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| Erostrat |
EROSTRAT
Incendiary
by Marcel Schwob
With her two river harbors the city of Ephesus, birthplaceof Herostratos, stretched across the mouth of the Cayster as far as Panorama Quay. From there the shores of Samos could be seen in a misty line along the dark sea horizon. Wealthy in gold, in stuffs and in roses, Ephesus prospered now, since the Magnesians with their dogs of war and their javelineers had been vanquished on the banks of the Meander, and Miletus the Magnificent destroyed by the Persians. Relaxed during these days of peace, Ephesus feted courtesans in the temple of Aphrodite Hetaira. Citizens arrayed them¬ selves in tunics of amorgine, in transparent garments of spun linen tinted violet, purple and crocodile green. They wore sarapides the color of yellow apples or white or rose, and Egyptian fabrics in hyacinth shades, shot with flame hues and the changing tints of the sea. Their Persian calasiris were of finest crinkled tissues besprinkled with clus¬ ters of tiny golden beads.
On the banks of the Cayster between Mount Prion and another lofty cliff, stood the great temple of Artemis, built after one hundred and twenty years of labor. The porches were of ebony and cypress, the heavy supporting columns were red, and tall paintings ornamented the inner walls. The shrine-room of the goddess was little and oval; in the center, graven with lunar sym¬ bols in gold, rose a huge black cone hewn out of solid rock. The triangular altar was of this same material as were several tables, these last being pierced with holes at regular spaces to drain the blood of sacrificial vic¬ tims. Beside the tables hung broad golden hilted blades of steel for slitting human throats, and the floor was strewn with bloody cloths. The black idol was carved in the form of two great breasts, hard and pointed. Such was Diana of Ephesus, her ancient divinity lost in the darkness of Egyptian tombs and Persian ritual. The treasure of the temple was secreted in a small coffer shaped like a miniature pyramid with brassstudded doors. There, among precious rings, coins and rubies, lay the manuscript of Heraclitus, prophet of the reign of fire. With his own hands the old philosopher had deposited the scroll at the base of the pyra¬ mid while the mason-builders were still at work.
The mother of Herostratos was a proud, harsh woman. His father’s identity never became known, and Herostratos finally de¬ clared he had been sired by the fire. The crescent birth-mark under his left breast seemed certainly to blaze like a living flame on the night he was tortured. Those who assisted at his birth predicted his devotion to Artemis. Dark, swarthy, his face strangely lined, from childhood days he loved to walk along the towering cliffs beneath the temple. He was ineligible for the priesthood, being of uncertain race, and several times the sacerdotal college warned him away from the Naos where he lurked, watching his chance to draw back the heavy sacred veils and behold the forbidden deity. He grew to hate her. He made a secret vow to violate her shrine.
To him his own name seemed comparable with no other, while his very physical being must be superior, he thought, to the rest of humanity. He wanted fame. At first he joined a group of philosophers who pro¬ fessed to teach the doctrines of Heraclitus, hut the secret was not theirs, he knew. While it remained locked in the little pyra¬ mid with the temple treasure, Herostratos could only guess at the words of the master. He hardened himself to scorn the luxurious life of the city; courtesans and their loves disgusted him. It was said that he preserved his purity for the goddess, but Artemis had no pity. In time he began to appear dan¬ gerous to the College of Gerousia, guardians of the temple, so with the satrap’s permis¬ sion they banished him beyond the city gates, where he took up his abode on the slopes of Koressos, in an old cave hollowed out by the ancient people. Some authorities have be¬ lieved that Persian initiates came to him while he sat there through the nights, watch¬ ing the far-off flare of the sacred lamps on the temple of Artemis, but his destiny was more probably revealed to him in a blazing vision.
During his trial by torture he told how the meaning of the word Heraclitus (The way to Above) had flashed full and sudden upon his understanding, and how philosophy had taught him that the finest quality of the spirit is quickest tinder to the fire. His own spirit, he said, was in that sense perfect, therefore he had wished to proclaim it. For his action he gave no other reason than desire for fame and the joy of hearing his own name. His reign and his alone, he declared, would remain absolute. Herostratos had been crowned by Herostratos. None knew his father ... he was the son of his own labor and his labor was the essence of the world. Alone among men, he would be king, philosopher and God in one.
Moonless came the night of July 21 in the year 356, and the passions of Herostratos rose at that hour pitch upon pitch until they crystallized his old resolve to violate the shrine of Artemis. Up the tangled moun¬ tainside he crept, reaching the banks of the Cayster, then climbing by slow, painful degrees to the temple, where guardian priests slept beside their holy lamps. Seizing one of those lamps Herostratos strode on into the Naos.
A heavy odor of spikenard rose before the glistening ebony balconies; a curtain, gold and purple threaded, hid the goddess. Passing this barrier Herostratos halted, trembling with excitement, as the light from his lamp fell upon the two erect breasts of the terrible cone . . . next, his two hands were around the divinity in one long feverish embrace. When he arose at last he saw the little green treasure chest shaped like a pyramid. Catching hold of the brass spikes he swung open the door of it, plunging his fingers deep in virgin gems. But he drew forth only the papyrus scroll bearing the verses of Heraclitus. And there, under the glow of the sacred lamps, he learned it all. His first eager look was enough.
Before his eyes had left the ancient words his voice lifted in a shrill cry, “The fire, the fire!”
Touched by the flame of his lamp, the sacred veils burned slowly until the red tongues reached the perfumed oils and oint¬ ments. Then they flared up blue to the ceiling while the dread cone reflected the scene.
The fire mounted quickly to the capitals of the columns, creeping along the paneled vaulting overhead. One by one the golden placks inscribed with attributes to the glory of Artemis fell crashing to the stones below. A crimson spout broke through the roof; the brazen tiles reflected it until the whole mountain was alight. And Herostratos stood up in the red glare, shouting his name aloud against the roar of the flames and the darkness.
All the sacred mount became a red pile in the midst of the night. When the guards caught Herostratos they were obliged to gag him to prevent him from shrieking his name again and again. Bound and gagged, he was thrown into a dungeon while the fire burned on.
Artaxerxes sent immediate orders for his trial by torture. Little was learned, for he admitted nothing save what has already been told. The twelve cities of Ionia issued a decree forbidding the pronunciation of his name through all future ages under penalty of death, but the whisper of it has persisted even to us. The story of that night when Herostratos ravaged the temple of Ephesus was handed down through Alexander, King of Macedonia.
Imaginary Lives
Marcel Schwob (1867-1905) was one of the key symbolist writers, standing in French literature alongside such names as Stephane Mallarme, Octave Mirbeau, Andre Gide, Leon Bloy, Jules Renard, Remy de Gourmont, and Alfred Jarry. His best-known works are Double Heart (1891), The King In The Gold Mask (1892), and Imaginary Lives (1896).
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