At noon of the following day the senator went to the women’s room, and
while he was still on the threshold, he asked his wife--who was busy at
the loom:
“Where is Polykarp? I did not find him with Antonius, who is working at
the placing of the altar, and I thought I might find him here.”
“After going to the church,” said Dorothea, “he went up the mountain. Go
down to the workshops, Marthana, and see if your brother has come back.”
Her daughter obeyed quickly and gladly, for her brother was to her the
dearest, and seemed to her to be the best, of men. As soon as the pair
were alone together Petrus said, while he held out his hand to his wife
with genial affection, “Well, mother--shake hands.” Dorothea paused for
an instant, looking him in the face, as if to ask him, “Does your pride
at last allow you to cease doing me an injustice?” It was a reproach,
but in truth not a severe one, or her lips would hardly have trembled so
tenderly, as she said.
“You cannot be angry with me any longer, and it is well that all should
once more be as it ought.”
All certainly had not been “as it ought,” for since the husband and wife
had met in Polykarp’s work-room, they had behaved to each other as if
they were strangers. In their bedroom, on the way to church, and
at breakfast, they had spoken to each no more than was absolutely
necessary, or than was requisite in order to conceal their difference
from the servants and children. Up to this time, an understanding had
always subsisted between them that had never taken form in words, and
yet that had scarcely in a single case been infringed, that neither
should ever praise one of their children for anything that the other
thought blameworthy, and vice versa.
But in this night, her husband had followed up her severest condemnation
by passionately embracing the wrong-doer. Never had she been so stern in
any circumstances, while on the other hand her husband, so long as she
could remember, had never been so softhearted and tender to his son, and
yet she had controlled herself so far, as not to contradict Petrus in
Polykarp’s presence, and to leave the work-room in silence with her
husband.
“When we are once alone together in the bedroom,” thought she, “I will
represent to him his error as I ought, and he will have to answer for
himself.”
But she did not carry out this purpose, for she felt that something must
be passing in her husband’s mind that she did not understand; otherwise
how could his grave eyes shine so mildly and kindly, and his stern lips
smile so affectionately after all that had occurred when he, lamp in
hand, had mounted the narrow stair.
He had often told her that she could read his soul like an open book,
but she did not conceal from herself that there were certain sides of
that complex structure whose meaning she was incapable of comprehending.
And strange to say, she ever and again came upon these incomprehensible
phases of his soul, when the images of the gods, and the idolatrous
temples of the heathen, or when their sons’ enterprises and work were
the matters in hand. And yet Petrus was the son of a pious Christian;
but his grandfather had been a Greek heathen, and hence perhaps a
certain something wrought in his blood which tormented her, because
she could not reconcile it with Agapitus’ doctrine, but which she
nevertheless dared not attempt to oppose because her taciturn husband
never spoke out with so much cheerfulness and frankness as when he
might talk of these things with his sons and their friends, who often
accompanied them to the oasis. Certainly, it could be nothing sinful
that at this particular moment seemed to light up her husband’s face,
and restore his youth.
“They just are men,” said she to herself, “and in many things they
have the advantage of us women. The old man looks as he did on his
wedding-day! Polykarp is the very image of him, as every one says, and
now, looking at the father, and recalling to my mind how the boy looked
when he told me how he could not refrain from making Sirona’s portrait,
I must say that I never saw such a likeness in the whole course of my
life.”
He bid her a friendly good night, and extinguished the lamp. She would
willingly have said a loving word to him, for his contented expression
touched and comforted her, but that would just then have been too much
after what she had gone through in her son’s workroom. In former
years it had happened pretty often that, when one of them had caused
dissatisfaction to the other, and there had been some quarrel between
them, they had gone to rest unreconciled, but the older they grew the
more rarely did this occur, and it was now a long time since any shadow
had fallen on the perfect serenity of their married life.
Three years ago, on the occasion of the marriage of their eldest son,
they had been standing together, looking up at the starry sky,
when Petrus had come close up to her, and had said, “How calmly and
peacefully the wanderers up there follow their roads without jostling or
touching one another! As I walked home alone from the quarries by their
friendly light, I thought of many things. Perhaps there was once a time
when the stars rushed wildly about in confusion, crossing each other’s
path, while many a star flew in pieces at the impact. Then the Lord
created man, and love came into the world and filled the heavens and the
earth, and he commanded the stars to be our light by night; then each
began to respect the path of the other, and the stars more rarely came
into collision till even the smallest and swiftest kept to its own path
and its own period, and the shining host above grew to be as harmonious
as it is numberless. Love and a common purpose worked this marvel, for
he who loves another, will do him no injury, and he who is bound to
perfect a work with the help of another, will not hinder nor delay him.
We two have long since found the right road, and if at any time one of
us is inclined to cross the path of the other, we are held back by love
and by our common duty, namely to shed a pure light on the path of our
children.”
Dorothea had never forgotten these words, and they came into her mind
now again when Petrus held out his hand to her so warmly; as she laid
hers in it, she said:
“For the sake of dear peace, well and good--but one thing I cannot leave
unsaid. Soft-hearted weakness is not usually your defect, but you will
utterly spoil Polykarp.”
“Leave him, let us leave him as he is,” cried Petrus, kissing his wife’s
brow. “It is strange how we have exchanged parts! Yesterday you were
exhorting me to mildness towards the lad, and to-day--”
“To-day I am severer than you,” interrupted Dorothea. “Who, indeed,
could guess that an old graybeard would derogate from the duties of his
office as father and as judge for the sake of a woman’s smiling face in
clay--as Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage?”
“And to whom would it occur,” asked Petrus, taking up his wife’s tone,
“that so tender a mother as you would condemn her favorite son, because
he labored to earn peace for his soul by a deed--by a work for which his
master might envy him?”
“I have indeed observed,” interrupted Dorothea, “that Sirona’s image
has bewitched you, and you speak as if the boy had achieved some great
miracle. I do not know much about modelling and sculpture, and I will
not contradict you, but if the fair-haired creature’s face were less
pretty, and if Polykarp had not executed any thing remarkable, would it
have made the smallest difference in what he has done and felt wrong?
Certainly not. But that is just like men, they care only for success.”
“And with perfect justice,” answered Petrus, “if the success is
attained, not in mere child’s play, but by a severe struggle. ‘To him,
that hath, shall more be given,’ says the scripture, and he who has
a soul more richly graced than others have--he who is helped by good
spirits--he shall be forgiven many things that even a mild judge would
be unwilling to pardon in a man of poor gifts, who torments and exerts
himself and yet brings nothing to perfection. Be kind to the boy again.
Do you know what prospect lies before you through him? You yourself in
your life have done much good, and spoken much wisdom, and I, and the
children, and the people in this place, will never forget it all. But
I can promise you the gratitude of the best and noblest who now live
or who will live in centuries to come--for that you are the mother of
Polykarp!”
“And people say,” cried Dorothea, “that every mother has four eyes for
her children’s merits. If that is true, then fathers no doubt have ten,
and you as many as Argus, of whom the heathen legend speaks--But there
comes Polykarp.”
Petrus went forward to meet his son, and gave him his hand, but in quite
a different manner to what he had formerly shown; at least it seemed to
Dorothea that her husband received the youth, no longer as his father
and master, but as a friend greets a friend who is his equal in
privileges and judgment. When Polykarp turned to greet her also she
colored all over, for the thought flashed through her mind that her son,
when he thought of the past night, must regard her as unjust or foolish;
but she soon recovered her own calm equanimity, for Polykarp was the
same as ever, and she read in his eyes that he felt towards her the same
as yesterday and as ever.
“Love,” thought she, “is not extinguished by injustice, as fire is by
water. It blazes up brighter or less bright, no doubt, according to the
way the wind blows, but it cannot be wholly smothered--least of all by
death.”
Polykarp had been up the mountain, and Dorothea was quite satisfied
when he related what had led him thither. He had long since planned the
execution of a statue of Moses, and when his father had left him, he
could not get the tall and dignified figure of the old man out of his
mind. He felt that he had found the right model for his work. He must,
he would forget--and he knew, that he could only succeed if he found
a task which might promise to give some new occupation to his bereaved
soul. Still, he had seen the form of the mighty man of God which he
proposed to model, only in vague outline before his mind’s eye, and he
had been prompted to go to a spot whither many pilgrims resorted, and
which was known as the Place of Communion, because it was there that the
Lord had spoken to Moses. There Polykarp had spent some time, for there,
if anywhere--there, where the Law-giver himself had stood, must he find
right inspiration.
“And you have accomplished your end?” asked his father.
Polykarp shook his head.
“If you go often enough to the sacred spot, it will come to you,” said
Dorothea. “The beginning is always the chief difficulty; only begin at
once to model your father’s head.”
“I have already begun it,” replied Polykarp, “but I am still tired from
last night.”
“You look pale, and have dark lines under your eyes,” said Dorothea
anxiously. “Go up stairs and he down to rest. I will follow you and
bring you a beaker of old wine.”
“That will not hurt him,” said Petrus, thinking as he spoke--“A draught
of Lethe would serve him even better.”
When, an hour later, the senator sought his son in his work-room, he
found him sleeping, and the wine stood untouched on the table. Petrus
softly laid his hand on his son’s forehead and found it cool and free
from fever. Then he went quietly up to the portrait of Sirona, raised
the cloth with which it was covered, and stood before it a long time
sunk in thought. At last he drew back, covered it up again, and examined
the models which stood on a shelf fastened to the wall.
A small female figure particularly fixed his attention, and he was
taking it admiringly in his band when Polykarp awoke.
“That is the image of the goddess of fate--that is a Tyche,” said
Petrus.
“Do not be angry with me, father,” entreated Polykarp. “You know, the
figure of a Tyche is to stand in the hand of the statue of the Caesar
that is intended for the new city of Constantine, and so I have tried to
represent the goddess. The drapery and pose of the arms, I think, have
succeeded, but I failed in the head.” Petrus, who had listened to
him with attention, glanced involuntarily at the head of Sirona, and
Polykarp followed his eyes surprised and almost startled.
The father and son had understood each other, and Polykarp said, “I had
already thought of that.”
Then he sighed bitterly, and said to himself, “Yes and verily, she is
the goddess of my fate.” But he dared not utter this aloud.
But Petrus had heard him sigh, and said, “Let that pass. This head
smiles with sweet fascination, and the countenance of the goddess that
rules the actions even of the immortals, should be stern and grave.”
Polykarp could contain himself no longer.
“Yes, father,” he exclaimed. “Fate is terrible--and yet I will represent
the goddess with a smiling mouth, for that which is most terrible in her
is, that she rules not by stern laws, but smiles while she makes us her
sport.”