Georg Ebers - Ultimate Collection: 20+ Historical Novels & Short Stories. Georg Ebers

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СКАЧАТЬ refer my readers to the fact that love-stories were written before the Christian era: the Amor and Psyche of Apuleius for instance. Indeed love in all its forms was familiar to the ancients. Where can we find a more beautiful expression of ardent passion than glows in Sappho’s songs? or of patient faithful constancy than in Homer’s Penelope? Could there be a more beautiful picture of the union of two loving hearts, even beyond the grave, than Xenophon has preserved for us in his account of Panthea and Abradatas? or the story of Sabinus the Gaul and his wife, told in the history of Vespasian? Is there anywhere a sweeter legend than that of the Halcyons, the ice-birds, who love one another so tenderly that when the male becomes enfeebled by age, his mate carries him on her outspread wings whithersoever he will; and the gods, desiring to reward such faithful love, cause the sun to shine more kindly, and still the winds and waves on the “Halcyon days” during which these birds are building their nest and brooding over their young? There can surely have been no lack of romantic love in days when a used-up man of the world, like Antony, could desire in his will that wherever he died his body might be laid by the side of his beloved Cleopatra: nor of the chivalry of love when Berenice’s beautiful hair was placed as a constellation in the heavens. Neither can we believe that devotion in the cause of love could be wanting when a whole nation was ready to wage a fierce and obstinate war for the sake of one beautiful woman. The Greeks had an insult to revenge, but the Trojans fought for the possession of Helen. Even the old men of Ilium were ready “to suffer long for such a woman.” And finally is not the whole question answered in Theocritus’ unparalleled poem, “the Sorceress?” We see the poor love-lorn girl and her old woman-servant, Thestylis, cowering over the fire above which the bird supposed to possess the power of bringing back the faithless Delphis is sitting in his wheel. Simoetha has learnt many spells and charms from an Assyrian, and she tries them all. The distant roar of the waves, the stroke rising from the fire, the dogs howling in the street, the tortured fluttering bird, the old woman, the broken-hearted girl and her awful spells, all join in forming a night scene the effect of which is heightened by the calm cold moonshine. The old woman leaves the girl, who at once ceases to weave her spells, allows her pent-up tears to have their way, and looking up to Selene the moon, the lovers’ silent confidante, pours out her whole story: how when she first saw the beautiful Delphis her heart had glowed with love, she had seen nothing more of the train of youths who followed him, “and,” (thus sadly the poet makes her speak)

      “how I gained my home

       I knew not; some strange fever wasted me.

       Ten days and nights I lay upon my bed.

       O tell me, mistress Moon, whence came my love!”

      “Then” (she continues) when Delphis at last crossed her threshold:

      “I

       Became all cold like snow, and from my brow

       Brake the damp dewdrops: utterance I had none,

       Not e’en such utterance as a babe may make

       That babbles to its mother in its dreams;

       But all my fair frame stiffened into wax,—

       O tell me mistress Moon, whence came my love!”

      Whence came her love? thence, whence it comes to us now. The love of the creature to its Creator, of man to God, is the grand and yet gracious gift of Christianity. Christ’s command to love our neighbor called into existence not only the conception of philanthropy, but of humanity itself, an idea unknown to the heathen world, where love had been at widest limited to their native town and country. The love of man and wife has without doubt been purified and transfigured by Christianity; still it is possible that a Greek may have loved as tenderly and longingly as a Christian. The more ardent glow of passion at least cannot be denied to the ancients. And did not their love find vent in the same expressions as our own? Who does not know the charming roundelay:

      “Drink the glad wine with me,

       With me spend youth’s gay hours;

       Or a sighing lover be,

       Or crown thy brow with flowers.

       When I am merry and mad,

       Merry and mad be you;

       When I am sober and sad,

       Be sad and sober too!”

       —written however by no poet of modern days, but by Praxilla, in the

       fifth century before Christ. Who would guess either that Moore’s little

       song was modelled on one written even earlier than the date of our

       story?

       “As o’er her loom the Lesbian maid

       In love-sick languor hung her head.

       Unknowing where her fingers stray’d,

       She weeping turned away and said,’

       Oh, my sweet mother, ‘tis in vain,

       I cannot weave as once I wove;

       So wilder’d is my heart and brain

       With thinking of that youth I love.’”

      If my space allowed I could add much more on this subject, but will permit myself only one remark in conclusion. Lovers delighted in nature then as now; the moon was their chosen confidante, and I know of no modern poem in which the mysterious charm of a summer night and the magic beauty which lies on flowers, trees and fountains in those silent hours when the world is asleep, is more exquisitely described than in the following verses, also by Sappho, at the reading of which we seem forced to breathe more slowly, “kuhl bis an’s Herz hinan.”

      “Planets, that around the beauteous moon

       Attendant wait, cast into shade

       Their ineffectual lustres, soon

       As she, in full-orb’d majesty array’d,

       Her silver radiance pours

       Upon this world of ours.”

      and:—

      “Thro’ orchard plots with fragrance crown’d,

       The clear cold fountain murm’ring flows;

       And forest leaves, with rustling sound,

       Invite to soft repose.”

      The foregoing remarks seemed to me due to those who consider a love such as that of Sappho and Bartja to have been impossible among the ancients. Unquestionably it was much rarer then than in these days: indeed I confess to having sketched my pair of lovers in somewhat bright colors. But may I not be allowed, at least once, to claim the poet’s freedom?

      How seldom I have availed myself of this freedom will be evident from the notes included in each volume. They seemed to me necessary, partly in order to explain the names and illustrate the circumstances mentioned in the text, and partly to vindicate the writer in the eyes of the learned. I trust they may not prove discouraging to any, as the text will be found easily readable without reference to the explanations.

      Jena, November 23, 1868.

       GEORG EBERS, СКАЧАТЬ