The Plato Papers (13 page)

49

Ours is a great and ancient city, with its own sacred rites.
The citizens will assemble at the several gates, according to
their parish, where the charges against you will once more be
recited. Then they will sleep and, immediately on waking,
they will know whether you are in a state of innocence or
guilt. The spirit of the city will guide them. Of course you
must then confer upon yourself whatever sentence you deem to
be just. We have no part in that.

And should I decide to give orations as before?

That is your right. It will be after, not before, and that is
enough for us. It will not be the same city and you will not be
the same person. Now, with your permission, may we draw
these proceedings to a close?

I am allowed a last petition, am I not?

If you wish it, then it is so. Proceed.

The Judgment
Upon Plato

50

Citizens who live beside the bishop’s gate! You have heard how Plato defended himself and how he argued with the orators. What a vigorous performance that was! But how severely was he criticised for his excesses! In these great debates, however, you are the arbiters whose judgment abides. After taking part in the communal feast you will sleep and, when you awake, you will know the truth.

51

Sidonia:
I’m afraid that I missed most of Plato’s closing submission. Was it interesting?

Madrigal:
Very fine indeed. It reminded me of our days at the Academy. There were many questions and interventions. Shall I try—

Sidonia:
If you would.

Madrigal:
Plato said:

Tell me, what is it that we presume to understand?
Ask any citizen and you will receive no true answer.
And yet we condemn past ages for their absurd beliefs!
Ah. I am wrong again: we are certain of one thing.
We know that for a while we are consigned to the
wrong dimensions and that, at some point, they will
pass away. There is a grief box in every parish where
we can express our anxiety without being observed. I
ask you if this is the way to live. I can no longer endure
our patience, our endless worship, our expectation.
Some of us grow old and fade. I have seen my own
mother begin to depart, until she was scarcely visible
even to me. Was this well done? Was this, in the words
of the guardians, as it should be? I am not telling you
that all is wrong, or all is well. I am simply asking you
to question and, perhaps, to see the world in different
ways. I have done so, upon my journey. I was stripped
of all my certainties and felt physically afraid. But I
survived, did I not? I want you to consider other possibilities. In that respect, at least, we may be more fortunate than those who came before us. I was once your
orator. May I be permitted to impart one last lesson? I
know that other ages, like that of Mouldwarp, refused
to countenance or understand any reality but their
own. That is why they perished. If we do not learn to
doubt, then perhaps our own age will die. Now you
are laughing at me again. Perhaps I have become a
fool, to make you wise. What did you cry? I am out
of harmony? I have always been so! Do you remember that in school we were taught that to be beautiful
is to be virtuous? You see that I do not exactly fulfil the
criterion of physical beauty. My body does not conform
to the divine pattern of harmony. So I learned that I
must follow my own path. You say that I have therefore departed from the proper way, but let me elucidate my own law of harmony. I would rather despise
the whole world than be out of harmony with my own
self. If others condemn me, then I will stand alone.

And that, Sidonia, is all I can remember.

52

You may sit or stand as you wish, Plato. This is the judgment
of London. The citizens have decided that you are innocent of
any attempt to corrupt the young. They have also concluded
that you have not lied or prevaricated in your testimony. They
believe that you suffered some fevered dream or hallucination
while you lay among your papers. That is all. Your mask of
oratory will be returned to you.

No. Wait. Is it not the custom that I should now pronounce sentence against myself?

But there is no sentence. You have not been charged with
any wrongdoing. The city has acquitted you. There is no
more to say.

I understand that. If I may put it differently, there is no more for me to say. I have not been condemned as a liar or as an impostor, but I have been judged a dreamer or mistaken visionary who is not worthy of attention. All I have said or done is merely some fitful delusion. So now I pronounce sentence against myself. I cannot exist in a world which will ignore me or deride me—or, worse, pity me. I condemn myself to perpetual exile. I wish to be taken under escort beyond the walls of the city never to return.

This is madness.

But have I not been accused of madness already? What else could you expect from me but further folly? At least you will be rid of me.

We have no more authority in this matter, Plato. We are
dissolved.

53

Plato:
So you have been chosen to escort me beyond the walls.

Sidonia:
Unhappily, yes. We are from the same parish, and I sat beside you in the Academy. What greater bond could exist? But, Plato, none of us has any wish to see you wander abroad.

Plato:
I will wander and wonder. Perhaps I will find the old world again. Perhaps there is a cave or threshold in some distant place.

Sidonia:
It was one of your suggestions at the trial.

Plato:
Do you believe me, Sidonia? It is foolish of me, I suppose, but it would be some comfort to know that one of my childhood companions recognised the truth of my journey.

Sidonia:
Are you sure that you believe it yourself?

Plato:
It no longer matters what I believe.

Sidonia:
You doubt yourself, and so you have spread doubt.

Plato:
Our ancestors, Sidonia, were told that the first inhabitants of London were giants. There are stories of them carving great hills and valleys in which the city was planted. But what if this were prophecy, not history? What if we are the giants of which they had heard?

Sidonia:
You are confusing me again.

Plato:
Then it is better that I be gone and bother you no more.

Sidonia:
Will you ever return?

Plato:
Who can say?

Sidonia:
You know, Plato, that I shall miss you.

Plato:
Think of me as someone within a dream. Then I will never have left you.

54

Sparkler:
Look. There he goes. Do you see how many children are following him down Lud Hill? You would think that he was leaving the city in triumph. Some of them are even giving him tokens of remembrance, to carry with him beyond the walls. The daughter of Ornatus is embracing him. But Plato is staring straight ahead, as if he were already considering his fate. Of course, that is it. Our world is already dead for him. He does not want to glance back in case his resolution falters.

Madrigal:
Here comes the barge to take him down the Fleet. And Sidonia is sitting at the prow. What an unhappy expedition for her! Listen to the children singing by the banks of the river, as he steps on board the vessel. Do you see how its sails gleam against the waters? Now Plato is raising his hands in farewell. But, Sparkler, I have just noticed something. Why have the angels stayed away?