VANISHING.
Throughout that day of preparation for the festival, the new priestess
was continually thinking of her interview with Claudius on the
Cælian Hill. Not even the new dignities which were conferred on her
could entirely banish from her mind the words and bearing of the old
companion of her childish days in Britain.
It was a grand thing to sprinkle with her own hands the sacred shrine
and Palladium, to be consecrated solemnly by the priest for all the
functions of her office, as she had once been dedicated as a child to
be trained to fulfil them.
The beautiful new garments of spotless purity were solemnly placed upon
her, and when the ceremony was over, and she had rested for a time,
Terentia Rufilla led her to her place behind the altar, and gave into
her charge the sacred fire, which was to be replenished continually
during the silent hours of the night.
Then, with a kiss, the Vestal Maxima departed, the temple door was
closed, and Hyacintha was alone.
Through the opening in the roof the deep blue sky of the Italian night
was seen, studded with stars, and from afar came the sound of the
surging multitudes of Rome, like the distant roar of the sea, growing
less and less distinct as the summer night hushed even the busy throngs
of the Roman citizens to rest.
Hyacintha felt a sense of awe, but not of fear. She looked up at the
face of the figure of the goddess, and then beyond it, upwards to the
stars, and she felt as far from the one as from the other.
There was no bond of love between Vesta and her priestess, no sign that
for her she felt any particular care or affection.
It was a high honour to be her priestess; from her childhood she had
craved for it, and now the honour was hers, and yet, surely, there was
a void, a want somewhere, which Vesta could not fill.
It was service for Rome to guard that sacred fire, and as she moved
gently, with a sort of hushed reverence, to the silver vessels where
the fuel was kept, to replenish that clear bright flame, she almost
started at her own movements, and scarcely dared to breathe, as she
gently and reverently fed the sacred fire.
“It is for the good of Rome and her people,” she thought, “it is a
service which many thousands might envy, but there is scarce the
response within my heart of which Claudius spoke; did he not call
it ‘a witness.’ I felt a great glow of joy to-day when I took poor
little Pulcheria to my chamber, and consoled her for her grief that
she was not thought fair enough to lead the procession of the children
disciples through Rome to-morrow. Poor little one! how she wept
because Valeria had been elected and she was rejected. As she threw
her arms round my neck and sobbed out that she loved to be with me,
and that she would not care about Valeria’s unkind words if I were her
friend, I felt that sweetness at my heart which I do not feel here.
Here, where I am fulfilling the most beautiful of offices--the guardian
of the Palladium--the replenishing of the sacred flame!
“I ought to be satisfied and happy, with a happiness greater than that
of the pleasure-seeking ladies, whose life is passed in indulgence, and
who die at last, worn out with the search for that, to judge by many
sad faces, they never find.
“I have a higher and nobler destiny to fulfil, and I can never become
like old Lucia or Agrippina, who go through all the service of the
temple with slow unwilling feet, dark sad eyes, and even mutter words
of dissatisfaction.
“Nor can I ever grow into the nearly worn out victim of pleasure,
still less the sorrowful, heavy-hearted priestess, whose service has
lost its charm. Nay, for the twenty years I may spend here my life
shall at least be happier than that of my poor mother, who died, as
some have said, by poison, administered by a slave whom she had hated.
Yet, how beautiful she was in the atrium at Verulam, with Ebba--dear
Ebba--standing at her side. I can see her now, toying with her lovely
hair, when Ebba had plaited into the tresses the gold ornaments and
arranged the long violet ribbons with their gold fringe. Poor Ebba, and
dear Casca! Shall I ever see them again?”
This desultory train of thought flowed on during the watches of the
short night. For the summer morning of the ninth of June soon broke
over the hills, and touched the Forum and the Temple, and the façades
of the Imperial Palace, and the long vista of stately figures on the
Appian Way, with a soft rosy light. The day of the great festival
dawned in exquisite beauty, and everyone within the precincts of the
Temple and the House of the Vestals was astir.
But the great festival did not attract so much attention as in former
years. Even in the early days of her own priesthood, Terentia Rufilla
remembered how far more numerous were the applications from noble
houses for a place in the procession through the streets of Rome.
Nevertheless, the effect was sufficiently imposing, as the long line
flowed past the spectators, with all the garlands and crowns fluttering
gently in the summer air.
The children came first--sweet grave-eyed little maidens--with
offerings in their hands for the altar of Jupiter Pistor, which was
erected expressly for the occasion. Then came the fully-consecrated
vestals, barefooted, in their flowing robes, which became them so well.
Conspicuous amongst these was Hyacintha Severa. She carried the folds
of her large purple mantle with wonderful grace over her arm, and her
long white robe flowing beneath it to her feet, showed the outline of
her beautifully-proportioned figure to the greatest advantage.
The close covering on her head, which was to some women far from
becoming, seemed only to enhance the beauty of her slender throat,
upon which her head was set like a flower upon a stalk. Long ribbons
floated at the back, and added to the effect of the picture, of which
the recent discoveries of the figures in the Vestals’ House, which the
sculptors of those days delighted to perpetuate in marble, have given
us some faint idea. But no sculptor or painter could perpetuate the
grave happiness which was shed, like the soft halo of a summer night
upon a lovely landscape, over the face of Hyacintha Severa.
As the last fully-consecrated Vestal, she walked a little in front of
the five who followed her, and then came the noble and stately form of
Terentia Rufilla. She had lost, of course, all the charms of youth, but
her features were finely cut, and her carriage stately and imposing.
There were many gorgeously-dressed Roman ladies behind her, whose
splendid crimson and violet robes, glistening with jewels and sparkling
with pearls, contrasted well with the long train of white-robed maidens
which wound slowly on before them through crowds of spectators, the
lictors clearing the road which was in many places strewn with flowers
as they walked.
Claudius was amongst the outside crowd which moved along with the
procession. His high rank as Commander of the Forces under the Emperor
Constantine ensured him respect, and he and a few of his officers
who were with him, drew up in martial array before the temple, as the
Vestals passed in to the great sacrifice.
Some of his officers crossed the threshold and stood gazing at the high
ceremonial with curiosity, prostrating themselves in that mechanical
way which characterised the religious services of the temple in those
the last days of the worship of the heathen gods.
Claudius’s great height placed him on a vantage-ground, and he could
see over the heads of the dense crowd before him. He had never once
lost sight of Hyacintha, but she was utterly unconscious of his
presence. All the enthusiasm of her nature was awakened by this public
acknowledgment of the service to which she had devoted her life.
As the priest in his gorgeous vestments sacrificed before the goddess,
and the clouds of smoke rose and ascended to the sky through the
impluvium or open space in the roof, Hyacintha’s heart went up to
One whom she “ignorantly worshipped;” and if the desire of her soul
could have been put into words, it would have been that she might
be kept pure in her temple ministry, and that the fire of devotion
might be ever burning clear and bright in her heart, as she had vowed
to keep the sacred flame burning on the altar of Vesta. While many
of her companions were looking around them, to see what friends and
acquaintances were in the crowd, Hyacintha was lifted far above the
throng of worshippers, and gazers on the spectacle, and thought
only of the joy of service, and the happiness of being at last a
fully-consecrated priestess, one of a long line which reached back a
thousand years, and reached forward, as she believed, to a future age.
The young priestess that day entering upon her office had no
presentiment of what was indeed the fact, that the years of the Vestals
were numbered, and that Terentia Rufilla was to have but two successors
as Vestal Maxima, and that one of these was herself. Terentia, however,
knew that many new influences were at work, which were undermining the
old traditions or scattering them to the winds of heaven. The fear at
her heart was as great as the joy which filled Hyacintha’s, and she
could scarcely assume a cheerful aspect at the banquet, to which many
of the highest families in Rome were bidden.
The whole day was one of feasting, and games were celebrated, and the
Vestals were present in the Circus Maximus, where seats were, as in the
Coliseum, always reserved for them near those allotted to the Emperor.
It was there that Hyacintha first seemed to be conscious of Claudius’s
presence, and when he saluted her with profound respect, she turned to
Terentia, and said:--
“This is good Claudius, my father’s friend,” and Terentia was not
slow to notice how the soft blush rose to Hyacintha’s cheek, as she
pronounced the few words of introduction.
So the day wore on in feasting and pleasure, and then the shadows of
the evening came down upon the city. Hyacintha, who was sleeping after
the fatigue of the day, was awakened by Terentia’s voice:--
“It is drawing near the hour for thy watch, dear child,” she said;
“shall I watch to-night, and let thee dream? I have been looking at thy
sleeping face for some minutes,” she said, gently smoothing back the
golden-brown rings of short hair which clustered round Hyacintha’s brow.
“Happy dreams they must surely have been, for there was a smile upon
thy lips.”
“Yes,” Hyacintha said, “I had a vision, I think. Wait till I recall
it,” and she drew her hand across her eyes, and pressed it on her
forehead. “I remember,” she said,--“yes, I remember now. I thought I
was looking down on Rome from a high place--not the Cælian Hill or the
Quirinal--it was a hill far higher. Indeed, I saw them beneath me, and
I saw the temples beneath me, and our temple most distinctly of all.
Then, as I looked, it vanished. It was not thrown down or destroyed;
it melted into air slowly--very slowly; but soon it was gone: and then
I looked around me, and lo! all the temples were fading, and a voice
spoke to me, and it was the voice of a humble but true friend--Ebba, or
Anna, the British slave. She, too, was changed. She wore garments like
ours, only whiter and more dazzling, and she held out her hand to me,
and asked me to go up with her to the city to which she pointed. But
when I looked I could see only a golden glory, and nothing distinctly.
My eyes were dazzled, and I turned away. Then Ebba drew me on and told
me to listen, for there was sweet music. But my ears were dull; I could
not hear what she heard. Then she took me in her arms, and I laid my
head upon her breast, as I have often done when I was a child; and she
said:--
“‘Not yet--not yet; but you are coming out of the darkness into the
light.’ And a sweet peace stole over me, and I felt a cool hand on my
brow; and then I awoke, and it was not Ebba at all, but you, dearest
lady--sweet mother--as I love to call you. It was a happy dream; and it
is a happy awakening.”
“It was a vision,” Terentia said, “for I do believe the temples are
vanishing, and soon only the memory will be left. I say soon; it may
not be in my life-time or in yours; but the end is coming, and the
time of our nightly watches yonder is short. I hear a rumour to-day
that an edict establishing Christianity will be published to-morrow,
and then the old faiths will be seen like the phantom of your
dream--vanishing--vanishing, and at last vanish away.”
“And what will be the end?” Hyacintha asked; “what will come after?”
“Nay, child; it is not given me to know, nor even dimly guess; but if
there be a future at all, that future is not for us.”
The sorrowful tone of Terentia’s voice seemed like the
minor chord in the music of the young priestess’s soul.
Vanishing--vanishing--vanished! Was everything to vanish?--life and
youth and hope, and the sacred fire, and the Palladium, and the
goddess herself--all to pass away, and leave no trace behind? Well, it
was not for her to question, or cavil, or doubt. The daily service of
the temple--the nightly watch--these were marked out for her--these
were, at any rate, real and tangible. She would perform them zealously
and faithfully, and make each day like a pearl, which should prove ere
long a strong chain, uniting her with the Great Past, and so making
a bond with all her predecessors who had kept their vow and their
womanhood pure and undefiled. With that simplicity which is the outcome
of the highest gifts, with that entire absence of self-consciousness
which invariably marks those whose beauty is far beyond the ordinary
type of fair women, Hyacintha Severa stands forth to command our love
and admiration as a light that shone in a dark place--a star that
trembled on the verge of dawn, the dawn of a holier and purer day,
which was even then breaking over the world.
The festival of the goddess Vesta had scarcely passed when a crowd
assembled in the Forum to hear the proclamation, that henceforth the
Christians were to be allowed freedom to worship their God without
being interfered with; and from that time Christianity might be said to
be established in Rome and the world.
Great were the rejoicings in the Church. The hidden worship of the
Catacombs became now open and to be heard and seen of all men. The
orders of the Christian Church were enlarged, and bishops and priests
and deacons were appointed to minister to the people. The sun had
risen, at last, over the darkness of the heathen world, and in those
early days was as yet but little clouded by the mists of earth, by
those “superstitious vanities” which so grievously eclipsed the glory
of the Church of Rome in succeeding generations.
Now there was purity of life and doctrine, and, like Claudius,
thousands were won over by the example of the converts rather than by
the preaching of the priests.
The witness in every man’s soul who turned to the living God made
itself seen in the life and conversation, and there were dark places
indeed in that year of Christian freedom which made the opening of the
Christian life more beautiful by force of contrast.
In this very year--313--the most shameful life of Maximian, and his
treatment of the unhappy Valeria, the widow of Galerius, had made even
the luxurious Roman shudder with horror. The story of the foul murders
at Nicomedia reached Rome, and filled many hearts with sorrow. If the
religion of Christ showed the way of escape from such wicked passions
and low base deeds, there was safety in it.
And then, on the lower ground of personal security, many professed
themselves to be Christians; many who had not troubled themselves
to inquire into the doctrines of Christ’s disciples, saw that they
practised purity of life and manners, and now that there was no
persecution or torture to dread, Christianity became more widely
accepted, and the churches were thronged, while the temples were
deserted.
It is not possible to take a comprehensive view of the Roman empire
at this time. The few incidents which are thrown together, directly
or indirectly, affect the action of the story, but a careful study of
these early days of Christianity, and the last days of heathenism, will
well repay the student; and the secret of silent advance and growth
of the faith of Christ will be found to be then, as now, more in the
influence of individual character than in fierce controversy or angry
invective.
The Church of Rome, as it sprang to light when the edict of 313 was
published, was indeed different from the Church, many centuries later,
when the Monk of Erfurt entered the city by the Porta del Popoli, full
of enthusiasm, and ready to climb the “Scala Santa” on his knees in
expiation of his sins.
He entered it a devout son of the Church of the Seven Hills; he left
it depressed, disgusted, but determined to do battle, like the valiant
soul that he was, against its corrupt practices. In ten years the young
monk who had saluted the city on his first entrance as Holy Rome, Rome
venerable with the blood of the martyrs, burned the Pope’s Bull in the
square of Wittenberg, and with a loud voice, which echoed through
Christendom, proclaimed that the Church of the Early Martyrs was so
overlaid by the wickedness of a corrupt age, that she must be utterly
purged of defilement, before she could be resorted to as the mother
under whose wings the people might safely take refuge.