[134-138 A.D.]
At the time of Hadrian’s return to Rome, in 134 A.D., Roman civilisation had just exterminated Judaism, one of its most dangerous enemies, and was triumphant. Everywhere there was peace and respect for the different nations; the barbarians were apparently subjected, the mildest forms of government had been introduced and were practised. Trajan had been quite right in his belief that men can be governed and at the same time treated with consideration. The idea of the state as not only tutelary but beneficent was taking deep root. Hadrian’s private conduct might be much blamed, his character was becoming perverted as his health gave way; but the people did not notice it. Unprecedented splendour and comfort surrounded everything like a brilliant aureole, disguising the weak parts of the social organisation. Truth to say, these weak parts were susceptible of correction. Progress was welcomed in everything. The stoic philosophy penetrated legislation, introducing the idea of the rights of man, of civil equality, of uniformity in the provincial administration. The privileges of the Roman aristocracy were disappearing day by day. The leaders of society believed in progress and toiled in its cause. They were philosophers, philanthropists wishing without utopianism to bring the freest possible application of reason into human affairs.
Hadrian enjoyed life and he had the right to do so. His inquisitive and active mind gave birth to all kinds of fancies; and his taste was not good enough to prevent him making mistakes. At the foot of the mountains of Tibur he built a villa which resembled an album of his travels, a sort of panorama of fame. It might have been described as the noisy, tawdry fair of a dying nation. Everything was to be found there; imitation Egyptian, imitation Greek, the Lyceum, the Academy, the Prytaneum, the Pœcile, Canopus, the Alpheus, the valley of Tempe, the Elysian fields, Tartarus; temples, libraries, theatres; a hippodrome, a naumachy, a gymnasium, baths,—strange but attractive spot. For it is the last place where enjoyment was to be found, where clever men fell asleep to the empty sound of the “miserly Acheron.”[31]
Hadrian as Patron of the Arts
At Rome, the one thought of the fantastic emperor was that senseless tomb, that immense mausoleum, where Babylon was put to shame, and which, stripped of its treasures, became the citadel of papal Rome. His buildings covered the world. The Athenæums he founded, the encouragement he gave to letters and the fine arts, the liberties he accorded to professors, rejoiced the hearts of all cultivated people. Unfortunately, superstition, caprice, and cruelty mastered him more and more as his physical strength decreased. He had built himself an Elysium to disbelieve in, a hell to laugh at, a philosopher’s hall in which to jeer at the philosophers, a Canopus in order to expose the impostures of the priests and to remind himself of the mad festivals of Egypt, which had so greatly amused him. Now everything seemed hollow and empty; nothing interested him any longer. Perhaps some of the martyrdoms which took place during his reign and for which it is not easy to assign a motive may be attributed to the disorders and caprices of his last months.
Telesphorus was then the head of the Church of Rome; he died confessing Christ and was numbered amongst the most glorious martyrs of the faith. The death of the dilettante Cæsar was sad and undignified, for he was animated by no really elevated moral sentiment. The world, nevertheless, lost in him a mighty pillar. The Jews alone triumphed in the agony of his last moments.
He cared sincerely for civilisation, and perfectly understood its possibilities in his day. Ancient art and literature end with him. He was the last emperor to believe in glory, as Ælius Verus was the last man who knew how to appreciate the refinements of pleasure. Human affairs are so frivolous that brilliancy and pomp must be allowed a part in them. No world will hold together without these. Louis XIV knew this, and men have lived and still live by the light of his copper-gilt sun. Hadrian, in his own way, marks a climax, after which a rapid decline begins. Certainly, from a moral standpoint, Antoninus and Marcus Aurelius far surpass him; but under them the world becomes sad, loses its gaiety, puts on a cowl, becomes Christian, while superstition increases.
The art of Hadrian, although it is cankered, still adheres to principles; it is a skilful and learned art; then decadence sets in with irresistible force. Ancient society realises that all is vanity, and on the day when this discovery is made death is not far off. The two accomplished sages who are to reign next are each in their several ways ascetics. Lucius Verus and Faustina are to be the outcast survivors of ancient fashion.[d]