The Plato Papers (5 page)

12

Plato:
Thank you. Something of a success, I think.

Soul:
It was a fine performance.

Plato:
But was it accurate?

Soul:
As far as anyone knows. I particularly enjoyed your disquisition on time. It always interested me, at least when it existed. You were very convincing, too. And I must say that your gestures have improved.

Plato:
I was taught in the Academy how to summon up the images, but I was a poor student.

Soul:
No. You were different. I noticed it from the beginning. Even as a child you were unlike the others. You preferred solitude. You refused to play with the broken mirrors.

Plato:
I was so ugly—

Soul:
No. You were so afraid. When you were supposed to dance in the maze with the other children, you screamed and ran away.

Plato:
I did?

Soul:
I was always with you. When you used to hide in the ruins of the elephantine castle. When you wept at the death of your teacher.

Plato:
Euphrene. She brought me into the Academy. She showed me the books.

Soul:
Do you remember weeping?

Plato:
I remember that I visited the House of the Dead.

13

Welcome, little Plato. Welcome to the House of the Dead. When your teacher approached her end, she came here. Some citizens gently and quietly disappear, while others will lie within their shells for many centuries before fading away. We had once thought that, at the moment of death, all memory and imagination left the body; but recently we have found evidence that there is dreaming among the dead. They lie here and dream of their past lives. We know this because we have listened to their dreams. Why are you weeping, little Plato?

14

Soul:
Yet you stayed at the Academy.

Plato:
It was my duty. No. It was my choice. I wanted to read all the old books. I was no longer here. I was there, within them.

Soul:
It was a comfortable position.

Plato:
Why?

Soul:
It was a place where you could conceal yourself.

Plato:
You’re wrong.

Soul:
I ought to know.

Plato:
I wanted to find myself.

Soul:
You wanted to find a voice.

Plato:
No. I wanted to find a faith.

Soul:
It was all very distressing. You were certain that you were right and the other citizens wrong. You believed in the importance of the past.

Plato:
Of course. But surely it was you who convinced me that the books were worthy of examination?

Soul:
I may have done. I cannot remember.

Plato:
Souls do not need memory. They are eternal.

Soul:
My apologies. I stand corrected. But when they asked you to take on the robe of orator, I remained silent.

Plato:
That was my choice. I did it because I was afraid.

Soul:
Of what?

Plato:
Of them.

15

Plato of Pie Corner, you have assumed the robe and mask of
the orator. You will speak at each of the gates of the city.
What is your theme?

I will discuss the first ages of the earth.

16

The Age of Orpheus is the name we have given to the first epoch, when it was truly the springtime of this world. These were the centuries when statues were coaxed into life and walked from their stone plinths, when the spirits of streams could be changed into trees or glades and when flowers sprang from the blood of wounded heroes. The gods themselves took the shape of swans or bulls from the simple delight in transformation.

Orpheus has become the symbol of this enchanted time because it was he who discovered the powers of musical harmony and, by means of his melodies, made the trees dance and the mountains speak. Yet his delight in the plaintive notes of the lute was far exceeded by his love for a woman, Eurydice, who was the daughter of a river nymph; we have found the nests of nymphs even here, by the Tyburn and the Lea. Eurydice was stung by a serpent of the field while conversing with a flower; she died at once, her eyes closed upon the world, and Orpheus was afflicted with a grief which no music could alleviate. We might say that he ‘descended’ into grief, since the notion of descent is central to the vision of this age.

She herself had been transformed into a shade and taken to the place known as Hades, a dark subterranean city of which certain ruined fragments have already been found. Its ruler was Thanatos, the son of Chronos, which is to say that death is the child of time. He wore a black gown upon which were woven golden stars, as a sign that the heavens themselves were in turn the creation of time and death.

So piercing was Orpheus’s sorrow at the loss of Eurydice that he approached the gods of Mount Olympus, situated in Asia Minor, and implored them to grant his wish. Could he travel to the underworld and see her once more? He was warned that any journey beneath the earth would be perilous indeed but, after some discussion over bowls of ambrosia, the gods allowed him to venture below. Almost at once he was transported to the mouth of the cavern; he was about to enter, when a ferocious three-headed dog came towards him out of the darkness. (The bones of a grotesque animal have indeed been found near the site of the ruined city.) Orpheus had no sense of fear, however, and began to play upon his lute; the monstrous dog stopped, licked its paws with its three tongues and settled comfortably upon the floor of the cave. Then it fell asleep. As soon as he heard it snoring and whimpering, Orpheus slipped past and entered the domain of Hades.

In fact the echo of his music had preceded his arrival, and it is said that the shadowy inhabitants of this place had suspended their labours in order to listen to the strange sweetness of the sounds. So he was greeted with soft sighs before being taken to the palace of Thanatos himself. He was escorted through various rooms hung with dismal tapestries until he reached a dark and secluded chamber, where the ruler reclined on a couch of black marble. Orpheus knelt before him and, having announced his mission, again played upon his lute. Thanatos was ravished by the music and, wiping away his ruby tears, graciously agreed that Orpheus might reclaim Eurydice and lead her upwards.

Before this reunion, however, he decided that his guest must see the wonders of the city. He showed him a wheel of fire, always turning, and a great stone that rolled backwards and forwards along the same course. There was also a river of salt water, encircling the region, that forever turned upon itself. These were of course the old emblems of time. Thanatos imposed one condition upon the release of Eurydice: Orpheus was not to look upon her until they had left Hades and reached the outer air. The reasons for his decision are unclear and no state papers have yet been recovered, but it is likely that the sudden immersion within the realm of time had somehow disfigured or even transformed her.

So Orpheus turned his back and, staying true to his oath, began walking ahead of Eurydice towards the light; he stayed upon the straight path, between vast walls of dark rock and played upon his lute in order to encourage her faltering steps. But there came a moment when he could not resist the comfort of her face and, without thought, he turned his head and gazed upon her. It was already too late. She cried aloud, and fell back in a faint. Orpheus ran towards her, but she had faded away before he could reach her outstretched arms. He heard only the faintest echo of ‘Farewell’ before he found himself alone upon the stony path. Alone he reached the territory of light.

It has been said that Eurydice did not wish to leave the world of time and deliberately called out to him so that he would look at her; she had grown old, perhaps, and did not believe that he would love her in her altered state. The truth has yet to be discovered. Orpheus himself wandered among the fields and meadows of his native land, always lamenting, until the gods took pity on him. He was lifted into the heavens, where his lute was changed into a constellation; from that period onward, the people of the earth could hear the music of the spheres.

It is in many respects a poignant story, but there is no reason to doubt its general truth. Although certain details have yet to be authenticated the existence of Hades and Mount Olympus, as well as the star cluster of Lyra, has already been proved. In the sad fate of Orpheus, then, we have a central and genuine event of ancient history. You may now enter the observation chamber, where the three-headed dog has been reconstructed, before I begin a brief exequy on the second age of the earth.

17

The Age of the Apostles was an age of suffering and lamentation, when the earth itself was considered to be evil and all those upon it were condemned as sinners. The gods had departed and it was believed that the natural world had betrayed its spiritual inheritance. The apostles propagated a doctrine that the human race had committed some terrible offence, of unknown origin, which could only be expiated by prayer and penance; it was not long, in fact, before pain was valued for its own sake. They also insisted that the various gods had become one deity, which hid itself in a cloud or, on occasions, in a bright light. This god, according to the testimony of the apostles, had already consigned some of its creatures to everlasting torment in a region known as hell; its location has not yet been found, but we believe it to lie in a territory adjacent to Hades. We are certain, however, that the religion of the apostles was indeed one of blood and sorrow. That is why, in this ancient period, the angels rarely visited the earth; if they alighted here they stayed only for a moment since, as Gabriel himself has told us, there was no chance of intelligent conversation.

The reasons for the eventual collapse of the religion are unknown, although it is likely that certain internal contradictions rendered it unstable. It affirmed the values of compassion and sympathy, for example, while persecuting those who refused to accept its authority; it worshipped an omnipotent deity, while insisting upon the individual’s free choice of salvation or damnation. These paradoxes were maintained for many centuries but in the end the faith collapsed and gave way to the apparently more plausible explanations of Mouldwarp.