buonaparte," said the
king. "It were meet to return them. Where abides he now?"
"Saving your Majesty's presence," they said, "he lieth upon a certain
dunghill."
"If this be so," said the king, "life can be no gratification to him, and
it were humane to relieve him of it. Moreover, he is a dangerous man. Go,
therefore, and strangle him with his own pantaloons. Yet, let a monument be
raised to him, and engrave upon it, 'Here lies Napoleon Buonaparte, whom
Louis the Victorious raised from the dunghill.'"
They went accordingly; but behold! Napoleon already lay dead upon the
dunghill. And this was told unto the king.
"He hath ever been envious of my glory," said the king, "let him therefore
be buried underneath."
And it was so. And after no long space the king also died, and slept with
his fathers. But when there was again a revolution in France, the people
cast his bones out of the royal sepulchre, and laid Napoleon's there
instead. And the dunghill complained grievously that it should be disturbed
for so slight a cause.
And Napoleon withdrew his hand from the hand of Loyalty, saying, "Pish!"
And his eyes opened, and he heard the booming of the sea, and the buzzing
of the flies, and felt the heat of the sun, and saw that the sugar he had
dropped into his sangaree had not yet reached the bottom of the tumbler.
III.--Concerning Daniel Defoe
Daniel Defoe, at the invitation of the judge, came forth from the garret
wherein he abode, and rode in a cart unto the Royal Exchange, wherein he
ascended the pillory, to the end that his ears might be nailed thereunto.
And much people stood before him, some few pelting, some mocking, but the
most part cheering or weeping, for they knew him for a friend to the poor,
and especially those men who were called Dissenters. And a certain person
in black stood by him, invisible to the people, but well seen of Daniel,
who knew him for one whose life he had himself written. And the man in
black reasoned with Daniel, and said, "Thou seest this multitude of people,
but which of them shall deliver thee out of my hand? Nay, but let thy white
be black, and thy black white, and I myself will deliver thee, and make
thee rich, and heal thy hurts, save the holes in thy ears, that I may know
thee for mine own." But Daniel gave no heed to him. So the Devil departed,
having great wrath, and entered into a certain smug-faced man standing by.
And now the crowd before Daniel was greatly diminished, and consisted
mainly of his enemies, for his friends had gone away to drown their sorrow.
And the smug-faced man into whom Satan had entered came forth from among
them, and said unto him, "O Daniel, inasmuch as I am a Dissenter I am
greatly beholden to thee; but inasmuch as I am an honest tradesman I have
somewhat against thee, for thou hast written concerning short weights and
measures. And a man's shop is more to him than his country or his religion.
Wherefore I must needs be avenged of thee. Yet shalt thou own that the
tender mercies of the good man are piteous, and that even in his wrath he
thinketh upon compassion."
And he picked up a great stone from the ground, and wrapped it in a piece
of paper, saying, "Lest peradventure it hurt him overmuch." And the stone
was very rough and sharp, and the paper was very thin. And he hurled it
with all his might at the middle of Daniel's forehead, and the blood
spouted forth. And Daniel cried aloud, and called upon the name of the
Devil. And in an instant the pillory and the people were gone, and he found
himself in the Prime Minister's cabinet, healed of all his hurts, except
the holes in his ears. And the Minister was so like the Devil that you
could not tell the difference. And he said, "Against what wilt thou write
first, Daniel?"
"Dissenters," said Daniel.
And he wrote a pamphlet, and such as read it took firebrands, and visited
the Dissenters in their habitations. And many Dissenters were put into
prison, and others fined and spoiled of their goods. And he wrote other
pamphlets, and each was cleverer and wickeder than the last. And whatsoever
Daniel had of old declared to be white, lo! it was black; and what he had
said was black, behold! it was white. And he throve and prospered
exceedingly, and became a commissioner for public-houses and
hackney-coaches and the imposing of oaths and the levying of custom, and
all other such things as one does by deputy. And he mended the holes in his
ears.
But the time came when Daniel must be judged, and he went before the Lord.
And all the court was full of Dissenters, and the Devil was there also. And
the Dissenters testified many and grievous things against Daniel.
"Daniel," said the Lord, "what answerest thou?"
"Nothing, Lord," said Daniel. "Only I would that the Dissenter who threw
that stone at me should receive due and condign punishment, adequate to his
misdeed."
"That," said the Devil, "is impossible."
"Thou sayest well, Satan," said the Lord, "and therefore shall Daniel go
free. For if anything can excuse the apostasy of the noble, it is the
ingratitude of the base."
So the Devil went to his own place, looking very small. And Daniel found
himself in the same garret whence he had gone forth to the pillory; and
before him were bread and cheese, and a pen and ink and paper. And he
dipped the pen into the ink, and wrote _Robinson Crusoe_.
IV.--Cornelius the Ferryman
Fourscore years ago there was a good ferryman named Cornelius, who rowed
people between New York and Brooklyn. He had neither wife nor child, nor
any one to think of except himself. It was, therefore, his custom, when he
had earned enough in a day for his own wants, to put the rest aside, and
bestow it upon sick or blind or maimed persons, lest they should come to
the workhouse. And the sick and the blind and the maimed gathered around
him, and waited by the water's edge, until Cornelius's day's work should be
over.
This went on until one of the little sooty imps who are always in mischief
came to hear of it, and told the principal devil in charge of the United
States, whose name is Politicianus.
"Dear me," said the Devil, "this will never do. I will see to it
immediately."
And he went off to Cornelius, and caught him in the act of giving two dimes
to a blind beggar.
"How foolish you are!" he said; "what waste of money is this! If you saved
it up, you would by-and-by be able to build an hospital for all the beggars
in New York."
"It would be a long time before there was enough," objected Cornelius.
"Not at all," said the Devil, "if you let me invest your money for you."
And he showed Cornelius the plan of a most splendid hospital, and across
the front of it was inscribed in letters of gold, _Cornelius Diabolodorus_.
And Cornelius was persuaded, and that evening he gave nothing to the poor.
And the poor had come to think that Cornelius's money was their own, and
abused him as though he had robbed them. And Cornelius drove them away: and
his heart was hardened against them from that day forth.
But the Devil kept his promise to Cornelius, and put him up to all the good
things in Wall Street, and he soon had enough to build ten hospitals. But
the more he had to build with, the less he wanted to build. And by-and-by
the Devil called upon him, and found him contemplating two pictures. One of
them showed the finest hospital you can imagine, full of neat, clean rooms,
in one of which sat Cornelius himself, wearing a dress with a number and
badge, and sipping arrowroot. The other showed fine houses, and
opera-boxes, and fast-trotting horses, and dry champagne, and ladies who
dance in ballets, and paintings by the great masters. Cornelius thrust the
pictures away, and the Devil did not ask to see them, nor was it needful
that he should, for he had painted them himself.
"O dear Mr. Devil," said Cornelius, "I am so glad that you have called, for
I wanted to speak to you. It strikes me that there is a great defect in the
plan which you have been so good as to draw for me."
"What is that?" asked the Devil.
"There is no place for black men," said Cornelius. "And you know white men
will never let them come into the same hospital."
And the Devil, to do him justice, talked very reasonably to Cornelius, and
represented to him that there were very few black men in New York, and
that these had very vigorous constitutions. But Cornelius was inflamed with
enthusiasm, and frantic with philanthropy, and he vowed that he would not
give a cent to an hospital that had not a wing for black men as big as all
the rest of the building. And the Devil had to take his plan back, and come
again in a year and a day. And when he did come back, Cornelius asked him
if he did not think it would be a most excellent thing if all the Irishmen
in New York could be shut up in an hospital or elsewhere; and he could not
deny it. So he had to take his plan back again. And next year it was the
turn of the Chinese, and then of the Red Indians, and then of the dogs and
cats. And then Cornelius thought that he ought to provide room for all the
people who had been ruined by his speculations, and the Devil thought so
too, but doubted whether Cornelius would be able to afford it. And at last
Cornelius said:
"Methinks I have been very foolish in wishing to build an hospital at all
while I am living. Surely it would be better that I should enjoy my money
myself during my life, and leave the residue for the lawyers to divide
after my death."
"You are quite right," said the Devil; "that is exactly what I should do if
I were you."
So Cornelius put the plans behind a shelf in his counting-house, and the
mice ate them. And he went on prospering and growing rich, until the Devil
became envious of him, and insisted on changing places with him. So
Cornelius went below, and the Devil came and dwelt in New York, where he
still is.
THE POISON MAID
O not for him
Blooms my dark nightshade, nor doth hemlock brew
Murder for cups within her cavernous root.
I
Grievous is the lot of the child, more especially of the female child, who
is doomed from the tenderest infancy to lack the blessing of a mother's
care.
Was it from this absence of maternal vigilance that the education of the
lovely Mithridata was conducted from her babyhood in such an extraordinary
manner? That enormous serpents infested her cradle, licking her face and
twining around her limbs? That her tiny fingers patted scorpions? and tied
knots in the tails of vipers? That her father, the magician Locuste, ever
sedulous and affectionate, fed her with spoonsful of the honeyed froth that
gathers under the tongues of asps? That as she grew older and craved a more
nutritious diet, she partook, at first in infinitesimal doses, but in ever
increasing quantities, of arsenic, strychnine, opium, and prussic acid?
That at last having attained the flower of youth, she drank habitually from
vessels of gold, for her favourite beverages were so corrosive that no
other substance could resist their solvent properties?
Gradually accustomed to this strange regimen, she had thriven on it
marvellously, and was without a peer for beauty, sense, and goodness. Her
father had watched over her education with care, and had instructed her in
all lawful knowledge, save only the knowledge of poisons. As no other human
being had entered the house, Mithridata was unaware that her bringing up
had differed in so material a respect from that of other young people.
"Father," said she one day, bringing him a book she had been perusing,
"what strange follies learned men will pen with gravity! or is it rather
that none can set bounds to the licence of romancers? These dear serpents,
my friends and playfellows, this henbane and antimony, the nourishment of
my health and vigour--that any one should write of these as pernicious,
deadly, and fatal to existence! Is it error or malignity? or but the wanton
freak of an idle imagination?"
"My child," answered the magician, "it is fit that thou shouldst now learn
what hath hitherto been concealed from thee, and with this object I left
this treatise in thy way. It speaks truth. Thou hast been nurtured from thy
infancy on substances endowed with lethal properties, commonly called
poisons. Thy entire frame is impregnated thereby, and, although thou
thyself art in the fullest enjoyment of health, thy kiss would be fatal to
any one not, like thy father, fortified by a course of antidotes. Now hear
the reason. I bear a deadly grudge to the king of this land. He indeed hath
not injured me; but his father slew my father, wherefore it is meet that I
should slay that ancestor's son's son. I have therefore nurtured thee from
thy infancy on the deadliest poisons, until thou art a walking vial of
pestilence. The young prince shall unseal thee, to his destruction and thy
unspeakable advantage. Go to the great city; thou art beautiful as the day;
he is young, handsome, and amorous; he will infallibly fall in love with
thee. Do thou submit to his caresses, he will perish miserably; thou (such
is the charm) ransomed by the kiss of love, wilt become wholesome and
innocuous as thy fellows, preserving only thy knowledge of poisons, always
useful, in the present state of society invaluable. Thou wilt therefore
next repair to the city of Constantinople, bearing recommendatory letters
from me to the Empress Theophano, now happily reigning."