The theatre of Melnos was crowded the next day to witness the one performance of the year, and the whole semicircle of seats was occupied by a chattering throng, resembling, doubtless, the gossip-loving Athenians of old. All were in gala dresses, the men brilliant in Albanian costumes of fustanelli, embroidered jackets, gaudy gaiters, and vivid red silk sashes; while the women, in accordance with the edict of the Demarch, still wore their graceful, antique robes of white; indeed, the male bird here had the more splendid plumage of the two, but what the female lacked in color, she made up for in grace. The population of Melnos were, indeed, fine specimens of humanity, as, owing to the selective genius of Justinian, none but the physically perfect were admitted to the privileges of the island, and in the case of births he exercised an almost Spartan rigor. Certainly he departed so far from the laws of Lycurgus as to permit any child born with a blemish to live, but it was sent away from Melnos at the moment of its birth, and provided for elsewhere. In consequence, therefore, of this untiring care in such matters, the Melnosians were all strong, healthy, and beautiful; while their constant out-door life and congenial occupations kept them in a wonderfully vitalized condition, which was eminently calculated to form a race as physically perfect in form and health as is possible on this earth.

“I am a great believer in the mens sana in corpore sano theory,” said the Demarch to Maurice, who sat beside him. “The first law of this new Athens is, that all the citizens shall be healthy in every way; and the body being thus perfected by degrees, who knows but what the intellect may not ripen the sooner to the first-fruits of genius?”

“Is that not rather against the Homeric line you quoted the other day, sir?” observed Maurice thoughtfully. “I mean as regarding Caliphronas; he is physically perfect, thoroughly healthful, and yet you can hardly call him intellectual.”

“Andros,” said Justinian emphatically, “is not a true Greek, but a mongrel from the island of that name, where I found him a shepherd lad. I have no faith in mixed races, as their genius, if they have any, is apt to be confusing. We English are essentially a mixed race, therefore our literature, although marked by great versatility, lacks that dominant note which denotes the special characteristic of a pure-blooded race. Look at the Jew and the Hellene, which are, perhaps, the sole examples of unmixed blood we have,—at least in the West,—and you will see that their works of genius, however different in outward form, are still instinct with the individuality of their particular race-nature. The Psalms of David, the tragedies of the Greek dramatists, could only have been written by men of unmixed blood, steeped in the color of their peculiar branch of the human family.”

“What about Shakespeare?”

“None but a mixed race could have produced an all-comprehensive mind like his; and though you may perhaps think me narrow in desiring the formation of pure-blooded nations, which may be barren of such versatile genius, yet, believe me, Maurice, every plant should bear its own natural flowers. Now, my Melnosians have been carefully selected from the most untainted blood of the insular Greeks, who are the real survivors of the old Attic stock. I allow no mixed marriages—I protect them from all outward influence—I encourage them to develop their inherent characteristics of race, so, in all human probability, they, in years to come, will produce a blossom of genius entirely their own.”

“Is that not rather a hot-house forcing style?”

“Well, yes; but such artificiality is needed in these days of easy communication and cosmopolitan races. The tribes of mankind are not now isolated each from each as in former times, when that very isolation forced them, uninfluenced by contact with alien tribes, to develop their own special race-nature in literature, music, and art. Mixed races produce mixed results, splendid, I own, in many cases, but not so severely unique and classic as would be the case with untamed tribes.”

“Did not Disraeli discuss this question in ‘Coningsby’?”

“Touching the Semitic race,—yes, I think so; but it is so long since I have read the book that I almost forget his line of argument. But we have strayed from our subject, which was physical and not intellectual perfection; and I verily believe that if as much attention were given to the breeding of humanity as is given to the rearing of race-horses, the race of mankind would be much benefited thereby.”

Justinian had quite a mania regarding this question of race, and Maurice would gladly have continued the interesting argument, but the play was shortly about to begin, so he deferred the discussion until a more fitting occasion, and meanwhile examined the theatre with careful attention.

The stage facing the semicircle was long and narrow, with slender columns on either side supporting the pediment, which, unfortunately, was quite plain, as Justinian’s theories had not yet developed a Pheidias to sculpture the red limestone into god-like forms of hero and deity. A broad flight of steps led downward to the orchestra, which had entrances to the right and left for the convenience of the chorus; while a veritable altar of Dionysius, wreathed with sculptured grapes and nude figures of dancing faun and nymph, taken, doubtless, from some ruined temple, stood on a raised platform fronting the stage, and on it burned a small fire, whereon incense was occasionally flung.

“Is that not rather pagan?” asked Maurice, referring to the altar.

“Everything herein is ideal, not real,” replied the Demarch wisely. “When you see the chorus throw incense on the altar, think not that they are sacrificing to the wine-god of their ancestors. No, they are all of the Orthodox Church, and obey devoutly the precepts of Papa Athanasius; but I like to carry out the old ceremonies, even to this altar, which means nothing, and is highly characteristic of the antique festival.”

As Crispin, Helena, and Caliphronas were all actors for the day, the Demarch and Maurice sat alone in the centre of the semicircle, surrounded by the sailors, who were much puzzled at the strangeness of this stately, open-air theatre, so different from the air-tight boxes to which they had been accustomed in London.

“If it was only an Adelphi melodrama!” said Dick, whose inclinations leaned to the bloodthirsty play; “but I suppose it will be something like that squalling they called singing yesterday.”

“Or a moosic ’all,” observed Gurt, chewing his quid reflectively. “I seed a gal in one of ’em down Wappin’ way as guv a song called, ‘Tap me on the shoulder, Bill.’ My eyes, but it were a good un, that ’ere.”

Decidedly this unique dramatic representation, which many English scholars would have beheld with delight, was quite thrown away on these conservative tars, who preferred melodrama and comic songs to the solemn splendors of ancient tragedy, which was, naturally enough, Greek to them in more senses than one.

In accordance with the instructions of Justinian, the poet had composed a play embodying an allegory of the aims of this island colony of Melnos, and, forsaking to a great extent the severe classicism of Æschylean tragedy, had modelled his drama on the loose-flying splendors of Shelley’s Hellas. This piece, entitled ‘The Phoenix,’ was intended to represent the degradation of Greece under the Turkish yoke, her escape from such bondage, her material civilization, and her subsequent rise to intellectual supremacy, which end the formation of the colony of Melnos was supposed to foster. Crispin had no fear of his allegorical drama not being understood by his audience, for the Greeks are a singularly keen-witted people, and, besides, Justinian had so imbued the whole population with his hopes of reviving the ancient glories of the Athenian genius, that all present were quite able to comprehend the hidden meaning of the play. The Phoenix was to occupy the whole morning, and, after an interval of two hours for rest and refreshment, the satiric pendant to the more solemn piece was to be represented in the afternoon, consisting, in this instance, of a local incident, developed and expanded by Crispin into a wild Aristophanic farce, blending wit with irony, laughter with tears, and stately chorus with clownish play of rustic actors.

Crispin, moreover, was not only author, actor, and stage manager, but also an accomplished musician, therefore had made use of his Western training in this respect, to get together an orchestra, and, with the aid of Andronico, had adapted the plaintive music of the Hellenic folk-songs to his choruses. The quick-eared Greeks speedily picked up the airs, many of which they already knew, and thus the drama followed closely in the footsteps of its Athenian prototype; and the wild, rude music, sounding at intervals between the long speeches of the principal characters, prevented the monotony which otherwise would have certainly prevailed. With violin, flute, pipe, drum, symbols, and sabouna, the musicians therefore took their places unseen by the audience; for Crispin, adopting Wagner’s theory, did not want the attention of his audience distracted in any way by the presence of the orchestra between stage and auditorium.

The back of the stage represented a smooth, white marble wall, fronted by a range of Corinthian pillars wreathed with milky blossoms, and in the centre, great folding doors ready to be flung open when required by the exigencies of the play. Against this absolutely colorless background moved the brilliant figures of the performers in measured fashion, with stately gestures, as moved those serene, side-faced figures on the marble urn dreamed of by Keats. The clear light of the sun burned on the great half-circle of eager faces with steady effulgence, and left in delicate shadow that wide white stage, whereon was to be enacted a drama such as we in England, lacking all things necessary to such colossal majesty, can never hope to see.

All being read, the curtain arose, or rather fell, for Crispin, with strict fidelity to Athenian usages, had adopted this curious mode of withdrawing the veil between audience and performers.

The stage is empty, but a wild chant sounds in the distance, and a long train of Moslems, headed by their Sultan, sweeps in, bearing with them Hellas, a captive in her own land to the barbaric power. Helena, draped in black and manacled with chains, represented Hellas, who stands with melancholy mien amid the gaudily dressed chorus of Moslems, listening to their songs of triumph over her downfall. “We have chained you to our chariot,” they sing tauntingly, “yet thou need’st not look so downcast, for a slave hast thou been before, and a slave thou wilt be hereafter. Thy shrines, thy palaces, thy city walls have fallen, and fallen too art thou.”

The chorus having ended their exalting strains, the Sultan addresses Hellas, and offers to make her his wife, thus incorporating the ancient land of loveliness with the newly constructed power of the Turk; but Hellas, who is Athena incarnate, scorns his offer to make her an odalisquean odalisque of the harem. “Virgin I was, virgin I am, virgin I remain,” says the fallen queen, with haughty grace; “my body you may chain with iron, but the soul is under the protection of Zeus, the Supreme; therefore will I sit here in desolation rather than partake of the splendors you offer me.” Furious with rage, the barbarian smites her, but she, still smiling, repeats constantly, “The body is thine, but the soul is mine;” so in wrath he leaves her, with a promise that her woes shall never end, and the Moslem chorus follow him from the stage, with triumphant shouts of joy at the success of their arms.

Left alone, chained and desolate, amid the ruins of her temples, Hellas bewails her downfall, which contrasts so darkly with her former brilliance in classic times. Crispin afterwards translated the play into blank verse for the benefit of Maurice, but the English verse gives but a poor idea of the fire and majesty of the sonorous Greek original. “Woe is me!” cries the fallen queen—

Then, with the sudden energy of despair, she calls upon the heroes of Salamis, of ThermopylÆ, of Marathon, to aid their mother in the time of need. Alas! no voice answers to her cry of anguish, and, overcome with a sense of hopelessness, Hellas, discrowned and chained, sinks weeping on the broken column of her fallen shrine.

Now enters the chorus proper of young Greek maidens, dressed in black stoles, to denote the sorrowful condition of their country. They sweep into the orchestra, and, having sprinkled the altar with incense, begin to question their fallen queen, as though they were ignorant of the cause of her grief.

Question and answer thus goes on for some time, and then the chorus break out into a wailing song, in which they remind Hellas that, having forsaken the old gods who helped her in her need, she is now reaping the reward of such folly. “The curse of Ate is on thee,” they cry pitifully, “nor will the goddess be satisfied until she has exacted her due penalty for neglect of the Olympians.” They relate the former woes of Hellas, how she first was slave to the Macedonians, then to the Roman power; how the Latins set their mailed feet on her neck; and now the Moslems have again reduced her to the position of bondswoman. Ever a slave, ever desired, she is thrown from the one to the other, as it pleases them, unable to free herself from such degradation. When this chorus of reproach is ended, Hellas calls upon the tutelar genius of Greece to help her ere she perish.

In answer to her cry, Apollo (represented by Caliphronas) appears, and blames her for foolishly forsaking the old gods for the new, and thus falling into the hands of Nemesis. His power, which was engendered and kept alive solely by belief, has departed, and he cannot help her, much as he desires to do so. “I myself,” he says—

Finally, Apollo tells his renegade worshipper that she must sing the battle-songs of TyrtÆus, which may perhaps awaken thoughts of freedom in the breasts of her degenerated sons, and then departs, promising to return again when she is once more the stainless Hellas of old. Fired by the speech of the god, Hellas rises, and, assisted by the chorus, begins to sing fierce battle-songs, and call upon her sons to remember the heroes of the past. A clamor is heard without as of men fighting, then the chains of Hellas fall off, and with them her dark robe. Now she is free once more, and clad in purest white, so, while rejoicing in her liberty, a herald (Crispin) appears, and tells how well the Greeks have fought for their independence. This gave the poet an opportunity for a stirring speech, descriptive of the modern Greek heroes, Canaris, Botzaris, and Conduriottis, which names were received with shouts by the audience, fired with patriotic fervor.

Once more Apollo, the genius of Greece, appears, and declares that no longer can Hellas dwell in desecrated Athens, but that, even as his mother Latona, she must seek shelter in an Ægean isle, and there, after long years, give birth to a supreme race, who will revive the ancient glories of violet-crowned Athens. Leading her by the hand, the god then conducts the newly liberated Hellas up the steps of the temple. The great doors are flung open to the sound of trumpets! and lo! appears the Acropolis of Melnos in all its beauty. Here is Hellas to dwell in seclusion, until her antique glory is revived by a new race of her sons, instinct with genius; and down the steps come strings of white-robed youths and girls, bearing fruits, to welcome this Phoenix of Greece, new risen from the ashes of the past. Then the chorus, wreathing in a mystic dance round the altar of Bacchus, sing the coming glories of New Hellas, which are soon to be realized in the Island of Melnos.

After this introductory chant in unison, the chorus divided in twain, and semi-chorus replied to semi-chorus, in fiery speech and jubilant music, that rang like a pÆan through the wide theatre. Ever moving figures, kneeling youths and maidens, soft radiance of sunlight, and triumphant bursts of choral song, while Hellas, serene in her freedom, stands beside tutelary genius, with the light of the glorious future on her face, listening to the eagle flight of liquid words, greeting her as queen of the world.

The play being ended, all the lively Greeks streamed out of the theatre, loudly praising the entertainment, and, having had an intellectual feast, now proceeded to the tables set in the open air, which were covered with all kinds of food to satisfy their physical wants. Maurice and the Demarch waited in the theatre alone for the actors, and very shortly Crispin came to see how they liked his play. He received warm congratulations of his success from the two men, while Helena and Caliphronas also received their due meed of praise. The Greek was radiant with self-complacent delight, for his vanity had been much gratified by the approval of the audience, and for the rest of the day he regarded himself as the hero of the hour, quite forgetting both Crispin and Helena in his serene egotism.

“I hope I have succeeded in showing your aims clearly, Justinian?” said the poet, as they sat down to a comfortable meal.

“You have succeeded admirably, especially in that last chorus. I only hope that all will see the piece is meant for more than the amusement of an hour.”

“If you heard how the villagers are talking,” remarked Caliphronas, with a laugh, “I do not think you would have any doubt on that score, for they already regard themselves as the saviours of Hellas, intellectually, physically, and politically.”

“Did you intend your genius of Greece for Lord Byron, Crispin?” asked Maurice, who had understood and admired the allegory.

“Well, the character was supposed to blend both the god and the poet,” replied Crispin, after a pause; “let us say it was the Olympian incarnate in the body of the Englishman.”

“And both the Olympian and Englishman incarnate in a Greek,” said the Demarch graciously.

Caliphronas smiled at receiving this compliment, which was intended to further blind him to the reality of Justinian’s feelings towards him.

“There is nothing I should like better than to become a leader in reality,” he said gayly; “to inspire my countrymen with the desire of once more making Hellas supreme queen of the world.”

“Of the intellectual world?”

“Or the material—it matters not which.”

“Pardon me, but it matters a great deal,” replied Justinian quickly. “Politically, Greece has a place among the Powers—she has a constitution and a king. So, as far as material prosperity goes, I wish not to meddle with her, but my aim is to revive her intellectuality, and Crispin’s play was entirely written to illustrate that point. Hellas will never be a modern Roman empire—she never was an all-conquering power, and her strength lay in the brains, not in the hands of her sons. After all, is it not greater to control the minds than the bodies of men?”

“You want to turn Hellas into a school.”

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” rejoined Justinian sententiously. “Let other nations be merchants and warriors, while Greece reasserts her ancient vocation of teacher. An aptitude for a special line is as true of the many as of the one. You would not give the lyre to the soldier nor the sword to the poet, so every race should exercise the talents with which it is especially gifted; not, of course, to the exclusion of others, but make its peculiar gift its greatest aim. At present, the great human family of Europe is in a state of transition, and, unaware of each other’s aims, are watchfully in arms the one against the other. Let us hope that before the end of the twentieth century they will recognize that one special faculty predominates in every nation, and permit each other to cultivate that special faculty.”

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, somewhat astonished, “would you have the English nothing but shopkeepers and colonizers—the French, a nation of warriors—the Germans, philosophers only, and the Italians, musicians? That, indeed, would narrow down the talents of the world to one special field each.”

“You do not understand me, Maurice,” said Justinian impatiently. “I quite agree that every nation should have its own literature, art, music, philosophy, and drama, but the one special gift of the race should be cultivated more than the others; it should be made a state law—a political necessity. However, this question admits of much argument, and we have no time to argue now, but, in illustration that I am not so narrow-minded as you think, I will merely point out, that I educate my Greeks in military and civil occupations quite as much as I attend to their intellectuality.”

“After all,” said Caliphronas pointedly, “only civil occupations, such as touch agriculture, are necessary, for intellectuality is yet in the future with us, and it is not likely Melnos will ever require to resort to arms.”

“I trust not,” replied Justinian, looking steadily at the Count. “But if she does, I am quite sure you will find her sons able to defend their island, even against enmity and treachery.”

Caliphronas smiled uneasily, and held his peace, upon which there ensued a rather embarrassing pause, which was only ended by the departure of Crispin to look after the afternoon’s entertainment. Maurice strolled off in the pleasant company of Helen, much to the disgust of Caliphronas, who now pointedly avoided the company of the Englishman, owing to the fracas which had occurred during the previous day. Truth to tell, Roylands was pleased with such avoidance, as, now that open war was declared between himself and the Greek, he had no need to cloak his distaste for the society of this precious scamp.

The satiric comedy of “The Honey Bees,” was a fantastic piece based upon an incident which had lately occurred in Melnos. Justinian had lately imported a potter to teach his people the ceramic art, but this new acquisition turned out to be but an idle scoundrel, who spent his time in drinking and making love to his neighbors’ wives. On this basis the poet had worked out an amusing plot, not devoid of point, in which Aristides, an idle scamp, forces himself into an industrious hive of honey bees, whose queen he desires to marry, in order to be independent for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, he falls a victim to a counter-plot of the bees themselves, who, in order to disillusionize the queen, get a pretty young girl called Myrtis to pay court to the adventurer. He makes love to Myrtis, and is discovered by the enraged queen, who orders her bees to drive him forth from the hive.

This slight framework was filled with pointed allusions to passing events, and the weaknesses of many of the Melnosians were slyly pointed out, so that the gossip-loving audience enjoyed every stinging remark to the full, nor, indeed, failed to laugh when the irony was directed at themselves. The scene was the public square of the village, with the lake and the bronze statue of Jupiter, so that, with such a well-known setting, every local point was understood and applauded. The chorus consisted of the “Honey Bees,” dressed somewhat after the fashion of Aristophanic Wasps, with pinched waists, yellow black-banded bodies, and spears for stings. Alternating with the rude buffoonery of the play, were bursts of choric song lauding the community of Melnos and the industry of its inhabitants, with many sly hits at the idle lives of the adjacent islanders. In fact, with great judgment the poet had constructed the whole comedy to glorify the Melnosians at the expense of their labors, and thus render them the more resolved to work hard at their appointed tasks, and thus fulfil the aims of their Demarch.

The following scene of the arrival of Aristides and the entrance of the chorus will give, some idea of the play, though, of course, what with local allusions and the flexibility of the Greek language, the comedy is more amusing in the original.

Aristides. O Pan, to what land of honey have I come! Truly, I see naught but wild thyme and yellow comb. Poseidon, has thou then girdled Hymettus with the azure scarf of ocean?

Queen. No hill of Attic fame do you here behold, but the sky-piercing Melnos, beloved of the gods.

Aristides. Jupiter! I behold a graceful creature. Have I then been thrown on the alluring coast of fatal Circe?

Queen. Sun-god’s daughter I am not, but one who rules over honey-seeking bees in this hollow island. Cleverly do they extract the sweet juices of flowers to fill the emptiness of many-celled combs.

Aristides (running away). Ah me, I fear the sharpness of their stings.

Queen. In no wise will they hurt thee save at my behest. Be still, O handsome stranger, and I will invoke for thee the industrious tribe, whose ambrosia is sweeter than the food of undying gods.

Aristides. Already I shake in my cowardly knees.

Queen. O Pan, inspirer of vague fears, do I call on thee to send hither the swift-flying bees. Whether ye lurk in honey-throated flowers industrious, or speed lightly through the measureless sky, do I summon ye hither, O sting-bearers.

The audience, lovers of laughter as they were, much preferred this amusing play to the solemn teachings of the morning, and yet from both they learned something necessary to their well-being. From the one, how Justinian wished to make them the centre of a new intellectual force; and from the other, how his aim could be achieved by industry and perseverance: so, grave or gay, the performance instilled the policy of the Demarch into their minds.

On the conclusion of the comedy, the rest of the evening was devoted to feasting, while Justinian and his guests returned to the Acropolis, well pleased with the success of the performances.

“Well, what do you think of my sermons from the stage?” asked Crispin, as he strolled along beside Maurice.

“I think very highly of them,” answered the Englishman. “It is a pity we dare not be so out-spoken in our own land. But if you set forth the foibles of Londoners as plainly as you did in ‘The Honey Bees,’ I am afraid you would have half a dozen libel cases.”

“It would be impossible to transplant the Aristophanic comedy to England, for modern civilization is too complicated to admit of such free speaking. Besides, the average Briton is too serious and too practical to relish the truth, even when uttered by the comic muse, and only the light-hearted Athenians could have appreciated and enjoyed such plain speaking. The French are more given to open criticism, and I daresay a political comedy constructed on these lines would appeal greatly to their sense of humor.”

“When one is in Rome one must not speak evil of the Pope!”

“And every nation has its pope of conventionality. I agree with you there. After all, it is impossible to revive the past, and even a new Shakespeare would be as out of place in these post-revolutionarypost-revolutionary days as a new Aristophanes. The modern world deals with the drama of little things, and the individual idiosyncrasy is caricatured instead of the national policy. We have only one plain-speaking Aristophanes nowadays, and his name is Punch.”