Historical Miniatures Part 56

They sat down on opposite sides of the table, and darted angry glances at each other.

"The ultimate causes," continued the old man, "may be sought in heaven, but we have here only to do with secondary causes, and those we know.

The Revolution was a Last Judgment which had to come, just as it came in England exactly a hundred years before, in 1689."

"But Cromwell's republic did not last."

"Nor does this; but it comes again! But let us rather talk of something cheerful on this last evening. I have been present at everything; I have a strong memory, and can forget nothing. But what shines most brightly through all the dark days is the recollection of the day on the Champs du Mars, the Feast of Brotherhood of July 14, '90. Twenty thousand workmen were employed to clear it, but, as they could not finish the work by the appointed day, all Paris went out. There I saw bishops, court marshals, generals, monks, nuns, society ladies, workmen, sailors, dustmen, and street-girls levelling the ground with hoes and spades.

Finally the King himself made up his mind to join in the work. That was the greatest feat of equalisation which mankind have carried out; the hills were made low, and the valleys filled. At last the great theatre of liberty was ready. At the altar of the Fatherland a fire of perfumed wood was kindled, and Talleyrand, Bishop of Autun, with a retinue of four hundred white-robed priests consecrated the flags. The King in civil dress and the Queen sat on the platform, and, as the 'first citizens of the State,' took the const.i.tutional oath. All was forgotten; all was forgiven. Half a million people, collected in one place, animated by one spirit, felt themselves that day to be brothers and sisters. We wept, we fell in each other's arms, we kissed each other.

We wept to think what wretches we had been, and how good and amiable we were now. We wept perhaps, also, because we guessed how fragile all this was.

"And afterwards, in the evening, when Paris turned out in the streets and market-places. Families ate their mid-day meal on the pavement; the old and sick were carried into the open air; food and wine were distributed at the public expense. That was the Feast of Tabernacles, the recollection of the Exodus from Egyptian bondage; it was the Saturnalia, the return of the Golden Age! And then...."

"Then came Marat, Danton, and Robespierre."

"Yes! Robespierre, the most hated of all, was not worse than Louis XI and Henry VIII."

"A murderer."

"The judge is not a murderer, nor is the executioner."

"But the Golden Age pa.s.sed--as it came."

"Yet it comes again."

"Not with Buonaparte!"

"No, not with him, but through him."

"Who is he?"

"A Corsican, born in the same year in which France annexed his country.

He will avenge it, and, since he can never feel himself a Frenchman, he will exploit our country only for his own purposes. But nevertheless, in spite of his unparalleled selfishness, his wickedness and crimes, he will serve humanity--for everything serves."

"And afterwards?"

"Who can say? Probably things will go on as they have done hitherto; sometimes advancing, then a halt; then again advance."

"And then the obsolete turns up again."

"Yes, like a drowning man. Three times he comes to the surface to breathe, but the fourth time he remains below. Or, like an animal chewing the cud; for some time there are small eructations, re-mastications, and then everything is ejected through the gullet, after going through the circle."

"Do you believe in the return of the Golden Age?"

"Yes I believe like Thomas, when I have seen. And I have seen. At the moment, which I now recall, on the Champs du Mars,--then I saw! We had a forefeeling of the future, we were sure that we had had a vision of some new order of things, but were uncertain when it would be established."

"How long are we to wait?"

"We should not sit still and wait, but work! That makes the time pa.s.s.

The learned say that it took a million years for the Hill of Montmartre to be deposited from the water. Now history is only three thousand years old; for three thousand years more, men can reflect over their past, and perhaps in six thousand an improvement may be noticeable! We are too proud and impatient, sire. And yet things move quickly. America was discovered only three hundred years ago, and now it is an European republic. Africa, India, China, j.a.pan are opened, and soon the whole world will belong to Europe. Do you see the promise to Abraham, 'In thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed,' is on the way to fulfilment--on the way, I say."

"The promise to Abraham?"

"Yes! Have not Christians, Jews, and Muhammedans a share in the promise?"

"Christians of Abraham's seed?"

"Through Christ, who was of Judah, we are spiritually Abraham's seed.

One faith, one baptism, one G.o.d and Father of all!"

"I have listened to you, and must say that your faith is great, and has delivered you."

"As it will deliver mankind."

The conversation now ceased, for the alarm-bell began to ring in the south tower. The sound of it overpowered the din of the storm, and filled the room with its vibrations, made the table and chairs shake, and both men tremble. The old man tried to speak, but his guest heard nothing, and only saw his lips move. Then the old man rose and pointed to one of the many engravings.

It represented Anacharsis Clootz, the philanthropist and philosopher, in a convent, with a crowd of people from all corners of the earth--black, yellow, white, copper-coloured--seeking to have them admitted as citizens into the world-republic. The Count smiled in answer half-distrustfully, half-tolerantly. The old man tried to speak, but could not be heard. The boom of the bell seemed to come from the depths of ages, ringing out the past century and ringing in the new, which would commence in a few weeks--the nineteenth century since the birth of the Redeemer, who has promised to return, and perhaps will do so in one way or another.

The Count sat there fingering the letter-weight in the shape of a guillotine. Suddenly he seized it, and looked questioningly at the old man, who nodded in the affirmative. The letter-weight was thrown into the paper-basket.

The great bell ceased ringing, the room was quiet, and the old man, his arms folded over his breast, spoke as though with a sigh of grat.i.tude.

"The Revolution is over."

"_This_ Revolution!"

"'Tribulation worketh patience; patience, experience; experience, hope; and hope maketh not ashamed!'"

STRINDBERG'S DEATH-BED

(From the _Aftonbladet_, Stockholm, May 15, 1912) The last time that Strindberg was in full possession of his senses was late on Monday afternoon (May 13th). He recognised his daughter Greta, who sat by his bed, and her husband, Dr. Philp. He was fully aware that the end was near. He made a sign that he wished to have his Bible, which lay on the table by the bed. They gave it him; he took it in his hand and said: "All that is personal is now obliterated. I have done with life and closed the account. This is the only truth."

He kissed his daughter, but only said, "Dear Greta." Then he said to Dr. Philp, "Are you still here, Henry?" After talking a little more, his last utterance was, "Now I have said my last word. Now I talk no more."

He kept his Bible so closely clasped to his breast as though that were the only thing he had to hold fast before the end.

So Stromboli retreated in the gloom, Flinging red flame and molten lava high, A flaring portent: We, who pa.s.sed it by, Carry that lurid memory to the tomb; Yet round its crater living flowers bloom, The vine, fig, olive grow and fructify, Over it laughs the blue Sicilian sky, A paradise upon the verge of doom.

As fiery as that red volcanic blast, Through years he wrestled with his unseen Foe, Wailing in pain "I will not let Thee go Unless Thou bless me who have held Thee fast,"-- And thus, like Jacob, from his overthrow, He rose a cripple, but a prince at last.