Flaxius

It happened once, amid the blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry of the centuries, as they whirled magnificently on—many ere this of ours, yet many more after wise Flaxius had his natal day—that the scholar went to the University of Wittenberg to see what he could pick up in the way of ideas. For, with all his experience and erudition, he was always learning something new, as any man may at any hour in this world school, if he be not too proud to note facts; as somebody’s wisdom hath it in Latin: ‘Ea est vera nominis existimatio quæ non ex sermonibus, sed ex rebus istis deducitur’; or, as an Englishman more concisely expressed it: ‘There’s nothing like facts to learn from.’

And being a man of marked, yet modest mien, who conversed in Latin with singular purity, and one who, when he so pleased, could construct his whole discourse out of nothing but quotations from the classics—or from the works of his auditors, which was even more agreeable to them—he was soon held in great esteem. And having read in public a paper, De vera Essentia Verborum, in which he demonstrated from A. Artemidorus down to Z. Zoilus, that words have souls, he came to be regarded as clericus vel addiscens, almost a professor.

So it befel one day, when a certain teacher named Brunkenstrorphius was incapacitated—owing to fourteen bottles of Rhenish wine the night before—from lecturing, that Flaxius kindly took his place, and read to his class in Roman history, the subject for that day being Nero.

Now, as Flaxius had had the great advantage of having been long personally acquainted with this emperor—to whom he was introduced by Seneca—and had been present by special invitation at the brilliant reception which was lighted by a whole congregation of early Christians rolled in pitch and ignited, had talked with Locusta, and seen the stupendous spectacle of the burning of Rome with an Imperial orchestra of one, and received an estate for exclaiming, ‘Artes omnes novit Cæsar!’ and was finally in at the death of that remarkable artist, he had almost as good a conception of the true character of the latter as sundry modern novelists and immoralists, who have so black- or white-washed him by turns that his memory seems to be like the Cathedral of Florence, or a zebra, or a chequer board, or a bad photograph, or what the Liberal and Conservative press in turn declared of G.O.M.—that is to say, an alternation of ebony and ivory, of coal and alabaster, the raven and blanche dove, or a Prussian sentry-box, or a cup jewelled in niello, or Saint Paul’s, or a cardinal’s conscience….

According to Flaxius the emperor was in himself something such a combination, well nigh beyond all the analysis of our modern moral chemistry, the wondrous product of a monstrous age, a terrible Thought elaborated with agony from a mighty but corrupt world, one who, in the true spirit of history, was more a symbol than a man; mere bronze medal from the iron die of his time. The lecturer could well nigh believe that no Nero, per se, had ever existed at all, but had been a mere simulacrum or phantom set up in a high place, wherewith the Mighty Powers who rule the world had mocked or lessoned man; a Pharos, or beacon-tower with an effulgent burning-head, standing deeply footed in the freezing-cold, damp, roaring sea—a giant giving light in agony, and warning ships not to approach, and, like old Pharos, fearful in his pride.

There was a kind of daïs or higher range of seats and desks, at which sat only the young noblemen who were studying at the University, and among these was one who, to Flaxius—who was a marvellous reader of men, not only by metoposcopia, or physiognomy, but by all which was indicative of the soul?—seemed to be as far beyond all his fellows as an eagle would be amid the dullest, pettiest featherlings of a barnyard. Yet, though very quietly dignified, he was devoid of that arrogance of rank which displayed itself so conspicuously in every detail of dress, every gesture, and in the very intonation of every word of the aristocracy of that time; for he was truly too much above them to affect even their superiority—a thing in which the German noble of the present day hath still almost everything to learn, especially in Prussia. For even yet among these good folk, well nigh all the joy of life, and mental life itself, consists in the happy reflection that a majority of mankind are (by law, at least) their inferiors; which stupendous idea (it being generally their only possible one) they contemplate even as a Hindu saint contemplates God, to the exclusion of all other conception. This reflection has been concisely made into a law of ethical science by one of their number, an Austrian named Von Mannteufel, in the words, ‘Humanity, properly speaking, begins with the rank of count.’

This young nobleman was, indeed, so elevated in rank that he could well afford to dispense with vanity, since he was heir-apparent to the throne of Denmark. His name was Hamlet, and there was that in his appearance which would indicate—to even a less clairvoyant eye than that of Flaxius—an original character of the strongest type, devoid of the eccentricity which attracts comment, learned in philosophy without pedantry, endowed with a personal grace of manner suggesting natural courtesy and a marvellous observation by a quiet eye—all of which might be seen in him by all. But Flaxius noted in him something far deeper: a soul which, if not yet risen, was rapidly rising above the storm and whirl of all things in life and time, be they great or small, so as to behold in them all the mere passing show of a drama, yet feeling all the time that in that drama there would be incidents which would wreck this mere mortal life and wrench his soul with agony. He who has this tremendous dual action to undergo in life—that of being a true philosopher, yet a great sufferer—will assuredly have a strange foreboding of it, and to such a mind the idea of Nero, as presented by Flaxius, in its similar doubleness, was a marvellous revelation. He had long suffered from that problem which a great poet has expressed by saying that—

‘Not in that strife,
Wherefrom I take strange lore and read it deep,
Can I find reason why I should be thus:
No—nowhere can unriddle, though I search
And pore on Nature’s universal scroll
Even to swooning, why Divinities,
The first born of all shaped and palpable gods,
Should cower beneath what, in comparison,
Is untremendous Might.’

All of which Flaxius the immortal, who could read the soul in the glance, and who saw that he had before him one into whose essence Immortality had cast its brightest rays, deeply divined. So it came that he lectured to Hamlet alone, rising far beyond the rest of the audience. And, mindful of his man, who, he felt, was thirsting to think, he made good long pauses, which his auditors deemed were to give himself rests to make new bounds.

The lecture was at an end, and Hamlet, by a sign, intimated to his friends that he would fain be left alone. When all were departed, he, with courtesy beyond the time, arose and approached the professor, and said:

‘Learned master, thou hast touched with such unerring hand the harp-strings of my heart, and drawn from it such marvellous chords that I would gladly have them combined in more coherent melody. Even as a bee in a bewildered flight, driven by the wind, at chance may light upon——’

‘A flower,’ said Flaxius, ‘which gives him rest.’

‘And in which, too, he finds a honey-store, such as he never found in flight before,’ subjoined the prince gently.

‘Yet around which some curling petals close somewhat too tightly for his eager search,’ added Flaxius, almost with a smile. ‘Truly to thee who art born to be a prince among more than mortals, I will gladly lend what aid I can to clear away the tangling, hindering leaves.’

‘Learned master,’ replied the prince, ‘I would first deeply reflect on what I have heard, since I as yet toil slowly after you. And if it be your pleasure, I pray you seek me this evening in my library.’

‘I will be there,’ said Flaxius, ‘with joy.’

---

Flaxius the Immortal, and the prince who was unconsciously an aspirant for immortality, sat at a table under antique, grotesquely carved arches, before them a flask of Rhenish, and the works of Hesiod and Homer. In the face of the Master there was the calm dignity of centuries; in that of Hamlet the quiet of a summer sea, beneath which tides are working which may break bounds in time of storm. They had long held deep discourse, and during the time Flaxius had penetrated more deeply with every utterance into the soul of the young man. At last, after a pause, the Master said:

‘He who has risen so far as to find a reality in the tremendous action of the infinite in nature, and who has dwelt so long and earnestly on the change of dynasties of gods from Saturn to Jove, of old worlds into new, on man in his stormiest moods and the rabbit sporting in the thicket, birds and clouds and life still circling on, till all such thoughts are most habitual—has gone too far to retreat. He has advanced beyond his fellows. If he be weak and break down under the stupendous load he will go mad, and readily will men esteem him so, as they do all whom they cannot understand. If he succeed, they may deem him a poet or a god. But the imbroglio is sadly worse when the man is not a hermit, or one alone in life, who can battle freely with his destiny. If he be one who is enmeshed in some dire tragedy with others, which he, being human, must humanly endure and suffer, and yet is always having his wonted glimpses of the infinite, as prisoners catch glimpses of the sun, then he has before him such a battle and a strife as deserve to bend the decree of fate for very pity. Those who achieve victory over it all live for ever. Now know there are two lives beyond the grave: one the vital life which ever was, and can never pass away; the other the life of our great deeds, imperishable in the mind of man.’

‘Ay,’ replied the prince, ‘and I feel in my deepest soul, great master, not only that thou speakest truth, but thou ne’er wouldst tell me this, didst thou not divine by some mystic power, all unknown to me, that I am destined to such warring woe? Worst of all is it for me that I have added into all of this the weakness which must be truly overcome, a wax in the bronze which must be melted out, a love of sleep and ease and pleasant dreams.’

‘Go on, thou hast more to say,’ replied Flaxius.

‘Well, this remains,’ rejoined the prince, after a long pause, a draught of wine, and casting his glance briefly at the scrolls before him…. ‘In all these lives of mortals in the past, who rose by power to immortality, I find some golden glimpse vouchsafed to them of the supernatural, some comforting assurance of beings now invisible to me, of gods, guardian angels—“followers,” as my northern ancestors called them, or the beautiful Fylgia who flit over the ocean after the heroes whom they protect. Truly, if I could only so much as see and talk once with moonlight fairies and merry elves, or a sprightly goblin, I, being only human, should have some strengthening assurance that life is not all a struggle with mere mortals and matter. Even in so little as what I ask, I should realise that I shall live. Do I speak wisely?’

‘Yes,’ replied Flaxius, ‘there are men dying with hunger whom a crumb may save. This much may be granted to thee. ’Tis little enough. All over doth this outer life an inner life enfold, one of exquisite beauty and grace, as the rough seaweed and grim, ugly moss, and ragged madrepores, and hard crust envelop the exquisitely curved, snow-and-rose-bloom, blushing shell, the only thing on earth which is like in hues to a lovely maiden. Around and about us there circles ever in viewless beauty and undreamed perfume, moving to music all unheard by man, a thronging host of attendant beings; following sweet missions and holy biddings; talking in mystic tongues, of which echoes may be caught in the breeze, in the forest, and in tinkling springs or falling fountains. Truly, I forget myself when I abstract my mind an instant towards them from this our earthly sphere. Yes, ’tis but little for thee to ask, who hast before thee such a destiny, to live immortal in a poet’s verse! Yes, I will give it, and with all my heart, and thou shalt see the light invisible, and hear the music never meant for ears, to such degree as a beginner may. I see thee smile—well, be it when thou wilt; but, as thy wont is, thou requirest time to think on what I’ve said. Go, take an hour. There lies not far beyond the city gate, in a wild place among the lonely rocks, an old and crumbling castle, which all men shun as a haunted place; and in its hall fairies and goblins hold their revelry from midnight till the morning red is seen. Thither together we will wend our way.’

‘It might seem marvellous to me,’ said Flaxius, as he, with Hamlet, walked forth in the summer night under the stars, ‘that thou, O Prince, who livest in the contemplation of greater marvels, who seest the miracle of the growth of flowers and the wonders of the circling universe which amaze even the spirits of earth and air, shouldst crave a mere glimpse of that which is after all only something new and unaccustomed, did I not know how deeply the desire of what is new to him is implanted in man. Yes, it is so deep that he who masters the problem treads on the verge of the Infinite. I myself——’

But here he paused and said: ‘Yonder rises the tower, built, as tradition tells, by a sorcerer who, chanting a spell, with every word broke from the rock a stone, or conjured dust and air to solid blocks, and moved them into place. And ’tis no more than man himself will do in days to come; and none will deem the deed a miracle. Hence it is written in ancient chronicles, in veterum libris observatum est hoc fieri, that the building has ever been haunted, nymphæis et fatis, and by those strange spirits of the elements, whose homes being in the crimson gold of sun-dyed skies, or deep in earth, where marvellous gems and metals abound; or in forests; like the Silvani and Oreades; or in streams like the Naïades, have by natural affinity a passionate love for poetry, and all that is rare and beautiful, wild or strange, be it in what form it may. For as nature is not only lovely and comely in her very self, becoming more so the deeper we penetrate her veriest being as natura naturans, so is she also in her freer actions often gaily contradictory, merrily and quaintly discordant; jingling bells to her sweetest music, and singing sweet ritournelles of violets over grey and ancient graves. For every one of which freaks, be they as mad as they may, there is some echo of a goblin, Flibbertigibbet, fairy, implet, bogle, browny, pixie, urchin, Puck, Robin Goodfellow, ouphe or oaf, nixey or pixey, duergar or troll, sprite or pigwiggin, sylph or sea-girl, salamander or fire-maid, Heintzelmann or Waldmeister, Kobold or Bergmannlein as here called, siren, satyr, or faunus, lemur or lamia; yea, and thereunto as many more as this outer crust of creation hath manifestations, which in themselves are ideas and immortal types, with a life such as science hath not as yet apprehended, though it will also be clearly known in ages to come. For know, O Prince,’ continued Flaxius, with an air which had in it something of the poet and the god, ‘that in due time will dawn upon the world a science, of which some of the learned now have not the faintest scent or touch, which after denying and destroying the gods, goblins, and devils, in toto corpore, as now believed in, will end by showing them in matter and in truth, and that in a thousand times more marvellous form than any fairy-tale maker ever fashioned or felt. For little as he knows it, man, instead of leaving the marvellous behind him in remote ages, began, in truth, utterly without it, and is now advancing towards and into it, with giant footsteps. Ah, here we are at the gate of the elfin-castle,

“which men did raise
In the ancient giant and goblin days
When they sat with ghosts on the stormy shore,
And spake in a tongue they speak no more!”

‘Now for a season be a child again.’

As they stood at the gate of the silent pile, they heard, far, far away over many a hill and dale, the crowing of a cock, and the faint chimes of midnight from the town, and then the cry of a sentinel owl from the green-tapestried elfin-tower. To which Flaxius briefly replied in a strange utterance of some fairy kind, when the gate opened, and they found themselves in a scene, which would not have appeared quite unfamiliar to any child who has beheld a gorgeous and exceptionally tasteful féerique in Paris, or an unusually marvellous Christmas pantomime in London, combining all the splendours of Aladdin’s palace with all the goblinries of Mother Goose, save that this was a thousand times more splendid, more varied, more grotesque, and more amazing. And having entered, Prince Hamlet stood by the door rapt in utter admiration at the marvellous art which in ever-changing, never-resting beauty and quaintness, was displayed before him.

‘The witches have their Sabbat in the Blocksberg,’ said Flaxius; ‘the fairies and all their kin hold their own grand merry-makings, but much oftener, being merrier folk, here and elsewhere. Witches and devils select scenery suited to their taste; fairies conjure up their bright magnificence and airy shows most gladly. In Germany they revel in ancient halls of castles such as this, in imitation of the mortals who preceded them, as is shown by the marvellous legend of the old Count von Hoya.’

‘And that?’ said Hamlet.

‘Was only this: that the fairies came to the old count and begged him to lend them his great hall for a ball for a single night, with the condition that he, the master, might be present, but that no other mortal eye should behold the revel. So at the midnight hour:

In they came tripping,
Fairy-maids, elfin-men,
Little and beautiful,
Golden, gem-glittering,
Two-fold or triple-fold,
Ten-fold and twenty-fold,
Till the great hall,
Splendidly lighted,
Looked like the crown,
Thickly bejewelled,
Of a great monarch.

So they danced, as you see. And the jolly old Graf danced with them.

Small was the lady
Who was his partner;
Three inches high.
Often he lost her
In the gay multitude,
Seeking her, finding her;
Often he picked her up
Twixt thumb and finger,
By her small wings,
Even as children
In summer catch butterflies.

When all at once there was a dead pause. The music ceased, the dancing stopped, while from above was heard an awful, scolding, human voice. It was that of the old Countess von Hoya, who having heard the music, she sleeping above, lifted a trap-door and looked down at the spectacle. Truly she was in a great rage to see such a festive scene to which she was not invited. It all died out like an extinguished taper. Tradition says that the queen of the fairies gave the count in reward for his kindness a miraculous sword, ring, and horn, which his family still preserve; but to punish the countess, laid a ban upon her descendants, that there should never be at one time more than one heir of the name, and it has ever been thus as predicted.’

‘So in this life even spirits mimic man. A man confirms all things unto himself,’ replied Hamlet. ‘This is a brilliant scene, surpassing dreams,’ he continued, as the elfin guests came pouring in, ‘but I note that they are not all butterfly-minikins.’

Which was quite true, for they were of all sizes, from that of smaller humanity or lesser youth, down to the tiniest sprites who hide in honeysuckles, and wear rose-leaves for cloaks. Among them all Hamlet and Flaxius towered like giants; nor did they seem out of place, since in the mien and eyes of both there was the expression of something not of earth or common life, which is never absent from such men, but which here, in the mysterious magic light which filled the hall, coming from no visible source, seemed to proclaim itself with tenfold power.

At the further end of the apartment was a throne of unknown splendour and material, in which were intertwined thousands of strange characters, red and black like ruby and sable onyx. It seemed as if it might be a fairy antique, ancient of the ages, and on it sat, under exquisite rainbow drapery, a female form, of such ineffable loveliness that Hamlet murmured to Flaxius that he had found in it a new ideal for beauty—it so surpassed, yet was so different from all he had ever dreamed of woman’s charms. Thereupon the queen, for such she was—who heard and perceived all things—looking at them, smiled, and beckoned an approach, when all the small folk parted right and left, leaving a lane by which they went their way unto the throne. And bowing low before her, Flaxius, holding Hamlet by the hand, said in tones of marvellous melody, learned of yore in the magic schools of Etruria:

‘To thee, All-Beautiful!
Type of all Loveliness!
Queen of the Elfin world!
Life of all Fairy Land!
I with all reverence
Bring a young mortal,
Hamlet of Danamark,
One little witting
What immortality
He may inherit,
Shouldst thou bestow on him
Thy benediction!’

To this the Fairy Queen, gazing on Hamlet as with intense interest, in which sympathy and deep pity were most perceptible, replied in tones which might have checked the torrent in its course or called the eagle, wooing him to hear:

‘Well do I know thee,
Hamlet of Danamark!
Seldom was mortal,
Born to such sorrows
Never did mortal
Grapple more bravely
With a grim destiny
Than thou art fated
To find in the future.’

Hamlet, in the same staff-rhyme, but in Danish skald-tone, which was his humble best, replied:

‘As to the swimmer,
A sea-wolf before him;
As to the traveller,
Grimmest bear meeting;
Or as the wren,
With the owl over her,
Is the foreboding
Of a great Norna
Unto the fated.
But when the Norna
Is Queen of all Beauty,
Mingling iron destiny
With golden compassion,
Giving the bitter
In honey well-coated;
Gently and tenderly;
Little the fated one
Recks what may happen.
[Mishap and misfortune
Are meted to many,
Few among mortals
Ever escape them.]
If the All-Loveliest
Gives him her pity
He’s to be envied.’

Now as Flaxius was the politest man at heart on the face of the earth, while the Fairy Queen was incarnate politeness itself, this lyric, which had such a charming accompaniment of courtesy as went beyond music, made the most favourable impression. And the Sage having, as court etiquette then required, uttered his first words in metre, now expressed himself plainly in prose, saying:

‘Beautiful Spirit of the Strangely Beautiful, who alone givest to poetry the elfin-charm of Romance, well do I ween that this young Prince of Denmark is so entirely thy subject, and one so noble in truthfulness, and so true in his devotion to thy charm, that he has not uttered a word of flattery, in saying that the direst misfortune of life seems to him to be but a little thing, since he has gazed on thy face and felt thy sympathy. And truly, unto any on whom the Queen of Faerie and Romance has once really smiled, this world and all its woes need seem but a little thing, since it is perfect assurance of an immortal life beyond. But, I pray thee, make this clearer to him, that he may leave with a lighter heart and be the better able to endure his fate!’

The queen, as if deeply reflecting and as deeply moved, replied in gravely measured, softly modulated voice:

‘Nepenthe soothes the vulgar mind alone; to the higher soul unfading amaranth brings in time forgetfulness of pain endured, and bestows keenest enjoyment of the glory to come in the far future. Romance and poetry in purity and power can bend the decree of fate, and that boon I bestow on thee, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Listen, for I predict that thy life shall be a poem—and in days to come, long after thy earthly sufferings shall be to thee as naught, I will create my greatest work in the Greatest Poet of Romance whom the world will ever know. And he shall sing thy life in his greatest song, and wherever on earth true poetry is loved and known thou shalt be known and loved with it. This can be done and this I swear to do. Thine be the amaranth—I can no more. In proof whereof I place upon thy arm this golden ring of amaranthine form.’

And as she spoke, all seemed to fade before his sight. Only to the last he felt deeply gazing into his soul with infinite love and sympathy the violet eyes of the Queen of Fairy-land and of Romance.

When he awoke it was early morning. He lay on soft moss amid the crumbling ruins of the old castle—in sunlight, hearing bird-song all about him. By his side sat the Sage.

‘He would have thought it all a dream,
Save that upon his arm
Was bound the gift of the Fairy Queen:
Titania’s wondrous charm.’

‘Tempus est abeundi,’ quoth Flaxius. ‘’Tis time for us to go! But, litera scripta manet, what is written by fate will come to pass, O Hamlet, my son, and dear and gracious Prince. Breakfast awaits us, and I must think over what I am to say in my lecture on the Emperor Titus.’