PART III. THE EUPHORBIA

THAIS

PART THE FIRST -- THE LOTUS

In those days there were many hermits living in the desert. On both

banks of the Nile numerous huts, built by these solitary dwellers, of

branches held together by clay, were scattered at a little distance from

each other, so that the inhabitants could live alone, and yet help one

another in case of need. Churches, each surmounted by a cross, stood

here and there amongst the huts, and the monks flocked to them at each

festival to celebrate the services or to partake of the Communion. There

were also, here and there on the banks of the river, monasteries, where

the cenobites lived in separate cells, and only met together that they

might the better enjoy their solitude.

Both hermits and cenobites led abstemious lives, taking no food till

after sunset, and eating nothing but bread with a little salt and

hyssop. Some retired into the desert, and led a still more strange life

in some cave or tomb.

All lived in temperance and chastity; they wore a hair shirt and a hood,

slept on the bare ground after long watching, prayed, sang psalms, and,

in short, spent their days in works of penitence. As an atonement

for original sin, they refused their body not only all pleasures and

satisfactions, but even that care and attention which in this age are

deemed indispensable. They believed that the diseases of our members

purify our souls, and the flesh could put on no adornment more glorious

than wounds and ulcers. Thus, they thought they fulfilled the words of

the prophet, “The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose.”

Amongst the inhabitants of the holy Thebaid, there were some who

passed their days in asceticism and contemplation; others gained their

livelihood by plaiting palm fibre, or by working at harvest-time for

the neighbouring farmers. The Gentiles wrongly suspected some of them

of living by brigandage, and allying themselves to the nomadic Arabs

who robbed the caravans. But, as a matter of fact, the monks despised

riches, and the odour of their sanctity rose to heaven.

Angels in the likeness of young men, came, staff in hand, as travellers,

to visit the hermitages; whilst demons--having assumed the form of

Ethiopians or of animals--wandered round the habitations of the hermits

in order to lead them into temptation. When the monks went in the

morning to fill their pitcher at the spring, they saw the footprints

of Satyrs and Aigipans in the sand. The Thebaid was, really and

spiritually, a battlefield, where, at all times, and more especially at

night, there were terrible conflicts between heaven and hell.

The ascetics, furiously assailed by legions of the damned, defended

themselves--with the help of God and the angels--by fasting, prayer,

and penance. Sometimes carnal desires pricked them so cruelly that

they cried aloud with pain, and their lamentations rose to the starlit

heavens mingled with the howls of the hungry hyaenas. Then it was that

the demons appeared in delightful forms. For though the demons are, in

reality, hideous, they sometimes assume an appearance of beauty which

prevents their real nature from being recognised. The ascetics of the

Thebaid were amazed to see in their cells phantasms of delights unknown

even to the voluptuaries of the age. But, as they were under the sign

of the Cross, they did not succumb to these temptations, and the unclean

spirits, assuming again their true character, fled at daybreak, filled

with rage and shame. It was not unusual to meet at dawn one of these

beings, flying away and weeping, and replying to those who questioned

it, “I weep and groan because one of the Christians who live here has

beaten me with rods, and driven me away in ignominy.”

The power of the old saints of the desert extended over all sinners and

unbelievers. Their goodness was sometimes terrible. They derived from

the Apostles authority to punish all offences against the true and only

God, and no earthly power could save those they condemned. Strange tales

were told in the cities, and even as far as Alexandria, how the earth

had opened and swallowed up certain wicked persons whom one of these

saints struck with his staff. Therefore they were feared by all

evil-doers, and particularly by mimes, mountebanks, married priests, and

prostitutes.

Such was the sanctity of these holy men that even wild beasts felt their

power. When a hermit was about to die, a lion came and dug a grave with

its claws. The saint knew by this that God had called him, and he went

and kissed all his brethren on the cheek. Then he lay down joyfully, and

slept in the Lord.

Now that Anthony, who was more than a hundred years old, had retired

to Mount Colzin with his well-beloved disciples, Macarius and Amathas,

there was no monk in the Thebaid more renowned for good works than

Paphnutius, the Abbot of Antinoe. Ephrem and Serapion had a greater

number of followers, and in the spiritual and temporal management

of their monasteries surpassed him. But Paphnutius observed the most

rigorous fasts, and often went for three entire days without taking

food. He wore a very rough hair shirt, he flogged himself night and

morning, and lay for hours with his face to the earth.

His twenty-four disciples had built their huts near his, and imitated

his austerities. He loved them all dearly in Jesus Christ, and

unceasingly exhorted them to good works. Amongst his spiritual children

were men who had been robbers for many years, and had been persuaded by

the exhortations of the holy abbot to embrace the monastic life, and who

now edified their companions by the purity of their lives. One, who had

been cook to the Queen of Abyssinia, and was converted by the Abbot of

Antinoe, never ceased to weep. There was also Flavian, the deacon, who

knew the Scriptures, and spoke well; but the disciple of Paphnutius who

surpassed all the others in holiness was a young peasant named Paul, and

surnamed the Fool, because of his extreme simplicity. Men laughed at his

childishness, but God favoured him with visions, and by bestowing upon

him the gift of prophecy.

Paphnutius passed his life in teaching his disciples, and in ascetic

practices. Often did he meditate upon the Holy Scriptures in order to

find allegories in them. Therefore he abounded in good works, though

still young. The devils, who so rudely assailed the good hermits, did

not dare to approach him. At night, seven little jackals sat in the

moonlight in front of his cell, silent and motionless, and with their

ears pricked up. It was believed that they were seven devils, who, owing

to his sanctity, could not cross his threshold.

Paphnutius was born at Alexandria of noble parents, who had instructed

him in all profane learning. He had even been allured by the falsehoods

of the poets, and in his early youth had been misguided enough to

believe that the human race had all been drowned by a deluge in the days

of Deucalion, and had argued with his fellow-scholars concerning the

nature, the attributes, and even the existence of God. He then led a

life of dissipation, after the manner of the Gentiles, and he recalled

the memory of those days with shame and horror.

“At that time,” he used to say to the brethren, “I seethed in the

cauldron of false delights.”

He meant by that that he had eaten food properly dressed, and frequented

the public baths. In fact, until his twentieth year he had continued

to lead the ordinary existence of those times, which now seemed to

him rather death than life; but, owing to the lessons of the priest

Macrinus, he then became a new man.

The truth penetrated him through and through, and--as he used to

say--entered his soul like a sword. He embraced the faith of Calvary,

and worshipped Christ crucified. After his baptism he remained yet a

year amongst the Gentiles, unable to cast off the bonds of old habits.

But one day he entered a church, and heard a deacon read from the Bible,

the verse, “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and

give to the poor.” Thereupon he sold all that he had, gave away the

money in alms, and embraced the monastic life.

During the ten years that he had lived remote from men, he no longer

seethed in the cauldron of false delights, but more profitably macerated

his flesh in the balms of penitence.

One day when, according to his pious custom, he was recalling to mind

the hours he had lived apart from God, and examining his sins one by

one, that he might the better ponder on their enormity, he remembered

that he had seen at the theatre at Alexandria a very beautiful actress

named Thais. This woman showed herself in the public games, and did not

scruple to perform dances, the movements of which, arranged only too

cleverly, brought to mind the most horrible passions. Sometimes she

imitated the horrible deeds which the Pagan fables ascribe to Venus,

Leda, or Pasiphae. Thus she fired all the spectators with lust, and when

handsome young men, or rich old ones, came, inspired with love, to hang

wreaths of flowers round her door, she welcomed them, and gave herself

up to them. So that, whilst she lost her own soul, she also ruined the

souls of many others.

She had almost led Paphnutius himself into the sins of the flesh. She

had awakened desire in him, and he had once approached the house of

Thais. But he stopped on the threshold of the courtesan’s house, partly

restrained by the natural timidity of extreme youth--he was then but

fifteen years old--and partly by the fear of being refused on account

of his want of money, for his parents took care that he should commit no

great extravagances.

God, in His mercy, had used these two means to prevent him from

committing a great sin. But Paphnutius had not been grateful to Him for

that, because at that time he was blind to his own interests, and did

not know that he was lusting after false delights. Now, kneeling in

his cell, before the image of that holy cross on which hung, as in a

balance, the ransom of the world, Paphnutius began to think of Thais,

because Thais was a sin to him, and he meditated long, according to

ascetic rules, on the fearful hideousness of the carnal delights with

which this woman had inspired him in the days of his sin and ignorance.

After some hours of meditation the image of Thais appeared to him

clearly and distinctly. He saw her again, as he had seen her when she

tempted him, in all the beauty of the flesh. At first she showed herself

like a Leda, softly lying upon a bed of hyacinths, her head bowed, her

eyes humid and filled with a strange light, her nostrils quivering, her

mouth half open, her breasts like two flowers, and her arms smooth and

fresh as two brooks. At this sight Paphnutius struck his breast and

said--

“I call Thee to witness, my God, that I have considered how heinous has

been my sin.”

Gradually the face of the image changed its expression. Little by little

the lips of Thais, by lowering at the corners of the mouth, expressed a

mysterious suffering. Her large eyes were filled with tears and lights;

her breast heaved with sighs, like the sighing of a wind that precedes

a tempest. At this sight Paphnutius was troubled to the bottom of his

soul. Prostrating himself on the floor, he uttered this prayer--

“Thou who hast put pity in our hearts, like the morning dew upon the

fields, O just and merciful God, be Thou blessed! Praise! praise be unto

Thee! Put away from Thy servant that false tenderness which tempts to

concupiscence, and grant that I may only love Thy creatures in Thee, for

they pass away, but Thou endurest for ever. If I care for this woman,

it is only because she is Thy handiwork. The angels themselves feel

pity for her. Is she not, O Lord, the breath of Thy mouth? Let her not

continue to sin with many citizens and strangers. There is great pity

for her in my heart. Her wickednesses are abominable, and but to think

of them makes my flesh creep. But the more wicked she is, the more do I

lament for her. I weep when I think that the devils will torment her to

all eternity.”

As he was meditating in this way, he saw a little jackal lying at his

feet. He felt much surprised, for the door of his cell had been closed

since the morning. The animal seemed to read the Abbot’s thoughts, and

wagged its tail like a dog. Paphnutius made the sign of the cross and

the beast vanished. He knew then that, for the first time, the devil had

entered his cell, and he uttered a short prayer; then he thought again

about Thais.

“With God’s help,” he said to himself, “I must save her.” And he slept.

The next morning, when he had said his prayers, he went to see the

sainted Palemon, a holy hermit who lived some distance away. He found

him smiling quietly as he dug the ground, as was his custom. Palemon

was an old man, and cultivated a little garden; the wild beasts came and

licked his hands, and the devils never tormented him.

“May God be praised, brother Paphnutius,” he said, as he leaned upon his

spade.

“God be praised!” replied Paphnutius. “And peace be unto my brother.”

“The like peace be unto thee, brother Paphnutius,” said Palemon; and he

wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

“Brother Palemon, all our discourse ought to be solely the praise of Him

who has promised to be wheresoever two or three are gathered together in

His Name. That is why I come to you concerning a design I have formed to

glorify the Lord.”

“May the Lord bless thy design, Paphnutius, as He has blessed my

lettuces. Every morning He spreads His grace with the dew on my garden,

and His goodness causes me to glorify Him in the cucumbers and melons

which He gives me. Let us pray that He may keep us in His peace. For

nothing is more to be feared than those unruly passions which trouble

our hearts. When these passions disturb us we are like drunken men,

and we stagger from right to left unceasingly, and are like to fall

miserably. Sometimes these passions plunge us into a turbulent joy, and

he who gives way to such, sullies the air with brutish laughter. Such

false joy drags the sinner into all sorts of excess. But sometimes also

the troubles of the soul and of the senses throw us into an impious

sadness which is a thousand times worse than the joy. Brother

Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but I have found, in my long

life, that the cenobite has no foe worse than sadness. I mean by that

the obstinate melancholy which envelopes the soul as in a mist, and

hides from us the light of God. Nothing is more contrary to salvation,

and the devil’s greatest triumph is to sow black and bitter thoughts in

the heart of a good man. If he sent us only pleasurable temptations,

he would not be half so much to be feared. Alas! he excels in making

us sad. Did he not show to our father Anthony a black child of such

surpassing beauty that the very sight of it drew tears? With God’s help,

our father Anthony avoided the snares of the demon. I knew him when he

lived amongst us; he was cheerful with his disciples, and never gave

way to melancholy. But did you not come, my brother, to talk to me of

a design you had formed in your mind? Let me know what it is--if, at

least, this design has for its object the glory of God.”

“Brother Palemon, what I propose is really to the glory of God.

Strengthen me with your counsel, for you know many things, and sin has

never darkened the clearness of your mind.”

“Brother Paphnutius, I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of thy

sandals, and my sins are as countless as the sands of the desert. But I

am old, and I will never refuse the help of my experience.”

“I will confide in you, then, brother Palemon, that I am stricken with

grief at the thought that there is, in Alexandria, a courtesan named

Thais, who lives in sin, and is a subject of reproach unto the people.”

“Brother Paphnutius, that is, in truth, an abomination which we do well

to deplore. There are many women amongst the Gentiles who lead lives of

that kind. Have you thought of any remedy for this great evil?”

“Brother Palemon, I will go to Alexandria and find this woman, and, with

God’s help, I will convert her; that is my intention; do you approve of

it, brother?”

“Brother Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but our father Anthony

used to say, ‘In whatsoever place thou art, hasten not to leave it to go

elsewhere.’”

“Brother Palemon, do you disapprove of my project?”

“Dear Paphnutius, God forbid that I should suspect my brother of bad

intentions. But our father Anthony also said, ‘Fishes die on dry land,

and so is it with those monks who leave their cells and mingle with the

men of this world, amongst whom no good thing is to be found.’”

Having thus spoken, the old man pressed his foot on the spade, and began

to dig energetically round a fig tree laden with fruit. As he was thus

engaged, there was a rustling in the bushes, and an antelope leaped

over the hedge which surrounded the garden; it stopped, surprised and

frightened, its delicate legs trembling, then ran up to the old man, and

laid its pretty head on the breast of its friend.

“God be praised in the gazelle of the desert,” said Palemon.

He went to his hut, the light-footed little animal trotting after him,

and brought out some black bread, which the antelope ate out of his

hand.

Paphnutius remained thoughtful for some time, his eyes fixed upon the

stones at his feet. Then he slowly walked back to his cell, pondering on

what he had heard. A great struggle was going on in his mind.

“The hermit gives good advice,” he said to himself; “the spirit of

prudence is in him. And he doubts the wisdom of my intention. Yet it

would be cruel to leave Thais any longer in the power of the demon who

possesses her. May God advise and conduct me.”

As he was walking along, he saw a plover, caught in the net that a

hunter had laid on the sand, and he knew that it was a hen bird, for

he saw the male fly to the net, and tear the meshes one by one with its

beak, until it had made an opening by which its mate could escape. The

holy man watched this incident, and as, by virtue of his holiness, he

easily comprehended the mystic sense of all occurrences, he knew that

the captive bird was no other than Thais, caught in the snares of sin,

and that--like the plover that had cut the hempen threads with its

beak--he could, by pronouncing the word of power, break the invisible

bonds by which Thais was held in sin. Therefore he praised God, and was

confirmed in his first resolution. But then seeing the plover caught

by the feet, and hampered by the net it had broken, he fell into

uncertainty again.

He did not sleep all night, and before dawn he had a vision. Thais

appeared to him again. There was no expression of guilty pleasure on her

face, nor was she dressed according to custom in transparent drapery.

She was enveloped in a shroud, which hid even a part of her face, so

that the Abbot could see nothing but the two eyes, from which flowed

white and heavy tears.

At this sight he began to weep, and believing that this vision came from

God, he no longer hesitated. He rose, seized a knotted stick, the symbol

of the Christian faith, and left his cell, carefully closing the door,

lest the animals of the desert and the birds of the air should enter,

and befoul the copy of the Holy Scriptures which stood at the head of

his bed. He called Flavian, the deacon, and gave him authority over the

other twenty-three disciples during his absence; and then, clad only in

a long cassock, he bent his steps towards the Nile, intending to follow

the Libyan bank to the city founded by the Macedonian monarch. He walked

from dawn to eve, indifferent to fatigue, hunger, and thirst; the sun

was already low on the horizon when he saw the dreadful river, the

blood-red waters of which rolled between the rocks of gold and fire.

He kept along the shore, begging his bread at the door of solitary

huts for the love of God, and joyfully receiving insults, refusals, or

threats. He feared neither robbers nor wild beasts, but he took great

care to avoid all the towns and villages he came near. He was afraid

lest he should see children playing at knuckle-bones before their

father’s house, or meet, by the side of the well, women in blue smocks,

who might put down their pitcher and smile at him. All things are

dangerous for the hermit; it is sometimes a danger for him to read in

the Scriptures that the Divine Master journeyed from town to town and

supped with His disciples. The virtues that the anchorites embroider so

carefully on the tissue of faith, are as fragile as they are beautiful;

a breath of ordinary life may tarnish their pleasant colours. For that

reason, Paphnutius avoided the towns, fearing lest his heart should

soften at the sight of his fellow men.

He journeyed along lonely roads. When evening came, the murmuring of the

breeze amidst the tamarisk trees made him shiver, and he pulled his hood

over his eyes that he might not see how beautiful all things were. After

walking six days, he came to a place called Silsile. There the

river runs in a narrow valley, bordered by a double chain of granite

mountains. It was there that the Egyptians, in the days when they

worshipped demons, carved their idols. Paphnutius saw an enormous sphinx

carved in the solid rock. Fearing that it might still possess some

diabolical properties, he made the sign of the cross, and pronounced the

name of Jesus; he immediately saw a bat fly out of one of the monster’s

ears, and Paphnutius knew that he had driven out the evil spirits which

had been for centuries in the figure. His zeal increased, and picking up

a large stone, he threw it in the idol’s face. Then the mysterious face

of the sphinx expressed such profound sadness that Paphnutius was moved.

In fact, the expression of superhuman grief on the stone visage would

have touched even the most unfeeling man. Therefore Paphnutius said to

the sphinx--

“O monster, be like the satyrs and centaurs our father Anthony saw in

the desert, and confess the divinity of Jesus Christ, and I will bless

thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

When he had spoken a rosy light gleamed in the eyes of the sphinx; the

heavy eyelids of the monster quivered and the granite lips painfully

murmured, as though in echo to the man’s voice, the holy name of Jesus

Christ; therefore Paphnutius stretched out his right hand, and blessed

the sphinx of Silsile.

That being done, he resumed his journey, and the valley having grown

wider, he saw the ruins of an immense city. The temples, which still

remained standing, were supported by idols which served as columns,

and--by the permission of God--these figures with women’s heads and

cow’s horns, threw on Paphnutius a long look which made him turn pale.

He walked thus seventeen days, his only food a few raw herbs, and

he slept at night in some ruined palace, amongst the wild cats and

Pharaoh’s rats, with which mingled sometimes, women whose bodies ended

in a scaly tail. But Paphnutius knew that these women came from hell,

and he drove them away by making the sign of the cross.

On the eighteenth day, he found, far from any village, a wretched hut

made of palm leaves, and half buried under the sand which had been

driven by the desert wind. He approached it, hoping that the hut was

inhabited by some pious anchorite. He saw inside the hovel--for there

was no door--a pitcher, a bunch of onions, and a bed of dried leaves.

“This must be the habitation of a hermit,” he said to himself. “Hermits

are generally to be found near their hut, and I shall not fail to meet

this one. I will give him the kiss of peace, even as the holy Anthony

did when he came to the hermit Paul, and kissed him three times. We will

discourse of things eternal, and perhaps our Lord will send us, by one

of His ravens, a crust of bread, which my host will willingly invite me

to share with him.”

Whilst he was thus speaking to himself, he walked round the hut to see

if he could find any one. He had not walked a hundred paces when he saw

a man seated, with his legs crossed, by the side of the river. The man

was naked; his hair and beard were quite white, and his body redder than

brick. Paphnutius felt sure this must be the hermit. He saluted him with

the words the monks are accustomed to use when they meet each other.

“Peace be with you, brother! May you some day taste the sweet joys of

paradise.”

The man did not reply. He remained motionless, and appeared not to have

heard. Paphnutius supposed this was due to one of those rhapsodies to

which the saints are accustomed. He knelt down, with his hands joined,

by the side of the unknown, and remained thus in prayer till sunset.

Then, seeing that his companion had not moved, he said to him--

“Father, if you are now out of the ecstasy in which you were lost, give

me your blessing in our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The other replied without turning his head--

“Stranger, I understand you not, and I know not the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“What!” cried Paphnutius. “The prophets have announced Him; legions of

martyrs have confessed His name; Caesar himself has worshipped Him, and,

but just now, I made the sphinx of Silsile proclaim His glory. Is it

possible that you do not know Him?”

“Friend,” replied the other, “it is possible. It would even be certain,

if anything in this world were certain.”

Paphnutius was surprised and saddened by the incredible ignorance of the

man.

“If you know not Jesus Christ,” he said, “all your works serve no

purpose, and you will never rise to life immortal.”

The old man replied--

“It is useless to act, or to abstain from acting. It matters not whether

we live or die.”

“Eh, what?” asked Paphnutius. “Do you not desire to live through all

eternity? But, tell me, do you not live in a hut in the desert as the

hermits do?”

“It seems so.”

“Do I not see you naked, and lacking all things?”

“It seems so.”

“Do you not feed on roots, and live in chastity?”

“It seems so.”

“Have you not renounced all the vanities of this world?”

“I have truly renounced all those vain things for which men commonly

care.”

“Then you are like me, poor, chaste, and solitary. And you are

not so--as I am--for the love of God, and with a hope of celestial

happiness! That I cannot understand. Why are you virtuous if you do not

believe in Jesus Christ? Why deprive yourself of the good things of this

world if you do not hope to gain eternal riches in heaven?”

“Stranger, I deprive myself of nothing which is good, and I flatter

myself that I have found a life which is satisfactory enough, though--to

speak more precisely--there is no such thing as a good or evil life.

Nothing is itself, either virtuous or shameful, just or unjust, pleasant

or painful, good or bad. It is our opinion which gives those qualities

to things, as salt gives savour to meats.”

“So then, according to you there is no certainty. You deny the truth

which the idolaters themselves have sought. You lie in ignorance--like a

tired dog sleeping in the mud.”

“Stranger, it is equally useless to abuse either dogs or philosophers.

We know not what dogs are or what we are. We know nothing.”

“Old man, do you belong, then, to the absurd sect of sceptics? Are you

one of those miserable fools who alike deny movement and rest, and who

know not how to distinguish between the light of the sun and the shadows

of night?”

“Friend, I am truly a sceptic, and of a sect which appears praiseworthy

to me, though it seems ridiculous to you. For the same things often

assume different appearances. The pyramids of Memphis seem at sunrise to

be cones of pink light. At sunset they look like black triangles against

the illuminated sky. But who shall solve the problem of their true

nature? You reproach me with denying appearances, when, in fact,

appearances are the only realities I recognise. The sun seems to me

illuminous, but its nature is unknown to me. I feel that fire burns--but

I know not how or why. My friend, you understand me badly. Besides, it

is indifferent to me whether I am understood one way or the other.”

“Once more. Why do you live on dates and onions in the desert? Why do

you endure great hardships? I endure hardships equally great, and, like

you, I live in abstinence and solitude. But then it is to please God,

and to earn eternal happiness. And that is a reasonable object, for

it is wise to suffer now for a future gain. It is senseless, on the

contrary, to expose yourself voluntarily to useless fatigue and vain

sufferings. If I did not believe--pardon my blasphemy, O uncreated

Light!--if I did not believe in the truth of that which God has taught

us by the voice of the prophets, by the example of His Son, by the acts

of the Apostles, by the authority of councils, and by the testimony

of the martyrs,--if I did not know that the sufferings of the body are

necessary for the salvation of the soul--if I were, like thee, lost in

ignorance of sacred mysteries--I would return at once amongst the men of

this day, I would strive to acquire riches, that I might live in ease,

like those who are happy in this world, and I would say to the votaries

of pleasure, ‘Come, my daughters, come, my servants, come and pour out

for me your wines, your philtres, your perfumes.’ But you, foolish old

man! you deprive yourself of all these advantages; you lose without

hope of any gain; you give without hope of any return, and you imitate

foolishly the noble deeds of us anchorites, as an impudent monkey

thinks, by smearing a wall, to copy the picture of a clever artist.

What, then, are your reasons, O most besotted of men?”

Paphnutius spoke with violence and indignation, but the old man remained

unmoved.

“Friend,” he replied, gently, “what matter the reasons of a dog sleeping

in the dirt or a mischievous ape?”

Paphnutius’ only aim was the glory of God. His anger vanished, and he

apologised with noble humility.

“Pardon me, old man, my brother,” he said, “if zeal for the truth has

carried me beyond proper bounds. God is my witness, that it is thy

errors and not thyself that I hate. I suffer to see thee in darkness,

for I love thee in Jesus Christ, and care for thy salvation fills my

heart. Speak! give me your reasons. I long to know them that I may

refute them.”

The old man replied quietly--

“It is the same to me whether I speak or remain silent. I will give my

reasons without asking yours in return, for I have no interest in you

at all. I care neither for your happiness nor your misfortune, and it

matters not to me whether you think one way or another. Why should I

love you, or hate you? Aversion and sympathy are equally unworthy of the

wise man. But since you question me, know then that I am named Timocles,

and that I was born at Cos, of parents made rich by commerce. My father

was a shipowner. In intelligence he much resembled Alexander, who is

surnamed the Great. But he was not so gross. In short, he was a man of

no great parts. I had two brothers, who, like him, were shipowners. As

for me, I followed wisdom. My eldest brother was compelled by my father

to marry a Carian woman, named Timaessa, who displeased him so greatly

that he could not live with her without falling into a deep melancholy.

However, Timaessa inspired our younger brother with a criminal passion,

and this passion soon turned to a furious madness. The Carian woman

hated them both equally; but she loved a flute-player, and received him

at night in her chamber. One morning he left there the wreath which he

usually wore at feasts. My two brothers, having found this wreath, swore

to kill the flute-player, and the next day they caused him to perish

under the lash, in spite of his tears and prayers. My sister-in-law

felt such grief that she lost her reason, and these three poor wretches

became beasts rather than human beings, and wandered insane along the

shores of Cos, howling like wolves and foaming at the mouth, and hooted

at by the children, who threw shells and stones at them. They died, and

my father buried them with his own hands. A little later his stomach

refused all nourishment, and he died of hunger, though he was rich

enough to have bought all the meats and fruits in the markets of Asia.

He was deeply grieved at having to leave me his fortune. I used it in

travels. I visited Italy, Greece, and Africa without meeting a single

person who was either wise or happy. I studied philosophy at Athens and

Alexandria, and was deafened by noisy arguments. At last I wandered as

far as India, and I saw on the banks of the Ganges a naked man, who had

sat there motionless with his legs crossed for more than thirty years.

Climbing plants twined round his dried up body, and the birds built

their nests in his hair. Yet he lived. At the sight of him I called to

mind Timaessa, the flute-player, my two brothers, and my father, and

I realised that this Indian was a wise man. ‘Men,’ I said to myself,

‘suffer because they are deprived of that which they believe to be good;

or because, possessing it they fear to lose it; or because they endure

that which they believe to be an evil. Put an end to all beliefs of this

kind, and the evils would disappear.’ That is why I resolved henceforth

to deem nothing an advantage, to tear myself entirely from the good

things of this world, and to live silent and motionless, like the

Indian.”

Paphnutius had listened attentively to the old man’s story.

“Timocles of Cos,” he replied, “I own that your discourse is not wholly

devoid of sense. It is, in truth, wise to despise the riches of this

world. But it would be absurd to despise also your eternal welfare, and

render yourself liable to be visited by the wrath of God. I grieve at

your ignorance, Timocles, and I will instruct you in the truth, in order

that knowing that there really exists a God in three hypostases, you may

obey this God as a child obeys its father.”

Timocles interrupted him.

“Refrain, stranger, from showing me your doctrines, and do not imagine

that you will persuade me to share your opinions. All discussions are

useless. My opinion is to have no opinion. My life is devoid of trouble

because I have no preferences. Go thy ways, and strive not to withdraw

me from the beneficent apathy in which I am plunged, as though in a

delicious bath, after the hardships of my past days.”

Paphnutius was profoundly instructed in all things relating to the

faith. By his knowledge of the human heart, he was aware that the grace

of God had not fallen on old Timocles, and the day of salvation for this

soul so obstinately resolved to ruin itself had not yet come. He did not

reply, lest the power given for edification should turn to destruction.

For it sometimes happens, in disputing with infidels, that the means

used for their conversion may steep them still farther in sin. Therefore

they who possess the truth should take care how they spread it.

“Farewell, then, unhappy Timocles,” he said; and heaving a deep sigh, he

resumed his pious pilgrimage through the night.

In the morning, he saw the ibises motionless on one leg at the edge of

the water, which reflected their pale pink necks. The willows stretched

their soft grey foliage to the bank, cranes flew in a triangle in the

clear sky, and the cry of unseen herons was heard from the sedges. Far

as the eye could reach, the river rolled its broad green waters o’er

which white sails, like the wings of birds, glided, and here and there

on the shores, a white house shone out. A light mist floated along the

banks, and from out the shadow of the islands, which were laden

with palms, flowers, and fruits, came noisy flocks of ducks, geese,

flamingoes, and teal. To the left, the grassy valley extended to the

desert its fields and orchards in joyful abundance; the sun shone on

the yellow wheat, and the earth exhaled forth its fecundity in odorous

wafts. At this sight, Paphnutius fell on his knees, and cried--

“Blessed be the Lord, who has given a happy issue to my journey. O God,

who spreadest Thy dew upon the fig trees of the Arsiniote, pour Thy

grace upon Thais, whom Thou hast formed with Thy love, as Thou hast the

flowers and trees of the field. May she, by Thy loving care, flourish

like a sweet-scented rose in the heavenly Jerusalem.”

And every time that he saw a tree covered with blossom, or a bird of

brilliant plumage, he thought of Thais. Keeping along the left arm of

the river and through a fertile and populous district, he reached, in

a few days, the city of Alexandria, which the Greeks have surnamed the

Beautiful and the Golden. The sun had risen an hour, when he beheld,

from the top of a hill, the vast city, the roofs of which glittered in

the rosy light. He stopped, and folded his arms on his breast.

“There, then,” he said, “is the delightful spot where I was born in sin;

the bright air where I breathed poisonous perfumes; the sea of pleasure

where I heard the songs of the sirens. There is my cradle, after the

flesh; my native land--in the parlance of the men of these days! A rich

cradle, an illustrious country, in the judgment of men! It is natural

that thy children should reverence thee like a mother, Alexandria, and

I was begotten in thy magnificently adorned breast. But the ascetic

despises nature, the mystic scorns appearances, the Christian regards

his native land as a place of exile, the monk is not of this earth. I

have turned away my heart from loving thee, Alexandria. I hate thee! I

hate thee for thy riches, thy science, thy pleasures, and thy beauty. Be

accursed, temple of demons! Lewd couch of the Gentiles, tainted pulpit

of Arian heresy, be thou accursed! And thou, winged son of heaven who

led the holy hermit Anthony, our father, when he came from the depths of

the desert, and entered into the citadel of idolatry to strengthen the

faith of believers and the confidence of martyrs, beautiful angel of

the Lord, invisible child, first breath of God, fly thou before me, and

cleanse, by the beating of thy wings, the corrupted air I am about to

breathe amongst the princes of darkness of this world!”

Having thus spoken, he resumed his journey. He entered the city by the

Gate of the Sun. This gate was a handsome structure of stone. In the

shadow of its arch, crowded some poor wretches, who offered lemons

and figs for sale, or with many groans and lamentations, begged for an

obolus.

An old woman in rags, who was kneeling there, seized the monk’s cassock,

kissed it, and said--

“Man of the Lord, bless me, that God may bless me. I have suffered many

things in this world that I may have joys in the world to come. You

come from God, O holy man, and that is why the dust of your feet is more

precious than gold.”

“The Lord be praised!” said Paphnutius, and with his half-closed hand he

made the sign of redemption on the old woman’s head.

But hardly had he gone twenty paces down the street, than a band of

children began to jeer at him, and throw stones, crying--

“Oh, the wicked monk! He is blacker than an ape, and more bearded than

a goat! He is a skulker! Why not hang him in an orchard, like a wooden

Priapus, to frighten the birds? But no; he would draw down the hail on

the apple-blossom. He brings bad luck. To the ravens with the monk! to

the ravens!” and stones mingled with the cries.

“My God, bless these poor children!” murmured Paphnutius.

And he pursued his way, thinking.

“I was worshipped by the old woman, and hated and despised by these

children. Thus the same object is appreciated differently by men who are

uncertain in their judgment and liable to error. It must be owned that,

for a Gentile, old Timocles was not devoid of sense. Though blind, he

knew he was deprived of light. His reasoning was much better than that

of these idolaters, who cry from the depths of their thick darkness, ‘I

see the day!’ Everything in this world is mirage and moving sand. God

alone is steadfast.”

He passed through the city with rapid steps. After ten years of absence

he would still recognise every stone, and every stone was to him a stone

of reproach that recalled a sin. For that reason he struck his naked

feet roughly against the kerb-stones of the wide street, and rejoiced

to see the bloody marks of his wounded feet. Leaving on his left the

magnificent portico of the Temple of Serapis, he entered a road lined

with splendid mansions, which seemed to be drowsy with perfumes. Pines,

maples, and larches raised their heads above the red cornices and golden

acroteria. Through the half-open doors could be seen bronze statues

in marble vestibules, and fountains playing amidst foliage. No noise

troubled the stillness of these quiet retreats. Only the distant strains

of a flute could be heard. The monk stopped before a house, rather

small, but of noble proportions, and supported by columns as graceful as

young girls. It was ornamented with bronze busts of the most celebrated

Greek philosophers.

He recognised Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Epicurus, and Zeno, and

having knocked with the hammer against the door, he waited, wrapped in

meditation.

“It is vanity to glorify in metal these false sages; their lies are

confounded, their souls are lost in hell, and even the famous Plato

himself, who filled the earth with his eloquence, now disputes with the

devils.”

A slave opened the door, and seeing a man with bare feet standing on the

mosaic threshold, said to him roughly--

“Go and beg elsewhere, stupid monk, or I will drive you away with a

stick.”

“Brother,” replied the Abbott of Antinoe, “all that I ask is that you

conduct me to your master, Nicias.”

The slave replied, more angrily than before--

“My master does not see dogs like you.”

“My son,” said Paphnutius, “will you please do what I ask, and tell your

master that I desire to see him.

“Get out, vile beggar!” cried the porter furiously; and he raised his

stick and struck the holy man, who, with his arms crossed upon his

breast, received unmovedly the blow, which fell full in his face, and

then repeated gently--

“Do as I ask you, my son, I beg.”

The porter tremblingly murmured--

“Who is this man who is not afraid of suffering?”

And he ran and told his master.

Nicias had just left the bath. Two pretty slave girls were scraping him

with strigils. He was a pleasant-looking man, with a kind smile. There

was an expression of gentle satire in his face. On seeing the monk, he

rose and advanced with open arms.

“It is you!” he cried, “Paphnutius, my fellow-scholar, my friend my

brother! Oh, I knew you again, though, to say the truth, you look more

like a wild animal than a man. Embrace me. Do you remember the time when

we studied grammar, rhetoric, and philosophy together? You were, even

then, of a morose and wild character, but I liked you because of your

complete sincerity. We used to say that you looked at the universe with

the eyes of a wild horse, and it was not surprising you were dull and

moody. You needed a pinch of Attic salt, but your liberality knew no

bounds. You cared nothing for either your money or your life. And you

had the eccentricity of genius, and a strange character which interested

me deeply. You are welcome, my dear Paphnutius, after ten years of

absence. You have quitted the desert; you have renounced all Christian

superstitions, and now return to your old life. I will mark this day

with a white stone.”

“Crobyle and Myrtale,” he added, turning towards the girls, “perfume the

feet, hands, and beard of my dear guest.”

They smiled, and had already brought the basin, the phials, and the

metal mirror. But Paphnutius stopped them with an imperious gesture, and

lowered his eyes that he might not look upon them, for they were naked.

Nicias brought cushions for him, and offered him various meats and

drinks, which Paphnutius scornfully refused.

“Nicias,” he said, “I have not renounced what you falsely call the

Christian superstition, which is the truth of truths. ‘In the beginning

was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All

things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything made that was

made. In Him was the life, and the life was the light of men.’”

“My dear Paphnutius,” replied Nicias, who had now put on a perfumed

tunic, “do you expect to astonish me by reciting a lot of words jumbled

together without skill, which are no more than a vain murmur? Have you

forgotten that I am a bit of a philosopher myself? And do you think to

satisfy me with some rags, torn by ignorant men from the purple garment

of AEmilius, when AEmilius, Porphyry, and Plato, in all their glory, did

not satisfy me! The systems devised by the sages are but tales imagined

to amuse the eternal childishness of men. We divert ourselves with them,

as we do with the stories of _The Ass_, _The Tub_, and _The Ephesian

Matron_, or any other Milesian fable.”

And, taking his guest by the arm, he led him into a room where thousands

of papyri were rolled up and lay in baskets.

“This is my library,” he said. “It contains a small part of the various

systems which the philosophers have constructed to explain the world.

The Serapeium itself, with all its riches, does not contain them all.

Alas! they are but the dreams of sick men.”

He compelled his guest to sit down in an ivory chair, and sat down

himself. Paphnutius scowled gloomily at all the books in the library,

and said--

“They ought all to be burned.”

“Oh, my dear guest, that would be a pity!” replied Nicias. “For the

dreams of sick men are sometimes amusing. Besides, if we should destroy

all the dreams and visions of men, the earth would lose its form and

colours, and we should all sleep in a dull stupidity.”

Paphnutius continued in the same strain as before--

“It is certain that the doctrines of the pagans are but vain lies. But

God, who is the truth, revealed Himself to men by miracles, and He was

made flesh, and lived among us.”

Nicias replied--

“You speak well, my dear Paphnutius, when you say that he was made

flesh. A God who thinks, acts, speaks, who wanders through nature, like

Ulysses of old on the glaucous sea, is altogether a man. How do you

expect that we should believe in this new Jupiter, when the urchins of

Athens, in the time of Pericles, no longer believed in the old one?

“But let us leave all that. You did not come here; I suppose, to

argue about the three hypostases. What can I do for you, my dear

fellow-scholar?”

“A good deed,” replied the Abbot of Antinoe. “Lend me a perfumed tunic,

like the one you have just put on. Be kind enough to add to the tunic,

gilt sandals, and a vial of oil to anoint my beard and hair. It is

needful also, that you should give me a purse with a thousand drachmae

in it. That, O Nicias, is what I came to ask of you, for the love of

God, and in remembrance of our old friendship.”

Nicias made Crobyle and Myrtale bring his richest tunic; it was

embroidered, after the Asiatic fashion, with flowers and animals. The

two girls held it open, and skilfully showed its bright colours, waiting

till Paphnutius should have taken off the cassock which covered him down

to his feet. But the monk having declared that they should rather tear

off his flesh than this garment, they put on the tunic over it. As the

two girls were pretty, they were not afraid of men, although they were

slaves. They laughed at the strange appearance of the monk thus clad.

Crobyle called him her dear satrap, as she presented him with the

mirror, and Myrtale pulled his beard. But Paphnutius prayed to the Lord,

and did not look at them. Having tied on the gilt sandals, and fastened

the purse to his belt, he said to Nicias, who was looking at him with an

amused expression--

“O Nicias, let not these things be an offence in your eyes. For know

that I shall make pious use of this tunic, this purse, and these

sandals.”

“My dear friend,” replied Nicias, “I suspect no evil, for I believe that

men are equally incapable of doing evil or doing good. Good and evil

exist only in the opinion. The wise man has only custom and usage to

guide him in his acts. I conform with all the prejudices which prevail

at Alexandria. That is why I pass for an honest man. Go, friend, and

enjoy yourself.”

But Paphnutius thought that it was needful to inform his host of his

intention.

“Do you know Thais,” he said, “who acts in the games at the theatre?”

“She is beautiful,” replied Nicias, “and there was a time when she was

dear to me. For her sake, I sold a mill and two fields of corn, and I

composed in her honour three books full of detestably bad verses. Surely

beauty is the most powerful force in the world, and were we so made that

we could possess it always, we should care as little as may be for

the demiurgos, the logos, the aeons, and all the other reveries of the

philosophers. But I am surprised, my good Paphnutius, that you should

have come from the depths of the Thebaid to talk about Thais.”

Having said this, he sighed gently. And Paphnutius gazed at him with

horror, not conceiving it possible that a man should so calmly avow such

a sin. He expected to see the earth open, and Nicias swallowed up in

flames. But the earth remained solid, and the Alexandrian silent, his

forehead resting on his hand, and he smiling sadly at the memories of

his past youth. The monk rose, and continued in solemn tones--

“Know then, O Nicias, that, with the aid of God, I will snatch this

woman Thais from the unclean affections of the world, and give her as

a spouse to Jesus Christ. If the Holy Spirit does not forsake me, Thais

will leave this city and enter a nunnery.”

“Beware of offending Venus,” replied Nicias. “She is a powerful goddess,

she will be angry with you if you take away her chief minister.”

“God will protect me,” said Paphnutius. “May He also illumine thy heart,

O Nicias, and draw thee out of the abyss in which thou art plunged.”

And he stalked out of the room. But Nicias followed him, and overtook

him on the threshold, and placing his hand on his shoulder whispered

into his ear the same words--

“Beware of offending Venus; her vengeance is terrible.”

Paphnutius, disdainful of these trivial words, left without turning his

head. He felt only contempt for Nicias; but what he could not bear was

the idea that his former friend had received the caresses of Thais. It

seemed to him that to sin with that woman was more detestable than to

sin with any other. To him this appeared the height of iniquity, and he

henceforth looked upon Nicias as an object of execration. He had always

hated impurity, but never before had this vice appeared so heinous to

him; never before had it so seemed to merit the anger of Jesus Christ

and the sorrow of the angels.

He felt only a more ardent desire to save Thais from the Gentiles,

and that he must hasten to see the actress in order to save her.

Nevertheless, before he could enter her house, he must wait till the

heat of the day was over, and now the morning had hardly finished.

Paphnutius wandered through the most frequented streets. He had resolved

to take no food that day, in order to be the less unworthy of the

favours he had asked of the Lord. To the great grief of his soul, he

dared not enter any of the churches in the city, because he knew they

were profaned by the Arians, who had overturned the Lord’s table. For,

in fact, these heretics, supported by the Emperor of the East, had

driven the patriarch Athanasius from his episcopate, and sown trouble

and confusion among the Christians of Alexandria.

He therefore wandered about aimlessly, sometimes with his eyes fixed on

the ground in humility, and sometimes raised to heaven in ecstasy. After

some time, he found himself on the quay. Before him lay the harbour,

in which were sheltered innumerable ships and galleys, and beyond them,

smiling in blue and silver, lay the perfidious sea. A galley, which bore

a Nereid at its prow, had just weighed anchor. The rowers sang as the

oars struck the water; and already the white daughter of the waters,

covered with humid pearls, showed no more than a flying profile to the

monk. Steered by her pilot, she cleared the passage leading from the

basin of the Eunostos, and gained the high seas, leaving a glittering

trail behind her.

“I also,” thought Paphnutius, “once desired to embark singing on the

ocean of the world. But I soon saw my folly, and the Nereid did not

carry me away.”

Lost in his thoughts, he sat down upon a coil of rope, and went to

sleep. During his sleep, he had a vision. He seemed to hear the sound of

a clanging trumpet, and the sky became blood red, and he knew that the

day of judgment had come. Whilst he was fervently praying to God, he saw

an enormous monster coming towards him, bearing on its forehead a cross

of light, and he recognised the sphinx of Silsile. The monster seized

him between its teeth, without hurting him, and carried him in its

mouth, as a cat carries a kitten. Paphnutius was thus conveyed across

many countries, crossing rivers and traversing mountains, and came at

last to a desert place, covered with scowling rocks and hot cinders. The

ground was rent in many places, and through these openings came a hot

air. The monster gently put Paphnutius down on the ground, and said--

“Look!”

And Paphnutius, leaning over the edge of the abyss, saw a river of fire

which flowed in the interior of the earth, between two cliffs of black

rocks. There, in a livid light, the demons tormented the souls of the

damned. The souls preserved the appearance of the bodies which had held

them, and even wore some rags of clothing. These souls seemed peaceful

in the midst of their torments. One of them, tall and white, his eyes

closed, a white fillet across his forehead, and a sceptre in his hand,

sang; his voice filled the desert shores with harmony; he sang of gods

and heroes. Little green devils pierced his lips and throat with red-hot

irons. And the shade of Homer still sang. Near by, old Anaxagoras, bald

and hoary, traced figures in the dust with a compass. A demon poured

boiling oil into his ear, yet failed, however, to disturb the sage’s

meditations. And the monk saw many other persons, who, on the dark

shore by the side of the burning river, read, or quietly meditated, or

conversed with other spirits while walking,--like the sages and pupils

under the shadow of the sycamore trees of Academe. Old Timocles alone

had withdrawn from the others, and shook his head like a man who denies.

One of the demons of the abyss shook a torch before his eyes, but

Timocles would see neither the demon nor the torch.

Mute with surprise at this spectacle, Paphnutius turned to the monster.

It had disappeared, and, in place of the sphinx, the monk saw a veiled

woman, who said--

“Look and understand. Such is the obstinacy of these infidels, that,

even in hell, they remain victims of the illusions which deluded them

when on earth. Death has not undeceived them; for it is very plain that

it does not suffice merely to die in order to see God. Those who are

ignorant of the truth whilst living, will be ignorant of it always. The

demons which are busy torturing these souls, what are they but agents of

divine justice? That is why these souls neither see them nor feel them.

They were ignorant of the truth, and therefore unaware of their own

condemnation, and God Himself cannot compel them to suffer.

“God can do all things,” said the Abbot of Antinoe.

“He cannot do that which is absurd,” replied the veiled woman. “To

punish them, they must first be enlightened, and if they possessed the

truth, they would be like unto the elect.”

Vexed and horrified, Paphnutius again bent over the edge of the abyss.

He saw the shade of Nicias smiling, with a wreath of flowers on his

head, sitting under a burnt myrtle tree. By his side was Aspasia of

Miletus, gracefully draped in a woollen cloak, and they seemed to talk

together of love and philosophy; the expression of her face was sweet

and noble. The rain of fire which fell on them was as a refreshing dew,

and their feet pressed the burning soil as though it had been tender

grass. At this sight Paphnutius was filled with fury.

“Strike him, O God! strike him!” he cried. “It is Nicias! Let him weep!

let him groan! let him grind his teeth! He sinned with Thais!”

And Paphnutius woke in the arms of a sailor, as strong as Hercules, who

cried--

“Quietly! quietly! my friend! By Proteus, the old shepherd of the seals,

you slumber uneasily. If I had not caught hold of you, you would have

tumbled into the Eunostos. It is as true as that my mother sold salt

fish, that I saved your life.”

“I thank God,” replied Paphnutius.

And, rising to his feet, he walked straight before him, meditating on

the vision which had come to him whilst he was asleep.

“This vision,” he said to himself, “is plainly an evil one; it is an

insult to divine goodness to imagine hell is unreal. The dream certainly

came from the devil.”

He reasoned thus because he knew how to distinguish between the dreams

sent by God and those produced by evil angels. Such discernment is

useful to the hermit, who lives surrounded by apparitions, and who,

in avoiding men, is sure to meet with spirits. The deserts are full of

phantoms. When the pilgrims drew near the ruined castle, to which the

holy hermit, Anthony, had retired, they heard a noise like that which

goes up from the public square of a large city at a great festival. The

noise was made by the devils, who were tempting the holy man.

Paphnutius remembered this memorable example. He also called to mind

St. John the Egyptian, who for sixty years was tempted by the devil.

But John saw through all the tricks of the demon. One day, however, the

devil, having assumed the appearance of a man, entered the grotto of the

venerable John, and said to him, “John, you must continue to fast until

to-morrow evening.” And John, believing that it was an angel who spoke,

obeyed the voice of the demon, and fasted the next day until the vesper

hour. That was the only victory that the Prince of Darkness ever gained

over St. John the Egyptian, and that was but a trifling one. It was

therefore not astonishing that Paphnutius knew at once that the vision

which had visited him in his sleep was an evil one.

Whilst he was gently remonstrating with God for having given him into

the power of the demons, he felt himself pushed and dragged amidst a

crowd of people who were all hurrying in the same direction. As he was

unaccustomed to walk in the streets of a city, he was shoved and knocked

from one passer to another like an inert mass; and being embarrassed by

the folds of his tunic, he was more than once on the point of falling.

Desirous of knowing where all these people could be going, he asked one

of them the cause of this hurry.

“Do you not know, stranger,” replied he, “that the games are about to

begin, and that Thais will appear on the stage? All the citizens are

going to the theatre, and I also am going. Would you like to accompany

me?”

It occurred to him at once that it would further his design to see Thais

in the games, and Paphnutius followed the stranger. In front of them

stood the theatre, its portico ornamented with shining masks, and its

huge circular wall covered with innumerable statues. Following the

crowd, they entered a narrow passage, at the end of which lay the

amphitheatre, glittering with light. They took their places on one of

the seats, which descended in steps to the stage, which was empty but

magnificently decorated. There was no curtain to hide the view, and on

the stage was a mound, such as used to be erected in old times to the

shades of heroes. This mound stood in the midst of a camp. Lances were

stacked in front of the tents, and golden shields hung from masts,

amidst boughs of laurel and wreaths of oak. On the stage all was

silence, but a murmur like the humming of bees in a hive rose from the

vast hemicycle filled with spectators. All their faces, reddened by the

reflection from the purple awning which waved above them, turned with

attentive curiosity towards the large, silent stage, with its tomb and

tents. The women laughed and ate lemons, and the regular theatre-goers

called gaily to one another from their seats.

Paphnutius prayed inwardly, and refrained from uttering any vain words,

but his neighbour began to complain of the decline of the drama.

“Formerly,” he said, “clever actors used to declaim, under a mask, the

verses of Euripides and Menander. Now they no longer recite dramas, they

act in dumb show; and of the divine spectacles with which Bacchus

was honoured in Athens, we have kept nothing but what a barbarian--a

Scythian even--could understand--attitude and gesture. The tragic mask,

the mouth of which was provided with metal tongues that increased the

sound of the voice; the cothurnus, which raised the actors to the height

of gods; the tragic majesty and the splendid verses that used to be

sung, have all gone. Pantomimists, and dancing girls with bare faces,

have replaced Paulus and Roscius. What would the Athenians of the days

of Pericles have said if they had seen a woman on the stage? It is

indecent for a woman to appear in public. We must be very degenerate to

permit it. It is as certain as that my name is Dorion, that woman is the

natural enemy of man, and a disgrace to human kind.”

“You speak wisely,” replied Paphnutius; “woman is our worst enemy. She

gives us pleasure, and is to be feared on that account.”

“By the immovable gods,” cried Dorion, “it is not pleasure that woman

gives to man, but sadness, trouble, and black cares. Love is the cause

of our most biting evils. Listen, stranger. When I was a young man

I visited Troezene, in Argolis, and I saw there a myrtle of a most

prodigious size, the leaves of which were covered with innumerable

pinholes. And this is what the Troezenians say about that myrtle. Queen

Phaedra, when she was in love with Hippolytos, used to recline idly all

day long under this same tree. To beguile the tedium of her weary life

she used to draw out the golden pin which held her fair locks, and

pierce with it the leaves of the sweet-scented bush. All the leaves were

riddled with holes. After she had ruined the poor young man whom

she pursued with her incestuous love, Phaedra, as you know, perished

miserably. She locked herself up in her bridal chamber, and hanged

herself by her golden girdle from an ivory peg. The gods willed that the

myrtle, the witness of her bitter misery, should continue to bear, in

its fresh leaves, the marks of the pin-holes. I picked one of these

leaves, and placed it at the head of my bed, that by the sight of it

I might take warning against the folly of love, and conform to the

doctrine of the divine Epicurus, my master, who taught that all lust is

to be feared. But, properly speaking, love is a disease of the liver,

and one is never sure of not catching the malady.”

Paphnutius asked--

“Dorion, what are your pleasures?”

Dorion replied sadly--

“I have only one pleasure, and, it must be confessed, that it is not a

very exciting one; it is meditation. When a man has a bad digestion, he

must not look for any others.”

Taking advantage of these words, Paphnutius proceeded to initiate the

Epicurean into those spiritual joys which the contemplation of God

procures. He began--

“Hear the truth, Dorion, and receive the light.”

But he saw then that all heads were turned towards him, and everybody

was making signs for him to be quiet. Dead silence prevailed in the

theatre, broken at last by the strains of heroic music.

The play began. The soldiers left their tents, and were preparing to

depart, when a prodigy occurred--a cloud covered the summit of the

funeral pile. Then the cloud rolled away, and the ghost of Achilles

appeared, clad in golden armour. Extending his arms towards the

warriors, he seemed to say to them, “What! do you depart, children of

Danaos? do you return to the land I shall never behold again, and leave

my tomb without any offerings?” Already the principal Greek chieftains

pressed to the foot of the pile. Acamas, the son of Theseus, old Nestor,

Agamemnon, bearing a sceptre and with a fillet on his brow, gazed at the

prodigy. Pyrrhus, the young son of Achilles, was prostrate in the dust.

Ulysses, recognisable by the cap which covered his curly hair, showed

by his gestures that he acquiesced in the demand of the hero’s shade. He

argued with Agamemnon, and their words might be easily guessed--

“Achilles,” said the King of Ithaca, “is worthy to be honoured by us,

for he died gloriously for Hellas. He demands that the daughter of

Priam, the virgin Polyxena, should be immolated on his tomb. Greeks!

appease the manes of the hero, and let the son of Peleus rejoice in

Hades.”

But the king of kings replied--

“Spare the Trojan virgins we have torn from the altars. Sufficient

misfortunes have already fallen on the illustrious race of Priam.”

He spoke thus because he shared the couch of the sister of Polyxena, and

the wise Ulysses reproached him for preferring the couch of Cassandra to

the lance of Achilles.

The Greeks showed they shared the opinion of Ulysses, by loudly clashing

their weapons. The death of Polyxena was resolved on, and the appeased

shade of Achilles vanished. The music--sometimes wild and sometimes

plaintive--followed the thoughts of the personages in the drama. The

spectators burst into applause.

Paphnutius, who applied divine truth to everything murmured--

“This fable shows how cruel the worshippers of false gods were.”

“All religions breed crimes,” replied the Epicurean. “Happily, a

Greek, who was divinely wise, has freed men from foolish terrors of the

unknown--”

Just at that moment, Hecuba, her white hair dishevelled, her robe

tattered, came out of the tent in which she was kept captive. A long

sigh went up from the audience, when her woeful figure appeared. Hecuba

had been warned by a prophetic dream, and lamented her daughter’s fate

and her own. Ulysses approached her, and asked her to give up Polyxena.

The old mother tore her hair, dug her nails into her cheeks, and kissed

the hands of the cruel chieftain, who, with unpitying calmness, seemed

to say--

“Be wise, Hecuba, and yield to necessity. There are amongst us many old

mothers who weep for their children, now sleeping under the pines of

Ida.”

And Hecuba, formerly queen of the most flourishing city in Asia, and now

a slave, bowed her unhappy head in the dust.

Then the curtain in front of one of the tents was raised, and the virgin

Polyxena appeared. A tremor passed through all the spectators. They had

recognised Thais. Paphnutius saw again the woman he had come to seek.

With her white arm she held above her head the heavy curtain. Motionless

as a splendid statue, she stood, with a look of pride and resignation

in her violet eyes, and her resplendent beauty made a shudder of

commiseration pass through all who beheld her.

A murmur of applause uprose, and Paphnutius, his soul agitated, and

pressing both hands to his heart, sighed--

“Why, O my God, hast thou given this power to one of Thy creatures?”

Dorion was not so disturbed. He said--

“Certainly the atoms, which have momentarily met together to form this

woman, present a combination which is agreeable to the eye. But that is

but a freak of nature, and the atoms know not what they do. They will

some day separate with the same indifference as they came together.

Where are now the atoms which formed Lais or Cleopatra? I must confess

that women are sometimes beautiful. But they are liable to grievous

afflictions, and disgusting inconveniences. That is patent to all

thinking men, though the vulgar pay no attention to it. And women

inspire love, though it is absurd and ridiculous to love them.”

Such were the thoughts of the philosopher and the ascetic as they

gazed on Thais. They neither of them noticed Hecuba, who turned to her

daughter, and seemed to say by her gestures--

“Try to soften the cruel Ulysses. Employ your tears, your beauty, and

your youth.”

Thais--or rather Polyxena herself--let fall the curtain of the tent. She

made a step forward, and all hearts were conquered. And when, with firm

but light steps, she advanced towards Ulysses, her rhythmic movements,

which were accompanied by the sound of flutes, created in all present

such happy visions, that it seemed as though she were the divine centre

of all the harmonies of the world. All eyes were bent on her; the other

actors were obscured by her effulgence, and were not noticed. The play

continued, however.

The prudent son of Laertes turned away his head, and hid his hand under

his mantle, in order to avoid the looks and kisses of the suppliant. The

virgin made a sign to him to fear nothing. Her tranquil gaze said--

“I follow you, Ulysses, and bow to necessity--because I wish to die.

Daughter of Priam, and sister of Hector, my couch, which was once worthy

of Kings, shall never receive a foreign master. Freely do I quit the

light of day.”

Hecuba, lying motionless in the dust, suddenly rose and enfolded her

daughter in a last despairing embrace. Polyxena gently, but resolutely,

removed the old arms which held her. She seemed to say--

“Do not expose yourself, mother, to the fury of your master. Do not wait

until he drags you ignominiously on the ground in tearing me from your

arms. Better, O well-beloved mother, to give me your wrinkled hand, and

bend your hollow cheeks to my lips.”

The face of Thais looked beautiful in its grief. The crowd felt grateful

to her for showing them the forms and passions of life endowed with

superhuman grace, and Paphnutius pardoned her present splendour on

account of her coming humility, and glorified himself in advance for the

saint he was about to give to heaven.

The drama neared its end. Hecuba fell as though dead, and Polyxena, led

by Ulysses, advanced towards the tomb, which was surrounded by the

chief warriors. A dirge was sung as she mounted the funeral pile, on the

summit of which the son of Achilles poured out libations from a gold

cup to the manes of the hero. When the sacrificing priests stretched out

their arms to seize her, she made a sign that she wished to die free and

unbound, as befitted the daughter of so many kings. Then, tearing aside

her robe, she bared her bosom to the blow. Pyrrhus, turning away his

head, plunged his sword into her heart, and by a skilful trick, the

blood gushed forth over the dazzling white breast of the virgin, who,

with head thrown back, and her eyes swimming in the horrors of death,

fell with grace and modesty.

Whilst the warriors enshrouded the victim with a veil, and covered her

with lilies and anemones, terrified screams and groans rent the air, and

Paphnutius, rising from his seat, prophesied in a loud voice.

“Gentiles? vile worshippers of demons! And you Arians more infamous than

the idolaters!--learn! That which you have just seen is an image and a

symbol. There is a mystic meaning in this fable, and very soon the woman

you see there will be offered, a willing and happy sacrifice, to the

risen God.”

But already the crowd was surging in dark waves towards the exits. The

Abbot of Antinoe, escaping from the astonished Dorion, gained the door,

still prophesying.

An hour later he knocked at the door of the house of Thais.

The actress then lived in the rich Racotis quarter, near the tomb of

Alexander, in a house surrounded by shady gardens, in which a brook,

bordered with poplars, flowed amidst artificial rocks. An old black

slave woman, loaded with rings, opened the door, and asked what he

wanted.

“I wish to see Thais,” he replied. “God is my witness that I came here

for no other purpose.”

As he wore a rich tunic, and spoke in an imperious manner, the slave

allowed him to enter.

“You will find Thais,” she said, “in the Grotto of Nymphs.”

PART THE SECOND -- THE PAPYRUS

Thais was born of free, but poor, parents, who were idolaters. When she

was a very little girl, her father kept, at Alexandria, near the Gate

of the Moon, an inn, which was frequented by sailors. She still

retained some vivid, but disconnected, memories of her early youth. She

remembered her father, seated at the corner of the hearth with his legs

crossed--tall, formidable, and quiet, like one of those old Pharaohs who

are celebrated in the ballads sung by blind men at the street corners.

She remembered also her thin, wretched mother, wandering like a hungry

cat about the house, which she filled with the tones of her sharp

voice, and the glitter of her phosphorescent eyes. They said in the

neighbourhood that she was a witch, and changed into an owl at night,

and flew to see her lovers. It was a lie. Thais knew well, having often

watched her, that her mother practised no magic arts, but that she was

eaten up with avarice, and counted all night the gains of the day. The

idle father and the greedy mother let the child live as best it could,

like one of the fowls in the poultry-yard. She became very clever in

extracting, one by one, the oboli from the belt of some drunken sailor,

and in amusing the drinkers with artless songs and obscene words, the

meaning of which she did not know. She passed from knee to knee, in a

room reeking with the odours of fermented drinks and resiny wine-skins;

then, her cheeks sticky with beer and pricked by rough beards, she

escaped, clutching the oboli in her little hand, and ran to buy

honey-cakes from an old woman who crouched behind her baskets under the

Gate of the Moon. Every day the same scenes were repeated, the

sailors relating their perilous adventures, then playing at dice or

knuckle-bones, and blaspheming the gods, amid their shouting for the

best beer of Cilicia.

Every night the child was awakened by the quarrels of the drunkards.

Oyster-shells would fly across the tables, cutting the heads of those

they hit, and the uproar was terrible. Sometimes she saw, by the light

of the smoky lamps, the knives glitter, and the blood flow.

It humiliated her to think that the only person who showed her any human

kindness in her young days was the mild and gentle Ahmes. Ahmes, the

house-slave, a Nubian blacker than the pot he gravely skimmed, was as

good as a long night’s sleep. Often he would take Thais on his knee,

and tell her old tales about underground treasure-houses constructed for

avaricious kings, who put to death the masons and architects. There

were also tales about clever thieves who married kings’ daughters, and

courtesans who built pyramids. Little Thais loved Ahmes like a father,

like a mother, like a nurse, and like a dog. She followed the slave into

the cellar when he went to fill the amphorae, and into the poultry-yard

amongst the scraggy and ragged fowls, all beak, claws, and feathers, who

flew swifter than eagles before the knife of the black cook. Often at

night, on the straw, instead of sleeping, he built for Thais little

water-mills, and ships no bigger than his hand, with all their rigging.

He had been badly treated by his masters; one of his ears was torn,

and his body covered with scars. Yet his features always wore an air of

joyous peace. And no one ever asked him whence he drew the consolation

in his soul, and the peace in his heart. He was as simple as a child.

As he performed his heavy tasks, he sang, in a harsh voice, hymns which

made the child tremble and dream. He murmured, in a gravely joyous

tone--

“Tell us, Mary, what thou hast seen where thou hast been?

I saw the shroud and the linen cloths, and the angels

seated on the tomb.

And I saw the glory of the Risen One.”

She asked him--

“Father, why do you sing about angels seated on a tomb?”

And he replied--

“Little light of my eyes, I sing of the angels because Jesus, our Lord,

is risen to heaven.”

Ahmes was a Christian. He had been baptised, and was known as Theodore

at the meetings of the faithful, to which he went secretly during the

hours allowed him for sleep.

At that time the Church was suffering the severest trials. By order of

the Emperor, the churches had been thrown down, the holy books burned,

the sacred vessels and candlesticks melted. The Christians had been

deprived of all their honours, and expected nothing but death. Terror

reigned over all the community at Alexandria, and the prisons were

crammed with victims. It was whispered with horror amongst the faithful,

that in Syria, in Arabia, in Mesopotamia, in Cappadocia, in all the

empire, bishops and virgins had been flogged, tortured, crucified or

thrown to wild beasts. Then Anthony, already celebrated for his visions

and his solitary life, a prophet, and the head of all the Egyptian

believers, descended like an eagle from his desert rock on the city of

Alexandria, and, flying from church to church, fired the whole community

with his holy ardour. Invisible to the pagans, he was present at the

same time at all the meetings of Christians, endowing all with the

spirit of strength and prudence by which he was animated. Slaves, in

particular, were persecuted with singular severity. Many of them, seized

with fright, denied the faith. Others, and by far the greater number,

fled to the desert, hoping to live there, either as hermits or robbers.

Ahmes, however, frequented the meetings as usual, visited the prisoners,

buried the martyrs, and joyfully professed the religion of Christ. The

great Anthony, who saw his unshaken zeal, before he returned into the

desert, pressed the black slave in his arms, and gave him the kiss of

peace.

When Thais was seven years old, Ahmes began to talk to her of God.

“The good Lord God,” he said, “lived in heaven like a Pharaoh, under

the tents of His harem, and under the trees of His gardens. He was the

Ancient of Ancients, and older than the world; and He had but one Son,

the Prince Jesus, whom He loved with all His heart, and who surpassed in

beauty the virgins and the angels. And the good Lord God said to Prince

Jesus--

“‘Leave My harem and My palace, and My date trees and My running

waters. Descend to earth for the welfare of men. There Thou shalt

be like a little child, and Thou shalt live poor amongst the poor.

Suffering shall be Thy daily bread, and Thou shalt weep so profusely

that Thy tears shall form rivers, in which the tired slave shall bathe

with delight. Go, My Son!’

“Prince Jesus obeyed the good Lord, and He came down to earth, to a

place named Bethlehem of Judaea. And He walked in fields, amidst the

flowering anemones, saying to His companion--

“‘Blessed are they who hunger, for I will lead them to My Father’s

table! Blessed are they who thirst, for they shall drink of the

fountains of heaven! Blessed are they who weep, for I will dry their

tears with veils finer than those of the almehs!’

“That is why the poor loved Him, and believed in Him. But the rich hated

Him; fearing that He should raise the poor above them. At that time,

Cleopatra and Caesar were powerful on the earth. They both hated Jesus,

and they ordered the judges and priests to put Him to death. To obey the

Queen of Egypt, the princes of Syria erected a cross on a high mountain,

and they caused Jesus to die on this cross. But women washed His corpse,

and buried it; and Prince Jesus, having broken the door of His tomb,

rose again to the good Lord, His Father.

“And, from that time, all those who believed in Him go to heaven.

“The Lord God opens His arms, and says to them--

“‘Ye are welcome, because ye love the Prince, My Son. Wash, and then

eat.’

“They bathe to the sound of beautiful music, and, all the time they are

eating, they see almehs dancing, and they listen to tales that never

end. They are dearer to the good Lord God than the light of His eyes,

because they are His guests, and they shall have for their portion the

carpets of His house, and the pomegranates of His gardens.”

Ahmes often spoke in this strain, and thus taught the truth to Thais.

She wondered, and said--

“I should like to eat the pomegranates of the good Lord.”

Ahmes replied--

“Only those who are baptised may taste the fruits of heaven.”

And Thais asked to be baptised. Seeing by this that she believed in

Jesus, the slave resolved to instruct her more fully, so that, being

baptised, she might enter the Church; and he loved her as his spiritual

daughter.

The child, unloved and uncared for by its selfish parents, had no bed

in the house. She slept in a corner of the stable amongst the domestic

animals, and there Ahmes came to her every night secretly.

He gently approached the mat on which she lay, and sat down on his

heels, his legs bent and his body straight--a position hereditary to his

race. His face and his body, which was clothed in black, were invisible

in the darkness; but his big white eyes shone out, and there came from

them a light like a ray of dawn through the chinks of a door. He spoke

in a husky, monotonous tone, with a slight nasal twang that gave it

the soft melody of music heard at night in the streets. Sometimes the

breathing of an ass, or the soft lowing of an ox, accompanied, like a

chorus of invisible spirits, the voice of the slave as he recited the

gospels. His words flowed gently in the darkness, which they filled

with zeal, mercy, and hope; and the neophyte, her hand in that of Ahmes,

lulled by the monotonous sounds, and the vague visions in her mind,

slept calm and smiling, amid the harmonies of the dark night and the

holy mysteries, gazed down on by a star, which twinkled between the

joists of the stable-roof.

The initiation lasted a whole year, till the time when the Christians

joyfully celebrate the festival of Easter. One night in the holy week,

Thais, who was already asleep on her mat, felt herself lifted by the

slave, whose eyes gleamed with a strange light. He was clad, not as

usual in a pair of torn drawers, but in a long white cloak, beneath

which he pressed the child, whispering to her--

“Come, my soul! Come, light of my eyes! Come, little sweetheart! Come

and be clad in the baptismal robes!”

He carried the child pressed to his breast. Frightened and yet curious,

Thais, her head out of the cloak, threw her arms round her friend’s

neck, and he ran with her through the darkness. They went down narrow,

black alleys; they passed through the Jews’ quarter; they skirted a

cemetery, where the osprey uttered its dismal cry; they traversed an

open space, passing under crosses on which hung the bodies of victims,

and on the arms of the crosses the ravens clacked their beaks. Thais

hid her head in the slave’s breast. She did not dare to peep out all

the rest of the way. Soon it seemed to her that she was going down under

ground. When she reopened her eyes she found herself in a narrow cave,

lighted by resin torches, on the walls of which were painted standing

figures, which seemed to move and live in the flickering glare of the

torches. They were men clad in long tunics and carrying branches of

palm, and around them were lambs, doves, and tendrils of vine.

Amongst these figures, Thais recognised Jesus of Nazareth, by the

anemones flowering at his feet. In the centre of the cave, near a

large stone font filled with water, stood an old man clad in a scarlet

dalmatic embroidered with gold, and on his head a low mitre. His thin

face ended in a long beard. He looked gentle and humble, in spite of

his rich costume. This was Bishop Vivantius, an exiled dignitary of the

Church of Cyrene, who now gained his livelihood by weaving common stuffs

of goats’ hair. Two poor children stood by his side. Close by, an old

negress unfolded a little white robe. Ahmes set the child down on the

ground, and kneeling before the Bishop, said--

“Father, this is the little soul, the child of my soul. I have brought

her that you may, according to your promise, and if it please your

holiness, bestow on her the baptism of life.”

At these words the Bishop opened his arms, and showed his mutilated

hands. His nails had been torn out because he had maintained the faith

in the days of persecution. Thais was frightened, and threw herself into

the arms of Ahmes. But the kind words of the priest reassured her.

“Fear nothing, dearly beloved little one. Thou hast here a spiritual

father, Ahmes, who is called Theodore amongst the faithful, and a kind

mother in grace, who has prepared for thee, with her own hands, a white

robe.”

And turning towards the negress--

“She is called Nitida,” he added, “and is a slave in this world, but in

heaven she will be a spouse of Jesus.”

Then he said to the child neophyte--

“Thais, dost thou believe in God, the Father Almighty; and in His only

Son, who died for our salvation; and in all that the apostles taught?”

“Yes,” replied together the negro and negress, who held her by each

hand.

By the Bishop’s orders, Nitida knelt down and undressed Thais. The child

was quite naked; round her neck was an amulet. The Pontiff plunged her

three times into the baptismal font. The acolytes brought the oil, with

which Vivantius anointed the catechumen, and the salt, a morsel of

which he placed on her tongue. Then, having dried that body which was

destined, after many trials, to life immortal, the slave Nitida put on

Thais the white robe she had woven.

The Bishop gave to each and all the kiss of peace, and, the ceremony

being terminated, took off his sacerdotal insignia.

When they had left the crypt, Ahmes said--

“We ought to rejoice that we have this day brought a soul to the good

Lord God; let us go to the house of your Holiness and spend the rest of

the night in rejoicing.”

“Thou hast well said, Theodore,” replied the Bishop, and he led the

little band to his house, which was quite near. It consisted of a single

room, furnished with a couple of looms, a heavy table, and a worn-out

carpet. As soon as they had entered,

“Nitida,” cried the Nubian, “bring hither the stove and the jar of oil,

and we will have a good supper.”

Saying thus, he drew from under his cloak some little fish which he had

kept concealed, and lighted a fire and fried them. The Bishop, the girl,

the two boys, and the two slaves sat in a ring on the carpet, ate the

fried fish, and blessed the Lord. Vivantius spoke of the torture he had

undergone, and prophesied the speedy triumph of the Church. His language

was grotesque, and full of word-play and rhetorical tropes. He compared

the life of the just to a tissue of purple, and to explain the mystery

of baptism, he said--

“The Divine Spirit floated on the waters, and that is why Christians

receive the baptism of water. But demons also inhabit the brooks;

springs consecrated to nymphs are especially dangerous, and there are

certain waters which cause various maladies, both of the soul and of the

body.”

Sometimes he spoke enigmatically, and the child listened to him with

profound awe and wonder. At the end of the repast he offered his guests

a little wine, and this unloosed their tongues, and they began to sing

lamentations and hymns. Ahmes and Nitida then rose, and danced a Nubian

dance which they had learned as children, and which, no doubt, had been

danced by their tribe since the early ages of the world. It was a love

dance; waving their arms, and moving their bodies in rhythmic measure,

they feigned, in turn, to fly from and to pursue each other. Their big

eyes rolled, and they showed their gleaming teeth in broad grins.

In this strange manner did Thais receive the holy rite of baptism.

She loved amusements, and, as she grew, vague desires were created in

her mind. All day long she danced and sang with the children in the

streets, and when at night she returned to her father’s house, she was

still singing--

“Crooked twist, why do you stay in the house? I comb the wool, and the

Miletan threads. Crooked twist, what did your son die of? He fell from

the white horses into the sea.”

She now began to prefer the company of boys and girls to that of the

gentle and quiet Ahmes. She did not notice that her friend was not so

often with her. The persecution having relented, the Christians were

able to assemble more regularly, and the Nubian frequented these

meetings assiduously. His zeal increased, and he sometimes uttered

mysterious threats. He said that the rich would not keep their wealth.

He went to the public places to which the poorer Christians used to

resort, and assembling together all the poor wretches who were lying in

the shade of the old walls, he announced to them that all slaves would

soon be free, and that the day of justice was at hand.

“In the kingdom of God,” he said, “the slaves will drink new wine and

eat delicious fruits; whilst the rich, crouching at their feet like

dogs, will devour the crumbs from their table.”

These sayings were noised abroad through all that quarter of the city,

and the masters feared that Ahmes might incite the slaves to revolt.

The innkeeper hated him intensely, though he carefully concealed his

rancour.

One day, a silver salt-cellar, reserved for the table of the gods,

disappeared from the inn. Ahmes was accused of having stolen it--out of

hate to his master and to the gods of the empire. There was no proof

of the accusation, and the slave vehemently denied the charge.

Nevertheless, he was dragged before the tribunal, and as he had the

reputation of being a bad servant, the judge condemned him to death.

“As you did not know how to make a good use of your hands,” he said,

“they will be nailed to the cross.”

Ahmes heard the verdict quietly, bowed to the judge most respectfully,

and was taken to the public prison. During the three days that remained

to him, he did not cease to preach the gospel to the prisoners, and

it was related afterwards that the criminals, and the gaoler himself,

touched by his words, believed in Jesus crucified.

He was taken to the very place which one night, less than two years

before, he had crossed so joyfully, carrying in his cloak little Thais,

the daughter of his soul, his darling flower. When his hands were nailed

to the cross, he uttered no complaint, but many times he sighed and

murmured, “I thirst.”

His agony lasted three days and three nights. It seemed hardly possible

that human flesh could have endured such prolonged torture. Many times

it was thought he was dead; the flies clustered on his eyelids, but

suddenly he would reopen his bloodshot eyes. On the morning of the

fourth day, he sang, in a voice clearer and purer than that of a child--

“Tell us, Mary, what thou hast seen where thou hast been?”

Then he smiled and said--

“They come, the angels of the good Lord. They bring me wine and fruit.

How refreshing is the fanning of their wings!”

And he expired.

His features preserved in death an expression of ecstatic happiness.

Even the soldiers who guarded the cross were struck with wonder.

Vivantius, accompanied by some of the Christian brethren, claimed the

body, and buried it with the remains of the other martyrs in the crypt

of St. John the Baptist, and the Church venerated the memory of Saint

Theodore the Nubian.

Three years later, Constantine, the conquerer of Maxentius, issued an

edict which granted toleration to the Christians, and the believers were

not henceforth persecuted, except by heretics.

Thais had completed her eleventh year when her friend was tortured

to death, and she felt deeply saddened and shocked. Her soul was not

sufficiently pure to allow her to understand that the slave Ahmes was

blessed both in his life and his death. The idea sprang up in her little

mind that no one can be good in this world except at the cost of

the most terrible sufferings. And she was afraid to be good, for her

delicate flesh could not bear pain.

At an early age, she had given herself to the lads about the port, and

she followed the old men who wandered about the quarter in the evening,

and with what she received from them she bought cakes and trinkets.

As she did not take home any of the money she gained, her mother

continually ill-treated her. To get out of reach of her mother’s arm,

she often ran, bare-footed, to the city walls, and hid with the lizards.

There she thought with envy of the ladies she had seen pass her, richly

dressed, and in a litter surrounded by slaves.

One day, when she had been beaten more brutally than usual, she was

crouching down beside the gate, motionless and sulky, when an old woman

stopped in front of her, looked at her for some moments in silence, and

then cried--

“Oh, the pretty flower! the beautiful child! Happy is the father who

begot thee, and the mother who brought thee into the world!”

Thais remained silent, with her eyes fixed on the ground. Her eyelids

were red, and it was evident she had been weeping.

“My white violet,” continued the old woman, “is not your mother happy to

have nourished a little goddess like you, and does not your father, when

he sees you, rejoice from the bottom of his heart?”

To which the child replied, as though talking to herself--

“My father is a wine-skin swollen with wine, and my mother a greedy

horse-leech.”

The old woman glanced to right and left, to see if she were observed.

Then, in a fawning voice--

“Sweet flowering hyacinth, beautiful drinker of light, come with me,

and you shall have nothing to do but dance and smile. I will feed you on

honey cakes, and my son--my own son--will love you as his eyes. My son

is handsome and young; he has but little beard on his chin; his skin is

soft, and he is, as they say, a little Acharnian pig.”

Thais replied--

“I am quite willing to go with you.”

And she rose and followed the old woman out of the city.

The old woman, who was named Moeroe, went from city to city with a

troupe of girls and boys, whom she taught to dance, and then hired out

to rich people to appear at feasts.

Guessing that Thais would soon develop into a most beautiful woman, she

taught her--with the help of a whip--music and prosody, and she flogged

with leather thongs those beautiful legs, when they did not move in time

to the strains of the cithara. Her son--a decrepit abortion, of no age

and no sex--ill-treated the child, on whom he vented the hate he had for

all womankind. Like the dancing-girls whose grace he affected, he knew,

and taught Thais, the art of pantomime, and how to mimic, by expression,

gesture, and attitude, all human passions, and more especially the

passions of love. He was a clever master, though he disliked his work;

but he was jealous of his pupil, and as soon as he discovered that she

was born to give men pleasure, he scratched her cheeks, pinched her

arms, or pricked her legs, as a spiteful girl would have done. Thanks,

however, to his lessons, she quickly became an excellent musician,

pantomimist, and dancer. The brutality of her master did not at all

surprise her; it seemed natural to her to be badly treated. She even

felt some respect for the old woman, who knew music and drank Greek

wine. Moeroe, when she came to Antioch, praised her pupil to the

rich merchants of the city who gave banquets, both as a dancer and

a flute-player. Thais danced and pleased. She accompanied the rich

bankers, when they left the table, into the shady groves on the banks of

the Orontes. She gave herself to all, for she knew nothing of the price

of love. But one night that she had danced before the most fashionable

young men of the city, the son of the pro-consul came to her, radiant

with youth and pleasure, and said, in a voice that seemed redolent of

kisses--

“Why am I not, Thais, the wreath which crowns your hair, the tunic which

enfolds your beautiful form, the sandal on your pretty foot? I wish you

to tread me under foot as a sandal; I wish my caresses to be your tunic

and your wreath. Come, sweet girl! come to my house, and let us forget

the world.”

She looked at him whilst he was speaking, and saw that he was handsome.

Suddenly she felt a cold sweat on her face. She turned green as grass;

she reeled; a cloud descended before her eyes. He again implored her to

come with him, but she refused. His ardent looks, his burning words were

vain, and when he took her in his arms to try and drag her away, she

pushed him off rudely. Then he implored her, and shed tears. But a

new, unknown, and invincible passion dominated her heart, and she still

resisted.

“What madness!” said the guests. “Lollius is noble, handsome, and rich,

and a dancing-girl treats him with scorn!”

Lollius returned home alone that night, quite love-sick. He came in the

morning, pale and red-eyed, and hung flowers at the dancing-girl’s door.

But Thais was frightened and troubled; she avoided Lollius, and yet

he was continually in her mind. She suffered, and she did not know the

cause of her complaint. She wondered why she had thus changed, and why

she was melancholy. She recoiled from all her lovers; they were hateful

to her. She loathed the light of day, and lay on her bed all day,

sobbing, and with her head buried in the pillows. Lollius contrived to

gain admittance, and came many times, but neither his pleadings nor his

execrations had any effect on the obdurate girl. In his presence, she

was as timid as a virgin, and would say nothing but--

“I will not! I will not!”

But at the end of a fortnight she gave in, for she knew that she loved

him; she went to his house and lived with him. They were supremely

happy. They passed their days shut up together, gazing into each other’s

eyes, and babbling a childish jargon. In the evening, they walked on the

lonely banks of the Orontes, and lost themselves in the laurel woods.

Sometimes they rose at dawn, to go and gather hyacinths on the slopes of

Sulpicus. They drank from the same cup, and he would take a grape from

between her lips with his mouth.