Chapter IX: In the Tower 155 (4)

“Yes, yes, little daughter,” said he. “Between the Palatine and the Esquiline, it really is there. It is the Golden House of the emperor Nero, the most beautiful palace ever built in Rome. Nero had not sufficient space for it and he set fire to Rome. Rome was burnt, and the emperor recited verses about the burning of Troy. And afterwards, on the space that had been cleared, he built his Golden House. Yes, yes, it was between the Palatine and the Esquiline; you’re right. There was nothing more beautiful in the city. But after Nero’s death other emperors destroyed the palace out of envy, and heaped earth upon it; it existed no longer. They built houses and baths on its site. But it was the most beautiful of all the palaces.”

Then, having become bolder, Maria told her father about her beloved bas-relief. And again the old scribe was not surprised. He at once explained to his daughter what the artist had wished to express--

“That, my daughter, is Rhea Silvia, the vestal virgin, daughter of King Numitor. But a youth--this god Mars, fell in love with the maiden and sought her out in the sacred cave. Twin sons were born to them, Romulus and Remus. Rhea Silvia was drowned in the Tiber, the infants were suckled by a wolf and they became the founders of the City. Yes, that is how it all was, my daughter.”

Rufus told Maria in detail the touching story of the guilty vestal Ilia, or Rhea Silvia, and he at once began to recite some lines from the “Metamorphoses” of the ancient Naso:

_Proximus Ausonias iniusti miles Amuli_
_Rexit opes ..._

But Maria was not listening to her father, she was repeating quietly to herself:

“It is--Rhea Silvia! Rhea Silvia!”

IV

After that day Maria spent still more of her time looking at the wonderful bas-relief. She would take a scanty luncheon with her, as well as a torch, so that she might stay some hours longer in the underground palace, which she considered to be more her own home than her father’s house. She would lie on the cold and slippery floor in front of the sculptured daughter of Numitor, and by the faint light of her resinous torch she would gaze for long hours at the features of the slender maiden sleeping in the sacred cave. With every day it became more apparent to Maria that she was strangely like this ancient vestal, and little by little in her dreams, she became less able to distinguish which was poor Maria, the daughter of Rufus the Scribe, and which the unhappy Ilia, daughter of the King of Alba Longa. She always called herself Rhea Silvia. Lying in front of the picture she would dream that to her, in this new sacred cave, the god Mars would appear, and that from their divine embraces there would be born of her the twins Romulus and Remus, who would become the founders of the Eternal City. True, she would have to pay for this by her death--and be drowned in the muddy waters of the Tiber--but could death terrify Maria? She often fell asleep while musing thus before the bas-relief, and dreamed of this same god Mars with his noble face of marvellous beauty and his divine, consuming embrace. And when she awoke she would not know whether it had been dream or reality.

It was already scorching July, when the streets of Rome at midday were as empty as after the terrible command of King Totila. But in the underground palace it was damp and cool. Maria, as before, went there every day to muse, in her habitual sweet reveries, before the pictured Ilia, who lay dreaming of the god destined for her. And one day, when in a slight doze, she was once again giving herself up to the ardent caresses of the god Mars, suddenly a noise of some kind forced her to awake. She opened her eyes, not understanding anything as yet, and glanced around. By the light of the little torch which she had placed in a cranny between the stones, she saw before her a young man. He was not in warlike armour, but wore the dress usually worn at that time by poor Romans; his face, however, was full of nobility, and to Maria it appeared radiant with a marvellous beauty. For some moments she looked with amazement on the unexpected apparition, on the man who had found his way into this enchanted palace which she had thought unknown to anyone save herself. Then, sitting upright on the floor, the girl asked simply:

“You have come to me?”

The young man smiled a quiet and attractive smile, and answered by another question.

“But who are you, maiden? The genius of this place?”

Maria answered:

“I--am Rhea Silvia, a vestal virgin, daughter of King Numitor. And are you not the god Mars, come in search of me?”

“No, I am no god,” objected the young man. “I am a mortal, my name is Agapit, and I was not searching here for you. But all the same, I am glad to find you. Greeting to you, daughter of King Numitor!”

Maria invited the young man to sit down beside her, and he at once consented. So they sat together, youth and maiden, on the damp floor, in the magnificent hall of Nero’s Golden House, buried under ground, and they looked into each other’s eyes and knew not at first what to talk about. Then Maria pointed out the bas-relief to the young man and began to tell him all the legend of the unhappy vestal. But the youth interrupted her story.

“I know this, Rhea,” said he, “but how strange! The face of the girl in the bas-relief is actually like yours.”

“It is I,” answered Maria.

So much conviction was in her words that the youth was perplexed and knew not what to think. But Maria gently placed her hand on his shoulder and began to speak ingratiatingly, almost timidly.

“Do not deny it:--you are the god Mars in the form of a mortal. But I recognise you. I have expected you for a long while. I knew that you would come. I am not afraid of death. Let them drown me in the Tiber.”

For a long while the young man listened to Maria’s incoherent speech. All around was strange. This underground palace, known to no one, with its magnificent apartments where only lizards and bats were living. And the obscurity of this immense hall, barely lighted by the faint light of the two torches. And this obscure maiden, like the Rhea Silvia of the ancient bas-relief, with her unintelligible speeches, who in some marvellous fashion had lighted upon the buried Golden House of Nero. The young man felt that the rude actuality of the life he had lived just before his entrance into the underground dwelling had vanished into thin air as a dream disappears in the morning. In another moment he might have believed that he himself was the god Mars, and that he had met here his beloved, Ilia the vestal, the daughter of Numitor. Putting the greatest restraint upon himself, he broke in upon Maria’s speech.

“Dear maiden,” said he, “listen to me. You are mistaken about me. I am not he for whom you take me. I will tell you the whole truth. Agapit is not my real name. I am a Goth, and my name is really Theodat. But I am obliged to conceal my origin, for I should be put to death if it were known. Haven’t you heard, by my pronunciation, that I am not a Roman. When my fellow-countrymen left your city, I did not follow them. I love Rome, I love its history and its tradition. I want to live and die in the Eternal City, which once belonged to us. So now, under the name of Agapit, I am in the service of an armourer; I work by day, and in the evenings I wander about the city and admire its memorials which have escaped destruction. As I knew that Nero’s Golden House had been built on this spot, I got in to this underground palace so that I could admire the remains of its former beauty. That is all. I have told you the whole truth, and I do not think you will betray me, for one word from you would be enough to have me put to death.”

Maria listened to the words of Theodat with incredulity and dissatisfaction. After a little thought she said: “Why are you deceiving me? Why do you wish to take the form of a Goth? Can I not see the nimbus round your head? Mars Gradivus, for others thou art a god, for me thou art my beloved. Do not mock thy poor bride, Rhea Silvia!”

Theodat looked again for a long while at the young girl who spoke such foolish words, and he began to guess that Maria was not in her right mind. And when this thought came into his head he said to himself, “Poor girl! I will never take advantage of your unprotected state! This would be unworthy of a Goth.” Then he gently put his arms around Maria and began to talk to her as to a little child, not contradicting her strange fancies but acknowledging himself to be the god Mars. And for a long while they sat side by side in the semi-darkness, not exchanging one kiss, talking and dreaming together of the future Rome which would be founded by their twin sons Romulus and Remus. At last the torches began to burn low, and Theodat said to Maria:

“Dear Rhea Silvia, it is already late. We must go away from here.”

“But you will come again to-morrow?” asked Maria.

Theodat looked at the young girl. She seemed to him strangely attractive, with her thin, half-childish figure, the hectic flush on her cheeks and her deep black eyes. There was an incomprehensible attraction in this meeting of theirs in the dim hall of the buried palace, before the marvellous bas-relief of an unknown artist. Theodat desired to repeat these minutes of strange intercourse with the poor crazy girl, and he answered:

“Yes, maiden, to-morrow at this hour, after my day’s work, I will come again to you here.”

Hand in hand they went in the direction of the way out. Theodat had a rope ladder with him. He helped Maria to climb up to the hole which served as an entrance to the palace. Evening had already fallen when they reached the streets.

Before they separated Theodat said once more, looking into Maria’s eyes:

“Remember, maiden, you must not tell anyone that you have met me. It might cost me my life. Good-bye until to-morrow.”

He got out first into the open-air and was soon out of sight round a bend of the road. Maria went slowly home. If it happened that evening that she had a talk with her father, she would not tell him that at last Mars Gradivus had come to her.

V

Theodat did not deceive Maria. Next day, towards evening he really came again to the Golden House and to the bas-relief representing Mars and Rhea Silvia, where Maria was already awaiting him. The young man had brought with him some bread and cheese and some wine, and they had their supper together in the magnificent hall of Nero’s palace. Maria mused aloud again about the beauty of life in the past, about gods, heroes, and emperors, mixing up stories of her own experiences with the wanderings of her fancy; but Theodat, with his arm around the girl, gently stroked her hand or her shoulder, and admired the black depth of her eyes. Then they walked together through the empty underground rooms, shedding the light of their torches on the great creations of Greek and Roman genius. When they parted they again exchanged a promise to meet on the following day.

From that time, every day, when Theodat had finished his dull labour at the armourer’s workshop, where they made and repaired helmets, pikes, and armour for the company of Byzantines who were garrisoning Rome, he went to meet the strange young girl who thought herself to be the vestal virgin Ilia, alive once more. There was an unconquerable attraction for the young man in the lissom body of the girl and in her half-foolish words, to which he was ready to listen for whole hours together. They explored together all the halls, corridors, and rooms of the palace, as far as they could get; they rejoiced together over each newly-found statue, each newly-noticed bas-relief, and there was never a day but some unexpected discovery filled their souls with a new rapture. Day after day they lived in an unchanging happiness--enjoying the creations of Art, and in moments of emotion before a new-found marble sculpture, the work perhaps of Praxiteles, young man and maiden would lean towards one another and embrace in a pure and blessed kiss.

Imperceptibly Theodat began to consider the Golden House of Nero as his own home, and Maria became to him the nearest and dearest being in the world. How this happened Theodat himself did not know. But all the rest of the time which he spent on the earth seemed to him a burdensome and distasteful obligation, and only the time that he spent with Rhea Silvia underground, in the palace of the ancient emperor, seemed to him to be real life. The whole day the young man awaited in a torture of impatience the moment when he could at last leave the brass helmets and hammers and pincers, and with the rope ladder hidden under his garments run off to the slope of the Esquiline for his secret meeting. Only by these meetings did Theodat reckon his days. If he had been asked what attracted him in Maria he would have found it difficult to answer. But without her, without her simple talk, without her strange eyes--all his life would have seemed empty and void.

On the earth, in the armourer’s workshop, or in his own pitiful little room which he rented from a priest, Theodat could reason sanely. He would say to himself that this Rhea Silvia was a poor crazy girl, and that he himself perhaps was doing wrong in corroborating her pernicious fancies. But when he went down into the cool damp obscurity of the Golden House, Theodat, as it were, changed everything--his thoughts and his soul. He became something different, not what he was in the sultry heat of the Roman day or in the stifling atmosphere of the forge. He felt himself in another world there, where in reality could be met both the vestal virgin Ilia, daughter of King Numitor, and the god Mars, who had taken upon himself the form of a young Goth. In this world everything was possible and all miracles were natural. In this world the past was still living, and the fables of the poets were clearly realised at every step.

Not that Theodat fully believed in Maria’s delusions. But when, before some statue of an ancient emperor she would begin to speak of meeting him on the Forum and talking with him, it seemed to Theodat that something of the sort had actually taken place. When Maria told him about the riches of her father, King Numitor, Theodat was ready to think that she was speaking the truth. And when she had visions of the glories of the future Rome, which would be founded by the new Romulus and Remus, Theodat himself was led to develop these visions, and to speak about the new victories of the Eternal City, its new conquests of territory, its new world-wide fame.... And together they would imagine the names of the coming emperors who would rule in their children’s city.... Maria always spoke of herself as Rhea Silvia and of Theodat as Mars, and he became so accustomed to these names that there were times when he deliberately called himself by the name of the ancient Roman god of war. And when both of them, young man and maiden, were intoxicated by the darkness and by the marvellous creations of Art, by their nearness to one another and by their strange half-crazy dreams, Theodat almost began to feel in his veins the divine ichor of an Olympian god.

And again the days went by. At the very beginning of his acquaintance with Maria, Theodat had promised himself to spare the crazy girl and not to take advantage of her weak intellect and her unprotected state. But with each new meeting it became in every way more and more difficult for him to keep his word. Meeting every day the girl he already loved with all the passion of youthful love, spending long hours with her alone in this isolated place, in the half-darkness, touching her hands and shoulders, feeling her breathing close beside him, and exchanging kisses with her;--Theodat was obliged to use greater and greater effort not to press the girl to himself in a strong embrace, not to draw her to him with those caresses with which the god Mars had once drawn to himself the first vestal. And Maria not only did not avoid such caresses, but she even, as it were, sought them, leaning towards him, attracting him to her with all her being. She lingered in Theodat’s arms when he kissed her, she herself pressed him to her bosom when they were admiring the statues and pictures, she seemed every moment to be questioning the youth with her large black eyes, as if she were asking him, “When?” “Will it be soon?” “I am tired of waiting.” Theodat would ask himself “---- And can it be true that she is crazy? Then I must be crazy too! And is not our craziness better than the reasonable life of other people. Why should we deny ourselves the full joy of love?”

And so that which was inevitable came to its fulfilment. The marriage chamber of Maria and Theodat was one of the magnificent halls of the Golden House of Nero. The resin twists, lighted and placed in ancient bronze candlesticks in the form of Cupids, were their bridal torches. The union of the young couple was blessed by the marble gods, sculptured by Praxiteles, who looked down with unearthly smiles from their niches of porphyry. The great silence of the buried palace hid in itself the first passionate sighs of the newly-wedded pair and their pale faces were overshadowed by the mysterious obscurity of the underground palace. There was no solemn banquet, no marriage songs, but long ages of glory and power overshadowed the bridal couch, and its earth and ashes seemed to the lovers softer and more desirable than the down of Pontine swans in the sleeping apartments of Byzantium.

From that evening Maria and Theodat began to meet as lovers. Their long talks were mingled with long caresses. They exchanged passionate confessions and passionate vows--in almost senseless speeches. They wandered again through the empty rooms of the Golden House, not so much attracted now by the pictures and statues, the marble walls and the mosaics, as by the possibility in the new room to fall again and again into each other’s embraces. They still dreamed of the future Rome which would be founded by their children, but this happy vision was already eclipsed by the happiness of their unrestrained kisses in whose burning atmosphere vanished not only actuality but also dreams. They still called themselves Rhea Silvia and the god Mars, but they had already become poor earthly lovers, a happy couple, like thousands and thousands of others living on the earth after thousands and thousands of centuries.

VI

Never, outside the hall of the subterranean palace, did Theodat try to meet Maria nor she him. They only existed for one another in the Golden House of Nero. Perhaps they might even not have recognised one another on the earth. Theodat might have ceased to be for Maria the god Mars, and Maria would not have seemed to Theodat beautiful and wonderful. Truly, after their union, the honourable young Goth had said to himself that he ought to find out the real relatives of the young girl, to marry her and openly acknowledge her as his wife before all people. But day after day he put off the fulfilment of this resolve; it would have been terrible for him to destroy the fairy-like enchantment in which he was living, terrible to exchange the unheard of ways of the underground hall for the ordinary realities. Perhaps Theodat did not thus explain his delay to himself, but, all the same, he did not hasten to bring to an end the burning happiness of these secret meetings, and every time he parted with Maria he renewed his vow to her that on the morrow he would come again. And she expected him and asked for nothing more; for her this visionary blessedness was sufficient--to be the beloved of a god.

“Thou wilt always love me?” Theodat would ask, pressing the lissom body of Maria in his strong arms.

But she would shake her head and say:

“I will love thee until death. But thou art an immortal, and soon I must die. They will drown me in the waters of the Tiber.”

“No, no,” Theodat would say, “that will not happen. We shall live together and die together. Without thee I do not wish to be immortal. And after death we shall love each other just the same there in our Olympus.”

But Maria would look at him distrustfully. She expected death and was prepared for it. She only wished one thing--to prolong her happiness as long as it was possible.

The young man told himself that he ought secretly to follow Maria and find out where she lived--go to her real home and to her true father and tell him that he, Agapit, loved this young girl and wanted to make her his wife. But when the hour of parting drew near, when Maria having heard Theodat vow that he would come again to-morrow to the Golden House, glided away like a thin shadow into the evening distance--the youth would once more postpone his action. “Let this be put off another day! Let us meet once more as Rhea Silvia and the god Mars! Let this fairy tale still continue.” And he would go home, to the little room he rented from the priest, to dream all night of his beloved and solace himself with the new happiness of remembrance. And Theodat never asked anyone about the strange black-eyed girl, though almost everyone in Rome knew Maria. But in reality he did not wish to know anything about her except this--that she was the vestal Ilia, and that every evening she lovingly awaited him in the subterranean hall of Nero’s underground palace.

But one day Maria having waited till the evening, awaited Theodat in vain; the youth did not come. Grieved and disturbed, Maria went home again. Her mind had in a way become somewhat clearer since she had given herself to Theodat and she was able to console herself with the thought that something must have prevented him from coming. But the youth did not come the next day, nor the next. He suddenly disappeared completely and it was in vain that Maria waited for him at the appointed place hour after hour, day after day--waited in anguish, in despair, sobbing, praying to the ancient gods, and using the words which her mother had once taught her: there came no answer to her tears and prayers. As before, an unearthly smile played over the faces of the gods in their niches in the walls; as before, the superb rooms of the ancient palace gleamed with paintings and mosaics, but the Golden House suddenly became empty and terrible for Maria. From a blessed paradise, from the land of the Elysian fields, it had suddenly been changed into a hall of cruel torture, into a black Tartarus where was only horror and solitude, unendurable grief and unbearable pain. With an insane hope Maria went every day as before to the underground dwelling, but now she went there as to a place of torture. There awaited her the hours of disappointed expectation, the terrible reminders of her late happiness and her long-renewed inconsolable tears.

It was most terrible of all, most distressing of all, near the bas-relief which represented Rhea Silvia sleeping in the sacred cave with the god Mars coming towards her. All her remembrances drew Maria to this bas-relief, yet near it the most unconquerable grief would overwhelm her soul. She would fall on the floor and beat her head against the stone mosaic pavement, closing her eyes that she might not behold the radiant face of the god. “Come back, come back!” she would repeat in her frenzy. “Come just once again! Divine, immortal; have pity on my sufferings. Let me see thee once again. I have not yet told thee all, have not given thee all my kisses; I must, I must see thee once again in life. And after that let me die, let them cast me into the waters of the Tiber, and I will not resist. Have pity on me, Divine One!” And Maria would open her eyes again, and by the faint light of the torch she would see the unmoved face of the sculptured god and then once more the remembrance of the blessedness which had suddenly been taken away from her would overwhelm her and she would burst into new tears and sobs and wails. And she herself would hardly know if the god Mars had come to her, if in her life there had been those days of perfect happiness or if she had dreamed them amongst thousands of other dreams.

With every day her expectations grew more hopeless. Every day she would return to her home more anguished and more shaken. In those hours when there were glimmerings of consciousness in her soul she remembered dimly all that Theodat had once told her about himself. Then she would wander through the streets of Rome, and under various pretexts she would look into all the armourer’s workshops, but nowhere did she meet with him she sought. To speak to anyone of her grief and of her vanished happiness was impossible for her and no one would have believed the stories of the poor crazy girl--everyone would have considered them to be new wanderings of her disordered imagination. So Maria lived alone with her grief and her despair, and her mother only shook her head dejectedly as she saw her becoming thinner and more wasted, her cheeks more sunken and her eyes burning more feverishly and with more strange and fiery reflections.

But the days passed by inconsolably--for the poor crazy girl, for the despoiled Eternal City, and for the whole world in which a new life was slowly coming to birth. The days went by; Justinian celebrated his final victories over the remaining Goths, the Lombards thought out their Italian campaign, the popes secretly forged the links of that chain which in the future would connect Rome with all the world, the Romans continued to live their poor and oppressed lives, and one day Maria understood at last that she would become a mother. The vestal Rhea Silvia to whom the god Mars had condescended from his Olympus, began to feel within herself the pulsations of a new life--were they not the twins, the new Romulus and Remus who must found the new Rome?

To no one, neither to father nor to mother, did Maria speak of what she felt. It was her secret. But she was strangely quieted by her discovery. Her dreams were being completely fulfilled. She must give birth to the founders of Rome and afterwards await death in the muddy waters of the Tiber.

VII

Sometimes guests would gather together in the house of old Rufus, a neighbouring merchant who sold cheap women’s finery on the Forum, the coppersmith’s son who at one time had wished to court Maria, an infirm orator who could no longer find a use for his learning, and a few other poverty stricken people who were dejectedly living out their days, only meeting one another to complain of their unhappy lot. They would drink poor wine and eat a little garlic, and among their customary complaints they would cautiously interpolate bitter words about the Byzantine rule and the inhuman demands of the new general who lived on the Palatine in place of the departed eunuch Narses. Florentia would serve the guests, and pour out wine for them, and at the speeches of the old orator she would quietly cross herself at the mention of the accursed gods.

At one of these gatherings Maria was sitting in a corner of the room, having come home that day earlier than usual from her wanderings. Nobody paid any attention to her. They were all accustomed to see among them the silent girl whom they had long ago considered to be insane. She never joined in the conversation and no one ever addressed a remark to her. She sat with her head bent in a melancholy fashion and never moved, apparently hearing nothing of the speeches made by the drinking party.

On this day they were talking especially about the severity of the new general. But the coppersmith’s son took upon himself to defend him.

“We must take into account,” said he, “that at the present time it is necessary to act rigorously. There are many spies going about the city. The barbarians may fall on us again. Then we should have to endure another siege. These accursed Goths, when they took themselves out of the town for good, had hidden their treasures in various places. And now first one and then another of them comes back to Rome secretly and in disguise, digs up the hidden treasure and carries it away. Such people must be caught, and it would never do to be easy with them; the Romans will have all their riches stolen.”

The words of the coppersmith’s son aroused curiosity. They began to ask him questions. He readily told all that he knew about the treasures hidden by the Goths in various parts of Rome, and how those of them who had escaped destruction strove to seek out these stores and carry them off. Then he added:

“And it’s only lately they caught one of them. He was clambering up the Esquiline, where there is an opening in the ground. He had a rope-ladder. They caught him and took him to the general. The general promised to spare him if the accursed one would show exactly where the treasure was hidden. But he was obstinate and would say nothing. They tortured him and tortured him, but got nothing out of him. So they tortured him to death.”

“And is he dead?” asked someone.

“Of course he’s dead,” said the coppersmith’s son.

Suddenly an unexpected illumination lit up the confused mind of Maria. She stood up to her full height. Her large eyes grew still larger. Pressing both hands to her bosom, she asked in a breaking voice:

“And what was his name, what was the name ... of this Goth?”

The coppersmith’s son knew all about it. So he answered at once:

“He called himself Agapit; he was working quite near here, in an armourer’s workshop.”

And with a shriek, Maria fell face downwards on the floor.

* * * * *

Maria was ill for a long while, for many weeks. On the first day of her illness a child was born prematurely, a pitiful lump of flesh which it was impossible to call either a boy or a girl. Florentia, with all her harshness, loved her daughter. While Maria lay unconscious for many days her mother tended her and never left her side. She called in a midwife and a priest. When at length Maria came to her senses Florentia had no reproachful tears for her, she only wept inconsolably and pressed her daughter to her bosom. Her mother-soul had divined everything. Later on, when Maria was a little better her mother told her all that had happened and did not reproach her.

But Maria listened to her mother with a strange distrust. How could Rhea Silvia believe it, when she was destined, by the will of the gods, to bring forth the twins Romulus and Remus? Either the girl’s mind was entirely overclouded or she believed her former dreams more than actuality--at the words of her mother she merely shook her head in weakness. She thought her mother was deceiving her, that during her illness she had borne twins which had been taken from her, put into a wicker-basket and thrown into the Tiber. But Maria knew that a wolf would find and nourish them, for they must be the founders of the new Rome.

As long as Maria was so weak that she could not raise her head no one wondered that she would answer no questions and would be silent whole days, neither asking for food nor drink nor wishing to pronounce a monosyllable. But when she recovered a little and found strength to go about the house Maria continued to be silent, hiding in her soul some treasured thought. She did not even want to talk to her father any more and she was not pleased when he began to declaim verses from the ancient poets.

At length, one morning when her father had gone out on business and her mother was at market Maria unexpectedly disappeared from home. No one noticed her departure. And no one saw her again alive. But after some days the muddy waters of the Tiber cast her lifeless body on the shore.

Poor girl! Poor vestal of the broken vows! One would like to believe that throwing thy body into the cold embraces of the water thou wert convinced that thy children, the twins Romulus and Remus, were at that moment drinking the warm milk of the she-wolf, and that in time to come they would raise up the first rampart of the future Eternal City. If in the moment of thy death thou hadst no doubt of this, thou wert perhaps the happiest of all the people in that pitiful half-destroyed Rome towards which were already moving from the Alps the hordes of the wild Lombards.

ELULI, SON OF ELULI

A STORY OF THE ANCIENT PHŒNICIANS

I

The young scholar Dutrail, whose works on the head ornaments of the Carthaginians had already attracted attention, and Bouverie, his former tutor, now his friend, a corresponding-member of the Academy of Inscriptions, were working at some excavations on the western coast of Africa, in the French Congo, south of Myamba. It was a small expedition, fitted out by private means, and originally consisting of eight members. Most of them, however, had been unable to endure the deadly climate, and on one pretext or another had gone away. There remained only Dutrail, whose youthful enthusiasm conquered all difficulties, and the old Bouverie, who having all his life dreamed of taking part in important excavations where his special knowledge was concerned, had in his old age--thanks to the patronage of his young friend--obtained his desire. The excavations were extremely interesting; no one had supposed the Phœnician colony to have spread itself so far south on the West Coast of Africa, extending even beyond the Equator. Every day’s work enriched science and opened up new perspectives as to the position of Phœnicia and her commercial relations in the ninth century B.C.

The work was, however, extremely arduous. No European had remained with Dutrail and Bouverie except their servant Victor; all the workmen were negroes of the place. True, it had been decided that in place of those who had left other archæologists should come and bring with them not only some French workmen and a new store of necessary instruments, guns, and food supplies, but also the letters, books, and newspapers of which Dutrail and Bouverie had long been deprived. But day followed day, and the wished-for steamer did not appear. Their stores were decreasing, they were obliged to hunt for their food, and Dutrail was especially anxious about the exhaustion of their supply of cartridges; the natives were already sullen and insubordinate, and in the event of a riot among them their lack of arms might be dangerous. Besides this, the Frenchmen suffered greatly from the climate and from the intolerable heat, which was so great that in the daytime it was impossible to touch a stone without burning the hand. And now at last the bold archæologists seemed likely to be overcome by the malevolent local fever which had attacked several of the company before their departure.

Dutrail triumphed over everything. Day after day he subsisted on the flesh of seabirds tasting strongly of fish, and drank the warmish water from a neighbouring spring; he kept the mutinous crowd of negro-workmen in check and himself worked with them, and yet still found time at night to write his diary and to keep a detailed account of all the archæological treasures they had obtained. In the tiny hut which they had built under the shelter of a cliff he had already put in order a whole museum of wonderful things which had lain almost three centuries in the earth and now being restored to the world would soon bring about a revolution in Phœnician lore. Bouverie, on the contrary, though desiring with all his soul to remain with his young friend, was manifestly becoming weaker. It was more difficult for an old man to struggle against misfortunes and deprivation. Often, as he worked, his spade or his gun would simply drop from his hands and he himself would fall unconscious to the ground. Added to this he had begun to have attacks of the local fever. Dutrail tried to cure him with quinine and the other medicines which were in their travelling medicine-chest, but the old man’s strength was utterly giving way; his cheeks had fallen in, his eyes burned with an unhealthy glitter, and at night-time he was tortured by paroxysms of dry coughing, shivering fits, fever and delirium.

Dutrail had long ago made up his mind to compel his friend to return to Europe as soon as the steamer should come, but for a long while he had been afraid to speak about the matter. He felt that the old man would certainly refuse--would prefer, as a scholar, to die at his post, the more so as lately he had often spoken of death. To Dutrail’s astonishment, however, Bouverie himself began to speak of leaving, saying it was evident that they must part, and although it was bitter for him to abandon the work he had begun, his illness compelled him to go, so that he might die in his native land. In the depths of his soul Dutrail was almost offended by these last remarks of the old man, who could prefer his superstitious desire--to be in his native land at the moment of his death--before the high interest of scientific research, but explaining this by Bouverie’s illness he at length applauded his friend’s resolution, and said all that might be expected from him under the circumstances--that the fever was not so dangerous, that it would pass with the change of climate, that they would still do much work together, and so forth.

Two days later Bouverie astonished his friend still further. On that day the excavators had come upon a new and rich tomb. Dutrail was in ecstasy over such a discovery and he could neither speak nor think of anything else. But in the evening Bouverie called his former pupil to his side in his half of the little hut and begged him to witness his will.

“I’m much to blame,” said Bouverie, “not to have made my will before, but I’ve never had the time. All my life I’ve been entirely taken up with science, and I have never had time to think about my own affairs. But my health is getting so much worse that perhaps I shall never get away from here, so I must formulate my last desires. We are only three Europeans here, but you and Victor are enough to witness my will.”

So as not to agitate the old man, Dutrail agreed. The will was quite an ordinary one. Bouverie left the little money he had to dispose of to a niece, for he was unmarried and had no other relatives. He left small sums to his old servant, to the owner of the house in which he had lived for forty years, and to various other people. His collection of Phœnician and Carthaginian antiquities, gathered together during his long lifetime, the old man bequeathed to the Louvre, and some separate small things--to his friends, Dutrail among the number.

Coming at length to the last clause, Bouverie said, in an agitated manner:

“This, strictly speaking, ought not to be included in the will. It is simply--my request to you personally, Dutrail. But listen to it all the same.”

The request was that after his death Bouverie wanted his body to be sent to France and buried in his native town by the side of his mother. As he read this last clause of the will the old man could not restrain his tears. In a breaking voice he began to implore that whatever might happen his request should be fulfilled.

By a great effort Dutrail controlled his anger and answered as gently and tenderly as he could.

“Devil take it, dear friend! You see, I’m quite sure you’re not so ill as you think. If I agreed to witness your will, I did so for one reason, to please you, and for another, because it is never superfluous to put one’s affairs in order. But as I am strongly convinced that you will get better and will laugh at your present anxiety about yourself, I will permit myself to make some objections.”

With the greatest caution Dutrail pointed out to Bouverie that his request could hardly be fulfilled; there were no means at hand for embalming the body and no coffin which could be hermetically sealed. And he asked whether it were worse to be after death under African palms side by side with the dead of the great past than in some small provincial French cemetery. The only thing it was possible to promise in any case, under such circumstances, was that his body should be buried here in Africa at first and afterwards taken to France, though this would be difficult, troublesome, and, above all, useless.

“That’s what I was afraid of!” cried the old man despairingly. “I was afraid that you would say just that. But I beg of you, I conjure you, to fulfil my request, whatever it may cost you, even though ... even though you may have to give up the excavations for a time.”

Bouverie entreated, begged, wept. And at last, in order to pacify the old man, Dutrail was obliged to consent, to give his word of honour and even his oath. The will was signed.

II

Next day, even before the sun had risen, their labours were resumed. They began to excavate the magnificent tomb which they had come across the evening before. It was evident that the Phœnician settlement would show itself much more significant than they had at first supposed. At least, the tomb they had discovered had clearly belonged to a rich and powerful family, several generations of which had not only spent their whole lives under the inhospitable skies of equatorial Africa, but had also prepared here for themselves an eternal resting-place. The sepulchre was built of massive blocks of stone and ornamented with bas-reliefs. Dutrail untiringly directed the workmen and often took a pick or a spade himself.

After great difficulty they succeeded in discovering the entrance to the tomb--an enormous iron door that in spite of the twenty-eight centuries which had elapsed since it was closed had to be carefully broken to pieces. Having succeeded at last in forcing an entrance and letting fresh air flow into the recesses of the tomb Dutrail and Bouverie went in themselves, carrying torches in their hands. The picture which presented itself to their gaze was enough to send an archæologist out of his mind with delight. The tomb was apparently absolutely untouched. In the midst of it a stone coffin was raised upon a stone platform in the shape of a fantastic monster, and around this were many articles for household use, some fine specimens of crescent-shaped lamps, implements of war, images of gods, and other articles whose significance it would have been difficult to define at once.

But the most striking fact was that the inner walls of the tomb were almost entirely covered with paintings and inscriptions. With the inrush of the fresh air, the colours of the paintings, as is always the case, swiftly began to fade, but the inscriptions, which were written in some sort of black composition and even cut out to some depth in the stone, seemed as if wrought but yesterday. This especially enraptured Dutrail, for until then he had come across very few Phœnician inscriptions. He already had visions of unearthing here entirely new historical data, information, for example, about the connection of the Phœnicians with Atlantis, of which Shleeman’s nephew had read in a Phœnician inscription on a vase found in Syria.

In spite of the scorching heat, Dutrail busied himself in transferring all the things they had found to the museum, and he did not stop until the last crescent-shaped lamp had been placed in the wished-for spot. Then, carefully closing up the entrance to the tomb, the young scholar lay down to rest; but no sooner had the heat abated a little than he was again at work. He occupied himself in copying and deciphering the inscriptions, a work which with all his splendid knowledge of the language was extremely complicated. When evening came he had succeeded in copying only an insignificant number of the inscriptions and in approximately deciphering still fewer.

That night, sitting in their little hut, by the dim light of a lamp, Dutrail shared his discoveries with Bouverie and begged his help in the interpretation of various difficult expressions. One series of inscriptions was clearly a simple genealogy leading up through ten or twelve generations. But one contained an adjuration against violators of the peace of the tomb. Dutrail interpreted it approximately thus:

“In the name of Astarte who has been down into hell may there be peace for me, Eluli, son of Eluli, buried here. May I lie here for a thousand years and for eternity. Nearest and dearest, fellow-countrymen and strangers, friends and foes, I adjure: ‘Touch not my ashes, nor my gold, nor the things belonging to me. If people persuade thee, give no ear to them. And thou, bold man, reading these words which no human eye should ever see, cursed be thou upon the earth and under the earth where is neither eating nor drinking. Mayest thou never receive a place of rest with Rephaim, never be buried in a tomb, never have a son nor any issue. May the sun not warm thee, may wood never bear thee up upon water, may there not depart from thee for one hour the demon of torture, formless, pitiless, whose strength never becomes less.’”

The inscription was continued further, but the end was unintelligible. Bouverie listened to the translation in profound silence and did not wish to take any share in deciphering the rest. Pleading illness, he went off to his own half of the hut behind a wooden partition. But Dutrail sat on for a long while over his notes, consulting books they had brought with them, thinking over every expression and striving to understand every shade of meaning in the inscription.

III

Late that night, when Dutrail was already sleeping the sound sleep of a wearied man, he was suddenly awakened by Bouverie. The old man had lighted a candle, and by its light he seemed still paler than usual. His hair was in disorder, his whole appearance indicated an extreme degree of terror.

“What is the matter, Bouverie?” asked Dutrail. “You’re ill?”

Though it was difficult to struggle against his desire to sleep, Dutrail made an effort to awake, remembering the serious illness of his old friend. But Bouverie did not answer the question; he asked, in a broken voice:

“Did you see him too?”

“Whom could I see?” objected Dutrail. “I’m so tired at the end of the day that I sleep without dreaming.”

“This was not a dream,” said Bouverie sadly, “and I saw him go from me towards you.”

“Whom?”

“The Phœnician whose tomb we dug out.”

“Your mind’s wandering, dear Bouverie,” said Dutrail. “You have fever: I’ll prepare a dose of quinine for you.”

“I’m not wandering,” objected the old man obstinately. “I saw this man quite clearly. He was shaven and beardless, with a wrinkled face, and he was dressed as a soldier. He stood by my bed and looked threateningly at me, and said....”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Dutrail, trying to bring the old man to reason--“in what language did he speak to you?”

“In Phœnician. I don’t know if perhaps at another time I should have understood the Phœnician language, but at that moment I understood every word.”

“What did the apparition say to you?”

“He said to me: ‘I--am Eluli, son of Eluli, he whose peaceful repose you, strangers, have disturbed, not dreading my curse. Therefore I will have vengeance on thee, and what has befallen me shall come upon thee. Thy ashes shall not rest in thy native land, but shall be the prey of the hyena and jackal. I will torment thee both sleeping and waking, all thy life and after thy life, and until the end of time.’ When he had said this he went towards you, and I thought you would see him too.”

Dutrail felt convinced that his friend’s state was the result of illness, easily explained by the heat, by his continuous thinking about death, and by the agitation consequent on their remarkable discovery. Wishing to bring the old man into a reasonable frame of mind, Dutrail did not remind him that apparitions were a delusion of sight, but he tried to make clear all the implausibility of the vision.

“We did not excavate the tomb,” said he, “to insult the ashes lying there, or to profit by the things collected there; we had a disinterested scientific object. Eluli, son of Eluli, has no reason for being angered with us. Science resurrects the past, and we, in raising up Phœnician antiquities, have also raised up this Eluli. The old Phœnician ought rather to be grateful to us for calling him from oblivion. If it hadn’t been for us, who in our day would have known that a thousand years before Christ there once lived in Africa a certain Eluli, son of Eluli?”

Dutrail talked to the old man as to a sick child. At first Bouverie would not listen to any arguments and he demanded what was clearly impossible--that all the things should be taken back to the tomb at once, and the tomb itself buried anew. Little by little, however, he began to give way, and agreed to postpone the decision of the matter until the morning. Then Dutrail lifted the old man in his arms and laid him on his bed, covering him with quilts as he began to shiver, and sat down by his bedside until the sick man fell into a restless and disturbed sleep. “What havoc illness plays with even the clearest mind!” he thought sadly.

IV

On the morrow, logic and the obviousness of Dutrail’s arguments gained the day. Bouverie agreed that his vision had been the result of a feverish delirium. He also agreed that it would be a crime against science and against humanity to fill up the excavations of the tomb. The work went on with the former enthusiasm. And in the tomb of Eluli and in others near it they found even more precious historical things. The friends only awaited the arrival of the steamer with the necessary tools and some European workmen to begin excavating the town.

But Bouverie’s health did not improve. The fever did not leave him; he often cried aloud at night and leapt from his bed in unreasoning terror. Once the old man confessed that he had seen the Phœnician Eluli once again. Dutrail thought it good to laugh at him, and after this the old man spoke no more of his visions. But, all the same, he seemed to fade daily, and he even began to manifest signs of mental disturbance: he was afraid of the darkness and of the night, he did not wish to go into the museum, and presently he absolutely abandoned the excavations. Dutrail shook his head and waited impatiently for the steamer, hoping that a sea-voyage and his return to France might do the old man good.