Callias: A Tale of the Fall of Athens Part 1

Callias.

by Alfred John Church.

CHAPTER I.

A NEW PLAY.

It is the second year of the ninety-third Olympiad[1] and the Theatre at Athens is full, for the great dramatic season is at its height, and to-day there is to be performed a new play by Aristophanes, the special favorite of the Athenian public. It is a brilliant scene, but a keen observer, who happened to see the same gathering some five and twenty years ago, must now notice a certain falling off in its splendor. For these five and twenty years have been years of war, and latterly, years of disaster. Eleven years ago, the City wild with the pride of power and wealth, embarked on the mad scheme of conquering Sicily, and lost the finest fleet and army that it ever possessed. Since then it has been a struggle for life with it, and year by year it has been growing weaker and weaker. This has told sadly on the glories of its great festivals.

The furnishing of the stage, indeed, is as perfect as ever, and the building itself has been pushed on several stages towards completion.[2]

However scarce money may be in the public treasury, the theatre must not be starved. But elsewhere there are manifest signs of falling off. The strangers' gallery is almost empty. All the Greek world from Ma.s.silia in Gaul to Cyrene among the sands of Africa used to throng it in happier days. Now more than half that world is hostile, and the rest has little to hope or fear from the dispossessed mistress of the seas. Dionysius of Syracuse, has sent an emba.s.sy, and the democracy, which once would have treated with scant courtesy the representatives of a tyrant, is fain to flatter so powerful a prince. There are some Persian Envoys too, for the Persians are still following their old game of playing off one great state against another. A few Greeks from Sinope and from one of the Italian cities, persons of no importance, who would hardly have found a place in the gallery during the palmy times of Athens, make up the company of visitors. Look at the body of the theatre, where the citizens sit, and the spectacle is deplorable indeed. The flower of Athens' sons has perished, and their successors are puny and degenerate. Examine too the crowd that throngs the benches, and you will see that the slaves, distinguished by their unsleeved tunics, fill up no small portion of s.p.a.ce. And boys form an unusually large proportion of the audience.

Altogether the theatre is a dispiriting sight to a patriotic Athenian.

To-day, however, all is gaiety, for, as has been said, there is a new play to be brought out, and an Athenian must be in desperate straits indeed, if he cannot forget his sorrows at a new play.

When the curtain rises, or rather, is withdrawn, as the Greek arrangement was, into an opening in the floor of the stage, a murmur of recognition runs through the audience. The scene is the market place of Thebes, and a familiar figure occupies the foreground.

The portly figure, the ruddy face, the vine-leaf crown, and the buskins show him to be Bacchus, the patron-G.o.d, it will be remembered, of the Drama. But why this lion's skin and club? The G.o.d gives a lordly kick at the door of the house which was one of the familiar stage-properties, and Hercules appears. He roars with laughter to see his own emblems in such strange company. Bacchus explains. "The tragic poets grow worse and worse. There is not one who can write a decent line. I am going down to the regions of the dead to fetch Euripides,[3] and thought that I had better dress myself up in your fashion, for you, I know, made this same journey very successfully. Perhaps you will tell me something about the way, and what inns you can recommend, where they are free from fleas, you know."

"Are you really going?"

"Yes, yes. Don't try to dissuade me; but tell me the way, which must not be either too hot or too cold."

"Well there is the Hanging way, by the sign of the Rope and Noose."

"Too stifling."

"There is a very short cut by the Mortar and Pestle."

"The Hemlock road,[4] you mean?"

"Exactly so."

"Too cold and wintry for me."

"Well; I'll tell you of a quick road and all downhill."

"Excellent! for I am not a good walker."

"You know the tower in the Cemetery? Well; climb up to the top when the Torch race is going to begin; and when the people cry out 'start,' start yourself."

"How do you mean 'start'? Start from where?"

"Why, start down from the top."

"What, and dash my brains out? No, not for me, thank you."

So it is settled that Bacchus and his slave, for he has a slave with him to carry his baggage, shall take the usual route by the Styx.

To the Styx, accordingly, they make their way. Charon the ferryman is plying for hire, "Any one for Rest-from-toil-and-labor Land? For No-Mansland? For the Isle of Dogs?[5]"

Bacchus steps in, and by Charon's order, takes an oar which he handles very helplessly. The slave has to go round: Charon does not carry slaves, he says. As they slowly make their way across, the frogs from the marsh raise the song of their kind, ending with the burden which is supposed to represent their note, _Brekekekex, coax, coax_.

It is pitch dark on the further side. When the slave turns up, he advises his master to go on at once. "'Tis the very spot," he says, "where Hercules told us those terrible wild beasts were." Bacchus is very valiant.

"A curse upon him! 'twas an idle tale, He feigned to frighten me, for well he knew, How brave I am, the envious braggart soul!

Grant, fortune, I may meet some perilous chance Meet for so bold a journey."

"O Master, I hear a noise."

"Where, where?"

"It is behind us."

"Get behind then."

"No--it is in front."

"Why don't you go in front?"

"O Master, I see such a Monster."

"What is it like?"

"Why! it keeps on changing--now it's a bull, now it's a stag, and now it's a woman; and its face is all fire. What shall we do? O Hercules, Hercules help."

"Hold your tongue. Don't call me Hercules."

"Bacchus, then."

"No, no; Bacchus is worse than Hercules."

The travellers pa.s.s these dangers, and reach the palace of Pluto.

Bacchus knocks at the door. "Who's there?" cries aeacus the porter. "The valiant Hercules," says Bacchus. The name calls forth a torrent of reproaches, and threats. Hercules was only too well remembered there.

"O villain, villain, doubly, trebly dyed!

'Twas thou didst take our dog, our guardian dog, Sweet Cerberus, my charge. But, villain, now We have thee on the hip. For thee the rocks Of Styx, and Acheron's dripping well of blood, And h.e.l.l's swift hounds encompa.s.s."

"Did you hear that dreadful voice?" says Bacchus to the slave. "Didn't it frighten you?"

"Frighten me? No, I didn't give it a thought."

"Well, you are a bold fellow. I say; suppose you become me, and I become you. Take the club and the lion skin, and I'll carry the baggage."

"As you please."

They change parts accordingly. No sooner is this done, than a waiting maid of Queen Proserpine appears. "My dear Hercules," she says, "come with me. As soon as my mistress heard of your being here she had a grand baking, made four or five gallons of soup, and roasted an ox whole."