“She will attract the attention of Damianus or Salathiel or one of the
others up there,” thought Paulus as he heard Sirona’s call once more,
and, following her voice, he went hastily and excitedly down the
mountainside.
“We shall have peace for to-day at any rate from that audacious fellow,”
muttered he to himself, “and perhaps to-morrow too, for his blue bruises
will be a greeting from me. But how difficult it is to forget what we
have once known! The grip, with which I flung him, I learned--how long
ago?--from the chief-gymnast at Delphi. My marrow is not yet quite dried
up, and that I will prove to the boy with these fists, if he comes back
with three or four of the same mettle.”
But Paulus had not long to indulge in such wild thoughts, for on the
way to the cave he met Sirona. “Where is Polykarp?” she called out from
afar.
“I have sent him home,” he answered. “And he obeyed you?” she asked
again.
“I gave him striking reasons for doing so,” he replied quickly.
“But he will return?”
“He has learned enough up here for to-day. We have now to think of your
journey to Alexandria.”
“But it seems to me,” replied Sirona, blushing, “that I am safely hidden
in your cave, and just now you yourself said--”
“I warned you against the dangers of the expedition,” interrupted
Paulus. “But since that it has occurred to me that I know of a shelter,
and of a safe protector for you. There, we are at home again. Now go
into the cave, for very probably some one may have heard you calling,
and if other anchorites were to discover you here, they would compel me
to take you back to your husband.”
“I will go directly,” sighed Sirona, “but first explain to me--for
I heard all that you said to each other--” and she colored, “how it
happened that Phoebicius took Hermas’ sheepskin for yours, and why you
let him beat you without giving any explanation.”
“Because my back is even broader than that great fellow’s,” replied the
Alexandrian quickly. “I will tell you all about it in some quiet hour,
perhaps on our journey to Klysma. Now go into the cave, or you may spoil
everything. I know too what you lack most since you heard the fair words
of the senator’s son.”
“Well--what?” asked Sirona.
“A mirror!” laughed Paulus.
“How much you are mistaken!” said Sirona; and she thought to herself,
“The woman that Polykarp looks at as he does at me, does not need a
mirror.”
An old Jewish merchant lived in the fishing-town on the western
declivity of the mountain; he shipped the charcoal for Egypt, which was
made in the valleys of the peninsula by burning the sajal acacia, and he
had formerly supplied fuel for the drying-room of the papyrus-factory of
Paulus’ father. He now had a business connection with his brother, and
Paulus himself had had dealings with him. He was prudent and wealthy,
and whenever he met the anchorite, he blamed him for his flight from
the world, and implored him to put his hospitality to the test, and to
command his resources and means as if they were his own.
This man was now to find a boat, and to provide the means of flight for
Sirona. The longer Paulus thought it over, the more indispensable it
seemed to him that he should himself accompany the Gaulish lady to
Alexandria, and in his own person find her a safe shelter. He knew that
he was free to dispose of his brother’s enormous fortune-half of which
in fact was his--as though it were all his own, and he began to rejoice
in his possessions for the first time for many years. Soon he was
occupied in thinking of the furnishing of the house, which he intended
to assign to the fair Sirona. At first he thought of a simple citizen’s
dwelling, but by degrees he began to picture the house intended for
her as fitted with shining gold, white and colored marble, many-colored
Syrian carpets, nay even with vain works of the heathen, with statues,
and a luxurious bath. In increasing unrest he wandered from rock to
rock, and many times as he went up and down he paused in front of the
cave where Sirona was. Once he saw her light robe, and its conspicuous
gleam led him to the reflection, that it would be imprudent to conduct
her to the humble fishing-village in that dress. If he meant to conceal
her traces from the search of Phoebicius and Polykarp, he must first
provide her with a simple dress, and a veil that should hide her shining
hair and fair face, which even in the capital could find no match.
The Amalekite, from whom he had twice bought some goat’s-milk for her,
lived in a but which Paulus could easily reach. He still possessed a few
drachmas, and with these he could purchase what he needed from the wife
and daughter of the goatherd. Although the sky was now covered with mist
and a hot sweltering south-wind had risen, he prepared to start at once.
The sun was no longer visible though its scorching heat could be felt,
but Paulus paid no heed to this sign of an approaching storm.
Hastily, and with so little attention that he confused one object with
another in the little store-cellar, he laid some bread, a knife, and
some dates in front of the entrance to the cave, called out to his guest
that he should soon return, and hurried at a rapid pace up the mountain.
Sirona answered him with a gentle word of farewell, and did not even
look round after him, for she was glad to be alone, and so soon as the
sound of his step had died away she gave herself up once more to the
overwhelming torrent of new and deep feelings which had flooded her soul
ever since she had heard Polykarp’s ardent hymn of love.
Paulus, in the last few hours, was Menander again, but the lonely woman
in the cavern--the cause of this transformation--the wife of Phoebicius,
had undergone an even greater change than he. She was still Sirona, and
yet not Sirona.
When the anchorite had commanded her to retire into the cave she had
obeyed him willingly, nay, she would have withdrawn even without his
desire, and have sought for solitude; for she felt that something
mighty, hitherto unknown to her, and incomprehensible even to herself,
was passing in her soul, and that a nameless but potent something
had grown up in her heart, had struggled free, and had found life
and motion; a something that was strange, and yet precious to her,
frightening, and yet sweet, a pain, and yet unspeakably delightful. An
emotion such as she had never before known had mastered her, and she
felt, since hearing Polykarp’s speech, as if a new and purer blood was
flowing rapidly through her veins. Every nerve quivered like the leaves
of the poplars in her former home when the wind blows down to meet the
Rhone, and she found it difficult to follow what Paulus said, and still
more so to find the right answer to his questions.
As soon as she was alone she sat down on her bed, rested her elbows on
her knees, and her head in her hand, and the growing and surging flood
of her passion broke out in an abundant stream of warm tears.
She had never wept so before; no anguish, no bitterness was infused into
the sweet refreshing dew of those tears. Fair flowers of never dreamed
of splendor and beauty blossomed in the heart of the weeping woman, and
when at length her tears ceased, there was a great silence, but also a
great glory within her and around her. She was like a man who has grown
up in an under-ground-room, where no light of day can ever shine, and
who at last is allowed to look at the blue heavens, at the splendor of
the sun, at the myriad flowers and leaves in the green woods, and on the
meadows.
She was wretched, and yet a happy woman.
“That is love!” were the words that her heart sang in triumph, and as
her memory looked back on the admirers who had approached her in Arelas
when she was still little more than a child, and afterwards in Rome,
with tender words and looks, they all appeared like phantom forms
carrying feeble tapers, whose light paled pitifully, for Polykarp had
now come on the scene, bearing the very sun itself in his hands.
“They--and he,” she murmured to herself, and she beheld as it were a
balance, and on one of the scales lay the homage which in her vain fancy
she had so coveted. It was of no more weight than chaff, and its whole
mass was like a heap of straw, which flew up as soon as Polykarp laid
his love--a hundredweight of pure gold, in the other scale.
“And if all the nations and kings of the earth brought their treasures
together,” thought she, “and laid them at my feet, they could not make
me as rich as he has made me, and if all the stars were fused into
one, the vast globe of light which they would form could not shine so
brightly as the joy that fills my soul. Come now what may, I will never
complain after that hour of delight.”
Then she thought over each of her former meetings with Polykarp, and
remembered that he had never spoken to her of love. What must it not
have cost him to control himself thus; and a great triumphant joy filled
her heart at the thought that she was pure, and not unworthy of him, and
an unutterable sense of gratitude rose up in her soul. The love she bore
this man seemed to take wings, and it spread itself over the common life
and aspect of the world, and rose to a spirit of devotion. With a deep
sigh she raised her eyes and hands to heaven, and in her longing to
prove her love to every living being, nay to every created thing, her
spirit sought the mighty and beneficent Power to whom she owed such
exalted happiness.
In her youth her father had kept her very strictly, but still he
had allowed her to go through the streets of the town with her young
companions, wreathed with flowers, and all dressed in their best, in the
procession of maidens at the feast of Venus of Arelas, to whom all the
women of her native town were wont to turn with prayers and sacrifices
when their hearts were touched by love.
Now she tried to pray to Venus, but again and again the wanton jests of
the men who were used to accompany the maidens came into her mind,
and memories of how she herself had eagerly listened for the only too
frequent cries of admiration, and had enticed the silent with a glance,
or thanked the more clamorous with a smile. To-day certainly she had
no mind for such sport, and she recollected the stern words which had
fallen from Dorothea’s lips on the worship of Venus, when she had once
told her how well the natives of Arelas knew how to keep their feasts.
And Polykarp, whose heart was nevertheless so full of love, he no doubt
thought like his mother, and she pictured him as she had frequently seen
him following his parents by the side of his sister Marthana--often hand
in hand with her--as they went to church. The senator’s son had
always had a kindly glance for her, excepting when he was one of this
procession to the temple of the God of whom they said that He was love
itself, and whose votaries indeed were not poor in love; for in Petrus’
house, if anywhere, all hearts were united by a tender affection. It
then occurred to her that Paulus had just now advised her to turn to
the crucified God of the Christians, who was full of an equal and divine
love to all men. To him Polykarp also prayed--was praying perhaps this
very hour; and if she now did the same her prayers would ascend together
with his, and so she might be in some sort one with that beloved friend,
from whom everything else conspired to part her.
She knelt down and folded her hands, as she had so often seen Christians
do, and she reflected on the torments that the poor Man, who hung with
pierced hands on the cross, had so meekly endured, though He suffered
innocently; she felt the deepest pity for Him, and softly said to
herself, as she raised her eyes to the low roof of her cave-dwelling:
“Thou poor good Son of God, Thou knowest what it is when all men condemn
us unjustly, and surely, Thou canst understand when I say to Thee how
sore my poor heart is! And they say too, that of all hearts Thine is the
most loving, and so thou wilt know how it is that, in spite of all my
misery, it still seems to me that I am a happy woman. The very breath
of a God must be rapture, and that Thou too must have learned when they
tortured and mocked Thee, for Thou halt suffered out of love. They
say, that Thou wast wholly pure and perfectly sinless. Now I--I have
committed many follies, but not a sin--a real sin--no, indeed, I have
not; and Thou must know it, for Thou art a God, and knowest the past,
and canst read hearts. And, indeed, I also would fain remain innocent,
and yet how can that be when I cannot help being devoted to Polykarp,
and yet I am another man’s wife. But am I indeed the true and lawful
wife of that horrible wretch who sold me to another? He is as far
from my heart--as far as if I had never seen him with these eyes. And
yet--believe me--I wish him no ill, and I will be quite content, if only
I need never go back to him.
“When I was a child, I was afraid of frogs; my brothers and sisters knew
it, and once my brother Licinius laid a large one, that he had caught,
on my bare neck. I started, and shuddered, and screamed out loud, for it
was so hideously cold and damp--I cannot express it. And that is exactly
how I have always felt since those days in Rome whenever Phoebicius
touched me, and yet I dared not scream when he did.
“But Polykarp! oh! would that he were here, and might only grasp my
hand. He said I was his own, and yet I have never encouraged him. But
now! if a danger threatened him or a sorrow, and if by any means I could
save him from it, indeed--indeed--though I never could bear pain well,
and am afraid of death, I would let them nail me to a cross for him, as
Thou wast crucified for us all.
“But then he must know that I had died for him, and if he looked into my
dying eyes with his strange, deep gaze, I would tell him that it is to
him that I owe a love so great that it is a thing altogether different
and higher than any love I have ever before seen. And a feeling that is
so far above all measure of what ordinary mortals experience, it seems
to me, must be divine. Can such love be wrong? I know not; but Thou
knowest, and Thou, whom they name the Good Shepherd, lead Thou us--each
apart from the other, if it be best so for him--but yet, if it be
possible, unite us once more, if it be only for one single hour. If only
he could know that I am not wicked, and that poor Sirona would willingly
belong to him, and to no other, then I would be ready to die. O Thou
good, kind Shepherd, take me too into Thy flock, and guide me.”
Thus prayed Sirona, and before her fancy there floated the image of a
lovely and loving youthful form; she had seen the original in the model
for Polykarp’s noble work, and she had not forgotten the exquisite
details of the face. It seemed to her as well known and familiar as if
she had known--what in fact she could not even guess--that she herself
had had some share in the success of the work.
The love which unites two hearts is like the ocean of Homer which
encircles both halves of the earth. It flows and rolls on. Where shall
we seek its source--here or there--who can tell?
It was Dame Dorothea who in her motherly pride had led the Gaulish lady
into her son’s workshop. Sirona thought of her and her husband and her
house, where over the door a motto was carved in the stone which she had
seen every morning from her sleeping-room. She could not read Greek, but
Polykarp’s sister, Marthana, had more than once told her what it
meant. “Commit thy way to the Lord, and put thy trust in Him,” ran the
inscription, and she repeated it to herself again and again, and then
drew fancy-pictures of the future in smiling day-dreams, which by
degrees assumed sharper outlines and brighter colors.
She saw herself united to Polykarp, and as the daughter of Petrus and
Dorothea, at home in the senator’s house; she had a right now to the
children who loved her, and who were so dear to her; she helped the
deaconess in all her labors, and won praise, and looks of approval. She
had learned to use her hands in her father’s house and now she could
show what she could do; Polykarp even gazed at her with surprise and
admiration, and said that she was as clever as she was beautiful,
and promised to become a second Dorothea. She went with him into his
workshop, and there arranged all the things that lay about in confusion,
and dusted it, while he followed her every movement with his gaze, and
at last stood before her, his arms wide--wide open to clasp her.
She started, and pressed her hands over her eyes, and flung herself
loving and beloved on his breast, and would have thrown her arms round
his neck, while her hot tears flowed--but the sweet vision was suddenly
shattered, for a swift flash of light pierced the gloom of the cavern,
and immediately after she heard the heavy roll of the thunder-clap,
dulled by the rocky walls of her dwelling.
Completely recalled to actuality she listened for a moment, and then
stepped to the entrance of the cave. It was already dusk, and heavy
rain-drops were falling from the dark clouds which seemed to shroud the
mountain peaks in a vast veil of black crape. Paulus was nowhere to be
seen, but there stood the food he had prepared for her. She had eaten
nothing since her breakfast, and she now tried to drink the milk, but it
had curdled and was not fit to use; a small bit of bread and a few dates
quite satisfied her.
As the lightning and thunder began to follow each other more and more
quickly, and the darkness fast grew deeper, a great fear fell upon her;
she pushed the food on one side, and looked up to the mountain where
the peaks were now wholly veiled in night, now seemed afloat in a sea of
flame, and more distinctly visible than by daylight. Again and again a
forked flash like a saw-blade of fire cut through the black curtain of
cloud with terrific swiftness, again and again the thunder sounded
like a blast of trumpets through the silent wilderness, and multiplied
itself, clattering, growling, roaring, and echoing from rock to rock.
Light and sound at last seemed to be hurled from Heaven together, and
the very rock in which her cave was formed quaked.
Crushed and trembling she drew back into the inmost depth of her rocky
chamber, starting at each flash that illumined the darkness.
At length they occurred at longer intervals, the thunder lost its
appalling fury, and as the wind drove the storm farther and farther to
the southwards, at last it wholly died away.