“I imagine,” said Gwendoline, “that to have boundless power suddenly put into one’s hands must make one feel as though one were to live for ever.”
“Living for ever is a sad pastime without it,” returned Cæsar. “I am not of Lionardo’s mind. I would live again.”
“To die again as you died?” asked Diana in a low voice.
“Yes,” answered the dead conqueror, “to die again as I died, if need be, but to have power once more. And I know what I say — you cannot know. For death was horrible to me. Not the physical pain of it, though they were clumsy fellows; they were long in killing me — I thought it would never end. I could have done it better myself, and indeed I was more merciful to them than they to me. Not one of them died a natural death, for I pursued them one by one when I was dead. I have never seen them since; they are not here. But none of them suffered as I did. I knew that my hour was come when I got that first wound in the throat, and as I struggled, the horror of it overcame me. Visions rose before my eyes of the things I had not yet accomplished, but of which the accomplishment was certain if I lived. It was such a disappointment — more that than anything else. Such a heart-rending despair at being cut down before my work was half finished, before the world was half civilised. People forget that I invented civilisation — I, the dead man who am speaking to you. But it is true. And in that moment I felt that I was dying without having realised in practice the theory which was to change the world. That handful of low assassins cost the world fifteen centuries of darkness, and I knew it even then. Had I lived, I would have kneaded the earth as a baker kneads dough, and the leaven I had put into it would not have rotted and fermented for lack of stirring. As I felt one wound after another, I felt that my murderers were not only killing Cæsar, they were killing civilisation; every thrust was struck at the heart of the world, making deep wounds in the future of mankind and letting out the breath of life from the body of law. That was my worst suffering, worse even than the death of my ambition. I had done enough already to be remembered, and I knew it. I was satisfied for myself to die. But I had conceived great thoughts which had grown to be a new self apart from the old, vain, ambitious Cæsar, having a separate and better life — and that they slew also. Augustus did much, but he could not do what I would and could have done.”
“No,” said Lionardo, thoughtfully, “you were the greatest man who ever lived.”
“That is saying too much,” answered Cæsar in quiet tones. “I meant to be. That is all. My fortune deserted me too soon. The greatest men, after all, are poets. They are also the most justly judged, for what they leave is their own. They leave themselves to mankind in their own words. We statesmen and soldiers are at the mercy of historians. I meant to have written the history of my whole life in the form of annual reports such as I made upon my wars in Gaul.”
“Could you not do it now?” asked Lady Brenda. “We know so little of the history of your youth, and I am sure it must have been most interesting.”
Cæsar smiled. “If I were able to write at all,” he said, “I would not choose my youth as a subject upon which to make a report. My youth was a trifle over-full of movement, besides being very ostentatious. My first object in life was to become popular, for I knew that popularity was the surest way to power. I led the popular party for eighteen years before I ever attempted to lead an army, and when I turned soldier I was already a finished statesman. That is the reason why I knew what to do so soon as I had got the whole power into my hands. I had conquered the most important part of my world by art before I found it necessary to subdue the remainder by force. I was beginning to amalgamate a new world out of my two conquests when I was murdered.”
“Do the dead forgive?” The words were spoken by Gwendoline in a low tone and as though no response could be expected to such a question. But there were those present who could answer it. Leonardo da Vinci turned his soft eyes upon the questioner.
“Yes,” he said, “we do forgive, and very freely too.”
“Yes — and no,” said Cæsar.
“Both?” asked the artist. “How can we both forgive and not forgive, illustrious friend? There must be caprice in that — there must be an uncertain vacillation between two thoughts. You never vacillated, nor stood long choosing between two paths, nor, having chosen, looked back and regretted.”
“The sum of man’s works,” replied the greater spirit, “is composed of his intentions taken together with his deeds in such a way as the Greek geometer would have expressed it. The sum of his life is largest when the deeds are as great as the intentions which prompted them, for of four-sided figures the square, with equal lines, encloses the greatest space. But if the intentions be ever so great and the deeds few, the figure is long indeed, but narrow and of small area; and again if the deeds are numerous though the intentions small, then the deeds are the result of accident and must not all be imputed to man for good. My intentions were my own. I forgive them that said they were unworthy, or little or bad, for I know what they were. But my deeds were the world’s, and those I left undone should have been the world’s also. Wherefore I forgive not those men who cut them short, who clipped the sum of my life and made my square smaller than it should have been. For my life was the world’s health, and though my nephew was a cunning physician, all his medicines could not cure the gangrene in the wounds my slayers made in the world’s skin, nor could all his cleansing arrest the deepening darkness of the stain that spread from my blood over the body of the nation I sought to make clean and great. For my life was not sacrificed boldly for good in a great cause. I did not fall in the front of the fight at Pharsalus. I did not sink when the skiff overturned at Alexandria; I was not caught by the enemy in Germany when I slipped through their lines in a Gallic dress; I did not lose heart when my soldiers lost their way in the trenches at Dyrrachium, though I lost the place itself. I risked my life often enough to have deserved to lose it finally in some nobler way than by the hands of such butchers as made an end of me — fellows who knew not where to strike to kill — who in three and twenty thrusts could strike but one mortal blow. I stabbed Cassius in the arm with my writing point, but what could I do against so many? I saw a sea of faces around me, cowardly pale faces of men who got courage cheaply from their numbers. I saw myself hemmed in by a hedge of steel knives and I knew that my hour was come. I saw their faces, but I would not let them see mine in death. I covered my head and my body with my garments and I died decently, since there was nothing left but to die. But I saw each one of those faces once more and in the instant of death, within three years, and I heard the lips of each dying man curse the hour in which he had slain Cæsar. Even then I could not forgive them, for the sake of the world that might have been. I can pardon them for murdering me as a man. I will never pardon them for murdering my unborn deeds. Therefore I say we dead men both forgive and forgive not.”
The conqueror’s calm voice ceased and his dark, thoughtful eyes fixed themselves as though staring back through the mist of nineteen centuries to that morning when he had entered the curia, laughing at Spurinna’s prophecies and unconsciously grasping in his hand the unread note which might have saved him from his fate. The look was sad, but the sadness had long passed from the stage of present despair to regret for the past, and again to a melancholy curiosity to see what should yet become of the world.
The gentle Lionardo bowed his head gravely, as though admitting his companion spirit to be right.
“I understand that,” he said. “We should not forget that you, the dictator, have not only to pardon the injuries done you in your person, but you have to forgive also the injuries done in your person to the world, or as we should say, to history. In my little way, had I been foully murdered I could more easily have forgiven my murderers than I could forgive one who should wantonly destroy my painting of the Last Supper. It is but an artist’s vanity — that is to say, it is the satisfaction of the artist in his work. I cannot say what I might have felt had I been violently prevent
ed from finishing that picture. It is unfinished still — it would be so had I lived until to-day. I think it is a part of the temperament of some artists not to finish, though they work for ever. They search after that which never was nor ever can be; or, at all events, we searched in our day. I think it was better. We pursued the ideal. Modern painters pursue the real. I was not a realist because I painted grinning peasants for a study, and modelled heads of laughing women for my pleasure. We did not know what realism meant in those days, though people call us the founders of the realist school. We sought to represent nature’s meaning; men now try to copy what nature is. You, Cæsar, tried to make of men what heaven meant them to be, orderly, happy, prosperous within reasonable limits. Napoleon, like Alexander, ruined himself in attempting to create an unlimited empire out of unreasoning and often unwilling elements, believing that to command men’s bodies was to command men’s souls. You succeeded in spite of failure, for though you were killed at the most critical moment of your existence your work survived you; Napoleon failed in spite of success and survived to see the destruction of the greater part of his work, which followed almost immediately after he was conquered and taken prisoner.”
“It was not his fault,” said Cæsar. “Any more than my poor young general Gaius Curio was to blame when he was defeated by Juba. Napoleon’s plans were admirably laid. He did not admire me. I admire him. If his work did not survive long, that is due to the fact that he was brought up as a soldier and had a soldier’s instincts. I was trained as a statesman and attached more importance to the stability of the State than to extending its boundaries. I am called a conqueror; had I lived I should have been called a civiliser, and I would have earned the name. People do not reflect that Napoleon conquered a great extent of territory and rose to be emperor, with what at first were very inadequate means, and from the humblest beginnings. Charlemagne’s conquests were more extended than mine, far wider than Napoleon’s, and yet he is not called a conqueror. He is called the Great. He accomplished his work, which on the whole was a work of civilisation, and much of it remains to this day; at least his influence remains. The resuscitation of the German Empire is largely due to the imperial traditions which he founded; but the invention of a French Empire was not due to his influence. It was the spontaneous invention of an astounding individuality, tremendous in its immediate effects, formidable so long as a personality could be found worthy to be invested with the halo and attributes of Bonaparte, and bearing his name; but, on the whole it was not a circumstance in the world’s history to which any great mass of popular or national tradition will ever be attached, for the Napoleonic supremacy was the impression of an individual upon nations; it was never the expression of the nations by the individual. The title, German Emperor, was sometimes in the Middle Ages a very empty word as regards the man who so designated himself. I have sometimes laughed to think that a dignity expressed by my own name should degenerate to such a mockery. But the thing meant by Cæsarism — Imperialism — was never to be despised. There was always present in the minds of the chief nations a consciousness of the force of a mighty tradition and of a mass of traditions which they sought to embody in the person of a leader, chosen for his qualities and invested with the supreme power in virtue of them. If he failed to make good his rights he was despised, but it was long before the belief was extinguished that at any moment, if he so chose and so laboured and fought, the German Emperor might again rule the world, even as Charlemagne had done. There was nothing dynastic in my conception of the Imperator, but the circumstances of the times made the institution a military one. I never meant that it should be that. I would not submit to a council of generals or a mob of guards, though when I could not persuade the people I was willing to submit to them. The empire which my nephew founded began to go to pieces when the soldiers outgrew the people in strength, and outranked them in social consequence — it fell because it was a military institution. The empire of the Germans — the Holy Roman Empire — was shattered on the death of Charlemagne, because it was intended to be dynastic, and his sons tore each other to pieces. It revived temporarily when some strong individuality rose to the surface; it alternately decayed and revived with the decadence of each old imperial family and the investiture of each new one. My empire — I never used the word in the modern sense — ray command, was intended to be that of a democratic monarch, an expression now used emptily to flatter a king who is at the mercy of his rabble.”
Cæsar laughed softly, as he had laughed many times in the nineteen centuries which had elapsed since his death, and there was something in the mirth of the great spirit that froze the conversation. Lady Brenda wished she were quite sure that it was Cæsar who had been talking and who sat there by her side with the golden laurels on his broad brow, his nervous white fingers playing constantly with the border of his purple mantle. Augustus was pondering on the words he had heard, while Gwendoline half wished to put another question. Diana leaned back in her deep chair and gazed at Lionardo’s beautiful face from beneath her drooping lids, and she wondered inwardly whether it would not be better to be the quiet spirit of a great artist than the regretful ghost of a murdered conqueror.
CHAPTER VII.
IT WAS LATE in the afternoon and Lady Brenda was seated alone upon the terrace of the Castello del Gaudio. A little table stood beside her, on which lay some writing materials and a couple of sealed letters, ready for the post. The rest of the party had gone upon a distant excursion on the water, but Lady Brenda had stayed at home to attend to her correspondence, which was one of her chief amusements and occupied much of her time. She had not ventured as yet to speak in her letters of the remarkable things which were occurring in her son-in-law’s house. She was too much puzzled and at the same time too much interested as yet to explain to herself what happened. The strange thing, in her opinion, was that the apparitions did not strike her as supernatural, nor startle her so much as she would have supposed that ghosts should have done. There was an ease, a simplicity, and a perfect naturalness in their appearance and manner that disarmed prejudice and forbade fear. She wished to see more of them, and as she sat looking out over the water, while the freshness of the evening crept up to the terrace, her mind dwelt on the subject and she thought of the characters she would most like to see.
In history, Francis the First of France was one of her favourites. If she had a rather modern tendency to laugh at romance, she had also, far down in her nature, a profound admiration of romantic characters in the past. Francis appealed to her taste. His courage, his beauty, his adventures, his victories, his tournaments and his love-affairs pleased her, and she had often said that if she had her choice of an historical person whom she might meet, she would choose him. She thought so now, and it seemed so possible, in the light of what had already happened, that she spoke aloud as though of a living person.
“Yes,” said she, “I would choose Francis the First. I wonder whether I could not send him an invitation by one of the others?”
Almost immediately, she was aware that some one was on the terrace. She looked round and she saw that she had her wish. The king was advancing slowly towards her, his velvet cap in his hand. She was not startled now, and she smiled when she thought how easily and quickly her wish had been realised. Whether it was a dream or not, she was determined to enjoy it, and this particular dream was very pleasant. She knew now how much she had really wished to see the man who stood before her.
Lady Brenda was somewhat surprised, and somewhat disappointed at the looks of her visitor. King Francis was undoubtedly imposing in appearance, of a fine presence and altogether a most noticeable man. He was taller than other men, broad-shouldered and straight-limbed, erect and evidently of great strength. His short, jet-black hair and pointed beard of the same hue set off his brilliant colouring and piercing black eyes; his forehead showed a good capacity of mind, and his strong nose argued ambition and personal courage. But there was in his manner and looks a lack of that refinement which especially c
haracterised the other dead men Lady Brenda had known at Castello del Gaudio. He wore the dress of his time, as did each of the others — long hose of grey silk, with embroidered shoes, and a close-fitting doublet of maroon-coloured velvet, his only ornament being a heavy gold chain hung about his neck.
Lady Brenda rose to receive her royal guest, and studied the details of his face and dress, illuminated by the glow of the setting sun, and thrown into relief against the cold background of the grey hills. Francis made a courteous salute and motioned Lady Brenda to be seated, himself taking the vacant armchair by her side.
“It is so good of you to have asked me here,” he said, fixing his eyes upon her and speaking in clear manly tones.
“It was most kind of your majesty to take pity on my solitude,” answered the lady, smiling.
“I never allowed a lady to be alone when it was in my power to bear her company,” returned Francis.
“No,” said Lady Brenda, rather nervously. “Your majesty was always fond of women’s society. How can you live without it?”
“I can hardly be said to live at all — though it seems that I am practically alive now, within the circle of your son-in-law’s enchantments — I should say perhaps that I only live in your smiles. Existence in our circumstances is very monotonous.”
“You were so fond of brilliant changes, too,” suggested Lady Brenda.
“Change! Ay — indeed I was. As a compensation I have not changed any clothes since the spring of 1547. That was three hundred and forty years ago. It is true that from what I have seen of more recent costumes I do not often regret the durability of my imperishable garments. As for the present fashions in the dress of ladies, something might be made of them by using respectable materials. I confess, however, I am surprised beyond measure at the stuffs you all wear — forgive my frankness — I seem to feel the affectation of too much simplicity in your appearance. Women as beautiful as you are could surely afford to dress better than women who are ugly.”
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