THE YOUNG IDEA

Southland Times, Issue 20831, 20 July 1929, Page 13

THE YOUNG IDEA

POSTERITY

(By

Brunnhilde).

The two men talking were overheard, though they were unaware of the presence of interested listeners. In every way they offered a strong contrast. One was big, bulky of frame and tall in spite of a pronounced stoop which told of age as much as the sparse, snowy hair which threw into ruddy prominence the remnants of that bricky red which brands men who have served many years in lands where the sun is fierce and the winds dusty; this in spite of the paleness that betrayed a tale of illness. _ His robes were zpotless and of fine material. He was a patrician, and his every gesture was marked by the easy dignity of one accustomed to rule, fitting aptly with the melancholy resignation that infected his speech. His voice was deep and rough, rumbling strangely in that magnificent body as it advanced solemn argument to the younger man at his side. His companion was still youthful, waiting for the forties to find him out. Smooth of speech, elegant, slim, alert and given to bursts of enthusiasm, he radiated the assurance of youthful success and hope. They were seated, quietly talking under the sun, on the brow of a cliff overlooking the blue waters of the sea. Eager to be away from the sumptuous chatterers, who were also ostensibly engaged in the lazy task of winning back health, they had sought out this spot where they might' be alone. “You are wrong to hold yourself in such contempt,” said the younger man. “The future is not so unkind, and the state does not forget as easily as you think.” The older man sighed and looked over the rich blue waters which dissolved finally in mists beyond which were the dreams of Carthage, and a world of mystery. “Youth is confident, but it is not always, kind in pressing illusions on age. My thanks should be yours, Lucius, and they are yours; but my experience, my knowledge of my fellow men abides with me to warn me against the kindness you would do. Beyond those mists are things I will never know', lands which even your poetic imagination cannot people, but behind me are years of knowledge, and knowledge is filled with disappointment. I had thought to live my life so usefully, so gloriously that the future, set on the other side of these years, would remember me; but oblivion awaits me ...”

“But your services,” interposed the younger man. “Rome docs not forget and there is written a record of your achievements for the future to read —that will live and speak for you.” With the tired persistence of one who is beyond comfort, the older man went on as if there had been no interruption. “My service to the state has been of some value but in small things, in the bleak routine of official satisfaction, without the ennobling setting of the Arts or the fanfare of war that goes sounding its music down the years. One little disturbance, quickly appeased, and then peace —it is not enough to fix my name in the memories of men. In your few years you have done more to gain immortality than I, and yet yours has been a service to the pleasure of man. You' are a poet; I, a mere consular official who has kept the peace and ensured the steady flow of taxes to the coffers of the state. You will live; I am already dead.” “It is true that I have written much that has secured public approval. lam known to my fellow citizens. I rest here with happy thoughts because I have achieved part of my'task and,can feel that the end is not yet.” The younger man spoke with smiling confidence. “I hope the future will give me recognition. I do more, I feel it will and that bears me up. But why should it overlook the consul, while it remembers the poet? We have both served our age faithfully, deservedly.” Again the elder man sighed. “The glamour of romance is about you and your work: you and it will live. My duties have been sober, useful; but they belong to nothing great. I have no associations to help me live, no brilliant decease; nothing but years of dull mediocrity and a quiet slipping down to the tomb. Have you felt the urge to sing my praise and so emblazon my history?” “Well, no, hardly that” his companion answered quickly, “but on what could I fix my high elation? Y’our years of rule in distant lands were uneventful, as you say; they are marked by nothing to inspire the poet to lines worthy of the gods he serves, and I doubt if the populace would find merit in a halting ode.” "You have spoken well,” returned the old man with a smile, “and you have touched the truth. You have served the gods and they will not permit you to be forgotten; I have served man and there is no future for me. Oh, that I had lived in places and in times when great events were afoot! Then posterity would not be unmoved by the mention of my name. Now, lam unknown even to my fellows, and the most musical of our poets, assured of immortality, cannot find one incident associated with my life and labour to move his _ genius. Come, we have loitered here looking over the seas long enough. Y’ou have your future; I have . . . oblivion.” “And even that has its assurance,” said the younger man as they rose. “The future may find in my lines some flaw, at least it will leave you uncriticized.”

So they went to their litters and passed down the hill to the busier habitation, where the laughter of their fellows swallowed them.

But as they moved away, one of the listeners turned to the other and whispered: “The old man is right, the future will know him not. The other? Ah, he is favoured by ,the gods and will live forever.” The second man, impressed by these solemn utterances, paused a while and then, curiosity overcoming reticence, asked: “And who is the old man. Lucious the poet I know, but the other I know not.” His companion rubbed a bristling chin dubiously: “They tell me,” he answered, “the old man is called Pontius Pilate — he must have served abroad.” '