“RELIGION,” said Pan, “is with us that we shall not perish of too much truth. The spirit quickens, and man was driven to invent ghosts, since without them he could not explain either his past, his present, or his future. People find themselves safer if they live in a cage of religion, and as long as they do not make faces through the bars at other people in other cages, no harm is done. But cages are apt to be stuffy and the fumes prove very unfavourable to honesty. In time to come men will leave their cages and be brave enough to face truth without perishing of fright. For the present mankind is still in his childhood, and truth may prove a very ugly customer while you are too ignorant to recognise it as such.”
The god sat and watched Arcadius as he spoke, while with hammer and chisel the lad prepared to carve memorial words upon his mother’s tomb. It stood in a little grassy-dingle, and round about red roses blossomed during Summer, while the herbage was woven with hyacinths and narcissus at the Spring.
An experience painful in one direction, fruitful in another, had overtaken Arcadius. A day came when he nerved himself to enter his father’s little study — a chamber that opened out of the temple of Rhea-Cybele and had, in death as in life, been forever sacred to Marcus. Here for many years he proceeded with his great composition — a work destined, as he explained, to confound Lucretius and his impieties. Arcadius expected to find the achievement at least near completion, and himself having no learning to measure such a masterpiece, proposed to submit the manuscripts to men of letters, who had known and loved his father. But not a manuscript appeared — not a note — not even a copy of the Lucretian poem itself! In truth Marcus Pomponius had never read De Rerum Natura and had never wanted to do so. His alleged book was a myth, a blind, an excuse for solitude, a means of peace, an escape from too pressing reality. Arcadius felt stunned at this singular discovery, but he recovered after a while, made an examination of the chamber and found, hidden in a cupboard, copies of many original squibs, satires and verses of a very personal and licentious character, which professional poets and publicists had conveyed to Marcus with their affectionate greetings. He patronised these people, and they rewarded him with their most caustic achievements. Even had printing been invented, these things had never won to it, for they were quite unprintable.
Arcadius blushed at such audacities, for he was too young to take pleasure in them. He burned all the effusions, and then, seeking farther, came across some very mild literary efforts on the part of his vanished parent. They were quite devoid of offence, unless futility itself be an offence. Marcus had evidently desired to compose a pleasant line for the stele of Aurelia, and various unsuccessful attempts appeared.
These the lad collected, and knowing from a natural taste that none was worthy of his mother’s grave, yet, for his dear father’s sake, felt minded to set one upon it. He took them to Pan, therefore, and read them to his indulgent deity.
“Aurelia loved pearls, herself a pearl above all price.
Now she is dissolved in the cup of the gods.”
“Aurelia is dead. Hold higher the torches
lest my tears extinguish them.”
“My heart was empty until Aurelia made it her jewel
box. Now it is again empty.”
“Fear not, Aurelia, that the flowers which spring from
your grave shall ever lack for water while I have eyes.”
“Here lies all Aurelia
and most of Marcus.”
“Dear me,” said Pan, “is that the best your poor father could do?”
“I’m afraid so,” answered Arcadius. “I feel they are not very good myself — still — ”
“Carve the last,” directed Pan, “and if ever you have occasion to compose a funeral sentiment, study your Greek anthology before making the attempt. Consideration of what has already been done may deter you; for one of the first uses of good poetry should be to stop people from writing bad. Instead, however, it appears to act contrariwise. Man is an imitative animal, which, of course, accounts in a large measure for his civilisation; but in art this is a danger. Thus all schools are perdition, whether of the arts, or philosophy. They produce disciples, who merely think and act in the line of the didactic will that controls them, and good men, capable of some little originality, are often thus destroyed. Tradition, admirable in some categories, is death to art. The really great man should be complete in himself and blaze solitary, like a star upon the sky. Such, of course, alone matter. Men-kind pay too much respect to the imitators; and another base mistake they make is often to cast an original spirit into some school and so lose him, whereas, if better understood, he might be found a phœnix, accounting to and accounted for by none but himself.”
Arcadius partially understood these opinions. He was in an egotistical frame of mind, as the sorrowful are apt to be, and now he asked a question as he began to draw letters on the marble of his mother’s tomb.
“Shall I ever be happy again, Great God?” he inquired.
“Still harping on happiness! Yes, you will be happy again, my lad — happier than you yet have been.”
“That is utterly impossible, Divine One, now that my dear father is no more.”
“Memory runs clearer as it rolls deeper,” answered Pan, “and there is a precious human instinct to preserve the impression of happy hours, but let the dark ones grow dim. You are too young as yet to benefit from this principle; you are also too young to taste the highest happiness reserved for man — that acme of sensation, that quivering lightning of emotion, that quintessence of feeling called love. This tornado has yet to sweep over you and submerge everything that went before it, as the flood of Zeus drowned all the world, till Deucalion and his wife landed from their coffer on Parnassus. Happiness and misery are states, not conditions. The weather of life must ever be changing.”
Arcadius began to carve, and Pan continued.
“Some time ago I met a miserable little bird. She was the skylark’s mate and had built her nest in the scrub of dwarf lavender upon yonder hill. But while she hopped here and there, refreshing herself and resting from the labours of incubation, there came a bearded goat — a careless, old devil with heavy hooves and yellow eyes. Lifting himself to get a bite of juniper, the fellow thrust his hind foot into the lark’s nest and made a sorry mess of her five eggs. Thus were five skylarks lost to the air, and sadly torn a mother’s heart.
“The father lark descended from his aerial singing and, when I met them, both were talking to the goat — wild, whirling and bitter words. But the brute was aged and rheumatic and didn’t care an obolus for what he had done. He said that the larks should not build their silly nests on the ground, and implied that they had only themselves to thank for the disaster.
“To-day I have seen those birds again. The lady has built a new nest and laid some more eggs; her lord is aloft as usual, thrilling the blue Spring air. Their sorrow has passed and they are perfectly happy — for the moment.”
“Why do they build their nests on the ground?” asked Arcadius.
“That I cannot tell you,” answered Pan.
“Cannot or will not, Mightiest?” inquired the lad, who was on terms of the dearest affection with his god.
“Cannot,” replied Pan. “There are many things of which I am ignorant, for even the immortals have their limitations. It is the worshipper who knows everything, not the god. That, however, must be no story for your ears at present. Faith serves youth well enough. Have you any of those yellow figs your late father gave me?”
“The tree flourishes; but it is still the early Spring, blessed One.”
“I seldom perform a miracle,” answered Pan, “and when I do, like it to be a good one. Seek the tree.”
Arcadius dropped his tools and went to the fruit garden half a mile distant; while Pan picking up mallet and chisel, completed the inscription on Aurelia’s monument before he returned.
The young fellow came back with a laden basket.
“The tree is covered with magnificent fruit!” he cried.
“Say nothing about it, however,” answered Pan. Then he ate of the figs, blessed Arcadius and prepared to depart.
“I shall not see you again for some time,” he said. “Much will have happened to you and the rest of the world before my return. You may, I hope, have increased in wisdom and understanding, and donned knowledge with the toga virilis which you are soon destined to wear.”
Having thus spoken he went his way.
Three days later Arcadius took a wallet of victuals and a cloak of sheep’s wool. Then he set out, to live alone with his thoughts for a week and establish his mind in the light of that manhood which would presently be his. He wandered to the Alban Hills and there a remarkable and dangerous adventure befell him.
We know, from the Valentinian historian, Ammianus, that the Emperor’s two bears did their sovereign’s will with punctual obedience, and we also learn from the same vigorous scribe, that a time came when “Innocence,” the great he-bear, was rewarded for his bloody activities with freedom. Valentinian, though terrible under certain promptings of his many-sided genius, has always appeared to be a just terror, and, considering the record of his faithful bear, he determined at length that the brute had earned liberty and a dignified old age in such salubrious and savage haunts as he might select.
“Innocence” was therefore set free to roam in the forests of the Alban, and the Emperor, setting a gold band about his mighty neck, took friendly farewell of him and bade the monster depart in peace. This fact was known to Rome, and Arcadius had also learned it; but he did not associate the incident with his own pilgrimage to the mountains; nor in any case had he felt fear from the possibility of a clash with Valentinian’s old servant.
Yet boy and bear met and in this manner.
Arcadius was sitting upon a stone in a pine clearing, reflecting upon the insecurity of life and turning over the somewhat sharp words he had just heard from a magpie. The magpie, having captured a wounded starling, was hammering the life out of it with his chisel-beak, that he might dine. Whereupon, challenged by the scream of the victim, and without stopping to reflect, Arcadius had leapt forward and ended the unequal contest. The half-dead starling crawled under a thicket to perish; the magpie turned upon Arcadius and showed him his error.
“Fool!” he said. “What have you done? The starling was already at death’s door with a broken leg and wing. A few moments would have put him out of his misery, which now your blunder only serves to prolong without forestalling. Thus you have added to the suffering of the world and delayed my dinner — why? Because you wanted to be kind to yourself, not the starling.”
The youth had nothing to answer, but turned away sadly: and now he sat, debating the matter and feeling the magpie to be right.
Meanwhile “Innocence” was also reflecting close at hand; but he always thought better on the move, and his prowling brought him swiftly to the glade.
He had been a free bear for several months and, like many of his betters, began to find that liberty is not all it vaunts itself to be. The wild woods were excellent and life in the open very health-giving. He lost his mange, hardened his muscles and became more formidable than ever; but problems presented themselves unknown in his palace cage. Out of his happiness, in fact, grew that inevitable little worm of anxiety which so often accompanies fancied independence and proves the state of the free-lance to be only relatively perfect. Thus “Innocence” was excogitating like puzzles with Arcadius when they met.
The question of malefactors especially disturbed this bear. In the royal enclosure malefactors had never lacked. For breakfast, luncheon, tea and dinner the malefactor could be counted upon with certainty; but here, on the Alban ranges, there also harboured many malefactors; only they took a great deal of catching, and the difference between a captured and a free malefactor he found to be prodigious. Fleet-foot malefactors often escaped him, and worse: there were malefactors who dared to strike back; there were malefactors who wanted the gold necklace which he wore to mark his sovereign’s gratitude; a malefactor had once wounded him painfully in the spare ribs with a knife, before the wretch was overpowered and devoured. This tendency to retaliate on the part of provisions puzzled the ursine mind; and there were other thorns in the couch of liberty also.
“Innocence” speculated without enthusiasm on a day when he might grow old and slow, his sight deceive him, his teeth play him false, his appalling hug become less conclusive. He even pictured the possibility of a malefactor — desperate, dead to reverence, decency, tradition — doing him in altogether. At his weakest moments he considered the desirability of returning to Rome. He grew morbid and even dared to wonder whether Valentinian’s gift of liberty was all that it seemed. Had the Emperor tired of him and taken this subtle step that he might start another and perhaps more showy bear? Moodily revolving these points, “Innocence” emerged into the glade and his eyes brightened at the sight of a solitary malefactor sitting on a stone with his back turned. The man was moreover unarmed and defenceless — as malefactors should be.
He crept on his belly towards the prey and was about to spring and incapacitate Arcadius before making a meal of him, when the lad turned, perceived his peril, leapt to his feet and accosted “Innocence” in his own language.
“Wait — wait — wait!” he cried. “I’m a friend!”
“A friend in need,” answered the bear, with a certain rough humour. But he hesitated and his dinner was lost. Another puzzle confronted him; for how came it about that this person knew his speech — a tongue which Valentinian himself had never acquired?
“Where did you learn bear talk?” he asked. “Answer instantly, before I devour you.”
“Where should I learn it?” replied Arcadius. “There is only One who could have given me this valuable aid to culture. Before his name I beg you will shut your terrible mouth and sheathe those magnificent claws. In a word — Pan, my god as well as yours.”
“Not at all,” answered “Innocence”; “I am a Christian bear.”
Arcadius approached and patted his huge head with a kindly hand.
“I recognise you,” he said. “You are the Emperor’s famous pet. To meet you is a great privilege; but when you say you are a Christian, think twice. Keep an open mind, as Valentinian himself does. The Christians, let me tell you, are giving him a great deal to think about. They quarrel very strenuously among themselves, and he makes law after law to check their enthusiasm. The friends of tolerance are in a minority among the rising sect, and the orthodox party are doing dreadful things to those who do not see the faith with their eyes.”
“How is Valentinian?” asked the bear. “I thought, perhaps, some day he might look me up.”
“Far too busy,” replied Arcadius. “At present he is across the Alps chastening the Allemanni. We are fighting in Germany, Britain, Africa, on the Danube and in the East. It is rather an unhappy world I fear.”
“Do you chance to know how ‘Grain of Gold ‘is getting on without me?” asked “Innocence.”
“‘Mica Aurea’ has a new husband,” answered Arcadius.
“Just what I expected,” growled the other. “A lazy and a greedy brute was she. Nobody liked a tender malefactor better; but I had to do all the work.”
“What of the Alban bears?” inquired Arcadius. “No doubt you are their king?”
“Not in the least,” answered “Innocence.” “They are a primitive, unsocial crowd and quite uneducated as to the value of leadership. I offered to be their monarch and explained the advantages; but the barbarians have decided against my suggestion. Their elementary view is that they have always struggled on well enough without a king and may continue to do so.”
“They don’t understand what they are missing?”
“They don’t understand anything,” answered the big bear. “One can hardly get down to their level of intelligence.”
“Of course to be their king would prove a great convenience to you,” suggested Arcadius.
“Obviously. They would reap the benefit of my knowledge and experience and civilised way of looking at life, while I should be waited upon, honoured and pampered as of old. Take honey. Much honey used to be served to me in a silver dish. I need it, and it is good for me; but here, if one wants it, one must find it and then run the gauntlet of a myriad infernal, little, stinging creatures that infest it and apparently object to me for taking it.”
“They are bees and they make the honey,” explained Arcadius.
“Do they? Well they have yet to learn that honey was meant for bears, not bees. Let them produce it by all means; but I consume it.”
“That is the question of Capital and Labour in an elementary form,” answered Arcadius. “I’m afraid you have a reactionary mind; but to dwell so long at Court may have given you a bias. We must live and let live.”
“A good motto for grass eaters,” admitted “Innocence” — “not much use to me.”
“I will send you some honey,” promised Arcadius. “I am far from home at present, but shall be returning in a day or two; and if you will trust me, I promise that a very splendid present of honey shall arrive on this spot at no distant date.”
“In the comb,” demanded “Innocence.”
“In the comb,” replied his companion.
“I will trust you, then. And if you see ‘Mica Aurea,’ tell her, since you have the power to do so, that I am in magnificent fettle, have ten wives handsomer than she, and for all practical purposes find myself the monarch of the Albans. It is far from being the truth, unfortunately; but it will worry her to think so.”
Arcadius kept his promise and sent the bear one hundred pounds of honeycomb. Yet the gift did “Innocence” more harm than good, for he ate too heartily and suffered inconvenience and loss of appetite for several days afterwards.