(From the Moral Tales)
The character of Mezentius, King of Tyrrhene, is well known. A bad prince and a good father, cruel and tender by turns. He had nothing of the tyrant, nothing that showed violence as long as his desires knew no obstacle; but the calm of this haughty soul was the repose of a lion.
Mezentius had a son named Lausus, whose valor and beauty rendered him famous among the young heroes of Italy. Lausus had attended Mezentius in the war against the King of Praeneste. His father, at the very summit of joy, saw him, covered with blood, fighting and vanquishing by his side. The King of Praeneste, driven out of his territories and seeking safety in flight, had left in the hands of the conqueror a treasure more precious than his crown, a princess at that age wherein the heart has only the virtues of nature, and nature has all the charms of innocence and beauty. Everything that the Graces in tears possess, either noble or affecting, was painted on Lydia’s countenance. In her grief, courage, and dignity, one might discover the daughter of kings amongst the crowd of slaves. She received the first compliments of her enemies without haughtiness, without acknowledgment, as an homage due to her rank, the noble sentiments of which were not weakened by ill fortune.
She heard her father named, and at that name lifted up to heaven her fine eyes filled with tears. All hearts were moved. Mezentius himself, astonished, forgot his pride and age. Prosperity, which hardens weak souls, softens proud hearts, and nothing can be gentler than an hero after a victory. If the savage heart of old Mezentius was not able to resist the charms of his captive, what was the impression on the virtuous soul of young Lausus? He mourned over his exploits; he reproached himself with his victory: it cost Lydia tears. “Let her avenge herself,” said he; “let her hate me as much as I love her; I have deserved it but too much.” But an idea still more distressful presents itself to his imagination. He sees Mezentius, astonished, softened, pass on a sudden from rage to clemency. He judged rightly that humanity alone had not effected the revolution, and the fear of having his father for a rival completed his confusion.
At the age of Mezentius jealousy follows closely upon love. The tyrant observed the eyes of Lausus with an uneasy attention; he saw extinguished in them all at once the joy and ardor which had lighted up the face of the young hero on his first victory. He saw him disturbed: he caught some looks which it was but too easy to understand. From that instant he considered himself as betrayed; but nature interposed and suspended his rage. A tyrant, even in his fury, constrains himself to think that he is just; and before he condemned his son Mezentius labored to convict him. He began by dissembling his own passion with so much art that the prince looked on his former fears as vain, and considered the attentions of love as nothing more than the effects of clemency. At first he affected to allow Lydia all the appearances of liberty, but the tyrant’s court was full of spies and informers, the usual retinue of men of power who, not being able to make themselves beloved, place their greatness in being feared. His son was no longer afraid of paying Lydia a respectful homage. He mingled with his sentiments an interest so delicate and tender, that Lydia very soon began to reproach herself for the hatred which she thought she entertained for the blood of her enemy; while Lausus lamented that he had contributed to Lydia’s misfortunes. He called the gods to witness that he would do all in his power to repair them. “The King my father,” says he, “is as generous after victory as intractable before battle: satisfied with victory, he is incapable of oppression. It is easier than ever for the King of Praeneste to engage him to a peace that shall be glorious to both. That peace will dry up your tears, beautiful Lydia; but will it efface the remembrance of their crime who caused you to shed them? Why did I not see all my blood flow rather than those tears?”
Lydia’s replies, which were full of modesty and greatness, betrayed to Lausus no warmer emotion than that of gratitude: though at the bottom of her heart she was but too sensible of the care he took to console her. She sometimes blushed for having listened to him with complaisance; but her father’s interests made it a law to her to avail herself of such a support. In the meantime their conference growing more frequent became also more animated, more interesting, more intimate; and love made its way insensibly through respect and gratitude, as a flower which, in order to blow, opens the slight texture in which it is enfolded.
Deceived more and more by the feigned tranquillity of Mezentius, the credulous Lausus flattered himself that he should very soon see his duty accord with his inclination, and nothing in the world, in his opinion, was easier than to reconcile them. The treaty of peace which he had meditated, was reduced to two articles: to restore to the King of Praeneste his crown and his territories, and to make his marriage with the princess the bond of union between the two powers. He communicated this project to Lydia. The confidence he placed in it, the advantages he saw accruing from it, the transports of joy which the idea alone inspired him with, surprised the lovely captive into a smile, mingled with tears. “Generous Prince,” said she to him, “may Heaven fulfill the wishes you pour out for my father! I shall not be sorry that I am made a pledge of peace and the token of gratitude.” This touching reply was accompanied with a look still more touching. The tyrant was informed of all. His first transport would have hurried him to sacrifice his rival, but his son was the only support of his crown, the only barrier between the people and him: the same stroke would have rendered him completely odious to his subjects and have taken from him the only defender whom he could oppose to the public hatred. Fear is the ruling passion of tyrants. Mezentius resolved to dissemble. He ordered his son into his presence, talked to him with good humor and bade him prepare to set out the next day for the frontiers of his territory, where he had left his army. The prince endeavored to conceal the grief which wrung his soul, and set out without having time to take leave of Lydia.
The very day of Lausus’ departure, Mezentius had caused honorable conditions of peace to be proposed to the King of Praeneste, the first article of which was his marriage with the daughter of the vanquished monarch. That unfortunate monarch hesitated not to consent, and the same ambassador that offered him peace brought back his agreement for an answer.
Lausus had in the court a friend, who had been attached to him from his infancy. A remarkable resemblance to the young prince had been the means of making the fortune of the young man, who was called Phanor, but they resembled each other still more in their disposition than their figure; the same inclinations, the same virtues. Lausus and Phanor seemed to have but one soul. Lausus at parting had confided to Phanor his passion and his despair. The latter was therefore inconsolable on hearing of the marriage of Lydia with Mezentius: he thought it his duty to acquaint the prince with it. The situation of the lover at this news cannot be described; his heart was troubled, his reason forsook him, and in the distraction of blind sorrow, he wrote to Lydia the warmest and most imprudent letter that love ever dictated. Phanor was charged with the delivery of it. He went to her at the hazard of his life, if he should be discovered. He was so. Mezentius, enraged, ordered him to be laden with irons and dragged to a frightful prison.
However, everything was prepared for a celebration of this unhappy marriage. We may justly conclude that the feast was suitable to the character of Mezentius. Wrestling, the cestus, gladiators, combats between men and animals bred up to carnage, everything that barbarity has invented for its amusements was to have graced the pomp: nothing was wanting to this bloody spectacle but persons to fight against the wild beasts; for it was customary to expose to these fights none but criminals condemned to die, and Mezentius, who on any suspicion was always eager to put the innocent to death, retarded still less the punishment of the guilty. There remained in the prisons none but the faithful friend of Lausus. “Let him be exposed,” said Mezentius; “let him fall a prey to devouring lions: the traitor deserves a more cruel death, but this best suits his crime, and my vengeance, and his punishment is a feast worthy of injured love!”
Lausus having in vain expected the answer of his friend, impatiently gave way to affright. “Should we be discovered,” said he, “should I have lost my friend by my fatal imprudence! Lydia herself! Ah, I tremble! No, I cannot live any longer in this dreadful uncertainty.”
He set out; he disguised himself carefully. He arrived, and heard the reports spread among the people; learned that his friend was in chains, and that the next day was to unite Lydia with Mezentius. He learned that they were preparing the feast which was to precede the festival; they were to see the unhappy Phanor a prey to wild beasts. He shrunk at this recital; a deadly chillness spread through all his veins; he came again to himself, but lost in distraction he fell upon his knees and cried out, “Great gods, restrain my hand, my despair terrifies me! Let me die honorably!” Resolved to deliver his dear Phanor, though he should perish in his stead, he flew to the gates of the prison; but how was he to enter? He addressed himself to the slave whose office it was to carry food to the prisoners. “Open your eyes,” said he, “and know me; I am Lausus, I am the son of the King. I except an important service from you. Phanor is confined here: I will see him, I will. I have but one way to come at him: give me your clothes, and fly! There are the pledges of my acknowledgment. Withdraw yourself from the vengeance of my father. If you betray me, you rush on your ruin; if you assist me in my undertaking, my favor shall find you in the very heart of the deserts.”
The weak and timorous slave yielded to his promises and threats. He assisted the prince in disguising himself, and disappeared, after having told him the hour at which he was to present himself, and the conduct he was to observe in order to deceive the vigilance of the guards. Night approached and the moment arrived. Lausus presented himself, assuming the name of the slave. The bolts of the dungeon opened with a dismal sound. By the feeble glimmering of a torch, he penetrated into this mansion of horror; he advanced and listened: the accents of a moaning voice struck his ear; he knew it to be the voice of his friend. He saw him lying down in the corner of the cell covered with rags, consumed with weakness, the paleness of death on his countenance, and the fire of despair in his eyes. “Leave me,” said Phanor to him, taking him for the slave; “away with these odious nourishments: suffer me to die. Alas,” added he, sending forth cries interrupted by sighs, “alas! my dear Lausus is still more unhappy than I. Oh, gods above! If he knows the state to which he has reduced his friend!” “Yes,” cried Lausus, throwing himself on his bosom, “yes, my dear Phanor, he does know it, and he partakes of it!” “What do I see?” cried Phanor transported. “Ah, Lausus, my Prince!” At these words both of them lost the use of their senses, locked in each other’s arms. Their hearts met, and their sighs intermingled. They remained for a long time mute and immovable, stretched out on the floor of the dungcon. Grief stifled their voices, and they answered each other only by embracing more closely, and bathing one another with their tears. Lausus, at last coming to himself, “Let us lose no time,” said he; “take these clothes, get hence and leave me here.” “What, I! Great gods, can I be so vile! Ah, Lausus, could you believe it? Ought you to propose it to me?” “I know you well,” said the Prince, “but you should also know me. The sentence is pronounced, your punishment is prepared, you must die or fly.” “Fly!” “Hear me: my father is violent, but he is not without sensibility. Nature asserts her right over his heart. If I deliver you from death I have only to melt him to compassion for myself; and his arm, when lifted up against a son, will be easily disarmed.” “He would strike,” said Phanor, “and your death would be my crime: I cannot abandon you.” “Well, then,” said Lausus, “remain here, but at your death you shall see mine also. Depend not on my father’s clemency; it would be in vain for him to pardon me: think not that I would pardon myself. This hand, which wrote the fatal letter that condemns you, this hand which, even after its crime is still the hand of your friend, shall reunite us in your own despite.” In vain would Phanor have insisted. “Let us argue no longer,” interrupted Lausus; “you can say nothing to me that can equal the shame of surviving my friend, after I have destroyed him. Your pressing earnestness makes me blush, and your prayers are an affront. I will answer for my own safety if you will fly. I swear to die if you will stay and perish. Choose: the moments now are precious.”
Phanor knew his friend too well to pretend to shake his resolution. “I consent,” said he, “to let you try the only means of safety that is left us; but live if you would have me live: your scaffold shall be mine.” “I readily believe it,” said Lausus, “and your friend esteems you too much to desire you to survive him.” At these words they embraced, and Phanor went out of the dungeon in the habit of the slave, which Lausus had just thrown off.
What a night! What a dreadful night for Lydia! Alas, how shall we paint the emotions that arose in her soul, that divided, tore it between love and virtue? She adored Lausus, she detested Mezentius, she was sacrificing herself to her father’s interests, delivering herself up to the object of her hatred, tearing herself forever from an adored lover. They led her to the altar as it were to punishment. Barbarous Mezentius! Thou art content to reign over the heart by violence and fear! It suffices thee that thy consort trembles before thee as a slave before his master. Such is love in the heart of a tyrant. Yet, alas! it is for him alone that she is hereafter to live: it is to him that she is going to be united. If she resists, she must betray her lover and her father: a refusal would discover the secret of her soul, and if Lausus were suspected to be dear to her, he were undone. It was in this cruel agitation that Lydia awaited the day. The terrible day arrived. Lydia, dismayed and trembling, saw herself decked out not as a bride to be presented at the altar of Love and Hymen, but as one of those innocent victims that a barbarous piety crowned with flowers before it sacrificed them.
They led her to the place where the spectacle was to be exhibited; the people assembled there in multitudes, and the sports began. I shall not stop to describe the engagements at the cestus, at wrestling, at the sword: a more dreadful object engages our attention.
An enormous lion advances. At first, with a calm pride, he traverses the arena, throwing his dreadful looks round the amphitheater that environs him; a confused murmur announces the terror that he inspires. In a short time the sound of clarions animates him; he replies by his roarings; his shaggy mane is erected around his monstrous head; he lashes his loins with his tail, and the fire begins to issue from his sparkling eyeballs. The affrighted populace wish and dread to see the wretch appear who is to be delivered up to the rage of this monster. Terror and pity seize on every breast. The combatant, whom Mezentius’ guards themselves had taken for Phanor, presents himself. Lydia could not distinguish him. The horror with which she was seized obliged her to turn away her eyes from this spectacle, which shocks the sensibility of her tender soul. Alas! what would she feel if she knew that Phanor, the dear friend of Lausus, was the criminal whom they have selected; if she knew that Lausus himself had taken his friend’s place, and that it was he who was going to fight!
Half-naked, his hair disheveled, he walked with an intrepid air; a poniard for the attack, a buckler for defense, are the only arms by which he was protected. Mezentius, prepossessed, sees in him only the guilty Phanor. His own blood is drunk, Nature is blind; it is his own son whom he delivers up to death, and his bowels are not moved. Resentment and revenge stifle every other sentiment. He saw with a barbarous joy the fury of the lion rising by degrees. Lausus, impatient, provoked the monster and urged him to the combat. He advanced toward him; the lion sprang forward. Lausus avoided him. Thrice the enraged animal made toward him with his foaming jaws, and thrice Lausus escaped his murderous fangs.
In the meantime Phanor learned what was happening. He ran up, bearing down the multitude before him, while his piercing cries made the amphitheater resound. “Stop, Mezentius! Save your son, for it is he! It is Lausus who is engaged!” Mezentius looked and knew Phanor, who hastened toward him. “Oh, ye gods, what do I see! My people, assist me! Throw yourselves on the arena, save my son from the jaws of death!” At the name of Lausus, Lydia fell down dead on the steps of the amphitheater: her heart cold, her eyes covered with darkness. Mezentius saw only his son, now in imminent danger. A thousand hands strive in vain for his defense: the monster pursued him and would have devoured him before they could have come to his assistance. But, oh, incredible wonder! Unlooked-for happiness! Lausus, eluding the bounds of the furious animal, struck him a mortal wound and his sword was drawn reeking from the lion’s heart. He fell amid torrents of blood spat forth from the foaming jaws. The universal alarm now changed into triumph, and the people replied to Mezentius’ doleful cries only by shouts of admiration and joy. These shouts recalled Lydia to life: she opened her eyes and saw Lausus at Mezentius’ feet, holding in one hand the bloody dagger, and in the other his dear and faithful Phanor. “It is I,” said he to his father, “I alone who am culpable. Phanor’s crime was mine: it was my duty to explain it. I forced him to resign his place, and was about to kill myself if he refused. I live, I owe my life to him, and if your son be still dear to you, you owe your son to him, but if your vengeance is not appeased, our days are in your hands. Strike, we will perish together, our hearts have sworn it.” Lydia, trembling at this discourse, viewed Mezentius with suppliant eyes, overflowing with tears. The tyrant’s cruelty could not withstand this trial. The cries of Nature and the voice of remorse put to silence jealousy and revenge. He remained for a long time immovable and dumb, casting by turns looks of trouble and confusion on the culprits before him, looks in which love, hatred, indignation, and pity succeeded to one another. All trembled around the tyrant. Lausus, Phanor, Lydia, and a multitude innumerable waited with terror the first words that he was to pronounce. He submitted at last, in spite of himself, to that virtue whose ascendancy overpowered him, and passing of a sudden with impetuous violence from rage to tenderness, he threw himself into his son’s arms. “Yes,” said he, “I pardon thee, and I pardon also thy friend. Live, love one another; but there remains one sacrifice more for me to make thee, and thou hast just now rendered thyself worthy of it. Receive it, then,” said he with a new effort; “receive this hand, the gift of which is dearer to thee than life. It is thy valor which has forced it from me; it is that alone could have obtained it.”