PSYCHE

PSYCHE

BY WALTER S. CRAMP

With Illustrations from Drawings by W. T. BENDA

BOSTON · LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY · MCMV

Copyright, 1905, By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved Published April, 1905 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

TO MY DEAR PARENTS WHO, HAVING GATHERED IN THE MIDDAY OF THEIR LIVES BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS OF PEACE, WEAR THEM STILL FRESH AND LOVELY AT EVENTIDE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PSYCHE

Chapter I

IN the year 23 A. D. there lived in Rome a youth named Gannon. He was a comely lad, seventeen years old, with a bright and happy face covered with a light down. His profile was Greek. His head was poised gracefully on his vigorous young shoulders. His dark eyebrows were slightly curved, and two bright black eyes sparkled under them. His black hair was short and brushed forward. He was neither tall nor stout. He wore a tunic which came down to above his knees, leaving bare his well-shaped neck, arms, and legs. On his small feet were leather sandals, held on by a string of the same material, interlaced and tied above his ankles. His whole air betokened a frank, ingenuous nature; and a cheery influence seemed to surround him, invisible yet perceptible to every one with whom he came in contact.

He was sitting in a room of the Praetorian Camp, translating a letter from Greek into Latin.[2] The task was not a difficult one; for his parents were Greek, and he had been taught by his father to speak and write both languages with fluency and exactness. His duties consisted in copying despatches, writing and translating letters, and taking care of some of the private correspondence of Sejanus, the commander of the Praetorians. The situation, although a responsible one for so young a lad, had been easily secured. Through a friend of his father he had obtained a position as secretary to Macro, an officer in the camp. One day, noticing his intelligent and handsome face, Sejanus took him to his office and tested his ability. The result was so favorable that he made Gannon one of his own secretaries.

Gannon’s father, Alcmaeon, taught Greek in one of the schools of the city. He earned barely enough to support his family of three,—wife, son, and daughter. It was, therefore, with joy that he welcomed the day when Gannon was able to earn his own livelihood. He looked upon his son’s advancement with pride and yet with foreboding. While in the employ of Macro, Gannon had always spent his nights at home; now he was permitted to go home only one night each week. Under Macro he had done only clerical work; now his duties were such that he might learn some important and dangerous secrets.[3] With Macro he worked alone; now he was thrown into the company of unprincipled companions. At first, when Gannon heard the rough stories that circulated around the camp, he modestly retired; but now he could hear the coarsest ones with little show of shame.

The history of Alcmaeon was a sad one. His father had been wealthy, but had lost his patrimony when Antony marched through Greece to fight Octavianus. With what little he had left he moved with his wife to Brundusium, a great seaport town in Italy, where Alcmaeon was born. They lived there until Alcmaeon grew to manhood and married. After the death of his father Alcmaeon took his mother and his wife, Hera, and moved to Rome, where he rented a small house outside the city, on a little road that crossed the Appian Way.

As there was more demand for Greek teachers in Rome than in Brundusium, he soon found employment in one of the schools. But his life was again saddened by the death of his mother. Her delicate constitution could not brave the fever that hovered over the suburbs of the city. Soon after this second loss his daughter, Psyche, was born, and in the following year Gannon. With their coming a new era began for Alcmaeon. After his day’s work at school he hastened home in joyful anticipation of seeing the smiling faces[4] of his children. How it pleased him to watch his little ones grow, day by day! With what delight he taught their baby lips to speak the language of his fatherland! How he loved to put them to sleep, while Hera removed the remains of the evening meal! During this, the children’s hour, he would tenderly take them into his arms for a frolic, and gradually quiet them until their eyelids grew heavy and closed in sleep. Then he would gently put them to bed, and softly kiss them good-night.

When the position as secretary to Sejanus was offered to Gannon, the lad nearly danced with joy. His young heart beat stronger and faster as he broke the news to his family. With such an opportunity he thought he might advance, by diligent application, until he should occupy a post of high honor. He thought that the prayers of his parents, as well as his own, were at last being answered; that through him the fortunes of his family were to be restored. He told his parents that he would take them back to dear old Greece; that they should live once more in the country where, as Alcmaeon said, “The music of soul-stirring phrases and glorious ideas was forged by great men on the anvils of poetry and philosophy.” He worked earnestly and diligently, and progressed steadily, until he was trusted with communications to carry to the emperor. He[5] so promptly responded to every summons, and so cheerfully carried out the orders of Sejanus, as to win the favor of that sternest of masters. His proud and graceful bearing and refined manners greatly aided in his advancement. Chiefly

because of these advantages, he had been chosen to carry letters from his master to Livilla, the wife of Drusus and the daughter-in-law of Tiberius.

His situation, however, was not one of unalloyed happiness. His promotion engendered little jealousies and quarrels. At first the other secretaries in the office of Sejanus treated Gannon contemptuously. They watched his advancement invidiously, and one of them, named Alvus, who had previously been employed to carry letters to Livilla, quarrelled with him. Words led to blows, and, although Gannon fought bravely, he was badly beaten. However, the secretaries understood that they could not intimidate him. But there was continual friction, until, one day, Alvus fell ill. With no feeling of resentment towards Alvus, Gannon performed not only his own work, but also that of his sick associate. By this generous act, by other favors, and by the ingenuous manner in which he taught his companions to ornament their speech with Greek words, a fashion of the day, he completely won their friendship.

When Gannon carried the first letter to Livilla,[6] he looked upon that event as the most important in his life. He impatiently awaited his night of freedom, so that he could describe to his family the magnificent palace on the Esquiline Hill. When the night finally came, he hurried home. On his arrival the evening meal was ready, and his family were awaiting him.

“Hail, father, and thee, mother, and thee, Psyche!” he cried joyfully, as he entered the house.

“Art thou not late, my son?” asked Hera.

“Ay, mother. We are always busy at the camp. To-day many letters came from Greece.”

He lovingly kissed his family. His happy talk and gay spirits affected them as a flood of light brightens a darkened room.

“Art thou not hungry, my son?” asked Alcmaeon.

“As hungry as a starving Argonaut,” said Gannon, laughing.

“Come, Hera! Be the Medea to this starving Jason,” said the father, catching the infection of his son’s high spirits.

Hera went to the hearth, and distributed from a boiling pot a thick soup of barley and vegetables.

“O my mother! My favorite broth!” exclaimed Gannon. “A kiss for thy kindness and thy goodness.”

[7]Hera smiled as she received her son’s token of gratitude and affection.

“What news hast thou to feed our curiosity to-night, my son?” asked Alcmaeon.

“I have carried letters to Livilla since I last saw thee.”

“To the wife of Drusus?” he asked, in surprise.

“Ay, father,—but wait until the meal is over. I will then tell thee all. Where is Gyges?” he asked roguishly, looking at Psyche.

“He has gone to Capua to try some horses,” Psyche replied.

“Of a truth, Fortune smiles upon him,” said Gannon.

“Do you speak of his wealth?” asked Psyche, shyly.

“Thou dost not understand me, O my sister. I mean that he is fortunate in winning thee.”

“Rather, Fortune is good to me, my brother. I am to marry a noble man.”

“The gods be thanked for such a union of true and loving hearts,” said Alcmaeon.

“Thy bowl is empty, my son,” interrupted Hera. “Wilt thou have more broth?”

“If thou canst spare some,” said Gannon.

Hera gladly refilled Gannon’s bowl.

“In the past week thou hast not visited me at school,” said Alcmaeon.

[8]“Nay, father; but ’twas not because the desire was lacking. I had not the time.”

“Hast thou been sent again with letters to the emperor?” inquired the father, with anxious interest.

“Only once,” replied Gannon; “but I saw not the emperor. On the way I passed Nero, that most fortunate of princes. He assumes the manly habit in a few days.”

“In the games and entertainments which he gives the people to celebrate that event, Psyche will dance,” proudly said the mother.

“What character portrayest thou, my sister?” asked Gannon.

“Niobe,” she replied.

“I like thy Daphne better,” he suggested.

“’Tis more pleasing, but the character of Niobe requires more art.”

“Ay, but the movements are more graceful in Daphne. Niobe is too sad.”

“The dance begins in lively fashion,” she insisted.

“True. But I like Apollo better when he pursues a lovely maiden than when he shoots to kill,” said Gannon, still unconvinced.

At this moment Hera, who had left the room, reappeared, carrying a plateful of cakes.

“What, my mother! My favorite cakes too!” exclaimed the youth.

[9]“I kept them hidden so as to surprise thee,” replied the fond mother.

“Thou couldst not have pleased me better, my dear mother,” exclaimed Gannon, with evident appreciation.

After they had eaten the cakes, and the room was arranged for the night, Alcmaeon threw himself upon a couch. Gannon seated himself beside him, so that, upon leaning back, his head touched his father’s shoulder. Hera and Psyche sat near them, side by side.

“Now, my son,” gently commanded Alcmaeon, “describe to us the palace on the Esquiline Hill.”

“Oh, my dear father, it is like a dream,” Gannon began, in a voice filled with enthusiasm. “The meandering walk that leads from the massive iron gates to the palace is bordered with short-trimmed boxwood, over which peep dark crimson anemones, golden daffodils, purple violets, pale-blue hyacinths, and the starlike blooms of the white narcissus. Superb pine-trees interweave their branches across the walk, revealing the blue sky as through the meshes of a green net. Roofs of verdure embower pure white statues of Diana, Daphne, naiads, and dancing fauns. Fountains play sweet and endless music. Quiet pools of water, with lilies floating on the surface, are bordered by majestic firs. Carved[10] marble benches are placed in shady nooks and corners, and rustic summer-houses here and there invite to rest. The words of Homer seem to have become living things. O my father, Maecenas, the rich minister of the Divine Augustus, well knew how to group the gifts of the gods in delightful harmony.”

“Maecenas was more Greek than Roman, my son,” said Alcmaeon. “No Roman, except the Divine Augustus, understood beauty as he did.”

“Maecenas built his palace of marble as temples are built,” continued Gannon. “Graceful columns with Corinthian capitals support the roof of the atrium, peristyle, and corridors. Some of the rooms have walls of polished marble. All are lavishly decorated with rare paintings, exquisite carvings, beautiful statues,—all the work of the deft fingers of our countrymen. It is not surpassed even by the palace of Tiberius, which I described to thee last week.”

“As if by magic, my son,” said Alcmaeon, proudly, “Greek hands have congealed and fixed forever the ecstasies of the affections. Painting, sculpture, and architecture, O Gannon, are the gifts of the Greeks to the world.”

“On the opposite sides of the atrium,” continued Gannon, “with their faces towards each other, are two wonderful busts of Plato and[11] Socrates. So lifelike are they that they seem to speak.”

“They are well placed, my son. Plato looks to Socrates for intellectual light; Socrates looks to Plato to transmit that light to souls that sit in darkness.”

“Verily, my father, ’tis strange what influence the Greeks have over the Romans.”

“Ah! Forget not, my son,” said Alcmaeon, “that beauty, art, and understanding still rule the world. Rome has conquered Greece by military force; but Greece has conquered the world by that higher celestial force, intellect. Greece has had her day of wealth and power; but her genius, her art, her architecture, her statues, her poetry, and her philosophy are living influences, before whose vitality the Roman legions are impotent.”

“True, my father. Yet before the Roman legions the world trembles,” said Gannon.

“The world trembles from fear, not from the thrill of Roman intellectual power,” earnestly asserted Alcmaeon. “Rome rules the body; Greece, the mind. Rome creates worldly dominions; Greece, heavenly kingdoms. Rome stands for war; Greece stands for peace.”

“The Greeks were brave, O my father. Are they not still brave?” interjected Gannon.

Without replying directly to the eager question of his son, Alcmaeon resumed: “Prometheus[12] brought fire to mortals and was punished; Greece brought reasoning and was punished. But Prometheus is now free; Greece still feeds from her vitals the hunger of the Roman eagle, greedy for gold. Where is the Hercules that will set her free?”

“Is Greek heroism, then, dead?” asked Gannon. “Will no Leonidas, no Themistocles, no Alexander, ever arise again?”

“Nations, like homes, buildings, armies, cities, and individuals, have their genii, my son,” replied Alcmaeon. “Who, therefore, knows the caprices of Fate?”

Alcmaeon spoke the last words slowly, with a slight tremor in his voice.

“But why should my companions in the camp taunt me by saying that the Greeks are weak, effeminate, and cowardly?” asked Gannon.

“The Romans are a vulgar, brutal, and licentious people,” answered Alcmaeon. “Few of them understand the higher life, according to our philosophy. We have done nothing to cause the blush of shame, O my son. The Romans believe us weak because we have ceased to fight. Physical strength wanes with age, but the mind often retains its vigor. The Romans call us effeminate. Because our stomachs cannot hold as much wine as theirs do, are we soft? Because we, in our Pentathlons, run, jump, wrestle,[13] throw the discus and javelin; and because the Romans in their games kill one another and drink one another’s blood, are we effeminate? Be proud to be called effeminate under such conditions, O my son!”

Alcmaeon became more earnest as he proceeded. Gannon turned so as to see his father’s face. Hera and Psyche leaned forward, with breathless attention.

“They call us cowards! Those who do so lie!” he continued. “Nations are not cowards if they are conquered while fighting to the death. We are Corinthians, O my children, and on the awful day when we were defeated by the Romans under the inhuman Mummius, the hopes of Greece fell. Our ancestors were sold as slaves. Our city was razed and burnt. By the gods of Olympus!” he exclaimed, “we were not cowards, and we are not cowards!”

This Alcmaeon said with such fervor that Gannon, filled with emotion, cried out, “O my father, I thank thee for those words!”

“What else have the Romans done besides conquer nations?” added Alcmaeon, stirred by Gannon’s enthusiasm. “The Iliad that appeared at the dawn of our history is still the dew that nourishes the very radicles of our souls. Have the Romans produced a Homer? Art became plastic in the quick fingers of the Greeks. Have[14] the Romans produced a Praxiteles or a Scopas? Greek painting deceived human eyes. Have the Romans produced an Apelles? Where is the Roman Phidias, the Roman Demosthenes, the Roman Aeschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides? Where are the Roman counterparts of the greatest men who ever reflected on human minds the light of the other world? Where, O my children, where is the Roman Socrates, the Roman Plato and Aristotle?”

“I understand thee now, my father! I understand thee now!” cried Gannon, carried to a higher plane of conception by his father’s superb climax. “I have fought my companions and have been beaten. Of a truth, words and thoughts are more powerful than brute force. My companions may ridicule my lack of physical strength, but they have become my friends. They now respect me.”

“Ay. The Romans understand not the finer and purer instincts, my son,” said Alcmaeon, flushed with indignation. “They are a coarse, vulgar, and brutal people; the Greeks are refined, elegant, and humane.”

With an effort to calm her father’s agitation, Psyche now interposed in a voice that seemed to sing rather than to speak: “But, my father, beauty is understood by both nations. Is it not so?”

[15]“Ay, my Psyche; but there are two kinds of beauty,—the pure beauty of the Greeks and the corrupt beauty of the Romans.”

“Tell us of Livilla’s beauty, my brother,” begged Psyche, somewhat weary of this discussion, and with a natural and innocent curiosity to know more about the daughter-in-law of the emperor.

“So beautiful, stately, and majestic is she, my sister, that I feel, when I stand before her, as if I stood in a temple, beholding a living goddess.”

“Has she not one fault?” asked Hera, doubtfully.

“To Greek eyes,” replied the youth, “her lips may seem too thick, her eyes too dreamy.”

“Few women possess the exquisite beauty of our daughter, my son,” said Hera, weaving the fingers of her daughter’s hand into those of her own.

“Would that her figure could be reproduced in marble!” said Gannon, with an admiring glance at his sister.

“Psyche’s dancing, my son, leaves an impression that a sculptured form could not produce,” replied Hera.

“True, O mother,” said Gannon; “but the veil of age dims loveliness. A statue of Psyche would preserve her beauty forever.”

“My son, hast thou watched the attentive[16] faces of the spectators when Psyche dances?” asked Alcmaeon. “Hast thou noticed the mouths firmly compressed or half open, the foreheads contracted or expanded? Hast thou noticed the light of joy and the shadow of sorrow alternate on their faces? Memories of Psyche’s impersonations may be perishable, but to me they are preferable to a figure in marble.”

“What thinks Gyges, my sister?” slyly asked Gannon.

“He wishes only the living me,” laughed Psyche, modestly blushing.

“Besides,” added Alcmaeon, “no sculptor now lives who can create life in marble.”

“Are all our sculptors dead too?” asked Gannon.

“Art died under foreign oppression, my son. Artists now copy; they do not create,” replied his father.

But again the conversation reverted to Livilla. Hera and Psyche were filled with curiosity to know the smallest details about the first woman in Rome. The night was far spent when they had exhausted Gannon’s information. When the family separated for the night, Alcmaeon, with his heart full of love, took his handsome boy by the arms and said, “You are the picture of your grandfather.” This was the highest encomium he could bestow.