So the first impression that we obtain on passing the Propylæa is the impression of a catastrophe.

  The advance is silent; for everything around us is so perfectly dead that our own animation, our own movement, seems to us strange and inappropriate in those places.

  Were we to meet an acquaintance, we should prefer not to speak to him, but merely to look him in the eyes inquiringly, pass on, sit down in the shade somewhere, and see how the sun bathes the ruins in light.

  For, as I have said, light in this country does not fall, but at this hour, especially, it pours in a torrent. And it might seem that these burning, living springs of light weaken the impression of ruin, of destruction and deathly silence. But no! Ruin and destruction find only greater expression by means of them, — expression almost absolute.

  So we sit and look at that stone mountain, on the bright marbles of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum, bathed in sunlight, until finally something rises out of the ruins and enters us. We begin to be in harmony with that world, and later to fraternize with it. Then we feel well; for an immense repose enters us, a repose great as stones and ruins can possibly have.

  This repose and the repose of the traveller become one. I suppose that the more pained a man’s soul is, the better he feels in those ruins. He would like to rest his head against the pilaster of a column, close and open his eyes in succession, and nestle there. One feels more and more at home; the wanderer looks with more and more friendliness on those extended lines of the Parthenon, on the white Erechtheum, and on the Propylæa lying lower. But one must see them to understand how those buildings, pale golden in color from age, are outlined in the sun and the blue; one must see them to understand the repose of those architraves, of those rows of columns and façades! Simplicity, repose, dignity, and true divine order, — there they are. It is difficult to see this immediately; the charm acts by degrees; but all the more mightily does it penetrate, and at last it intoxicates. And thou, O wanderer, wilt recognize that these masterpieces have given thee not only repose, but they have ravished thee with their beauty, and with that which goes with it, their sweetness.

  These are the successive impressions through which a man passes on the Acropolis. When one is on the spot, these impressions are so powerful that it would come to no man’s head to open a printed guide and look in it for details. Once at home, you will read that the temple Niké Apteros (Wingless Victory) was not long since raised up from its own ruins; that Lord Elgin took to the British Museum one of the marvellous caryatids supporting the right portico of the Erechtheum; and that thither also wandered the metopes of the Parthenon; that an explosion of Turkish powder caused the ruin of all the central part of that temple; that copies of the metopes may be seen in the museum on this cliff; and that pashas had their harems in the Erechtheum.

  At the first moment it is all one to you that the Parthenon is built in a style purely Doric; that the Erechtheum and Niké Apteros are Ionic; and that in the Propylæa are columns of both styles. You knew that before you came to Athens. Here the universal spirit, or rather the genius of ancient Hellas, breathes on you first of all, and that breath you have no wish to ward off or analyze.

  And soon the imagination begins to work, then it represents to itself that Acropolis in the days of Pericles, when everything stood in its own place, when there were temples of which there are no traces at present, and when among them there was a forest of statues; when the Parthenon was not stripped of its ornaments; when from below it was possible to see on its front the birth of Athene, and on the other façade her dispute with Poseidon, and the spear of Athene Promachos was visible from the sea. Let us imagine to ourselves especially a Panathenic procession, — priests, archons, warriors, musicians, people, bulls with gilded horns led to the altars of the opisthodomos, garlands of flowers, and that classical drapery with statuesque folds. But I almost prefer to represent to myself in thought the night of that time, and the pale greenish light of the moon on the marbles, till it is difficult to believe that a people could create such a mountain of masterpieces; and still we may explain it. Grecian mythology was a worship of the powers of nature, or elemental Pantheism. But in the soul of the Greek, the artist preponderated always above the philosopher; so poets first of all arrayed phenomena in human bodies and feelings, later came plastic art, and thus rose those marvellous stone fables.

  Athene knew how to choose a place for her capital; what a background was that for those temples and statues! On one side the sea, which in that transparent atmosphere seemed right before you; on the other, all Attica, like something on the palm of the hand, the hill of Hymettus, farther the Pentelicus; on the north, Parnassus; and southward, toward the straits of Salamis, Daphne. Overhead a sky ever serene, and eagles whose calls break to this day the silence on the Acropolis.

  Our impressions at sight of other ruins are merely a fainter reflex of thoughts and feelings born in the soul at sight of those remnants on the Acropolis. The works of Mnesicles, Ictinus and Callicrates were not equalled by any one either before Pericles or after him. They created nut only the Parthenon, the Erechtheum, and the Propylæa, but they established the architectural dogma which thenceforth was to be accepted by all architects of antiquity. The Romans will permit themselves to add their own arch; they will rear Colosseums, Baths, Circuses, and circular temples like the Pantheon of Agrippa, but that is all. In other respects they will follow in the footsteps of those immortal predecessors and not fall away from the dogma. They can only exaggerate the masterpieces of the Acropolis through size, and they do that even in Athens itself.

  Below the Acropolis, east of the cliff, the Romans erected near the river Ilissus a temple to Olympian Zeus, completed only during the time of the Emperor Hadrian. To-day, of the hundred and twenty columns which composed it, there remain only sixteen, thirteen at one end, and three at the other. These columns, purely Corinthian, are six feet in diameter and sixty feet high. That was the largest temple on the plain watered by the Cephissus and the Ilissus. Titus Livius, mentioning it, declares that in dimensions it was the only temple worthy of the majesty of the god to whom it was dedicated: Unum in terris inchoatum pro magnitudine dei. And perhaps Zeus, as the father of Athene and the mightiest of the gods, deserved the largest temple; but Athene, the patroness of Athens, was also the goddess of wisdom, so Zeus could only have, in gigantic form, the reflection from prototypes and originals born directly of thoughts inspired by the “owl-eyed” divinity.

  It does not follow in the least from this that I consider the creators of the temples of the Acropolis as the inventors of the Grecian orders of architecture. I say only, that they settled the rules; for they knew how to give its final and loftiest expression to Grecian architecture, as Phidias in his time gave the highest expression to its sculpture. But the temple of Theseus, resembling the Parthenon on a smaller scale, was built before the Parthenon, as were surely many others of which only single columns remain here and there to us. That temple of Theseus is the best preserved remnant of the past. There was a fortress on the Acropolis, so the edifices which stood there were exposed to every blow of war, and in modern times to bombardment. The temple of Theseus was in the middle of the city. It was exposed mainly to internal changes, for from being a pagan temple it was modified into a Christian church. The internal columns of the pronaos were thrown down, and in place of them was erected a half-circular niche, in which an altar was placed; a large gate was opened in the wall, separating the cella from the opisthodomos, and evidently all the statues were thrown out of the interior of the temple, where to-day are seen only four naked walls. Light reaches with difficulty the interior, which is turned into a kind of museum; for there are set up in it either plaster of Paris copies or fragments of sculpture which adorned the temple in old times. As I have said, it recalls the Parthenon, but since it stands on level ground it does not produce that imposing impression, especially since its dimensions are much smaller. The Parthenon had seventeen columns at its sides; the temple of Theseus only thirteen, and they were much smaller. The Parthenon had eight columns at its ends; the temple of Theseus six. Finally, it was much less ornamented; for Phidias filled both façades of the temple on the Acropolis with statues, and all the metopes with sculptures in relief. The temple of Theseus had only frieze on the external wall of the cella, and metopes only on the eastern façade, covered with sculpture in relief, representing the exploits of Theseus accomplished through the aid of Heracles. The eastern façade had also sculpture, of which nothing is left.

  But these are details which would have value only if I were to add to them at least drawings of these edifices. The temple of Theseus is interesting for this, that it is well preserved and gives us the most accurate idea of Doric architecture, which is at once so dignified and so full of repose. It stands on a broad square on which there — is neither — a tree nor a — grass-blade; — hence its columns, pale gold color from age, stand with a certain melancholy charm on that gray background.

  From this square the rocks of the Pnyx are visible. The Pnyx was a meeting place once for multitudes. Stone steps hewn out in the rocks indicate the way where men passed to the upper terrace, from which Athens was seen below the spectator’s feet. On the right — hand was — the Museum, — directly in — front the Acropolis. There are no buildings whatever at the Pnyx now, there are only traces of a gigantic tribune, called in antiquity the Bema, where people sat during deliberations. The rocks are stripped entirely of vegetation; — they stand — there eternally — naked; I met — no living soul — on them. — The noise of — the city does — not reach that far; the scream of eagles alone breaks the silence. A verse of Slovatski now occurred to me.

  “Here on the stones the breeze struggles With the work of Arachne and rends her web.

  Here is the odor of sad slopes, of parched mountains.

  Here the wind, when it has run around the gray pile of ruins, Blows over it the down of flowers, That down, advancing, flies among the tombs like spirits.”

  Not so silent, but equally desolate, is the Areopagus, situated near the cliff of the Acropolis. Besides the locality which tradition makes sacred, and the deep fissures in the rocks which are filled with refuse, there is nothing to be seen there.

  In the city itself, and in its environs, are some remains which deserve attention, such as the Stoa of Hadrian, the Stoa of Attalus, the Tower of Winds, the little chapel of Lysicrates, the arch of Hadrian, and the monument of Philopappos; finally, the cemetery of the Hagia Trias, opened not long since, in which may be seen a number of beautiful, even very beautiful, monuments. But I shall not try to describe ruins. I have given an account merely of impressions which I received mainly on the Acropolis, which appeals most forcibly to the soul, for it contains all that Hellenic civilization has given of the most beautiful in plastic art, and she gave this with the whole power of Grecian genius. Surely Thucydides had the Acropolis in mind when he said that had Athens succumbed to a catastrophe, mankind would think from the ruins left behind by her that she was a city twofold more powerful than she was in reality. But Athens was four times more powerful than Thucydides imagined. Now the ancient city has succumbed to disaster, and is lying in ruins; but the genius of Athens created too much to let humanity forget what it owes to her. The debt was forgotten too long; but duties like that bind the memory as well as the conscience. Thanks to these feelings, this glorious land was snatched from the Turk. Not political interest alone commanded the resurrection of Greece; that was a debt which Europe had to pay, it was a question of shame simply. There are questions which the most dissolute conscience is unable to tolerate; and because of that a moment came when cannon roared at Navarino. But we may be sure that had it not been for the immense balance with which civilization had credited Greece, had it not been for her glory and her deeds, had it not been for the poetry of Homer, for the memories of Marathon and Salamis, for those remains of the Acropolis masterpieces, pashas might have their harems yet in the Erechtheum, and the banner of the Prophet might be waving to-day from the summit of the Acropolis. So if we say that modern Greece was raised up by Homer, Miltiades, Leonidas, Themistocles, Phidias, Pericles, and other heroes or geniuses of similar stature, it will not be a figure of rhetoric, but a truth in history. While toiling for the glory of their people, they toiled, without knowing it, for their resurrection; and those immortal agents have made Greece a living fact at this moment.

  ZOLA (“DOCTOR PASCAL.”)

  YOU wish me to declare what I think of Zola’s “Doctor Pascal,” and in general of the whole “Rougon-Macquart” cycle. Perhaps because I come of a society in which so much power is wasted, every planned and completed work fills me with real respect, and has for me also some wonderful and exceptional charm. Whenever I write “The End” at the close of any work of mine, I feel something like a sensation of delight, not only because the labor is done, not only because of the possible success of the book, but also because of the sensation which comes of finished work. Every book is a deed, good or evil, but a deed that is done. A whole series of books, especially when written in the name of one leading idea, is a life task accomplished; it is a harvest-home festival at which the leader of the workmen has earned the right to a garland and the song, “I bring fruit, I bring fruit!”

  But evidently the character of the service depends on the fruit. The career of a writer has difficulties of which readers do not even dream. The land-tiller who draws grain sheaves to his barn has this perfect certainty, that he is bringing in wheat, barley, buckwheat, or rye which will go to support people’s health. An author, writing even in the very best faith, may have moments of doubt: Has he been giving poison instead of bread? Is not his work one great mistake, one great fault? Has it done good? Would it not have been better for men and for him if he had done nothing, if he had written nothing, if he had remained idle?

  Doubts are the enemy of human peace, but they are also a filter which lets no foul sediment pass. It is bad to have too many doubts, bad to have too few; in the first case, power of action is lost; in the second, conscience. Hence the need of an external regulator, — a need as old as humanity.

  But French writers have ever distinguished themselves by a boldness incomparably greater than that of other authors; hence that regulator which in some countries has been religion has ceased long since to exist for them. Exceptions have appeared, it is true. Balzac asserted that his task was to serve religion and the monarchy. But even the works of those who proclaimed such principles were not always in accord with the principles. It might have been said that it suited authors to understand their activity in that way; but the reading public could understand it, and often did understand it, to be a negation of social, religious, and ethical principles. In the most recent epoch, however, such misunderstandings have become impossible, for authors began to appear openly, either in the name of their own personal convictions, which reckoned with nothing and were directly opposed to the bases and bonds of society, or with objective analysis, which in the examination of life notes good and evil as phenomena equally inevitable and equally justifiable. France, and through France the rest of Europe, was flooded with a deluge of books written so frivolously, freely, and offensively, books with no trace in them of a feeling of responsibility to mankind, that even those who took them up, also without scruple, were soon astounded. It seemed that every author had set out with the intent to go even farther than had been expected of him. In this way men acquired the reputation of daring thinkers and original artists. Boldness in the choice of subjects, and in the method of treating them, seemed the most precious quality of a writer. To this was added bad faith, or an unconscious deception of self and others — Analysis! They analyzed in the name of truth, — which, as it were, must and ought to be declared, — everything, but especially evil, dirt, human corruption, and foulness. They did not notice that this false analysis ceased to be an objective examination, and became a morbid fondness for decay, flowing from two causes: first, corruption of taste; second, from the greater ease of producing striking effects. They took advantage of this physiological peculiarity of the senses through which repulsive impressions seem more vigorous and real than agreeable ones, and they abused this peculiarity beyond measure. They created a certain kind of commercial travelling in the interests of rottenness, with a prompt use of subjects; it was a question to find something new, something which might draw yet. Truth itself, in whose name this was done, retired before these efforts. Take Zola’s “La Terre.” This novel was to contain the picture of a French village. Call to mind any village of France, or another country. What is it as a whole? A collection of cottages, trees’, ploughed fields, stretches of grain, wild flowers, people, cattle, sunlight, blue skies, songs, petty village interests, and work. In all this doubtless manure plays no small part, but there is something beyond and aside from it. Meanwhile Zola’s village looks as if composed only of ordure and crime. And this picture is false, it is truth perverted, for in nature the real relation of things is different. If any man were to give himself the trouble of making a list of the women in a French novel, he would be convinced that at least ninety-five per cent of them had fallen. Meanwhile in society it is not so, and cannot be so. Likely there has never been such a proportion even in countries where, on a time, Astarte was worshipped. And still authors wish to persuade us that they give a true picture of society, and that their analysis of morals is taken from life. Lying, exaggeration, admiration of rottenness, — that is an accurate picture of the literary harvest in most recent times. I know not what literature has gained from it; but I do know that the devil has lost nothing, for along that way a whole river of poison and mud has flowed, and the moral sense has become so blunted that at last it endures with ease books which a few tens of years ago would have brought an author to court. It is incredible at present that “Madame Bovary” once exposed the author to two lawsuits. If it had been written twenty-five years later, it would have been considered too modest.

 

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