Pentauer also soon quitted the but of the paraschites.
Lost in meditation, he went along the hill-path which led to the temple
which Ameni had put under his direction.
[This temple is well proportioned, and remains in good preservation.
Copies of the interesting pictures discovered in it are to be found
in the “Fleet of an Egyptian queen” by Dutnichen. Other details may
be found in Lepsius’ Monuments of Egypt, and a plan of the place has
recently been published by Mariette.]
He foresaw many disturbed and anxious hours in the immediate future.
The sanctuary of which he was the superior, had been dedicated to her
own memory, and to the goddess Hathor, by Hatasu,
[The daughter of Thotmes I., wife of her brother Thotmes II., and
predecessor of her second brother Thotmes III. An energetic woman
who executed great works, and caused herself to be represented with
the helmet and beard-case of a man.]
a great queen of the dethroned dynasty.
The priests who served it were endowed with peculiar chartered
privileges, which hitherto had been strictly respected. Their dignity
was hereditary, going down from father to son, and they had the right of
choosing their director from among themselves.
Now their chief priest Rui was ill and dying, and Ameni, under whose
jurisdiction they came, had, without consulting them, sent the young
poet Pentaur to fill his place.
They had received the intruder most unwillingly, and combined strongly
against him when it became evident that he was disposed to establish
a severe rule and to abolish many abuses which had become established
customs.
They had devolved the greeting of the rising sun on the temple-servants;
Pentaur required that the younger ones at least should take part
in chanting the morning hymn, and himself led the choir. They had
trafficked with the offerings laid on the altar of the Goddess; the new
master repressed this abuse, as well as the extortions of which they
were guilty towards women in sorrow, who visited the temple of Hathor in
greater number than any other sanctuary.
The poet-brought up in the temple of Seti to self-control, order,
exactitude, and decent customs, deeply penetrated with a sense of the
dignity of his position, and accustomed to struggle with special zeal
against indolence of body and spirit--was disgusted with the slothful
life and fraudulent dealings of his subordinates; and the deeper insight
which yesterday’s experience had given him into the poverty and sorrow
of human existence, made him resolve with increased warmth that he would
awake them to a new life.
The conviction that the lazy herd whom he commanded was called upon to
pour consolation into a thousand sorrowing hearts, to dry innumerable
tears, and to clothe the dry sticks of despair with the fresh verdure of
hope, urged him to strong measures.
Yesterday he had seen how, with calm indifference, they had listened to
the deserted wife, the betrayed maiden, to the woman, who implored
the withheld blessing of children, to the anxious mother, the forlorn
widow,--and sought only to take advantage of sorrow, to extort gifts for
the Goddess, or better still for their own pockets or belly.
Now he was nearing the scene of his new labors.
There stood the reverend building, rising stately from the valley on
four terraces handsomely and singularly divided, and resting on the
western side against the high amphitheatre of yellow cliffs.
On the closely-joined foundation stones gigantic hawks were carved in
relief, each with the emblem of life, and symbolized Horus, the son of
the Goddess, who brings all that fades to fresh bloom, and all that dies
to resurrection.
On each terrace stood a hall open to the east, and supported on two and
twenty archaic pillars.
[Polygonal pillars, which were used first in tomb-building under the
12th dynasty, and after the expulsion of the Hyksos under the kings
of the 17th and 18th, in public buildings; but under the subsequent
races of kings they ceased to be employed.]
On their inner walls elegant pictures and inscriptions in the finest
sculptured work recorded, for the benefit of posterity, the great things
that Hatasu had done with the help of the Gods of Thebes.
There were the ships which she had to send to Punt
[Arabia; apparently also the coast of east Africa south of Egypt as
far as Somali. The latest of the lists published by Mariette, of
the southern nations conquered by Thotmes III., mentions it. This
list was found on the pylon of the temple of Karnak.]
to enrich Egypt with the treasures of the east; there the wonders
brought to Thebes from Arabia might be seen; there were delineated
the houses of the inhabitants of the land of frankincense, and all the
fishes of the Red Sea, in distinct and characteristic outline.
On the third and fourth terraces were the small adjoining rooms of
Hatasu and her brothers Thotmes II. and III., which were built against
the rock, and entered by granite doorways. In them purifications
were accomplished, the images of the Goddess worshipped, and the more
distinguished worshippers admitted to confess. The sacred cows of the
Goddess were kept in a side-building.
As Pentaur approached the great gate of the terrace-temple, he became
the witness of a scene which filled him with resentment.
A woman implored to be admitted into the forecourt, to pray at the
altar of the Goddess for her husband, who was very ill, but the sleek
gate-keeper drove her back with rough words.
“It is written up,” said he, pointing to the inscription over the gate,
“only the purified may set their foot across this threshold, and you
cannot be purified but by the smoke of incense.”
“Then swing the censer for me,” said the woman, and take this silver
ring--it is all I have.”
“A silver ring!” cried the porter, indignantly. “Shall the goddess be
impoverished for your sake! The grains of Anta, that would be used in
purifying you, would cost ten times as much.”
“But I have no more,” replied the woman, “my husband, for whom I come to
pray, is ill; he cannot work, and my children--”
“You fatten them up and deprive the goddess of her due,” cried the
gate-keeper. “Three rings down, or I shut the gate.”
“Be merciful,” said the woman, weeping. “What will become of us if
Hathor does not help my husband?”
“Will our goddess fetch the doctor?” asked the porter. “She has
something to do besides curing sick starvelings. Besides, that is not
her office. Go to Imhotep or to Chunsu the counsellor, or to the great
Techuti herself, who helps the sick. There is no quack medicine to be
got here.”
“I only want comfort in my trouble,” said the woman.
“Comfort!” laughed the gate-keeper, measuring the comely young woman
with his eye. “That you may have cheaper.”
The woman turned pale, and drew back from the hand the man stretched out
towards her.
At this moment Pentaur, full of wrath, stepped between them.
He raised his hand in blessing over the woman, who bent low before him,
and said, “Whoever calls fervently on the Divinity is near to him. You
are pure. Enter.”
As soon as she had disappeared within the temple, the priest turned to
the gate-keeper and exclaimed: “Is this how you serve the goddess, is
this how you take advantage of a heart-wrung woman? Give me the keys of
this gate. Your office is taken from you, and early to-morrow you go out
in the fields, and keep the geese of Hathor.”
The porter threw himself on his knees with loud outcries; but Pentaur
turned his back upon him, entered the sanctuary, and mounted the steps
which led to his dwelling on the third terrace.
A few priests whom he passed turned their backs upon him, others looked
down at their dinners, eating noisily, and making as if they did not
see him. They had combined strongly, and were determined to expel the
inconvenient intruder at any price.
Having reached his room, which had been splendidly decorated for his
predecessor, Pentaur laid aside his new insignia, comparing sorrowfully
the past and the present.
To what an exchange Ameni had condemned him! Here, wherever he looked,
he met with sulkiness and aversion; while, when he walked through the
courts of the House of Seti, a hundred boys would hurry towards him, and
cling affectionately to his robe. Honored there by great and small, his
every word had had its value; and when each day he gave utterance to his
thoughts, what he bestowed came back to him refined by earnest discourse
with his associates and superiors, and he gained new treasures for his
inner life.
“What is rare,” thought he, “is full of charm; and yet how hard it is
to do without what is habitual!” The occurrences of the last few days
passed before his mental sight. Bent-Anat’s image appeared before him,
and took a more and more distinct and captivating form. His heart began
to beat wildly, the blood rushed faster through his veins; he hid his
face in his hands, and recalled every glance, every word from her lips.
“I follow thee willingly,” she had said to him before the hut of the
paraschites. Now he asked himself whether he were worthy of such a
follower.
He had indeed broken through the old bonds, but not to disgrace the
house that was dear to him, only to let new light into its dim chambers.
“To do what we have earnestly felt to be right,” said he to himself,
“may seem worthy of punishment to men, but cannot before God.”
He sighed and walked out into the terrace in a mood of lofty excitement,
and fully resolved to do here nothing but what was right, to lay the
foundation of all that was good.
“We men,” thought he, “prepare sorrow when we come into the world, and
lamentation when we leave it; and so it is our duty in the intermediate
time to fight with suffering, and to sow the seeds of joy. There are
many tears here to be wiped away. To work then!” The poet found none of
his subordinates on the upper terrace. They had all met in the forecourt
of the temple, and were listening to the gate-keeper’s tale, and seemed
to sympathize with his angry complaint--against whom Pentaur well knew.
With a firm step he went towards them and said:
“I have expelled this man from among us, for he is a disgrace to us.
To-morrow he quits the temple.”
“I will go at once,” replied the gate-keeper defiantly, “and in behalf
of the holy fathers (here he cast a significant glance at the priests),
ask the high-priest Ameni if the unclean are henceforth to be permitted
to enter this sanctuary.”
He was already approaching the gate, but Pentaur stepped before him,
saying resolutely:
“You will remain here and keep the geese to-morrow, day after to-morrow,
and until I choose to pardon you.” The gate-keeper looked enquiringly at
the priests. Not one moved.
“Go back into your house,” said Pentaur, going closer to him.
The porter obeyed.
Pentaur locked the door of the little room, gave the key to one of the
temple-servants, and said: “Perform his duty, watch the man, and if he
escapes you will go after the geese to-morrow too. See, my friends,
how many worshippers kneel there before our altars--go and fulfil your
office. I will wait in the confessional to receive complaints, and to
administer comfort.”
The priests separated and went to the votaries. Pentaur once more
mounted the steps, and sat down in the narrow confessional which was
closed by a curtain; on its wall the picture of Hatasu was to be seen,
drawing the milk of eternal life from the udders of the cow Hathor.
He had hardly taken his place when a temple-servant announced the
arrival of a veiled lady. The bearers of her litter were thickly veiled,
and she had requested to be conducted to the confession chamber. The
servant handed Pentaur a token by which the high-priest of the great
temple of Anion, on the other bank of the Nile, granted her the
privilege of entering the inner rooms of the temple with the Rechiu, and
to communicate with all priests, even with the highest of the initiated.
The poet withdrew behind a curtain, and awaited the stranger with a
disquiet that seemed to him all the more singular that he had frequently
found himself in a similar position. Even the noblest dignitaries had
often been transferred to him by Ameni when they had come to the temple
to have their visions interpreted.
A tall female figure entered the still, sultry stone room, sank on
her knees, and put up a long and absorbed prayer before the figure of
Hathor. Pentaur also, seen by no one, lifted his hands, and fervently
addressed himself to the omnipresent spirit with a prayer for strength
and purity.
Just as his arms fell the lady raised her head. It was as though the
prayers of the two souls had united to mount upwards together.
The veiled lady rose and dropped her veil.
It was Bent-Anat.
In the agitation of her soul she had sought the goddess Hathor, who
guides the beating heart of woman and spins the threads which bind man
and wife.
“High mistress of heaven! many-named and beautiful!” she began to pray
aloud, “golden Hathor! who knowest grief and ecstasy--the present and
the future--draw near to thy child, and guide the spirit of thy servant,
that he may advise me well. I am the daughter of a father who is great
and noble and truthful as one of the Gods. He advises me--he will never
compel me--to yield to a man whom I can never love. Nay, another has met
me, humble in birth but noble in spirit and in gifts--”
Thus far, Pentaur, incapable of speech, had overheard the princess.
Ought he to remain concealed and hear all her secret, or should he step
forth and show himself to her? His pride called loudly to him: “Now
she will speak your name; you are the chosen one of the fairest and
noblest.” But another voice to which he had accustomed himself to listen
in severe self-discipline made itself heard, and said--“Let her say
nothing in ignorance, that she need be ashamed of if she knew.”
He blushed for her;--he opened the curtain and went forward into the
presence of Bent-Anat.
The Princess drew back startled.
“Art thou Pentaur,” she asked, “or one of the Immortals?”
“I am Pentaur,” he answered firmly, “a man with all the weakness of his
race, but with a desire for what is good. Linger here and pour out thy
soul to our Goddess; my whole life shall be a prayer for thee.”
The poet looked full at her; then he turned quickly, as if to avoid a
danger, towards the door of the confessional.
Bent-Anat called his name, and he stayed his steps:
“The daughter of Rameses,” she said, “need offer no justification of
her appearance here, but the maiden Bent-Anat,” and she colored as she
spoke, “expected to find, not thee, but the old priest Rui, and she
desired his advice. Now leave me to pray.”
Bent-Anat sank on her knees, and Pentaur went out into the open air.
When the princess too had left the confessional, loud voices were heard
on the south side of the terrace on which they stood.
She hastened towards the parapet.
“Hail to Pentaur!” was shouted up from below. The poet rushed forward,
and placed himself near the princess. Both looked down into the valley,
and could be seen by all.
“Hail, hail! Pentaur,” was called doubly loud, “Hail to our teacher!
come back to the House of Seti. Down with the persecutors of
Pentaur--down with our oppressors!”
At the head of the youths, who, so soon as they had found out whither
the poet had been exiled, had escaped to tell him that they were
faithful to him, stood the prince Rameri, who nodded triumphantly to
his sister, and Anana stepped forward to inform the honored teacher in a
solemn and well-studied speech, that, in the event of Ameni refusing to
recall him, they had decided requesting their fathers to place them at
another school.
The young sage spoke well, and Bent-Anat followed his words, not without
approbation; but Pentaur’s face grew darker, and before his favorite
disciple had ended his speech he interrupted him sternly.
His voice was at first reproachful, and then complaining, and loud as he
spoke, only sorrow rang in his tones, and not anger.
“In truth,” he concluded, “every word that I have spoken to you I could
but find it in me to regret, if it has contributed to encourage you to
this mad act. You were born in palaces; learn to obey, that later you
may know how to command. Back to your school! You hesitate? Then I will
come out against you with the watchman, and drive you back, for you do
me and yourselves small honor by such a proof of affection. Go back to
the school you belong to.”
The school-boys dared make no answer, but surprised and disenchanted
turned to go home.
Bent-Anat cast down her eyes as she met those of her brother,
who shrugged his shoulders, and then she looked half shyly, half
respectfully, at the poet; but soon again her eyes turned to the plain
below, for thick dust-clouds whirled across it, the sound of hoofs and
the rattle of wheels became audible, and at the same moment the chariot
of Septah, the chief haruspex, and a vehicle with the heavily-armed
guard of the House of Seti, stopped near the terrace.
The angry old man sprang quickly to the ground, called the host of
escaped pupils to him in a stern voice, ordered the guard to drive them
back to the school, and hurried up to the temple gates like a vigorous
youth. The priests received him with the deepest reverence, and at once
laid their complaints before him.
He heard them willingly, but did not let them discuss the matter; then,
though with some difficulty, he quickly mounted the steps, down which
Bent-Anat came towards him.
The princess felt that she would divert all the blame and
misunderstanding to herself, if Septah recognized her; her hand
involuntarily reached for her veil, but she drew it back quickly, looked
with quiet dignity into the old man’s eyes, which flashed with anger,
and proudly passed by him. The haruspex bowed, but without giving her
his blessing, and when he met Pentaur on the second terrace, ordered
that the temple should be cleared of worshippers.
This was done in a few minutes, and the priests were witnesses of
the most painful, scene which had occurred for years in their quiet
sanctuary.
The head of the haruspices of the House of Seti was the most determined
adversary of the poet who had so early been initiated into the
mysteries, and whose keen intellect often shook those very ramparts
which the zealous old man had, from conviction, labored to strengthen
from his youth up. The vexatious occurrences, of which he had been a
witness at the House of Seti, and here also but a few minutes since, he
regarded as the consequence of the unbridled license of an ill-regulated
imagination, and in stern language he called Pentaur to account for the
“revolt” of the school-boys.
“And besides our boys,” he exclaimed, “you have led the daughter of
Rameses astray. She was not yet purged of her uncleanness, and yet you
tempt her to an assignation, not even in the stranger’s quarters--but in
the holy house of this pure Divinity.” Undeserved praise is dangerous
to the weak; unjust blame may turn even the strong from the right way.
Pentaur indignantly repelled the accusations of the old man, called them
unworthy of his age, his position, and his name, and for fear that
his anger might carry him too far, turned his back upon him; but the
haruspex ordered him to remain, and in his presence questioned the
priests, who unanimously accused the poet of having admitted to the
temple another unpurified woman besides Bent-Anat, and of having
expelled the gate-keeper and thrown him into prison for opposing the
crime.
The haruspex ordered that the “ill-used man” should be set at liberty.
Pentaur resisted this command, asserted his right to govern in this
temple, and with a trembling voice requested Septah to quit the place.
The haruspex showed him Ameni’s ring, by which, during his residence
in Thebes, he made him his plenipotentiary, degraded Pentaur from his
dignity, but ordered him not to quit the sanctuary till further notice,
and then finally departed from the temple of Hatasu.
Pentaur had yielded in silence to the signet of his chief, and returned
to the confessional in which he had met Bent-Anat. He felt his soul
shaken to its very foundations, his thoughts were confused, his feelings
struggling with each other; he shivered, and when he heard the laughter
of the priests and the gatekeeper, who were triumphing in their easy
victory, he started and shuddered like a man who in passing a mirror
should see a brand of disgrace on his brow.
But by degrees he recovered himself, his spirit grew clearer, and when
he left the little room to look towards the east--where, on the farther
shore, rose the palace where Bent-Anat must be--a deep contempt for his
enemies filled his soul, and a proud feeling of renewed manly energy.
He did not conceal from himself that he had enemies; that a time of
struggle was beginning for him; but he looked forward to it like a young
hero to the morning of his first battle.