Moeroe came to Lollius, and cried and shrieked that Thais should be

restored to her.

“She is my daughter,” she said, “my daughter, who has been torn from me.

My perfumed flower--my own bowels--!”

Lollius gave her a large sum of money, and sent her away. But, as she

came back to demand some more gold staters, the young man had her put

in prison, and the magistrates having discovered that she was guilty of

many crimes, she was condemned to death, and thrown to the wild beasts.

Thais loved Lollius with all the passion of her mind, and the

bewilderment of innocence. She told him, and told him truly from the

bottom of her heart--

“I have never loved any one but you.”

Lollius replied--

“You are not like any other woman.”

The spell lasted six months, but it broke at last. Thais suddenly felt

that her heart was empty and lonely. Lollius no longer seemed the same

to her. She thought--

“What can have thus changed me in an instant? How is it that he is now

like any other man, and no longer like himself?”

She left him, not without a secret desire to find Lollius again in

another, as she no longer found him in himself. She thought it would be

less dull to live with someone she had never loved, than with one she

had ceased to love. She appeared, in the company of rich debauchees, at

those sacred feasts at which naked virgins danced in the temples, and

troops of courtesans swam across the Orontes. She took part in all the

pleasures of the fashionable and depraved city; and she assiduously

frequented the theatres, at which clever mimes from all countries

performed amidst the applause of a crowd greedy for excitement.

She carefully observed the mimes, dancers, comedians, and especially the

women, who in tragedies represented goddesses in love with young men, or

mortals loved by the gods. Having discovered the secrets by which they

pleased the audience, she thought to herself that she was more beautiful

and could act better. She went to the manager, and asked to be admitted

into the troupe. Thanks to her beauty, and to the lessons she had

received from old Moeroe, she was received, and appeared on the stage in

the part of Dirce.

She met with but indifferent success, for she was inexperienced, and the

admiration of the spectators had not been aroused by hearing her praises

sung. But after she had played small parts for a few months, the power

of her beauty burst forth with such effect that all the city was moved.

All Antioch crowded to the theatre. The imperial magistrates and the

chief citizens were compelled, by the force of public opinion, to show

themselves there. The porters, sweepers, and dock labourers went without

bread and garlic, that they might pay for their places. Poets composed

epigrams in her honour. Bearded philosophers inveighed against her in

the baths and gymnasia; when her litter passed, Christian priests turned

away their heads. The threshold of her door was wreathed with flowers,

and sprinkled with blood. She received so much money from her lovers

that it was no longer counted, but measured by the medimnus, and all the

treasure hoarded by miserly old men was poured out at her feet. But

she was placid and unmoved. She rejoiced, with quiet pride, in the

admiration of the public and the favour of the gods, and was so much

loved that she loved herself.

After she had several years enjoyed the admiration and affection of the

Antiochians, she was taken with a desire to revisit Alexandria, and show

her glory in that city in which, as a child, she had wandered in want

and shame, hungry and lean as a grasshopper in the middle of a dusty

road. The golden city joyfully welcomed her, and loaded her with fresh

riches; when she appeared in the games it was a triumph. Countless

admirers and lovers came to her. She received them with indifference,

for she at last despaired of meeting another Lollius.

Amongst many others, she met the philosopher Nicias, who desired to

possess her, although he professed to have no desires. In spite of

his riches, he was intelligent and modest. But his delicate wit and

beautiful sentiments failed to charm her. She did not love him and

sometimes his refined irony even irritated her. His perpetual doubts

hurt her, for he believed in nothing, and she believed in everything.

She believed in divine providence, in the omnipotence of evil spirits,

in spells, exorcisms, and eternal justice; she believed in Jesus Christ,

and in the goddess of good of the Syrians; she believed also that

bitches barked when black Hecate passed through the streets, and that a

woman could inspire love by pouring a philtre into a cup wrapped in the

bleeding skin of a sheep. She thirsted for the unknown; she called on

nameless gods, and lived in perpetual expectation. The future frightened

her, and yet she wished to know it. She surrounded herself with priests

of Isis, Chaldean magi, pharmacopolists, and professors of the black

arts, who invariably deceived her, though she never tired of being

deceived. She feared death, and she saw it everywhere. When she yielded

to pleasure, it seemed to her that an icy finger would suddenly touch

her on the bare shoulder, and she turned pale, and cried with terror, in

the arms which embraced her.

Nicias said to her--

“What does it matter, O my Thais, whether we descend to eternal night

with white locks and hollow cheeks, or, whether this very day, now

laughing to the vast sky, shall be our last? Let us enjoy life; we

shall have greatly lived if we have greatly loved. There is no knowledge

except that of the senses; to love is to understand. That which we

do not know does not exist. What good is it to worry ourselves about

nothing?”

She replied angrily--

“I despise men like you, who hope for nothing and fear nothing. I wish

to know! I wish to know!”

In order to understand the secret of life, she set to work to read the

books of the philosophers, but she did not understand them. The further

the years of her childhood receded from her, the more anxious she was

to recall them. She loved to traverse at night, in disguise, the alleys,

squares, and places where she had grown up so miserably. She was sorry

she had lost her parents, and especially that she had not been able

to love them. When she met any Christian priest, she thought of her

baptism, and felt troubled. One night, when enveloped in a long

cloak, and her fair hair hidden under a black hood, she was wandering,

according to custom, about the suburbs of the city, she found

herself--without knowing how she came there--before the poor little

church of St. John the Baptist. They were singing inside the church,

and a bright light glimmered through the chinks of the door. There was

nothing strange in that, as, for the past twenty years, the Christians,

protected by the conqueror of Maxentius, had publicly solemnised their

festivals. But these hymns seemed more like an ardent appeal to the

soul. As if she had been invited to the mysteries, she pushed the

door open with her arm, and entered the building. She found a numerous

assembly of women, children, and old men, on their knees before a tomb,

which stood against the wall. The tomb was nothing but a stone coffer,

roughly sculptured with vine tendrils and bunches of grapes; yet it had

received great honours, and was covered with green palms and wreaths

of red roses. All round, innumerable lights gleamed out of the heavy

shadow, in which the smoke of Arabian gums seemed like the folds of

angels’ robes, and the paintings on the walls visions of Paradise.

Priests, clad in white, were prostrate at the foot of the sarcophagus.

The hymns they sang with the people expressed the delight of suffering,

and mingled, in a triumphal mourning, so much joy with so much grief,

that Thais, in listening to them, felt the pleasures of life and the

terrors of death flowing, at the same time, through her re-awakened

senses.

When they had finished singing, the believers rose, and walked in single

file to the tomb, the side of which they kissed. They were common men,

accustomed to work with their hands. They advanced with a heavy step,

the eyes fixed, the jaw dropped, but they had an air of sincerity. They

knelt down, each in turn, before the sarcophagus, and put their lips

to it. The women lifted their little children in their arms, and gently

placed their cheek to the stone.

Thais, surprised and troubled, asked a deacon why they did so.

“Do you not know, woman,” replied the deacon, “that we celebrate to-day

the blessed memory of St. Theodore the Nubian, who suffered for the

faith in the days of the Emperor Diocletian? He lived virtuously and

died a martyr, and that is why, robed in white, we bear red roses to his

glorious tomb.”

On hearing these words, Thais fell on her knees, and burst into tears.

Half-forgotten recollections of Ahmes returned to her mind. On the

memory of this obscure, gentle, and unfortunate man, the blaze of

candles, the perfume of roses, the clouds of incense, the music of

hymns, the piety of souls, threw all the charms of glory. Thais thought

in the dazzling glare--

“He was good, and now he has become great and glorious. Why is it that

he is elevated above other men? What is this unknown thing which is more

than riches or pleasure?”

She rose slowly, and turned towards the tomb of the saint who had loved

her, those violet eyes, now filled with tears which glittered in the

candle-light; then, with bowed head, humble, slow, and the last, with

those lips on which so many desires hung, she kissed the stone of the

slave’s tomb.

When she returned to her house, she found Nicias, who, with his hair

perfumed, and his tunic thrown open, was reading a treatise on morals

whilst waiting for her. He advanced with open arms.

“Naughty Thais,” he said, in a laughing voice, “whilst I was waiting for

you to come, do you know what I saw in this manuscript, written by the

gravest of Stoics? Precepts of virtue and noble maxims: No! On the staid

papyrus, I saw dance thousands and thousands of little Thaises. Each was

no bigger than my finger, and yet their grace was infinite, and all were

the only Thais. There were some who flaunted in mantles of purple and

gold; others, like a white cloud, floated in the air in transparent

drapery. Others again, motionless and divinely nude, the better to

inspire pleasure, expressed no thought. Lastly, there were two, hand in

hand; two so alike that it was impossible to distinguish one from

the other. Both smiled. The first said, ‘I am love.’ The other, ‘I am

death.’”

Thus speaking, he pressed Thais in his arms, and not noticing the

sullen look in her downcast eyes, he went on adding thought to thought,

heedless of the fact that they were all lost upon her.

“Yes, when I had before my eyes the line in which it was written,

‘Nothing should deter you from improving your mind,’ I read, ‘The kisses

of Thais are warmer than fire, and sweeter than honey.’ That is how

a philosopher reads the books of other philosophers--and that is your

fault, you naughty child. It is true that, as long as we are what we

are, we shall never find anything but our own thoughts in the thoughts

of others, and that all of us are somewhat inclined to read books as I

have read this one.”

She did not hear him; her soul was still before the Nubian’s tomb. As he

heard her sigh, he kissed her on the neck, and said--

“Do not be sad, my child. We are never happy in this world, except when

we forget the world.

“Come, let us cheat life--it is sure to take its revenge. Come, let us

love!”

But she pushed him away.

“_We_ love!” she cried bitterly. “_You_ never loved any one. And _I_

do not love _you_! No! I do not love you! I hate you! Go! I hate you!

I curse and despise all who are happy, and all who are rich! Go! Go!

Goodness is only found amongst the unfortunate. When I was a child I

knew a black slave who died on the cross. He was good; he was filled

with love, and he knew the secret of life. You are not worthy to wash

his feet. Go! I never wish to see you again!”

She threw herself on her face on the carpet, and passed the night

sobbing and weeping, and forming resolutions to live, in future, like

Saint Theodore, in poverty and humbleness.

The next day, she devoted herself again to those pleasures to which she

was addicted. As she knew that her beauty, though still intact, would

not last very long, she hastened to derive all the enjoyment and all the

fame she could from it. At the theatre, where she acted and studied more

than ever, she gave life to the imagination of sculptors, painters, and

poets. Recognising that there was in the attitudes, movements, and walk

of the actress, an idea of the divine harmony which rules the spheres,

wise men and philosophers considered that such perfect grace was

a virtue in itself, and said, “Thais also is a geometrician!” The

ignorant, the poor, the humble, and the timid before whom she consented

to appear, regarded her as a blessing from heaven. Yet she was sad

amidst all the praise she received, and dreaded death more than ever.

Nothing was able to set her mind at rest, not even her house and

gardens, which were celebrated, and a proverb throughout the city.

The gardens were planted with trees, brought at great expense from India

and Persia. They were watered by a running brook, and colonnades in

ruins, and imitation rocks, arranged by a skilful artist, were reflected

in a lake, which also mirrored the statues that stood round it. In the

middle of the garden was the Grotto of Nymphs, which owed its name to

three life-size figures of women, which stood on the threshold. They

were represented as divesting themselves of their garments, and about to

bathe. They anxiously turned their heads, fearing to be seen, and looked

as though they were alive. The only light which entered the building

came, tempered and iridescent, through thin sheets of water. All the

walls were hung--as in the sacred grottoes--with wreaths, garlands, and

votive pictures, in which the beauty of Thais was celebrated. There

were also tragic and comic masks, bright with colours; and paintings

representing theatrical scenes or grotesque figures, or fabulous

animals. On a stele in the centre stood a little ivory Eros of wonderful

antique workmanship. It was a gift from Nicias. In one of the bays was a

figure of a goat in black marble, with shining agate eyes. Six alabaster

kids crowded round its teats; but, raising its cloven hoofs and its ugly

head, it seemed impatient to climb the rocks. The floor was covered with

Byzantine carpets, pillows embroidered by the yellow men of Cathay, and

the skins of Libyan lions. Perfumed smoke arose from golden censers.

Flowering plants grew in large onyx vases. And at the far end, in the

purple shadow, gleamed the gold nails on the shell of a huge Indian

tortoise turned upside down, which served as the bed of the actress. It

was here that every day, to the murmur of the water, and amid perfumes

and flowers, Thais reclined softly, and conversed with her friends,

while awaiting the hour of supper, or meditated in solitude on

theatrical art, or on the flight of years.

On the afternoon after the games, Thais was reposing in the Grotto of

Nymphs. She had noticed in her mirror the first signs of the decay of

her beauty, and she was frightened to think that white hair and wrinkles

would at last come. She vainly tried to comfort herself with the

assurance that she could recover her fresh complexion by burning certain

herbs and pronouncing a few magic words. A pitiless voice cried, “You

will grow old Thais; you will grow old.” And a cold sweat of terror

bedewed her forehead. Then, on looking at herself again in the mirror

with infinite tenderness, she found that she was still beautiful and

worthy to be loved. She smiled to herself, and murmured, “There is not a

woman in Alexandria who can rival me in suppleness or grace or movement,

or in splendour of arms, and the arms, my mirror, are the real chains of

love!”

While she was thus thinking she saw an unknown man--thin, with burning

eyes and unkempt beard, and clad in a richly embroidered robe--standing

before her. She let fall her mirror, and uttered a cry of fright.

Paphnutius stood motionless, and seeing how beautiful she was, he

murmured this prayer from the bottom of his heart--

“Grant, my God, that the face of this woman may not be a temptation, but

may prove salutary to Thy servant.”

Then, forcing himself to speak, he said--

“Thais, I live in a far country, and the fame of thy beauty has led me

to thee. It is said that thou art the most clever of actresses and the

most irresistible of women. That which is related of thy riches and thy

love affairs seems fabulous, and calls to mind the old story of Rhodope,

whose marvellous history is known by heart to all the boatmen on the

Nile. Therefore I was seized with a desire to know thee, and I see that

the truth surpasses the rumour. Thou art a thousand times more clever

and more beautiful than is reported. And now that I see thee, I say

to myself, ‘It is impossible to approach her without staggering like a

drunken man.’”

The words were feigned; but the monk, animated by pious zeal, uttered

them with real warmth. Thais gazed, without displeasure, at this strange

being who had frightened her. The rough, wild aspect, and the fiery

glances of his eyes, astonished her. She was curious to learn the state

of life of a man so different from all others she had met. She replied,

with gentle raillery--

“You seem prompt to admire, stranger. Beware that my looks do not

consume you to the bones! Beware of loving me!”

He said--

“I love thee, O Thais! I love thee more than my life, and more than

myself. For thee I have quitted the desert; for thee my lips--vowed

to silence--have pronounced profane words; for thee I have seen what I

ought not to have seen, and heard what it was forbidden to me to hear;

for thee my soul is troubled, my heart is open, and the thoughts gush

out like the running springs at which the pigeons drink; for thee I

have walked day and night across sandy deserts teeming with reptiles and

vampires; for thee I have placed my bare foot on vipers and scorpions!

Yes, I love thee! I love thee, but not like those men who, burning with

the lusts of the flesh, come to thee like devouring wolves or furious

bulls. Thou art dear to them as is the gazelle to the lion. Their

ravening lusts will consume thee to the soul, O woman! I love thee in

spirit and in truth; I love thee in God, and for ever and ever; that

which is in my breast is named true zeal and divine charity. I promise

thee better things than drunkenness crowned with flowers or the dreams

of a brief night. I promise thee holy feasts and celestial suppers.

The happiness that I bring thee will never end; it is unheard-of, it

is ineffable, and such that if the happy of this world could only see a

shadow of it they would die of wonder.”

Thais laughed mischievously.

“Friend,” she said, “show me this wonderful love. Make haste! Long

speeches would be an insult to my beauty; let us not lose a moment. I am

impatient to taste the felicity you announce; but, to say the truth, I

fear that I shall always remain ignorant of it, and that all you have

promised me will vanish in words. It is easier to promise a great

happiness than to give it. Everyone has a talent of some sort. I fancy

that yours is to make long speeches. You speak of an unknown love. It

is so long since kisses were first exchanged that it would be very

extraordinary if there still remained secrets in love. On this subject

lovers know more than philosophers.”

“Do not jest, Thais. I bring thee the unknown love.”

“Friend, you come too late. I know every kind of love.”

“The love that I bring thee abounds with glory, whilst the loves that

thou knowest breed only shame.”

Thais looked at him with an angry eye, a frown gathered on her beautiful

face.

“You are very bold, stranger, to offend your hostess. Look at me, and

say if I resemble a creature crushed down with shame. No, I am not

ashamed, and all others who live like me are not ashamed either,

although they are not so beautiful or so rich as I am. I have sown

pleasure in my footsteps, and I am celebrated for that all over the

world. I am more powerful than the masters of the world. I have seen

them at my feet. Look at me, look at these little feet; thousands of men

would pay with their blood for the happiness of kissing them. I am not

very big, and I do not occupy much space on the earth. To those who look

at me from the top of the Serapeium, when I pass in the street, I look

like a grain of rice; but that grain of rice has caused among men,

griefs, despairs, hates, and crimes enough to have filled Tartarus. Are

you not mad to talk to me of shame when all around proclaims my glory?”

“That which is glory in the eyes of men, is infamy before God. O

woman, we have been nourished in countries so different, that it is not

surprising we have neither the same language nor the same thoughts! Yet

Heaven is my witness that I wish to agree with thee, and that it is my

intention not to leave thee until we share the same sentiments. Who will

inspire me with burning words that will melt thee like wax in my breath,

O woman, that the fingers of my desires may mould thee as they wish?

What virtue will deliver thee to me, O dearest of souls, that the spirit

which animates me, creating thee a second time, may imprint on thee a

fresh beauty, and that thou mayest cry, weeping for joy, ‘It is only now

that I am born’? Who will cause to gush in my heart a fount of Siloam,

in which thou mayest bathe and recover thy first purity? Who will change

me into a Jordan, the waves of which sprinkled on thee, will give thee

life eternal?”

Thais was no longer angry.

“This man,” she thought, “talks of life eternal and all that he says

seems written on a talisman. No doubt he is a mage, and knows secret

charms against old age and death,” and she resolved to offer herself to

him. Therefore, pretending to be afraid of him, she retired a few steps

to the end of the grotto, and sitting down on the edge of the bed,

artfully pulled her tunic across her breast; then, motionless and mute

and her eyes cast down, she waited. Her long eyelashes made a soft

shadow on her cheeks. Her entire attitude expressed modesty; her naked

feet swung gently, and she looked like a child sitting thinking on the

bank of a brook. But Paphnutius looked at her, and did not move. His

trembling knees hardly supported him, his tongue dried in his mouth, a

terrible buzzing rang in his ears. But all at once his sight failed, and

he could see nothing before him but a thick cloud. He thought that the

hand of Jesus had been laid on his eyes, to hide this woman from them.

Reassured by such succour, strengthened and fortified, he said with a

gravity worthy of an old hermit of the desert--

“If thou givest thyself to me, thinkest thou it is hidden from God?”

She shook her head.

“God? Who forces Him to keep His eye always upon the Grotto of Nymphs?

Let Him go away if we offend Him! But why should we offend Him? Since

He has created us, He can be neither angry nor surprised to see us as He

made us, and acting according to the nature He has given us. A good deal

too much is said on His behalf, and He is often credited with ideas He

never had. You yourself, stranger, do you know His true character? Who

are you that you should speak to me in His name?”

At this question the monk, opening his borrowed robe, showed the

cassock, and said--

“I am Paphnutius, Abbot of Antinoe, and I come from the holy desert. The

hand that drew Abraham from Chaldaea and Lot from Sodom has separated me

from the present age. I no longer existed for the men of this century.

But thy image appeared to me in my sandy Jerusalem, and I knew that

thou wert full of corruption, and death was in thee. And now I am before

thee, woman, as before a grave, and I cry unto thee, ‘Thais, arise!’”

At the words, Paphnutius, monk, and abbot, she had turned pale with

fright. And now, with dishevelled hair and joined hands, weeping and

groaning, she dragged herself to the feet of the saint.

“Do not hurt me! Why have you come? What do you want of me? Do not hurt

me! I know that the saints of the desert hate women who, like me, are

made to please. I am afraid that you hate me, and want to hurt me. Go!

I do not doubt your power. But know, Paphnutius, that you should neither

despise me nor hate me. I have never, like many of the men I know,

laughed at your voluntary poverty. In your turn, do not make a crime

of my riches. I am beautiful, and clever in acting. I no more chose my

condition than my nature. I was made for that which I do. I was born to

charm men. And you yourself, did you not say just now that you loved me?

Do not use your science against me. Do not pronounce magic words which

would destroy my beauty, or change me into a statue of salt. Do not

terrify me! I am already too frightened. Do not kill me! I am so afraid

of death.”

He made a sign to her to rise, and said--

“Child, have no fear. I will utter no word of shame or scorn. I come on

behalf of Him who sat on the edge of the well, and drank of the pitcher

which the woman of Samaria offered to Him; and who, also, when He supped

at the house of Simon, received the perfumes of Mary. I am not without

sin that I should throw the first stone. I have often badly employed

the abundant grace which God has bestowed upon me. It was not anger,

but pity, which took me by the hand to conduct me here. I can, without

deceit, address thee in words of love, for it is the zeal in my heart

which has brought me to thee. I burn with the fire of charity, and if

thy eyes, accustomed only to the gross sights of the flesh, could see

things in their mystic aspect, I should appear unto thee as a branch

broken off the burning bush which the Lord showed on the mountain to

Moses of old, that he might understand true love--that which envelops

us, and which, so far from leaving behind it mere coals and ashes,

purifies and perfumes for ever that which it penetrates.”

“I believe you, monk, and no longer fear either deceit or ill-will from

you. I have often heard talk of the hermits of the Thebaid. Marvellous

things have been told concerning Anthony and Paul. Your name is not

unknown to me, and I have heard say that, though you are still young,

you equal in virtue the oldest anchorites. As soon as I saw you, and

without knowing who you were, I felt that you were no ordinary man. Tell

me! can you do for me that which neither the priests of Isis, nor of

Hermes, nor of the celestial Juno, nor the Chaldean soothsayers, nor the

Babylonian magi have been able to effect? Monk, if you love me, can you

prevent me from dying?”

“Woman, whosoever wishes to live shall live. Flee from the abominable

delights in which thou diest for ever. Snatch from the devils, who will

burn it most horribly, that body which God kneaded with His spittle and

animated with his own breath. Thou art consumed with weariness; come,

and refresh thyself at the blessed springs of solitude; come and drink

of those fountains which are hidden in the desert, and which gush forth

to heaven. Careworn soul, come, and possess that which thou desirest!

Heart greedy for joy, come and taste true joys--poverty, retirement,

self-forgetfulness, seclusion in the bosom of God. Enemy of Christ now,

and to-morrow His well-beloved, come to Him! Come, thou whom I have

sought, and thou wilt say, ‘I have found love!’”

Thais seemed lost in meditation on things afar.

“Monk,” she asked, “if I adjure all pleasures and do penance, is it true

that I shall be born again in heaven, my body intact in all its beauty?”

“Thais, I bring thee eternal life. Believe me, for that which I announce

to thee is the truth.”

“Who will assure me that it is the truth?”

“David and the prophets, the Scriptures, and the wonders that thou shalt

behold.”

“Monk, I should like to believe you, for I must confess that I have not

found happiness in this world. My lot in life is better than that of

a queen, and yet I have many bitternesses and misfortunes, and I am

infinitely weary of my existence. All women envy me, and yet sometimes

I have envied the lot of a toothless old woman who, when I was a child,

sold honey-cakes under one of the city gates. Often has the idea flashed

across my mind that only the poor are good, happy, and blessed, and that

there must be great gladness in living humble and obscure. Monk, you

have agitated a storm in my soul, and brought to the surface that which

lay at the bottom. Who am I to believe, alas! and what is to become of

me--and what is life?”

Whilst she thus spoke, Paphnutius was transfigured; celestial joy beamed

in his face.

“Listen!” he said. “I was not alone when I entered this house. Another

accompanied me, another who stands by my side. Him thou canst not see,

because thy eyes are yet unworthy to behold Him; but soon thou shalt see

Him in all His glorious splendour, and thou wilt say, ‘He alone is to be

adored.’ But now, if He had not placed His gentle hands before my eyes,

O Thais, I should perhaps have fallen into sin with thee, for of myself

I am but weak and sinful. But He saved us both. He is as good as He is

powerful, and His name is the Saviour. He was promised to the world, by

David and the prophets, worshipped in His cradle by the shepherds and

the magi, crucified by the Pharisees, buried by the holy women, revealed

to the world by the apostles, testified to by the martyrs. And now,

having learned that thou fearest death, O woman, He has come to thy

house to prevent thee from dying. Art Thou not here present with me,

Jesus, at this moment, as Thou didst appear to the men of Galilee, in

those wonderful days when the stars, which came down with thee from

heaven, were so near the earth that the holy innocents could take them

in their hands, when they played in their mothers’ arms on the terraces

of Bethlehem? Is it not true, Jesus, that Thou art here present, and

that Thou showest me in reality Thy precious body? Is not Thy face here,

and that tear which flows down Thy cheek a real tear? Yes, the angel of

eternal justice shall receive it, and it shall be the ransom of the soul

of Thais. Art Thou not here, Jesus? Jesus, Thy loving lips open. Thou

canst speak; speak, I hear Thee! And thee, Thais, happy Thais! listen

to what the Saviour Himself says to thee; it is He who speaks, not I.

He says, ‘I have sought thee long, O My lost sheep! I have found thee

at last! Fly from Me no more. Let Me take thee by the hands, poor little

one, and I will bear thee on My shoulders to the heavenly fold. Come, My

Thais! come, My chosen one! come, and weep with Me!’”

And Paphnutius fell on his knees, his eyes filled with ecstasy. And then

Thais saw in his face the likeness of the living Christ.

“O vanished days of my childhood!” she sobbed. “O sweet father Ahmes!

good Saint Theodore, why did I not die in thy white mantle whilst thou

didst bear me, in the first dawn of day, yet fresh from the waters of

baptism!”

Paphnutius advanced towards her, crying--

“Thou art baptised! O divine wisdom! O Providence! O great God! I know

now the power which drew me to thee. I know what rendered thee so dear

and so beautiful in my eyes. It was the virtue of the baptismal water,

which made me leave the shadow of God, where I lived, to seek thee in

the poisoned air where men dwell. A drop--a drop, no doubt, of the water

which washed thy body--has been sprinkled in my face. Come, O my sister,

and receive from thy brother the kiss of peace.”

And the monk touched with his lips the forehead of the courtesan.

Then he was silent, letting God speak, and nothing was heard in the

Grotto of Nymphs but the sobs of Thais, mingled with the rippling of the

running water.

She wept without trying to stop her tears, when two black slaves

appeared, loaded with stuffs, perfumes, and garlands.

“It was hardly the right time to weep,” she said, trying to smile.

“Tears redden the eyes and spoil the complexion, and I must sup tonight

with some friends, and want to be beautiful, for there will be women

there quick to spy out marks of care on my face. These slaves come to

dress me. Withdraw, my father, and allow them to do their work. They are

clever and experienced, and I pay them well for their services. You see

that one who wears thick rings of gold, and shows such white teeth. I

took her from the wife of the pro-consul.”

Paphnutius had at first a thought of dissuading Thais, as earnestly as

he could, from going to this supper. But he determined to act prudently,

and asked what persons she would meet there.

She replied that there would be the host, old Cotta, the Prefect of the

Fleet, Nicias, and several other philosophers who loved an argument, the

poet Callicrates, the high priest of Serapis, some young men whose chief

amusement was training horses, and lastly some women, of whom there was

little to be said except that they were young. Then, by a supernatural

inspiration--

“Go amongst them, Thais,” said the monk. “Go! But I will not leave thee.

I will go with thee to this banquet, and will remain by thy side without

saying a word.”

She burst out laughing. And whilst her two black slaves were busy

dressing her, she cried--

“What will they say when they see that I have a monk of the Thebaid for

my lover?”

THE BANQUET

When, followed by Paphnutius, Thais entered the banqueting-room, the

guests were already, for the most part, assembled, and reclining

on their couches before the horseshoe table, which was covered with

glittering vessels. In the centre of the table stood a silver basin,

surmounted by four figures of satyrs, who poured out from wine-skins

on the boiled fish a kind of pickle in which they floated. When Thais

appeared, acclamations arose from all sides.

Greetings to the sister of the Graces!

To the silent Melpomene, who can express all things with her looks!

Salutation to the well-beloved of gods and men!

To the much desired!

To her who gives suffering and its cure!

To the pearl of Racotis!

To the rose of Alexandria!

She waited impatiently till this torrent of praise had passed, and then

said to Cotta, the host--

“Lucius, I have brought you a monk of the desert, Paphnutius, the Abbot

of Antinoe. He is a great saint, whose words burn like fire.”

Lucius Aurelius Cotta, the Prefect of the Fleet, rose, and replied--

“You are welcome, Paphnutius, you who profess the Christian faith. I

myself have some respect of a religion that has now become imperial. The

divine Constantine has placed your co-religionists in the front rank of

the friends of the empire. Latin wisdom ought, in fact, to admit your

Christ into our pantheon. It was a maxim of our forefathers that there

was something divine in every god. But no more of that. Let us drink and

enjoy ourselves while there is yet time.”

Old Cotta spoke tranquilly. He had just studied a new model for

a galley, and had finished the sixth book of his history of the

Carthaginians. He felt sure he had not lost his day, and was satisfied

with himself and the gods.

“Paphnutius,” he added, “you see here several men who are worthy to be

loved--Hermodorus, the High Priest of Serapis; the philosophers Dorion,

Nicias, and Zenothemis; the poet Callicrates; young Chereas and young

Aristobulus, both sons of dear old comrades; and near them Philina and

Drosea, who deserve to be praised for their beauty.”

Nicias embraced Paphnutius, and whispered in his ear--

“I warned you, brother, that Venus was powerful. It is her gentle force

that has brought you here in spite of yourself. Listen: you are a man

full of piety, but if you do not confess that she is the mother of the

gods, your ruin is certain. Do you know that the old mathematician,

Melanthes, used to say, ‘I cannot demonstrate the properties of a

triangle without the aid of Venus’?”

Dorion, who had for some seconds been looking at the new-comer, suddenly

clapped his hands and uttered a cry of surprise.

“It is he, friends! His look, his beard, his tunic--it is he himself!

I met him at the theatre whilst our Thais was acting. He was furiously

excited, and spoke with violence, as I can testify. He is an honest man,

but he will abuse us all; his eloquence is terrible. If Marcus is the

Plato of the Christians, Paphnutius is the Demosthenes. Epicurus, in his

little garden, never heard the like.”

Philina and Drosea, however, devoured Thais with their eyes. She wore on

her fair hair a wreath of pale violets, each flower of which recalled,

in a paler hue, the colour of her eyes, so that the flowers looked

like softened glances, and the eyes like sparkling flowers. It was the

peculiar gift of this woman; on her everything lived, and was soul and

harmony. Her robe, which was of mauve spangled with silver, trailed in

long folds with a grace that was almost melancholy and was not relieved

by either bracelets or necklaces. The chief charm of her appearance

was her beautiful bare arms. The two friends were obliged to admire, in

spite of themselves the robe and head-dress of Thais, though they said

nothing to her on the subject.

“How beautiful you are!” said Philina. “You could not have been more

so when you came to Alexandria. Yet my mother, who remembers seeing

you then, says there were few women who were worthy to be compared with

you.”

“Who is the new lover you have brought?” asked Drosea. “He has a

strange, wild appearance. If there are shepherds of elephants, assuredly

he must resemble one. Where did you find such a wild-looking friend,

Thais? Was it amongst the troglodytes who live under the earth, and are

grimy with the smoke of Hades?”

But Philina put her finger on Drosea’s lips.

“Hush! the mysteries of love must remain secret, and it is forbidden to

know them. For my own part, certainly, I would rather be kissed by the

mouth of smoking Etna than by the lips of that man. But our dear

Thais, who is beautiful and adorable as the goddesses, should, like

the goddesses, grant all requests, and not, like us, only those of nice

young men.”

“Take care, both of you!” replied Thais. “He is a mage and an enchanter.

He hears words that are whispered, and even thoughts. He will tear out

your heart while you are asleep, and put a sponge in its place, and the

next day, when you drink water, you will be choked to death.”

She watched them grow pale, then she turned away from them, and sat on a

couch by the side of Paphnutius. The voice of Cotta, kind but imperious,

was suddenly heard above the murmur of conversation.

“Friends, let each take his place! Slaves, pour out the honeyed wine!”

Then, the host raising his cup--

“Let us first drink to the divine Constantine and the genius of the

empire. The country should be put first of all, even above the gods, for

it contains them all.”

All the guests raised their full cups to their lips. Paphnutius alone

did not drink, because Constantine had persecuted the Nicaean faith, and

because the country of the Christian is not of this world.

Dorion, having drunk, murmured--

“What is one’s country? A flowing river. The shores change, and the

waves are incessantly renewed.”

“I know, Dorion,” replied the Prefect of the Fleet, “that you care

little for the civic virtues, and you think that the sage ought to hold

himself aloof from all affairs. I think, on the contrary, that an honest

man should desire nothing better than to fill a responsible post in the

State. The State is a noble thing.”

Hermodorus, the High Priest of Serapis, spoke next--

“Dorion has asked, ‘What is one’s country?’ I will reply that the altars

of the gods and the tombs of ancestors make one’s country. A man is a

fellow-citizen by association of memories and hopes.”

Young Aristobulus interrupted Hermodorus.

“By Castor! I saw a splendid horse to-day. It belonged to Demophoon.

It has a fine head, small jaw, and strong forelegs. It carries its neck

high and proud, like a cock.”

But young Chereas shook his head.

“It is not such a good horse as you say, Aristobulus. Its hoofs are

thin, and the pasterns are too low; the animal will soon go lame.”

They were continuing their dispute, when Drosea uttered a piercing

shriek.

“Oh! I nearly swallowed a fish-bone, as long and much sharper than a

style. Luckily, I was able to get it out of my throat in time! The gods

love me!”

“Did you say, Drosea, that the gods loved you?” asked Nicias, smiling.

“Then they must share the same infirmities as men. Love presupposes

unhappiness on the part of whoever suffers from it, and is a proof of

weakness. The affection they feel for Drosea is a great proof of the

imperfection of the gods.”

At these words Drosea flew into a great rage.

“Nicias, your remarks are foolish and not to the point. But that is your

character--you never understand what is said, and reply in words devoid

of sense.”

Nicias smiled again.

“Talk away, talk away, Drosea. Whatever you say, we are glad every time

you open your mouth. Your teeth are so pretty!”

At that moment, a grave-looking old man, negligently dressed, walking

slowly, with his head high, entered the room, and gazed at the guests

quietly. Cotta made a sign to him to take a place by his side, on the

same couch.

“Eucrites,” he said, “you are welcome. Have you composed a new treatise

on philosophy this month? That would make, if I calculate correctly, the

ninety-second that has proceeded from the Nile reed you direct with an

Attic hand.”

Eucrites replied, stroking his silver beard--

“The nightingale was created to sing, and I was created to praise the

immortal gods.”

DORION. Let us respectfully salute, in Eucrites, the last of the stoics.

Grave and white, he stands in the midst of us like the image of an

ancestor. He is solitary amidst a crowd of men, and the words he utters

are not heard.

EUCRITES. You deceive yourself, Dorion. The philosophy of virtue is not

dead. I have numerous disciples in Alexandria, Rome, and Constantinople.

Many of the slaves, and some of the nephews of Caesar, now know how to

govern themselves, to live independently, and being unconcerned with all

affairs, they enjoy boundless happiness. Many of them have revived, in

their own person, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. But if it were true

that virtue were for ever extinguished upon the earth, in what way

would the loss of it affect my happiness, since it did not depend on

me whether it existed or perished? Only fools, Dorion, place their

happiness out of their own power. I desire nothing that the gods do not

wish, and I desire all that they do wish. By that means I render myself

like unto them, and share their infallible content. If virtue perishes,

I consent that it should perish, and that consent fills me with joy, as

the supreme effort of my reason or my courage. In all things my wisdom

will copy the divine wisdom, and the copy will be more valuable than the

model; it will have cost greater care and more work.

NICIAS. I understand. You put yourself on the same level as divine

providence. But if virtue consists only in effort, Eucrites, and in that

intense application by which the disciples of Zeno pretend to render

themselves equal to the gods, the frog, which swelled itself out to try

and become as big as the ox, accomplished a masterpiece of stoicism.

EUCRITES. You jest, Nicias, and, as usual, you excel in ridicule. But

if the ox of which you speak is really a god, like Apis, or like that

subterranean ox whose high priest I see here, and if the frog, being

wisely inspired, succeed in equalling it, would it not be, in fact,

more virtuous than the ox, and could you refrain from admiring such a

courageous little animal!

Four servants placed on the table a wild pig, still covered with its

bristles. Little pigs, made of pastry, surrounded the animal, as though

they would suckle, to show that it was a sow.

Zenothemis, turning towards the monk, said--

“Friends, a guest has come hither to join us. The illustrious

Paphnutius, who leads such an extraordinary life of solitude, is our

unexpected guest.”

COTTA. You may even add, Zenothemis, that the place of honour is due to

him, because he came without being invited.

ZENOTHEMIS. Therefore, we ought, my dear Lucius, to make him the more

welcome, and strive to do that which would be most agreeable to him. Now

it is certain that such a man cares less for the perfumes of meat than

for the perfumes of fine thoughts. We shall, doubtless, please him by

discussing the doctrine he professes, which is that of Jesus crucified.

For my own part, I shall the more willingly discuss this doctrine,

because it keenly interests me, on account of the number and the

diversity of the allegories it contains. If one may guess at the

spirit by the letter, it is filled with truths, and I consider that

the Christian books abound in divine revelations. But I should not,

Paphnutius, grant equal merit to the Jewish books. They were inspired

not, as it was said, by the Spirit of God, but by an evil genius. Iaveh,

who dictated them, was one of those spirits who people the lower air,

and cause the greater part of the evils, from which we suffer; but he

surpassed all the others in ignorance and ferocity. On the contrary, the

serpent with golden wings, which twined its azure coils round the tree

of knowledge, was made up of light and love. A combat between these

two powers--the one of light and the other of darkness--was, therefore,

inevitable. It occurred soon after the creation of the world. God had

hardly begun to rest after His labors; Adam and Eve, the first man and

the first woman, lived happy and naked in the Garden of Eden, when Iaveh

conceived--to their misfortune--the design of governing them and all

the generations which Eve already bore in her splendid loins. As he

possessed neither the compass nor the lyre, and was equally ignorant of

the science which commands and the art which persuades, he frightened

these two poor children by hideous apparitions, capricious threats,

and thunder-bolts. Adam and Eve, feeling his shadow upon them, pressed

closer to one another, and their love waxed stronger in fear. The

serpent took pity on them, and determined to instruct them, in order

that, possessing knowledge, they might no longer be misled by lies. Such

an undertaking required extreme prudence, and the frailty of the first

human couple rendered it almost hopeless. The well-intentioned demon

essayed it, however. Without the knowledge of Iaveh--who pretended

to see everything, but, in reality, was not very sharp-sighted--he

approached these two beings, and charmed their eyes by the splendour of

his coat and the brilliancy of his wings. Then he interested their minds

by forming before them, with his body, definite figures, such as the

circle, the ellipse, and the spiral, the wonderful properties of which

have since been recognised by the Greeks. Adam meditated on these

figures more than Eve did. But when the serpent began to speak, and

taught the most sublime truths--those which cannot be demonstrated--he

found that Adam being made of red earth, was of too dull a nature to

understand these subtle distinctions, but that Eve, on the contrary,

being more tender and more sensitive, was easily impressed. Therefore

he conversed with her alone, in the absence of her husband, in order to

initiate her first--

DORION. Permit me, Zenothemis, to interrupt you. I speedily recognised

in the myth you have explained to us an episode in the war of Pallas

Athene against the giants. Iaveh much resembles Typhoon, and Pallas is

represented by the Athenians with a serpent at her side. But what you

have said causes me considerable doubt as to the intelligence or good

faith of the serpent of whom you have spoken. If he had really possessed

knowledge, would he have entrusted it to a woman’s little head, which

was incapable of containing it? I should rather consider that he was

like Iaveh, ignorant and a liar, and that he chose Eve because she was

easily seduced, and he imagined that Adam would have more intelligence

and perception.

ZENOTHEMIS. Learn, Dorion, that it is not by perception and

intelligence, but by sensibility, that the highest and purest truths are

reached. That is why women, who, generally, are less reflective but more

sensitive than men, rise more easily to the knowledge of things divine.

In them is the gift of prophecy, and it is not without reason that

Apollo Citharedes, and Jesus of Nazareth, are sometimes represented

clad, like women, in flowing robes. The initiator was therefore

wise--whatever you may say to the contrary, Dorion--in bestowing light,

not on the duller Adam, but on Eve, who was whiter than milk or the

stars. She freely listened to him, and allowed herself to be led to the

tree of knowledge, the branches of which rose to heaven, and which was

bathed with the divine spirit as with a dew. This tree was covered with

leaves which spoke all the languages of future races of men, and their

united voices formed a perfect harmony. Its abundant fruit gave to the

initiated who tasted it the knowledge of metals, stones, and plants, and

also of physical and moral laws; but this fruit was like fire, and those

who feared suffering and death did not dare to put it to their lips.

Now, as she had listened attentively to the lessons of the serpent, Eve

despised these empty terrors, and wished to taste the fruit which gave

the knowledge of God. But, as she loved Adam, and did not wish him to be

inferior to her, she took him by the hand and led him to the wonderful

tree. Then she picked one of the burning apples, bit it, and proffered

it to her companion. Unfortunately, Iaveh, who was by chance walking

in the garden, surprised them, and seeing that they had become wise, he

fell into a most ungovernable rage. It is in his jealous fits that he is

most to be feared. Assembling all his forces, he created such a turmoil

in the lower air that these two weak beings were terrified. The fruit

fell from the man’s hand, and the woman, clinging to the neck of her

luckless husband, said, “I too will be ignorant and suffer with him.”

The triumphant Iaveh kept Adam and Eve and all their seed in a condition

of hebetude and terror. His art, which consisted only in being able to

make huge meteors, triumphed over the science of the serpent, who was a

musician and geometrician. He made men unjust, ignorant, and cruel,

and caused evil to reign in the earth. He persecuted Cain and his sons

because they were skilful workmen; he exterminated the Philistines

because they composed Orphic poems, and fables like those of AEsop. He

was the implacable enemy of science and beauty, and for long ages

the human race expiated, in blood and tears, the defeat of the winged

serpent. Fortunately, there arose among the Greeks learned men, such as

Pythagoras, and Plato, who recovered by the force of genius, the figures

and the ideas which the enemy of Iaveh had vainly tried to teach the

first woman. The soul of the serpent was in them; and that is why the

serpent, as Dorion has said, is honoured by the Athenians. Finally, in

these latter days, there appeared, under human form, three celestial

spirits--Jesus of Galilee, Basilides, and Valentinus--to whom it was

given to pluck the finest fruits of that tree of knowledge, whose roots

pass through all the earth, and whose top reaches to the highest heaven.

I have said all this in vindication of the Christians, to whom the

errors of the Jews are too often imputed.

DORION. If I understood you aright, Zenothemis, you said that three

wonderful men--Jesus, Basilides, and Valentinus--had discovered secrets

which had remained hidden from Pythagoras and Plato, and all the

philosophers of Greece, and even from the divine Epicurus, who, however,

has freed men from the dread of empty terrors. You would greatly oblige

me by telling me by what means these three mortals acquired knowledge

which had eluded the most contemplative sages.

ZENOTHEMIS. Must I repeat to you, Dorion, that science and cogitation

are but the first steps to knowledge, and that ecstasy alone leads to

eternal truth?

HERMODORUS. It is true, Zenothemis, that the soul is nourished on

ecstasy, as the cicada is nourished on dew. But we may even say more:

the mind alone is capable of perfect rapture. For man is of a threefold

nature, composed of material body, of a soul which is more subtle, but

also material, and of an incorruptible mind. When, emerging from the

body as from a palace suddenly given over to silence and solitude and

flying through the gardens of the soul, the mind diffuses itself in God,

it tastes the delights of an anticipated death, or rather of a future

life, for to die is to live; and in that condition, partaking of divine

purity, it possesses both infinite joy and complete knowledge. It enters

into the unity which is All. It is perfected.

NICIAS. That is very fine; but, to say the truth, Hermodorus, I do not

see much difference between All and Nothing. Words even seem to fail to

make the distinction. Infinity is terribly like nothingness--they are

both inconceivable to the mind. In my opinion perfection costs too dear;

we pay for it with all our being, and to possess it must cease to

exist. That is a calamity from which God Himself is not free, for the

philosophers are doing their best to perfect Him. After all, if we do

not know what it is _not_ to be, we are equally ignorant what it is to

_be_. We know nothing. It is said that it is impossible for men to agree

on this question. I believe--in spite of our noisy disputes--that it is,

on the contrary, impossible for men not to become some day all at unity

buried under the mass of contradictions, a Pelion on Ossa, which they

themselves have raised.

COTTA. I am very fond of philosophy, and study it in my leisure time.

But I never understand it well, except in Cicero’s books. Slaves, pour

out the honeyed wine!

CALLICRATES. It is a singular thing, but when I am hungry I think of

the time when the tragic poets sat at the boards of good tyrants, and my

mouth waters. But when I have tasted the excellent wine that you give

us so abundantly, generous Lucius, I dream of nothing but civil wars and

heroic combats. I blush to live in such inglorious times; I invoke the

goddess of Liberty; and I pour out my blood--in imagination--with the

last Romans on the field of Philippi.

COTTA. In the days of the decline of the Republic my ancestors died with

Brutus--for liberty. But there is reason to suspect that what the

Roman people called liberty was only in reality the right to govern

themselves. I do not deny that liberty is the greatest boon a nation can

have. But the longer I live the more I am persuaded that only a strong

government can bestow it on the citizens. For forty years I have filled

high positions in the State, and my long experience has shown me

that when the ruling power is weak the people are oppressed. Those,

therefore, who--like the great majority of rhetoricians--try to weaken

the government, commit an abominable crime. An autocrat, who governs by

his single will, may sometimes cause most deplorable results; but if

he governs by popular consent there is no remedy possible. Before the

majesty of the Roman arms had bestowed peace upon all the world, the

only nations which were happy were those which were ruled over by

intelligent despots.

HERMODORUS. For my part, Lucius, I believe that there is no such thing

as a good form of government, and that we shall never discover one,

because the Greeks, who had so many excellent ideas, were never able to

find one. In that respect, therefore, all hope of ultimate success is

taken from us. Unmistakable signs show that the world is about to fall

into ignorance and barbarism. It has been our lot, Lucius, to witness

terrible events. Of all the mental satisfactions which intelligence,

learning, and virtue can give, all that remains is the cruel pleasure of

watching ourselves die.

COTTA. It is true that the rapacity of the people, and the boldness of

the barbarians, are threatening evils. But with a good fleet, a good

army, and plenty of money----

HERMODORUS. What is the use of deceiving ourselves? The dying empire

will become an easy prey to the barbarians. Cities which were built

by Hellenic genius, or Latin patience, will soon be sacked by drunken

savages. Neither art nor philosophy will exist any longer on the earth.

The statues of the gods will be overturned in the temples, and in men’s

hearts as well. Darkness will overcome all minds, and the world will

die. Can we believe that the Sarmatians will ever devote themselves to

intelligent work, that the Germani will cultivate music and philosophy,

and that the Quadi and the Marcomani will adore the immortal gods? No!

we are sliding toward the abyss. Our old Egypt, which was the cradle

of the world, will be its burial vault; Serapis, the god of Death, will

receive the last adoration of mortals, and I shall have been the last

priest of the last god.

At this moment a strange figure raised the tapestry, and the guests saw

before them a little hunchback, whose bald skull rose in a point. He was

clad, in the Asiatic fashion, in a blue tunic, and wore round his legs,

like the barbarians, red breeches, spangled with gold stars. On

seeing him, Paphnutius recognised Marcus the Arian, and fearing lest a

thunderbolt should fall from heaven, he covered his head with his arms,

and grew pale with fright. At this banquet of the demons, neither the

blasphemies of the pagans, nor the horrible errors of the philosophers,

had had any effect on him, but the mere presence of the heretic quenched

his courage. He would have fled, but his eyes met those of Thais, and

he felt at once strengthened. He read in her soul that she, who was

predestined to become a saint, already protected him. He seized the

skirt of her long, flowing robe, and inwardly prayed to the Saviour

Jesus.

A murmur of acclamation welcomed the arrival of the personage who had

been called the Christian Plato. Hermodorus was the first to speak.

“Most illustrious Marcus, we rejoice to see you amongst us, and it

may be said that you come at the right moment. We know nothing of the

Christian doctrine, beyond what is publicly taught. Now, it is certain

that a philosopher, like you, cannot think as the vulgar think, and

we are curious to know your opinion of the principal mysteries of the

religion you profess. Our dear friend, Zenothemis, who, as you know,

is always hunting for symbolic meanings, just now questioned the

illustrious Paphnutius concerning the Jewish books. But Paphnutius made

no reply, and we should not be surprised at that, as our guest has made

a vow of silence, and God has sealed his tongue in the desert. But

you Marcus, who have spoken at the Christian synods, and even at

the councils of the divine Constantine, can if you wish, satisfy our

curiosity by revealing to us the philosophic truths which are wrapped up

in the Christian fables. Is not the first of these truths the existence

of an only God--in whom, for my part, I fervently believe?”

MARCUS. Yes, venerable brethren, I believe in an only God, not

begotten--the only Eternal, the origin of all things.

NICIAS. We know, Marcus, that your God created the world. That must

certainly have been a great crisis in His existence. He had already

existed an eternity before He could make up His mind to it. But I must,

in justice, confess that His situation was a most difficult one. He must

continue inactive if He would remain perfect, and must act if He would

prove to Himself His own existence. You assure me that He decided

to act. I am willing to believe you, although it was an unpardonable

imprudence on the part of a perfect God. But tell us, Marcus, how He set

about making the world.

MARCUS. Those who, without being Christians, possess, like Hermodorus

and Zenothemis, the principles of knowledge, are aware that God did not

create the world personally without an intermediary. He gave birth to an

only Son, by whom all things were made.

HERMODORUS. That is quite true, Marcus; and this Son is worshipped under

the various names of Hermes, Mithra, Adonis, Apollo, and Jesus.

MARCUS. I should not be a Christian if I gave Him any other names than

those of Jesus Christ, and Saviour. He is the true Son of God. But He

is not eternal, since He had a beginning; as to thinking that He existed

before He was begotten, we must leave that absurdity to the Nicaean

mules, and the obstinate ass who too long governed the Church of

Alexandria under the accursed name of Athanasius.

At these words Paphnutius, white with horror and his face bedewed with

the sweat of agony made the sign of the cross, but maintained a sublime

silence.

Marcus continued--

“It is clear that the foolish Nicene Creed is a treason against the

majesty of the only God, by compelling Him to share His indivisible

attributes with His own emanation--the Mediator by whom all things were

made. Cease jesting at the true God of the Christians, Nicias, and learn

that, like the lilies of the field, He toils not, neither does He spin.

It was not He who was the worker, it was His only Son, Jesus, who,

having created the world, came afterwards to repair His handiwork. For

the creation could not be perfect, and evil was necessarily mingled with

good.”

NICIAS. What is “good,” and what is “evil”?

There was a moment’s silence, during which Hermodorus, his arm extended

on the cloth, pointed to a little ass in Corinthian metal which bore two

baskets--the one containing white olives, the other black olives.

“You see these olives,” he said. “The contrast between the colours is

pleasant to the eye, and we are content that these should be light

and those should be dark. But, if they were endowed with thought and

knowledge, the white would say, It is good for an olive to be white,

it is bad for it to be black; and the black olives would hate the white

olives. We judge better, for we are as much above them as the gods are

above us. For man, who only sees a part of things, evil is an evil; for

God, who understands all things, evil is a good. Doubtless ugliness is

ugly, and not beautiful; but if all were beautiful, the whole would not

be beautiful. It is, then, well that there should be evil, as the second

Plato, far greater than the first, has demonstrated.”

EUCRITES. Let us talk more morally. Evil is an evil--not for the world,

of which it cannot destroy the indestructible harmony but for the sinner

who does it, and cannot help doing it.

COTTA. By Jupiter? that is a good argument.

EUCRITES. The world is a tragedy by an excellent poet. God, who composed

it, has intended each of us to play a part in it. If he wills that you

shall be a beggar, a prince, or a cripple, make the best of the part

assigned you.

NICIAS. Assuredly it would be well that the cripple should limp like

Hephaistos: it would be well that the madman should indulge in all the

fury of Ajax, that the incestuous woman should repeat the crimes of

Phaedra, that the traitor should betray, that the rascal should lie, and

the murderer kill, and when the piece was played, all the actor--kings,

just men, bloody tyrants, pious virgins, immodest wives, noble-minded

citizens, and cowardly assassins--should receive from the poet an equal

share in the felicitations.

EUCRITES. You distort my thought, Nicias, and change a beautiful young

girl into a hideous Gorgon. I am sorry for you, if you are so ignorant

of the nature of the gods, of justice, and of the eternal laws.

ZENOTHEMIS. For my part, friends, I believe in the reality of good and

evil. But I am convinced that there is not a single human action--were

it even the kiss of Judas--which does not bear within itself the germ of

redemption. Evil contributes to the ultimate salvation of men, and, in

that respect issues from Good, and shares the merits belonging to

Good. This has been admirably expressed by the Christians, in the myth

concerning the man with red hair, who, in order to betray his master,

gave him the kiss of peace, and by such act assured the salvation of

men. Therefore, nothing is, in my opinion, more unjust and absurd than

the hate with which certain disciples of Paul, the tentmaker, pursue

the most unfortunate of the apostles of Jesus without realising that the

kiss of Iscariot--prophesied by Jesus Himself--was necessary, according

to their own doctrine, for the redemption of men, and that if Judas

had not received the thirty pieces, the divine wisdom would have been

impugned, Providence frustrated, its designs upset, and the world given

over to evil, ignorance, and death.

MARCUS. Divine wisdom foresaw that Judas, though he was not obliged

to give the traitor’s kiss, would give it, notwithstanding. It thus

employed the sin of Iscariot as a stone in the marvellous edifice of the

redemption.

ZENOTHEMIS. I spoke just now, Marcus, as though I believed that the

redemption of men had been accomplished by Jesus crucified, because I

know that such is the belief of the Christians, and I borrowed their

opinion that I might the better show the mistake of those who believe in

the eternal damnation of Judas. But, in reality, Jesus was, in my eyes,

but the precursor of Basilides and Valentinus. As to the mystery of the

redemption, I will tell you, my dear friends--if you are at all curious

to hear it--how it was really accomplished on earth.

The guests made a sign of assent. Like the Athenian virgins with the

baskets sacred to Ceres, twelve young girls, bearing on their heads

baskets filled with pomegranates and apples, entered the room with a

light step, in time to the music of an invisible flute. They placed

the baskets on the table, the flute ceased, and Zenothemis spoke as

follows--

“When Eunoia, ‘the thought of God,’ had created the world, she confided

the government of the earth to the angels. But they did not preserve

the dispassion befitting masters. Seeing that the daughters of men were

fair, they surprised them in the evening by the wellside, and united

themselves to them. From these unions sprang a turbulent race, who

covered the earth with injustice and cruelty, and the dust of the roads

drank up the blood of the innocent. The sight of this caused Eunoia

infinite grief.

“‘See what I have done!’ she sighed, leaning towards the world. ‘My

poor children are plunged in misery, and by my fault. Their suffering

is my crime, and I will expiate it. God Himself, who only thinks through

me, would be powerless to restore them to their pristine purity. That

which is done is done, and the creation will remain for ever imperfect.

But, at least, I will not forsake my creatures. If I cannot make them

happy, like me, I can make myself unhappy, like them. Since I committed

the mistake of giving them bodies which dishonour them, I will myself

assume a body like unto theirs, and will go and live amongst them.’

“Having thus spoken, Eunoia descended to the earth, and was incarnate

in the breast of a woman of Argos. She was born small and feeble, and

received the name of Helen. She submitted to all the labours of this

life, but soon grew in grace and beauty, and became the most desired

of women, as she had determined, in order that her mortal body might be

tried by the most supreme defilements. An inert prey to lascivious and

violent men, she suffered rape and adultery, in expiation of all the

adulteries, all the violences, all the iniquities, and caused, by her

beauty, the ruin of nations, that God might pardon the sins of the

universe. And never was the celestial thought, never was Eunoia, so

adorable as in those days when, as a woman, she prostituted herself to

heroes and shepherds. The poets surmised her divinity when they painted

her so peaceful, superb, and fatal, and when they addressed that

invocation to her, ‘A soul as serene as a calm upon the waters.’

“Thus was Eunoia led by pity into evil and suffering. She died, and the

Argives still show her tomb--for it was necessary that she should know

death after lust, and taste the bitter fruit she had sown. But, emerging

from the decomposed flesh of Helen, she became incarnate again as

a woman, and again suffered every form of insult and outrage. Thus,

passing from body to body, throughout all the evil ages, she takes upon

her the sins of the world. Her sacrifice will not be in vain. Joined to

us by the bonds of the flesh, loving us, and weeping with us, she will

effect her redemption and ours, and will carry us, clinging to her white

breast, into the peace of the regained paradise.”

HERMODORUS. This myth was not unknown to me. I remembered having heard

that, in one of her metamorphoses, the divine Helen lived with the

magician, Simon, in the reign of the Emperor Tiberius. I thought,

however, that her perdition was involuntary, and that she was dragged

down by the angels in their fall.

ZENOTHEMIS. It is true, Hermodorus, that men who were not properly

initiated in the mysteries have imagined that the sad Eunoia was not a

party to her own downfall. But if it were as they assert Eunoia would

not be the expiating courtesan, the victim covered with stains of

all sorts, the bread steeped in the wine of our shame, the pleasant

offering, the meritorious sacrifice, the holocaust, the smoke of which

rises to God. If they were not voluntary, there would be no merit in her

sins.

CALLICRATES. Does anyone know, Zenothemis in what country, under what

name, in what adorable form, this ever-renascent Helen is living now?

ZENOTHEMIS. A man would have to be very wise indeed to discover such a

secret. And wisdom, Callicrates, is not given to poets, who live in the

rude world of forms and amuse themselves, like children, with sounds and

empty shows.

CALLICRATES. Beware of offending the gods, impious Zenothemis; the poets

are dear to them. The first laws were dictated in verse by the immortals

themselves, and the oracles of the gods are poems. Hymns have a pleasant

sound to celestial ears. Who does not know that the poets are prophets,

and that nothing is hidden from them? Being a poet myself, and crowned

with Apollo’s laurel, I will make known to all the last incarnation of

Eunoia. The eternal Helen is close to us; she is looking at us, and we

are looking at her. You see that woman reclining on the cushions of her

couch--so beautiful and so contemplative--whose eyes shed tears, and

whose lips abound with kisses! It is she! Lovely as in the time of Priam

and the halcyon days of Asia, Eunoia is now called Thais.

PHILINA. What do you say, Callicrates? Our dear Thais knew Paris,

Menelaus, and the Achaians who fought before Ilion! Was the Trojan horse

big, Thais?

ARISTOBULUS. Who speaks of a horse?

“I have drunk like a Thracian!” cried Chereas and he rolled under the

table.

Callicrates, raising his cup, cried--

“If we drink like desperate men, we die unavenged!”

Old Cotta was asleep, and his bald head nodded slowly above his broad

shoulders.

For some time past Dorion had seemed to be greatly excited under his

philosophic cloak. He reeled up to the couch of Thais.

“Thais, I love you, although it is unseemly in me to love a woman.”

THAIS. Why did you not love me before?

DORION. Because I had not supped.

THAIS. But I, my poor friend, have drunk nothing but water; therefore

you must excuse me if I do not love you.

Dorion did not wait to hear more, but made towards Drosea, who had made

a sign to him in order to get him away from her friend. Zenothemis took

the place he had left, and gave Thais a kiss on the mouth.

THAIS. I thought you more virtuous.

ZENOTHEMIS. I am perfect, and the perfect are subject to no laws.

THAIS. But are you not afraid of sullying your soul in a woman’s arms?

ZENOTHEMIS. The body may yield to lust without the soul being concerned.

THAIS. Go away! I wish to be loved with body and soul. All these

philosophers are old goats.

The lamps died out one by one. The pale rays of dawn, which entered

between the openings of the hangings, shone on the livid faces and

swollen eyes of the guests. Aristobulus was sleeping soundly by the side

of Chereas, and, in his dreams, devoting all his grooms to the ravens.

Zenothemis pressed in his arms the yielding Philina; Dorion poured on

the naked bosom of Drosea drops of wine, which rolled like rubies on the

white breast, which was shaking with laughter, and the philosopher

tried to catch these drops with his lips, as they rolled on the slippery

flesh. Eucrites rose, and placing his arm on the shoulder of Nicias, led

him to the end of the hall.

“Friend,” he said, smiling, “if you can still think at all--of what are

you thinking?”

“I think that the love of women is like a garden of Adonis.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do you not know, Eucrites, that women make little gardens on the

terraces, in which they plant boughs in clay pots in honour of the lover

of Venus? These boughs flourish a little time, and then fade.”

“What does that signify, Nicias? That it is foolish to attach importance

to that which fades?”

“If beauty is but a shadow, desire is but a lightning flash. What

madness it is, then, to desire beauty! Is it not rational, on the

contrary, that that which passes should go with that which does not

endure, and that the lightning should devour the gliding shadow?”

“Nicias, you seem to me like a child playing at knuckle-bones. Take my

advice--be free! By liberty only can you become a man.”

“How can a man be free, Eucrites, when he has a body?”

“You shall see presently, my son. Presently you will say, ‘Eucrites was

free.’”

The old man spoke, leaning against a porphyry pillar, his face lighted

by the first rays of dawn. Hermodorus and Marcus had approached, and

stood before him by the side of Nicias; and all four, regardless of the

laughter and cries of the drinkers, conversed on things divine. Eucrites

expresses himself so wisely and eloquently, that Marcus said--

“You are worthy to know the true God.”

Eucrites replied--

“The true God is in the heart of the wise man.”

Then they spoke of death.

“I wish,” said Eucrites, “that it may find me occupied in correcting

my faults, and attentive to all my duties. In the face of death I will

raise my pure hands to heaven, and I will say to the gods, ‘Your

images, gods, that you have placed in the temple of my soul, I have not

profaned; I have hung there my thoughts, as well as garlands, fillets,

and wreaths. I have lived according to your providence. I have lived

enough.’”

Thus speaking, he raised his arms to heaven, and he remained thoughtful

a moment. Then he continued, with extreme joy--

“Separate thyself from life, Eucrites, like the ripe olive which falls;

returning thanks to the tree which bore thee, and blessing the earth,

thy nurse.”

At these words, drawing from the folds of his robe a naked dagger, he

plunged it into his breast.

Those who listened to him sprang forward to seize his hand, but the

steel point had already penetrated the heart of the sage. Eucrites had

already entered into his rest. Hermodorus and Nicias bore the pale and

bleeding body to one of the couches, amidst the shrill shrieks of the

women, the grunts of the guests disturbed in their sleep, and the heavy

breathing of the couples hidden in the shadow of the tapestry. Cotta,

an old soldier, who slept lightly, woke, approached the corpse, examined

the wound, and cried--

“Call Aristaeus, my physician!”

Nicias shook his head.

“Eucrites is no more,” he said. “He wished to die as others wish to

love. He has, like all of us, obeyed his inexpressible desire. And, lo,

now he is like unto the gods, who desire nothing.”

Cotta struck his forehead.

“Die! To want to die when he might still serve the State! What

nonsense!”

Paphnutius and Thais remained motionless and mute, side by side, their

souls overflowing with disgust, horror, and hope.

Suddenly the monk seized the hand of the actress, and stepping over the

drunkards, who had fallen close to the lascivious couples, and treading

in the wine and blood spilt upon the floor, he led her out of the house.

The sun had risen over the city. Long colonnades stretched on both sides

of the deserted street, and at the end shone the dome of Alexander’s

tomb. Here and there on the pavement lay broken wreaths and extinguished

torches. Fresh wafts of the sea could be felt in the air. Paphnutius,

with a look of disgust, tore off his rich robe and trampled the

fragments under his feet.

“Thou hast heard them, my Thais!” he cried. “They have spat forth every

sort of folly and abomination. They dragged the Divine Creator of all

things down the gemonies(*) of the devils of hell, impudently denied the

existence of Good and Evil, blasphemed Jesus, and exalted Judas. And the

most infamous of all, the jackal of darkness, the stinking beast, the

Arian full of corruption and death, opened his mouth like a yawning

sepulchre. My Thais, thou hast seen these filthy snails crawling towards

thee and defiling thee with their sticky sweat; thou hast seen others,

like brutes, sleeping under the heels of their slaves; thou hast seen

them coupling like beasts on the carpet they had fouled with their

vomit; thou hast seen a foolish old man shed a blood yet viler than

the wine which flowed at his debauch, and at the end of the orgie throw

himself in the face of the unforeseen Christ. Praise be to God! Thou

hast seen error and recognised how hideous it was. Thais, Thais, Thais,

recall to mind the follies of these philosophers, and say if thou wilt

go mad with them! Remember the looks, the gestures, the laughs of their

fitting companions, those two lascivious and malicious strumpets, and

say if thou wilt remain like unto them.”

(*) Steps on the Aventine Hill, leading to the Tiber, to

which the bodies of executed criminals were dragged to be

thrown into the river. The word is now obsolete, but was

employed by Ben Jonson (Sejanus) and Massinger (The Roman

Actor).--TRANS.

Thais, her heart stirred with horror and disgust at all she had seen

and heard that night, and feeling the indifference and brutality, the

malicious jealousy of women, the heavy weight of useless hours, sighed.

“I am weary to death, O my father! Where shall I find rest? I feel

that my face is burning, my head empty, and my arms are so tired that I

should not have the strength to seize happiness were it within reach of

my hand.”

Paphnutius gazed at her with loving pity.

“Courage, O my sister! The hour of rest rises for thee, white and pure

as the vapours thou seest rise from the gardens and waters.”

They were near the house of Thais, and could see, above the wall, the

tops of the sycamore and fir trees, which surrounded the Grotto of

Nymphs, tremble in the morning breeze. In front of them was a public

square, deserted, and surrounded with steles and votive statues, and

having at each end a semicircular marble seat, supported by figures of

monsters. Thais fell on one of these seats. Then, looking anxiously at

the monk, she asked--

“What must I do?”

“Thou must,” replied the monk, “follow Him who has come to seek thee. He

will separate thee from this present life, as the vintager gathers

the cluster that would have rotted on the tree, and bears it to the

wine-press to change it into perfumed wine. Listen! there is, a dozen

hours from Alexandria, towards the west, not far from the sea, a

nunnery, the rules of which, a masterpiece of wisdom, deserve to be put

in lyric verse and sung to the sound of the theorbo and tambourines.

It may truly be said that the women who are there, submissive to these

rules, have their feet upon earth and their faces in heaven. They desire

to be poor, that Jesus may love them, modest, that He may gaze upon

them; chaste that He may wed them. He visits them every day in the

guise of a gardener, His feet bare, His beautiful hands open--even as He

showed Himself to Mary at the entrance of the tomb. I will conduct thee

this very day to this nunnery, my Thais, and soon, commingling with

these holy women, thou wilt share in their heavenly conversation. They

await thee as a sister. On the threshold of the convent, their mother,

the pious Albina, will give thee the kiss of peace and will say, ‘My

daughter, thou art welcome!’”

The courtesan uttered a cry of amazement.

“Albina! a daughter of the Caesars! The great niece of the Emperor

Carus!”

“She herself! Albina, who, born in the purple, has donned the serge,

and a daughter of the masters of this world, has risen to the rank of

servant of Jesus Christ. She will be thy mother.”

Thais rose and said--

“Take me to the house of Albina.”

And Paphnutius, completing his victory--

“Surely I will conduct thee thither, and there I will place thee in a

cell, where thou shalt weep for thy sins. For it is not fitting that

thou shouldst mingle with the daughters of Albina until thou art

cleansed from thy sins. I will seal the door, and there, a happy

prisoner, thou wilt wait in tears till Jesus Himself come, as a sign of

pardon, to break the seal that I have placed. And doubt not that He will

come, Thais, and how the flesh of thy soul will tremble when thou shalt

feel the fingers of Light placed upon thy eyes to dry thy tears!”

Thais said a second time--

“Take me, my father, to the house of Albina.”

His heart filled with joy, Paphnutius gazed around him, and tasted,

almost without fear, the pleasure of contemplating the works of

creation; his eyes drank in with joy God’s light, and unknown breezes

fanned his cheeks. Suddenly, seeing at one of the corners of the public

square the little door which led to Thais’ house, and remembering that

the trees, whose foliage he had been admiring, shaded the courtesan’s

garden, he thought of all the impurities which there sullied the air,

to-day so light and pure, and his soul was so grieved that bitter tears

sprang to his eyes.

“Thais,” he said, “we must fly without looking back. But we must not

leave behind us the instruments, the witnesses, the accomplices of thy

past crimes; those heavy hangings, those beds, carpets, perfume censers

and lamps, which would proclaim thy infamy! Dost thou wish that,

animated by the demons, and carried by the evil spirit that is in them,

those accursed belongings should pursue thee even to the desert? It is

but too true that there are tables which bring ruin, seats which serve

as the instruments of devils, which act, speak, strike the ground, and

pass through the air. Let all perish which has seen thy shame! Hasten,

Thais, and, whilst the city is yet asleep, order thy slaves to make,

in the centre of this place, a pile, upon which we will burn all the

abominable riches thy dwelling contains.”

Thais consented.

“Do as you will, my father,” she said. “I know that spirits often dwell

in inanimate objects. At night some articles of furniture talk, either

by giving knocks at regular intervals or by emitting little flashes of

light as signals. And even more. Have you remarked, my father, at the

entrance to the Grotto of Nymphs, on the right, a statue of a naked

woman about to bathe? One day I saw, with my own eyes, that statue turn

its head like a living person, and then return to its ordinary attitude.

I was terrified. Nicias, to whom I related this prodigy, laughed at

me; yet there must be some magic in that statue, for it inspired with

violent desires a certain Dalmatian, who was insensible to my beauty.

It is certain that I have lived amongst enchanted things, and that I

was exposed to the greatest perils, for men have been strangled by the

embraces of a bronze statue. Yet it would be a pity to destroy valuable

works made with rare skill, and to burn my carpets and tapestry would be

a great loss. The beautiful colours of some of them are truly wonderful,

and they cost much money to those who gave them to me. I also possess

cups, statues, and pictures of great price. I do not think they ought to

perish. But you know what is necessary. Do as you will, my father.”

Thus saying, she followed the monk to the little door at which so many

garlands and wreaths had been hung, and, when it was opened, she told

the porter to call together all the slaves in the house. Four Indians,

who were employed in the kitchen, were the first to appear. They were

all four yellow men, and each had but one eye. It had cost Thais much

trouble, and given her amusement, to get together these four slaves

of the same race, and all afflicted with the same infirmity. When they

attended at table they excited the curiosity of the guests, and Thais

made them relate the story of their lives. These four waited in silence.

Their assistants followed them. Then came the stablemen, the huntsmen,

the litter-bearers, and the running footmen with muscles like iron, two

gardeners hirsute as Priapus, six ferocious looking negroes, three Greek

slaves--one a grammarian, another a poet, and the third a singer. They

all stood, ranged in order, on the public square, and were presently

joined by the negresses--curious, suspicious, rolling big round eyes,

and each with a huge mouth slit to her earrings. Lastly, adjusting their

veils and languidly dragging their feet, which were shackled with light

gold chains, appeared six sulky-looking, beautiful white slave-girls.

When they were all assembled, Thais, pointing to Paphnutius, said--

“Do whatever this man commands you; for the spirit of God is in him, and

if you disobey him you will fall dead.”

For she had heard, and really believed, that the earth would open and

swallow up in flames and smoke any impious wretch whom a saint of the

desert struck with his staff.

Paphnutius sent away the women and the Greek men-slaves, and said to the

others--

“Bring wood to the middle of this place, make a huge fire, and throw

into it pell-mell all that there is in the house and grotto.”

They were astonished, and stood motionless, looking at their mistress.

And they still stood inactive and silent, and pressed against each

other, elbow to elbow, suspecting that the order was a joke.

“Obey!” said the monk.

Several of them were Christians. They understood the command, and went

to the house to fetch wood and torches. The others were not indisposed

to imitate them, for, being poor, they hated riches and had a natural

instinct for destruction. Whilst they were building the pile, Paphnutius

said to Thais--

“I thought at one time of fetching the treasurer of one of the churches

of Alexandria (if there still remain one worthy of the name of church,

and that is not defiled by the Arian beasts) and giving him thy goods,

woman, that he might distribute them to widows, and change the proceeds

of crime into the treasure of justice. But such a thought did not come

from God, and I cast it from me, for assuredly it would be a great

offence to the well-beloved of Jesus Christ to offer them the spoils

of thy lust. Thais, all that thou hast touched must be devoured by

the fire, even to its very soul. Thanks be to Heaven, these tunics and

veils, which have seen kisses more innumerable than the waves of the

sea, will only feel now the lips and tongues of the flames. Hasten,

slaves! More wood! More links and torches! And thou, woman, return to

thy house, strip thyself of thy shameful robes, and ask of the most

humble of thy slaves, as an undeserving favour, the tunic that she puts

on when she scrubs the floors.”

Thais obeyed. Whilst the Indians knelt down and blew the embers, the

negroes threw on the pile coffers of ivory, ebony, or cedar, which broke

open and let out wreaths, garlands, and necklaces. The smoke rose in a

dark column, as in the holocausts of the old religion. Then the fire,

which had been smouldering, burst out suddenly with a roar as of some

monstrous animal, and the almost invisible flames began to devour their

valuable prey. The slaves worked more eagerly; they joyfully dragged out

rich carpets, veils embroidered with silver, and flowered tapestry. They

staggered under the weight of tables, couches, thick cushions, and

beds with gold nails. Three strong Ethiopians came hugging the coloured

statues of the nymphs, one of which had been loved as though it were a

mortal; and they looked like huge apes carrying off women. And when the

beautiful naked forms fell from the arms of these monsters, and were

broken on the stones, a deep groan was heard.

At that moment Thais appeared, her hair unloosed and streaming over her

shoulders, barefooted, and clad in a clumsy coarse garment which seemed

redolent with divine voluptuousness merely from having touched her body.

Behind her came a gardener, carrying, half hidden in his long beard, an

ivory Eros.

She made a sign to the man to stop, and approaching Paphnutius, showed

him the little god.

“My father,” she asked, “should this also be thrown into the flames? It

is of marvellous antique work, and is worth a hundred times its weight

in gold. Its loss would be irreparable, for there is not a sculptor in

the world capable of making such a beautiful Eros. Remember also, my

father, that this child is Love, and he should not be harshly treated.

Believe me, Love is a virtue, and if I have sinned, it is not through

him, my father, but against him. Never shall I regret aught that he has

caused me to do, and I deplore only those things I have done contrary to

his commands. He does not allow women to give themselves to those who

do not come in his name. For that reason he ought to be honoured. Look,

Paphnutius, how pretty this little Eros is! With what grace he hides

himself in the gardener’s beard! One day Nicias, who loved me then,

brought it to me and said, ‘It will remind you of me.’ But the roguish

boy did not remind me of Nicias, but of a young man I knew at Antioch.

Enough riches have been destroyed upon this pile, my father! Preserve

this Eros, and place it in some monastery. Those who see it will

turn their hearts towards God, for love leads naturally to heavenly

thoughts.”

The gardener, already believing that the little Eros was saved, smiled

on it as though it had been a child, when Paphnutius, snatching the god

from the arms which held it, threw it into the flames, crying--

“It is enough that Nicias has touched it to make it replete with every

sort of poison!”

Then, seizing by armfuls the sparkling robes, the purple mantles, the

golden sandals, the combs, strigils, mirrors, lamps, theorbos, and

lyres, he threw them into this furnace, more costly than the funeral

pile of Sardanapalus, whilst, drunken with the rage of destruction, the

slaves danced round, uttering wild yells amid a shower of sparks and

ashes.

One by one, the neighbours, awakened by the noise, opened the windows,

and rubbing their eyes, looked out to see whence the smoke came. Then

they came down, half dressed, and drew near the fire.

“What does it mean?” they wondered.

Amongst them were merchants from whom Thais had often bought perfumes

and stuffs, and they looked on anxiously with long, yellow faces, unable

to comprehend what was going on. Some young debauchees, who, returning

from a supper, passed by there, preceded by their slaves, stopped, their

heads crowned with flowers, their tunics floating, and uttered loud

cries. Attracted by curiosity, the crowd increased unceasingly, and soon

it was known that Thais had been persuaded by the Abbot of Antinoe to

burn her riches and retire to a nunnery.

The shopkeepers thought to themselves--

“Thais is going to leave the city; we shall sell no more to her; it is

dreadful to think of. What will become of us without her? This monk has

driven her mad. He is ruining us. Why let him do it? What is the use of

the laws? Are there no magistrates in Alexandria? Thais does not think

about us and our wives and our poor children. It is a public scandal.

She ought to be compelled to stay in the city.”

The young men, on their part, also thought--

“If Thais is going to renounce acting and love, our chief amusements

will be taken from us. She was the glory, delight, and honour of the

stage. She was the joy even of those who had never possessed her. The

women we loved, we loved in her. There were no kisses given in which she

was altogether absent, for she was the joy of all voluptuaries, and the

mere thought that she breathed amongst us excited us to pleasure.”

Thus thought the young men, and one of them, named Cerons, who had held

her in his arms, cried out upon the abduction, and blasphemed against

Christ. In every group the conduct of Thais was severely criticised.

“It is a shameful flight!”

“A cowardly desertion!”

“She is taking the bread out of our mouths.”

“She is robbing our children.”

“She ought at least to pay for the wreaths I have sold to her.”

“And the sixty robes she has ordered of me.”

“She owes money to everybody.”

“Who will represent Iphigenia, Electra, and Polyxena when she is gone?

The handsome Polybia herself will not make such a success as she has

done.”

“Life will be dull when her door is closed.”

“She was the bright star, the soft moon of the Alexandrian sky.”

All the most notorious mendicants of the city--cripples, blind men,

and paralytics--had by this time assembled in the place; and crawling

through the remnants of the riches, they groaned--

“How shall we live when Thais is no longer here to feed us? Every day

the fragments from her table fed two hundred poor wretches, and her

lovers, when they quitted her, threw us as they passed handfuls of

silver pieces.”

Some thieves, too, also mingled with the crowd, and created a deafening

clamour, and pushed their neighbours, to increase disorder, and take

advantage of the tumult to filch some valuable object.

Old Taddeus, who sold Miletan wool and Tarentan linen, and to whom Thais

owed a large sum of money, alone remained calm and silent in the

midst of the uproar. He listened and watched, and gently stroking his

goat-beard, seemed thoughtful. At last he approached young Cerons, and

pulling him by the sleeve, whispered--

“You are the favoured lover of Thais, handsome youth; show yourself, and

do not allow this monk to carry her off.”

“By Pollux and his sister, he shall not!” cried Cerons. “I will speak

to Thais, and without flattering myself, I think she will listen to me

rather than to that sooty-faced Lapithan. Place! Place, dogs!”

And striking with his fist the men, upsetting the old women and treading

on the young children, he reached Thais, and taking her aside--

“Dearest girl,” he said, “look at me, remember, and tell me truly if you

renounce love.”

But Paphnutius threw himself between Thais and Cerons.

“Impious wretch!” he cried, “beware and touch her not; she is

sacred--she belongs to God.”

“Get away, baboon!” replied the young man furiously. “Let me speak to my

sweetheart, or if not I will drag your obscene carcase by the beard to

the fire, and roast you like a sausage.”

And he put his hand on Thais. But, pushed away by the monk with

unexpected force, he staggered back four paces and fell at the foot of

the pile amongst the scattered ashes.

Old Taddeus, meanwhile, had been going from one to the other, pulling

the ears of the slaves and kissing the hands of the masters, inciting

each and all against Paphnutius, and had already formed a little band

resolutely determined to oppose the monk who would steal Thais from

them.

Cerons rose, his face black, his hair singed, and choking with smoke

and rage. He blasphemed against the gods, and threw himself amongst the

assailants, behind whom the beggars crawled, shaking their crutches.

Paphnutius was soon enclosed in a circle of menacing fists, raised

sticks, and cries of death.

“To the ravens with the monk! to the ravens!”

“No; throw him in the fire! Burn him alive!”

Seizing his fair prey, he pressed her to his heart.

“Impious men,” he cried in a voice of thunder, “strive not to tear the

dove from the eagle of the Lord. But rather copy this woman, and like

she turn your filth into gold. Imitate her example, and renounce the

false wealth which you think you hold and which holds you. Hasten!

the day is at hand, and divine patience begins to grow weary. Repent,

confess your sins, weep and pray. Walk in the footsteps of Thais. Hate

your offenses, which are as great as hers. Which of you, poor or rich,

merchants, soldiers, slaves or eminent citizens, would dare to say,

before God, that he was better than a prostitute? You are all nothing

but living filth, and it is by a miracle of divine goodness that you do

not suddenly turn into streams of mire.”

Whilst he spoke flames shot from his eyes; an it seemed as though live

coals came from his lips and those who surrounded him were obliged to

hear him in spite of themselves.