But old Taddeus did not remain idle. He picked up stones and oyster

shells, which he hid in the skirt of his tunic, and not daring to throw

them himself slipped them into the hands of the beggars. Soon the stones

began to fly, and a well-directed shell cut Paphnutius’ face. The blood,

which flowed down the dark face of the martyr, dropped in a new baptism

on the head of the penitent, and Thais, half stifled in the monk’s

embrace and her delicate skin scratched by the coarse cassock, felt a

thrill of horror and fright.

At that moment a man elegantly dressed, and with a wreath of wild celery

on his head, opened a road for himself through the furious crowd, and

cried--

“Stop! Stop! This monk is my brother!”

It was Nicias, who, having closed the eyes of the philosopher Eucrites,

was passing through the square to return to his house, and saw, without

very much surprise (for nothing astonished him), the smoking pile, Thais

clad an a serge cassock, and Paphnutius being stoned.

He repeated--

“Stop, I tell you; spare my old fellow-scholar; respect the beloved head

of Paphnutius!”

But, being only used to subtle disquisitions with philosophers, he did

not possess that imperious energy which commands vulgar minds. He was

not listened to. A shower of stones and shells fell on the monk, who,

protecting Thais with his body, praised the Lord whose goodness turned

his wounds into caresses. Despairing of making himself heard, and

feeling but too sure that he could not save his friend either by force

or persuasion, Nicias resigned himself to the will of the gods--in

whom he had little confidence--when the idea occurred to him to use a

stratagem which his contempt for men had suddenly suggested to him. He

took from his girdle his purse, which was full of gold and silver, for

he was a pleasure-loving and charitable man, and running up to the men

who were throwing the stones, he chinked the money in their ears. At

first they paid no attention to him, their fury being too great; but

little by little their looks turned towards the chinking gold, and soon

their arms dropped and no longer menaced their victim. Seeing that he

had attracted their eyes and minds, Nicias opened his purse and threw

some pieces of gold and silver amongst the crowd. The more greedy

of them stooped to pick it up. The philosopher, pleased at his first

success, adroitly threw deniers and drachmas here and there. At the

sound of the pieces of money rattling on the pavement, the persecutors

of Paphnutius threw themselves on the ground. Beggars, slaves, and

tradespeople scrambled after the money, whilst, grouped round Cerons,

the patricians watched the struggle and laughed heartily. Cerons

himself quite forgot his wrath. His friends encouraged the rivals, chose

competitors, and made bets, and urged on the miserable wretches as they

would have done fighting dogs. A cripple without legs having succeeded

in seizing a drachma, the applause was frenetic. The young men

themselves began to throw money, and nothing was to be seen in the

square but a multitude of backs, rising and falling like waves of the

sea, under a shower of coins. Paphnutius was forgotten.

Nicias ran up to him, covered him with his cloak, and dragged him and

Thais into by-streets where they were safe from pursuit. They ran for

some time in silence, and when they thought they were out of reach

of their enemies, they ceased running, and Nicias said, in a tone of

raillery in which a little sadness was mingled--

“It is finished then! Pluto ravishes Proserpine, and Thais will follow

my fierce-looking friend whithersoever he will lead her.”

“It is true, Nicias,” replied Thais, “that I am tired of living with men

like you, smiling, perfumed, kindly egoists. I am weary of all I know,

and I am, therefore, going to seek the unknown. I have experienced joy

that was not joy, and here is a man who teaches me that sorrow is true

joy. I believe him, for he knows the truth.”

“And I, sweetheart,” replied Nicias, smiling, “I know the truths. He

knows but one, I know them all. I am superior to him in that respect,

but to tell the truth, it doesn’t make me any the prouder nor any the

happier.”

Then, seeing that the monk was glaring fiercely at him--

“My dear Paphnutius, do not imagine that I think you extremely absurd,

or even altogether unreasonable. And if I were to compare your life with

mine, I could not say which is preferable in itself. I shall presently

go and take the bath which Crobyle and Myrtale have prepared for me;

I shall eat the wing of a Phasian pheasant; then I shall read--for the

hundredth time--some fable by Apuleius or some treatise by Porphyry.

You will return to your cell, where, leaning like a tame camel, you will

ruminate on--I know not what--formulas of incarnations you have long

chewed and rechewed, and in the evening you will swallow some radishes

without any oil. Well, my dear friend, in accomplishing these acts, so

different apparently, we are both obeying the same sentiment, the only

motive for all human actions; we are both seeking our own pleasure, and

striving to attain the same end--happiness, the impossible happiness.

It would be folly on my part to say you were wrong, dear friend, even

though I think myself in the right.

“And you, my Thais, go and enjoy yourself, and be more happy still, if

it be possible, in abstinence and austerity than you have been in riches

and pleasure. On the whole, I should say you were to be envied. For

if in our whole lives, Paphnutius and I have pursued but one kind of

pleasurable satisfaction, you in your life, dear Thais, have tasted

diverse joys such as it is rarely given to the same person to know.

I should really like to be for one hour, a saint like our dear friend

Paphnutius. But that is not possible. Farewell, then, Thais! Go where

the secret forces of nature and your destiny conduct you! Go, and take

with you, whithersoever you go, the good wishes of Nicias! I know

that is mere foolishness, but can I give you anything more than barren

regrets and vain wishes in payment for the delicious illusions which

once enveloped me when I was in your arms, and of which only the shadow

now remains to me? Farewell, my benefactress! Farewell, goodness that is

ignorant of its own existence, mysterious virtue, joy of men! Farewell

to the most adorable of the images that nature has ever thrown--for some

unknown reasons--on the face of this deceptive world!”

Whilst he spoke, deep wrath had been brewing in the monk’s heart, and it

now broke forth in imprecations.

“Avaunt, cursed wretch! I scorn thee and hate thee. Go, child of hell, a

thousand times worse than those poor lost ones who just now threw stones

and insults at me! They knew not what they did, and the grace of God,

which I implored for them, may some day descend into their hearts. But

thou, detestable Nicias, thou art but a perfidious venom and a bitter

poison. Thy mouth breathes despair and death. One of thy smiles contains

more blasphemy than issues in a century from the smoking lips of Satan.

Avaunt, backslider!”

Nicias looked at him.

“Farewell, my brother,” he said, “and may you preserve until your life’s

end your store of faith, hate, and love. Farewell, Thais! It is in vain

that you will forget me, because I shall ever remember you.”

On quitting them he walked thoughtfully through the winding streets in

the vicinity of the great cemetery of Alexandria, which are peopled

by the makers of funeral urns. Their shops were full of clay figures

painted in bright colours and representing gods and goddesses, mimes,

women, winged sprites, &c., such as were usually buried with the dead.

He fancied that perhaps some of the little images which he saw there

might be the companions of his eternal sleep; and it seemed to him that

a little Eros, with its tunic tucked up, laughed at him mockingly. He

looked forward to his death, and the idea was painful to him. To cure

his sadness he tried to philosophise, and reasoned thus--

“Assuredly,” he said to himself, “time has no reality. It is a simple

illusion of our minds. Then, if it does not exist, how can it bring

death to me? Does that mean that I shall live for ever? No, but I

conclude therefrom that my death is, always has been, as it always will

be. I do not feel it yet, but it is in me, and I ought not to fear it,

for it would be folly to dread the coming of that which has arrived. It

exists, like the last page of a book I read and have not finished.”

This argument occupied him all the rest of the way, but without making

him more cheerful; and his mind was filled with dismal thoughts when he

arrived at the door of his house and heard the merry laughter of Crobyle

and Myrtale, who were playing at tennis whilst they were waiting for

him.

Paphnutius and Thais left the city by the Gate of the Moon, and followed

the coast.

“Woman,” said the monk, “all that great blue sea could not wash away thy

pollutions.”

He spoke with scorn and anger.

“More filthy than a bitch or a sow, thou hast prostituted to pagans and

infidels a body which the Eternal had intended for a tabernacle, and thy

impurities are such that, now that thou knowest the truth, thou canst

not unite thy lips or join thy hands without a horror of thyself rising

in thy heart.”

She followed him meekly, over stony roads, under a burning sun. Her

knees ached from fatigue, and her throat was parched with thirst.

But, far from feeling any of the pity which softens the hearts of the

profane, Paphnutius rejoiced at these propitiatory sufferings of the

flesh which had so sinned. So infuriated was he with holy zeal that he

would have liked to cut with rods the body that had preserved its beauty

as a shining witness to its infamy. His meditations augmented his pious

fury, and remembering that Thais had received Nicias in her bed, that

idea seemed so horrible to him that his blood all flowed back to his

heart, and his breast felt ready to burst. His curses were stifled in

his throat, and he could only grind his teeth. He sprang forward

and stood before her, pale, terrible, and filled with the Spirit of

God--looked into her very soul, and then spat in her face.

She calmly wiped her face and continued to walk on. He followed, glaring

at her in pious anger, as if she had been hell itself. He was thinking

how he could avenge Christ in order that Christ should not avenge

Himself, when he saw a drop of blood that had dripped from the foot of

Thais on the sand. Then a hitherto unknown influence entered his opened

heart, sobs rose to his lips, he wept, he ran and knelt before her,

called her his sister, and kissed her bleeding feet. He murmured a

hundred times, “My sister, my sister, my mother, O most holy!”

He prayed--

“Angels of heaven, receive carefully this drop of blood, and bear it

before the throne of the Lord. And may a miraculous anemone blossom

on the sand sprinkled with the blood of Thais, that those who see the

flower may recover purity of heart and feeling. O holy, holy, most holy

Thais!”

As he prayed and prophesied thus, a lad passed on an ass. Paphnutius

ordered him to descend, seated Thais on the ass, and led it by the

bridle. Towards evening they came to a canal shaded by fine trees; he

tied the ass to the trunk of a date palm, and sitting on a mossy stone

he shared with Thais a loaf, which they ate with salt and hyssop. They

drank fresh water in their hands, and talked of things eternal. She

said--

“I have never drunk water so pure nor breathed an air so light, and I

feel that God floats in the breezes that pass.”

“Look! it is the evening, O my sister. The blue shadows of night cover

the hills. But soon thou wilt see shining in the dawn the tabernacles

of Light; soon thou wilt behold shine forth the roses of the eternal

morning.”

They journeyed all night, and, while the crescent moon gleamed on the

silver crests of the waves, they sang psalms and hymns. When the sun

rose, the Libyan desert stretched before them like a huge lion-skin. At

the edge of the desert, and close to a few palm-trees, some white huts

shimmered in the morning light.

“Are those the tabernacles of Light, father?” asked Thais.

“Even so, my daughter and my sister. Yonder is the House of Salvation,

where I will confine you with my own hands.”

Soon they saw a number of women busy around the buildings, like

bees round their hives. There were some who baked bread, or prepared

vegetables; many were spinning wool, and the light of heaven shone upon

them like a smile of God. Others meditated in the shade of the tamarisk

trees; their white hands hung by their sides, for, being filled with

love, they had chosen the part of Magdalen, and performed no work but

prayer, contemplation, and ecstasy. They were, therefore, called the

Marys, and were clad in white. Those who worked with their hands were

called the Marthas, and wore blue robes. All wore the hood,

but the younger ones allowed a few curls to show on their

foreheads--unintentionally, it is to be presumed, since it was forbidden

by the rules. A very old lady, tall and white, walked from cell to cell,

leaning on a staff of hard wood. Paphnutius approached her respectfully,

kissed the hem of her veil, and said--

“The peace of the Lord be with thee, venerable Albina. I have brought

to the hive, of which thou art queen, a bee I found lost on a flowerless

road. I took it in the palm of my hand, and revived it with my breath. I

give it to thee.”

And he pointed to the actress, who knelt down before the daughter of the

Caesars.

Albina cast a piercing glance on Thais, ordered her to rise, kissed her

on the forehead, and then, turning to the monk--

“We will place her,” she said, “amongst the Marys.”

Paphnutius then related how Thais had been brought to the House of

Salvation, and asked that she should be at once confined in a cell.

The abbess consented, and led the penitent to a hut, which had remained

empty since the death of the virgin Laeta, who had sanctified it. In

this narrow chamber there was but a bed, a table, and a pitcher, and

Thais when she crossed the threshold, felt filled with ineffable joy.

“I wish to close the door myself,” said Paphnutius, “and put thereon a

seal, which Jesus will come and break with His own hands.”

He went to the side of the spring, and took a handful of wet clay, mixed

with it a little spittle and a hair from his head, and plastered it

across the chink of the door. Then, approaching the window, near which

Thais stood peaceful and happy, he fell on his knees and praised the

Lord three times.

“How beautiful are the feet of her who walketh in the paths of

righteousness! How beautiful are her feet, and how resplendent her

face!”

He rose, lowered his hood over his eyes, and walked away slowly.

Albina called one of her virgins.

“My daughter,” she said, “take to Thais those things which are needful

for her--bread, water, and a flute with three holes.”

PART THE THIRD -- THE EUPHORBIA

Paphnutius had returned to the holy desert. He took, near Athribis,

the boat which went up the Nile to carry food to the monastery of Abbot

Serapion. When he disembarked, his disciples advanced to meet him with

great demonstrations of joy. Some raised their arms to heaven; others,

prostrate on the ground, kissed the Abbot’s sandals. For they knew

already what the saint had accomplished in Alexandria. The monks

generally received, by rapid and unknown means, information concerning

the safety or glory of the Church. News spread through the desert with

the rapidity of the simoon.

When Paphnutius strode across the sand, his disciples followed

him, praising the Lord. Flavian, who was the oldest member of the

brotherhood, was suddenly seized with a pious frenzy and began to sing

an inspired hymn--

“O blessed day! Now is our father restored to us.

He has returned laden with fresh merits, of which we reap the

benefit.

For the virtues of the father are the wealth of the children, and

the sanctity of the Abbot illuminates every cell.

Paphnutius, our father, has given a new spouse to Jesus Christ.

By his wondrous art, he has changed a black sheep into a white

sheep.

And now, behold, he has returned to us, laden with fresh merits.

Like unto the bee of the Arsinoetid, heavy with the nectar of

flowers.

Even as the ram of Nubia, which could hardly bear the weight of its

abundant wool.

Let us celebrate this day by mingling oil with our food.”

When they came to the door of the Abbot’s cell, they fell on their

knees, and said--

“Let our father bless us, and give each of us a measure of oil to

celebrate his return.”

Paul the Fool, who alone had remained standing, asked, “Who is this

man?” and did not recognise Paphnutius. But no one paid any attention

to what he said, as he was known to be devoid of intelligence, though

filled with piety.

The Abbot of Antinoe, locked in his cell, thought--

“I have at last regained the haven of my repose and happiness. I have

returned to my fortress of contentment. But how is it that this roof of

rushes, so dear to me, does not receive me as a friend, and the walls

say not to me, ‘Thou art welcome.’ Nothing has changed, since my

departure, in this abode I have chosen. There is my table and my bed.

There is the mummy’s head which has so often inspired me with salutary

thoughts; and there is the book in which I have so often sought

conceptions of God. And yet nothing that I left is here. The things

appear grievously despoiled of their customary charm, and it seems to

me as though I saw them to-day for the first time. When I look at that

table and couch, that in former days I made with my own hands, that

black, dried head, these rolls of papyrus filled with the sayings of

God, I seem to see the belongings of a dead man. After having known them

all so well, I know them no longer. Alas! since nothing around me has

really changed, it is I who am no longer what I was. I am another. I am

the dead man! What has happened, my God? What has been taken from me?

What is left unto me? And who am I?”

And it especially perplexed him to find, in spite of himself, that his

cell was small, whereas, when viewed by the eye of faith, he ought to

consider it immense, because the infinitude of God began there.

He began to pray, with his face against the ground, and felt a little

happier. He had hardly been an hour in prayer, when a vision of Thais

passed before his eyes. He returned thanks to God--

“Jesus! it is Thou who hast sent her. I acknowledge in that Thy

wonderful goodness; Thou wouldst please me, reassure me and comfort me

by the sight of her whom I have given to Thee. Thou; presentest her to

my eyes with her smile now disarmed; her grace, now become innocent; her

beauty from which I have extracted the sting. To please me, my God, thou

showest her to me as I have prepared and purified her for Thy designs,

as one friend pleasantly reminds another of the rich gift he has

received from him. Therefore I see this woman with delight, being

assured that the vision comes from Thee. Thou dost not forget that I

have given her to Thee, Jesus. Keep her, since she pleases Thee, and

suffer not her beauty to give joy to any but Thyself.”

He could not sleep all night, and he saw Thais more distinctly than he

had seen her in the Grotto of Nymphs. He commended himself, saying--

“What I have done, I have done to the glory of God.”

Yet, to his great surprise, his heart was not at ease. He sighed.

“Why art thou sad, O my soul, and why dost thou trouble me?”

And his mind was still perturbed. Thirty days he remained in that

condition of sadness which precedes the sore trials of a solitary monk.

The image of Thais never left him day or night. He did not try to banish

it, because he still thought it came from God, and was the image of a

saint. But one morning she visited him in a dream, her hair crowned with

violets, and her very gentleness seemed so formidable, that he uttered a

cry of fright, and woke in an icy sweat. His eyes were still heavy with

sleep, when he felt a moist warm breath on his face. A little jackal,

its two paws placed on the side of the bed, was panting its stinking

breath in his face, and grinning at him.

Paphnutius was greatly astonished, and it seemed to him as though a

tower had given way under his feet. And, in fact, he had fallen, for his

self-confidence had gone. For some time he was incapable of thought

and when he did recover himself, his meditations only increased his

perplexity.

“It is one of two things,” he said to himself; “either this vision, like

the preceding ones, came from God, and was a good vision, and it is my

natural perversity which has misrepresented it, as wine turns sour in

a dirty cup. I have, by my unworthiness, changed instruction into

reproach, of which this diabolical jackal immediately took advantage.

Or else this vision came, not from God, but, on the contrary, from the

devil, and was evil. In that case I should doubt whether the former ones

had, as I thought, a celestial origin. I am therefore incapable of that

discernment which is necessary for the ascetic. In either case it is

plain that God is no longer with me,--of which I feel the effects,

though I cannot explain the cause.”

He reasoned in this way, and anxiously asked--

“Just God, what trials dost Thou appoint for Thy servants if the

apparitions of Thy saints are a danger for them? Give me to discern, by

an intelligible sign, that which comes from Thee, and that which comes

from the other.”

And as God, whose designs are inscrutable, did not see fit to enlighten

his servant, Paphnutius, lost in doubt, resolved not to think of Thais

any more. But his resolutions were vain. Though absent, she was ever

with him. She gazed at him whilst he read, or meditated, or prayed, or

met his eyes wherever he looked. Her imaginary approach was heralded by

a slight sound, such as is made by a woman’s dress when she walks, and

the visions had more verisimilitude than reality itself, which moves and

is confused, whereas the phantoms which are caused by solitude are fixed

and unchangeable. She came under various appearances--sometimes pensive,

her head crowned with her last perishable wreath, clad as at the banquet

at Alexandria, in a mauve robe spangled with silver flowers; sometimes

voluptuously in a cloud of light veils, and bathed in the warm shadows

of the Grotto of Nymphs; sometimes in a serge cassock, pious and radiant

with celestial joy; sometimes tragic, her eyes swimming in the terrors

of death, and showing her bare breast bedewed with the blood from her

pierced heart. What disturbed him the most in these visions was that

the wreaths, tunics, and veils, that he had burned with his own hands,

should thus return; it became evident to him that these things had an

imperishable soul, and he cried--

“Lo, all the countless souls of the sins of Thais come upon me!”

When he turned away his head, he felt that Thais was behind him, and

that made him feel still more uneasy. His torture was cruel. But as

his soul and body remained pure in the midst of all his temptations, he

trusted in God, and gently complained to Him.

“My God, if I went so far to seek her amongst the Gentiles, it was for

Thy sake, and not for mine. It would not be just that I should suffer

for what I have done in Thy behalf. Protect me, sweet Jesus! My Saviour,

save me! Suffer not the phantom to accomplish that which the body

could not. As I have triumphed over the flesh, suffer not the shadow

to overthrow me. I know that I am now exposed to greater dangers than

I ever ran. I feel and know that the dream has more power than the

reality. And how could it be otherwise, since it is itself but a higher

reality? It is the soul of things. Plato, though he was but an idolater,

has testified to the real existence of ideas. At that banquet of demons

to which Thou accompaniedst me, Lord, I heard men--sullied with crimes

truly, but certainly not devoid of intelligence--agree to acknowledge

that we see real objects in solitude, meditation, and ecstasy; and Thy

Scriptures, my God, many times affirm the virtue of dreams, and the

power of visions formed either by Thee, great God, or by Thy adversary.”

There was a new man in him and now he reasoned with God, but God did not

choose to enlighten him. His nights were one long dream, and his days

did not differ from his nights. One morning he awoke uttering sighs,

such as issue, by moonlight, from the tombs of the victims of crimes.

Thais had come, showing her bleeding feet, and whilst he wept, she had

slipped into his couch. There was no longer any doubt; the image of

Thais was an impure image.

His heart filled with disgust, he leaped out of his profaned couch, and

hid his face in his hands that he might not see the daylight. The hours

passed, but they did not remove his shame. All was quiet in the cell.

For the first time for many long days, Paphnutius was alone. The phantom

had at last left him, and even its absence seemed dreadful. Nothing,

nothing to distract his mind from the recollection of the dream. Full of

horror, he thought--

“Why did I not drive her away? Why did I not tear myself from her cold

arms and burning knees?”

He no longer dared to pronounce the name of God near that horrible

couch, and he feared that his cell being profaned, the demons might

freely enter at any hour. His fears did not deceive him. The seven

little jackals, which had never crossed the threshold, entered in a

file, and went and hid under the bed. At the vesper hour, there came an

eighth, the stench of which was horrible. The next day, a ninth joined

the others, and soon there were thirty, then sixty, then eighty. They

became smaller as they multiplied, and being no bigger than rats, they

covered the floor, the couch, and the stool. One of them jumped on the

little table by the side of the bed, and standing with its four feet

together on the death’s head, looked at the monk with burning eyes. And

every day fresh jackals came.

To expiate the abominable sin of his dream, and flee from impure

thoughts, Paphnutius determined to leave his cell, which had now become

polluted, go far into the desert, and practise unheard-of austerities,

strange labours, and fresh works of grace. But before putting his design

into action, he went to see old Palemon and ask his advice.

He found him in his garden watering his lettuces. It was the evening.

The blue Nile flowed at the foot of violet hills. The good old man was

walking slowly, in order not to frighten a pigeon that had perched on

his shoulder.

“The Lord be with thee, brother Paphnutius,” he said. “Admire his

goodness; He sends me the animals that He has created that I may

converse with them of His works, and praise Him in the birds of the air.

Look at this pigeon; note the changing hues of its neck, and say, is

it not a beautiful work of God? But have you not come to talk with me,

brother, on some pious subject? If so, I will put down my watering-pot,

and listen to you.”

Paphnutius told the old man about his journey, his return, the visions

of his days and the dreams of his nights,--without omitting the sinful

one--and the pack of jackals.

“Do you not think, father,” he added, “that I ought to bury myself in

the desert, and perform some extraordinary austerities that would even

astonish the devil?”

“I am but a poor sinner,” replied Palemon, “and I know little about men,

having passed all my life in this garden, with gazelles, little hares

and pigeons. But it seems to me, brother, that your distemper comes

from your having passed too suddenly from the noisy world to the calm of

solitude. Such sudden transitions can but do harm to the health of the

soul. You are, brother, like a man who exposes himself, almost at the

same time, to great heat and great cold. A cough shakes him, and fever

torments him. In your place, brother Paphnutius, instead of retiring

at once into some awful desert, I should take such amusements as are

fitting to a monk and a holy abbot. I should visit the monasteries in

the neighbourhood. Some of them are wonderful, it is said. That of

Abbot Serapion contains, I have been told, a thousand four hundred and

thirty-two cells, and the monks are divided into as many legions as

there are letters in the Greek alphabet. I am even informed that a

certain analogy is observed between the character of the monks and the

shape of the letter by which they are designated, and that, for example,

those who are placed under Z have a tortuous character, whilst those

under I have an upright mind. If I were you, brother, I should go and

assure myself of this with my own eyes, and I should know no rest

until I had seen such a wonderful thing. I should not fail to study the

regulations of the various communities which are scattered along the

banks of the Nile, so as to be able to compare one with another. Such

study is befitting a religious man like yourself. You have heard say,

no doubt, that Abbot Ephrem has drawn up for his monastery pious

regulations of great beauty. With his permission, you might make a copy

of them, as you are a skilful penman. I could not do so, for my hands,

accustomed to wield the spade, are too awkward to direct the thin reed

of the scribe over the papyrus. But you have the knowledge of letters,

brother, and should thank God for it, for beautiful writing cannot be

too much admired. The work of the copyist and the reader is a great

safeguard against evil thoughts. Brother Paphnutius, why do you not

write out the teachings of our fathers, Paul and Anthony? Little by

little you would recover, in these pious works, peace of soul and mind;

solitude would again become pleasant to your heart, and soon you would

be in a condition to recommence those ascetic works which your journey

has interrupted. But you must not expect much benefit from excessive

penitence. When he was amongst us, our Father Anthony used to say,

‘Excessive fasting produces weakness, and weakness begets idleness.

There are some monks who ruin their body by fasts improperly prolonged.

Of them it may be said that they plunge a dagger into their own breast,

and deliver themselves up unresistingly into the power of the devil.’

So said the holy man, Anthony. I am but a foolish old man, but, by the

grace of God, I have remembered what our father told us.”

Paphnutius thanked Palemon and promised to think over his advice. When

he had passed the fence of reeds which enclosed the little garden,

he turned round and saw the good old gardener engaged in watering his

salads, whilst the pigeon walked about on his bent back, and at that

sight Paphnutius felt ready to weep.

On returning to his cell, he found there a strange turmoil, as though

it were filled with grains of sand blown about by a strong wind, and

on looking closer, he saw these moving bodies were myriads of little

jackals. That night he saw in a dream, a high stone column surmounted by

a human face, and he heard a voice which said--

“Ascend this pillar!”

On awaking, he felt confident that this dream had been sent from heaven.

He called his disciples, and addressed them in these words--

“My beloved sons, I must leave you, and go where God sends me. During my

absence obey Flavian as you would me, and take care of our brother Paul.

Bless you. Farewell.”

As he strode away, they remained prostrate on the ground, and when they

raised their heads, they saw his tall dark figure on the sandy horizon.

He walked day and night until he reached the ruins of the temple,

formerly built by the idolaters, in which he had slept amongst the

scorpions and sirens on his former strange journey. The walls, covered

with magic signs, were still standing. Thirty immense columns, which

terminated in human heads or lotus flowers, still supported a heavy

stone entablature. But, at one end of the temple, a pillar had shaken

off its old burden, and stood isolated. It had for its capital the head

of a woman which smiled, with long eyes and rounded cheeks, and on her

forehead cow’s horns.

Paphnutius, on seeing it, recognised the column which had been shown him

in his dream, and he calculated that it was thirty-two cubits high. He

went to the neighbouring village, and ordered a ladder of that height to

be made; and when the ladder was placed against the pillar, he ascended,

knelt down on the top, and said to the Lord--

“Here, then, O God, is the abode Thou hast chosen for me. May I remain

here, in Thy Grace, until the hour of my death.”

He had brought no provisions with him, trusting in divine providence,

and expecting that charitable peasants would give him all that he

needed. And, in fact, the next day, about the ninth hour, women came

with their children, bringing bread, dates, and fresh water, which the

boys carried to the top of the column.

The top of the pillar was not large enough to allow the monk to lie at

full length, so that he slept with his legs crossed and his head on

his breast, and sleep was a more cruel torture to him than his wakeful

hours. At dawn the ospreys brushed him with their wings, and he awoke

filled with pain and terror.

It happened that the carpenter who had made the ladder feared God.

Disturbed at the thought that the saint was exposed to the sun and rain,

and fearing that he might fall in his sleep, this pious man constructed

a roof and a railing on the top of the column.

Soon the report of this extraordinary existence spread from village to

village, and the labourers of the valley came on Sundays, with their

wives and children, to look at the stylite. The disciples of Paphnutius,

having learned with surprise the place of this wonderful retreat, came

to him, and obtained from him permission to build their huts at the foot

of the column. Every morning they came and stood in a circle round the

master, and received from him the words of instruction.

“My sons,” he said to them, “continue like those little children whom

Jesus loved. That is the way of salvation. The sin of the flesh is the

source and origin of all sins; they spring from it as from a parent.

Pride, avarice, idleness, anger, and envy are its dearly beloved

progeny. I have seen this in Alexandria; I have seen rich men carried

away by the vice of lust, which, like a river with a turbid flood, swept

them into the gulf of bitterness.”

The abbots Ephrem and Serapion, being informed of his strange

proceeding, wished to behold him with their own eyes. Seeing from

afar, on the river, the triangular sail which was bringing them to him,

Paphnutius could not prevent himself from thinking that God had made him

an example to all solitary monks. The two abbots, when they saw him, did

not conceal their surprise; and, having consulted together, they agreed

in condemning such an extraordinary penance, and exhorted Paphnutius to

come down.

“Such a mode of life is contrary to all usage,” they said; “it is

peculiar, and against all rules.”

But Paphnutius replied--

“What is the monastic life if not peculiar? And ought not the deeds of

a monk to be as eccentric as he is himself? It was a sign from God

that caused me to ascend here; it is a sign from God that will make me

descend.”

Every day religious men came to join the disciples of Paphnutius, and

they built for themselves shelters round the aerial hermitage. Several

of them, to imitate the saint, mounted the ruins of the temple; but,

being reproved by their brethren, and conquered by fatigue, they soon

gave up these attempts.

Pilgrims flocked from all parts. There were some who had come long

distances, and were hungry and thirsty. The idea occurred to a poor

widow of selling fresh water and melons. Against the foot of the column,

behind her bottles of red clay, her cups and her fruit under an awning

of blue-and-white striped canvas, she cried, “Who wants to drink?”

Following the example of this widow, a baker brought some bricks and

made an oven close by, in the hope of selling loaves and cakes to

visitors. As the crowd of visitors increased unceasingly, and the

inhabitants of the large cities of Egypt began to come, some man, greedy

of gain, built a caravanserai to lodge the guests and their servants,

camels, and mules. Soon there was, in front of the column, a market to

which the fishermen of the Nile brought their fish, and the gardeners

their vegetables. A barber, who shaved people in the open air, amused

the crowd with his jokes. The old temple, so long given over to silence

and solitude was filled with countless sights and sounds of life. The

innkeepers turned the subterranean vaults into cellars and nailed on the

old pillars signs surmounted by the figure of the holy Paphnutius, and

bearing this inscription in Greek and Egyptian--“_Pomegranate wine, fig

wine, and genuine Cilician beer sold here_.” On the walls, sculptured

with pure and graceful carvings, the shop-keepers hung ropes of onions,

and smoked fish, dead hares, and the carcases of sheep. In the evening,

the old occupants of the ruins, the rats, scuttled in a long row to the

river, whilst the ibises, suspiciously craning their necks, perched on

the high cornices, to which rose the smoke of the kitchens, the shouts

of the drinkers, and the cries of the tapsters. All around, builders

laid out streets, and masons constructed convents, chapels, and

churches. By the end of six months a city was established with a

guardhouse, a tribunal, a prison, and a school, kept by an old blind

scribe.

The pilgrims were innumerable. Bishops and other Church dignitaries,

came, full of admiration. The Patriarch of Antioch, who chanced to be in

Egypt at that time, came with all his clergy. He highly approved of the

extraordinary conduct of the stylite, and the heads of the Libyan Church

followed, in the absence of Athanasius, the opinion of the Patriarch.

Having learned which, Abbots Ephrem and Serapion came to the feet of

Paphnutius to apologise for their former mistrust. Paphnutius replied--

“Know, my brothers, that the penance I endure is barely equal to the

temptations which are sent me, the number and force of which astound

me. A man, viewed externally, is but small, and, from the height of the

pillar to which God has called me, I see human beings moving about like

ants. But, considered internally, man is immense; he is as large as

the world, for he contains it. All that is spread before me--these

monasteries, these inns, the boats on the river, the villages, and what

I see in the distance of fields, canals, sand, and mountains--is nothing

in respect to what is in me. I carry in my heart countless cities

and illimitable deserts. And evil--evil and death--spread over this

immensity, cover them all, as night covers the earth. I am, in myself

alone, a universe of evil thoughts.”

He spoke thus because the desire for woman was in him.

The seventh month, there came from Alexandria, Bubastis and Sais, women

who had long been barren, hoping to obtain children by the intercession

of the holy man and the virtues of his pillar. They rubbed their sterile

bodies against the stone. There followed a procession, as far as the

eye could reach, of chariots, palanquins, and litters, which stopped

and pushed and jostled below the man of God. From them came sick people

terrible to see. Mothers brought to Paphnutius young boys whose limbs

were twisted, their eyes starting, their mouth foaming, their voices

hoarse. He laid his hands upon them. Blind men approached, groping with

their hands, and raising towards him a face pierced with two bleeding

holes. Paralytics displayed before him the heavy immobility, the deadly

emaciation, and the hideous contractions of their limbs; lame men showed

him their club feet; women with cancer, holding their bosoms with both

hands, uncovered before him their breasts devoured by the invisible

vulture. Dropsical women, swollen like wine skins were placed on

the ground before him. He blessed them. Nubians, afflicted with

elephantiasis, advanced with heavy steps and looked at him with

streaming eyes and expressionless countenances. He made the sign of the

cross over them. A young girl of Aphroditopolis was brought to him on

a litter; after having vomited blood, she had slept for three days. She

looked like a waxen image, and her parents, who thought she was dead,

had placed a palm leaf on her breast. Paphnutius having prayed to God,

the young girl raised her head and opened her eyes.

As the people reported everywhere the miracles which the saint had

performed, unfortunate persons afflicted with that disease which

the Greeks call “the divine malady,” came from all parts of Egypt in

incalculable legions. As soon as they saw the pillar, they were seized

with convulsions, rolled on the ground, writhed, and twisted themselves

into a ball. And--though it is hardly to be believed--the persons

present were in their turn seized with a violent delirium, and imitated

the contortions of the epileptics. Monks and pilgrims, men and women,

wallowed and struggled pell-mell, their limbs twisted, foaming at the

mouth, eating handfuls of earth and prophesying. And Paphnutius at the

top of his pillar felt a thrill of horror pass through him, and cried to

God--

“I am the scapegoat, and I take upon me all the impurities of these

people, and that is why, Lord, my body is filled with evil spirits.”

Every time that a sick person went away healed, the people applauded,

carried him in triumph, and ceased not to repeat--

“We behold another well of Siloam!”

Hundreds of crutches already hung round the wonderful column; grateful

women suspended wreaths and votive images there. Some of the Greeks

inscribed distiches, and as every pilgrim carved his name, the stone

was soon covered as high as a man could reach with an infinity of Latin,

Greek, Coptic, Punic, Hebrew, Syrian, and magic characters.

When the feast of Easter came there was such an affluence of people to

this city of miracles that old men thought that the days of the ancient

mysteries had returned. All sorts of people, in all sorts of costumes,

were to be seen there; the striped robes of the Egyptians, the burnoose

of the Arabs, the white drawers of the Nubians, the short cloak of

the Greeks, the long toga of the Romans, the scarlet breeches of the

barbarians, the gold-spangled robes of the courtesans. A veiled woman

would pass on an ass, preceded by black eunuchs, who cleared a passage

for her by the free use of their sticks. Acrobats, having spread a

carpet on the ground, juggled and performed skilful tricks before

a circle of silent spectators. Snake-charmers unrolled their living

girdles. A glittering, dusty, noisy, chattering crowd! The curses of

the camel-drivers beating the animals; the cries of the hawkers who

sold amulets against leprosy and the evil eye; the psalmody of the

monks reciting verses of the Bible; the shrieking of the women who were

prophesying; the shouting of the beggars singing old songs of the harem;

the bleating of sheep; the braying of asses; the sailors calling tardy

passengers; all these confused noises caused a deafening uproar, over

which dominated the strident voices of the little naked negro boys,

running about everywhere selling fresh dates.

And all these human beings stifled under the white sky, in a heavy

atmosphere laden with the perfumes of women, the odour of negroes, the

fumes of cooking and the smoke of gums, which the devotees bought of the

shepherds to burn before the saint.

When night came, fires, torches, and lanterns were lighted everywhere,

and nothing was to be seen but red shadows and black shapes. Standing

amidst a circle of squatting listeners, an old man, his face lighted

by a smoky lamp, related how, formerly, Bitiou had enchanted his heart,

torn it from his breast, placed it in an acacia, and then transformed

himself into a tree. He made gestures, which his shadow repeated with

absurd exaggerations, and the audience uttered cries of admiration. In

the taverns, the drinkers, lying on couches, called for beer and wine.

Dancing girls, with painted eyes and bare stomachs, performed before

them religious or lascivious scenes. In retired corners, young men

played dice or other games, and old men followed prostitutes. Above

all these rose the solitary, unchanging column; the head with the cow’s

horns gazed into the shadow, and above it Paphnutius watched between

heaven and earth. All at once the moon rose over the Nile, like the bare

shoulder of a goddess. The hills gleamed with blue light, and Paphnutius

thought he saw the body of Thais shinning in the glimmer of the waters

amidst the sapphire night.

The days passed, and the saint still lived on his pillar. When the rainy

season came, the waters of heaven, filtering through the cracks in

the roof, wetted his body; his stiff limbs were incapable of movement.

Scorched by the sun, and reddened by the dew, his skin broke; large

ulcers devoured his arms and legs. But the desire of Thais still

consumed him inwardly, and he cried--

“It is not enough, great God! More temptations! More unclean thoughts!

More horrible desires! Lord, lay upon me all the lusts of men, that I

may expiate them all! Though it is false that the Greek bitch took upon

herself all the sins of the world, as I heard an impostor once declare,

yet there is a hidden meaning in the fable, the truth of which I now

recognise. For it is true that the sins of the people enter the soul of

the saints, and are lost there as in a well. Thus it is that the souls

of the just are polluted with more filth than is ever found in the soul

of the sinner. And, for that reason, I praise Thee, O my God, for having

made me the cesspool of the world.”

One day, a rumour ran through the holy city, and even reached the ears

of the hermit: a very great personage, a man occupying a high position,

the Prefect of the Alexandrian fleet, Lucius Aurelius Cotta, was about

to visit the city--was, indeed, now on his way.

The news was true. Old Cotta, who was inspecting the canals and the

navigation of the Nile, had many times expressed a desire to see the

stylite and the new city, to which the name of Stylopolis had been

given. The Stylopolitans saw the river covered with sails one morning.

Cotta appeared on board a golden galley hung with purple, and followed

by all his fleet. He landed, and advanced, accompanied by a secretary

carrying his tablets, and Aristaeus, his physician, with whom he liked

to converse.

A numerous suite walked behind him, and the shore was covered with

_laticlaves_(*) and military uniforms. He stopped, some paces from the

column, and began to examine the stylite, wiping his face meanwhile with

the skirt of his toga. Being of a naturally curious disposition, he

had observed many things in the course of his long voyages. He liked to

remember them, and intended to write, after he had finished his Punic

history, a book on the remarkable things he had witnessed. He seemed

much interested by the spectacle before him.

(*) The _laticlave_ was a toga, with a broad purple band,

worn by Roman senators as the distinguishing mark of their

high office.

“This is very curious!” he said, puffing and blowing. “And--which is a

circumstance worthy of being recorded--this man was my guest. Yes, this

monk supped with me last year, after which he carried off an actress.”

Turning to his secretary--

“Note that, my son, on my tablets; also the dimensions of the column,

not omitting the shape of the top of it.”

Then, wiping his face again--

“Persons deserving of belief have assured me that this monk has not left

his column for a single moment since he mounted it a year ago. Is that

possible, Aristaeus?”

“That which is possible to a lunatic or a sick man,” replied Aristaeus,

“would be impossible to a man sound in body and mind. Do you know,

Lucius, that sometimes diseases of the mind or body give to those

afflicted by them a strength which healthy men do not possess? For, as

a matter of fact, there is no such thing as good health or bad health.

There are only different conditions of the organs. Having studied what

are called maladies, I have come to consider them as necessary forms of

life. I take pleasure in studying them in order to be able to conquer

them. Some of them are worthy of admiration, and conceal, under apparent

disorder, profound harmonies; for instance, a quartan fever is certainly

a very pretty thing! Sometimes certain affections of the body cause a

rapid augmentation of the faculties of the mind. You know Creon? When he

was a child, he stuttered and was stupid. But, having cracked his skull

by tumbling off a ladder, he became an able lawyer, as you are aware.

This monk must be affected in some hidden organ. Moreover, this kind of

existence is not so extraordinary as it appears to you, Lucius. I may

remind you that the gymnosophists of India can remain motionless, not

merely for a year, but during twenty, thirty, or forty years.”

“By Jupiter!” cried Cotta, “that is a strange madness. For man was born

to move and act, and idleness is an unpardonable crime, because it is

an injury to the State. I do not know of any religion in which such an

objectionable practice is permitted, though it possibly may be in some

of the Asiatic creeds. When I was Governor of Syria, I found _phalli_

erected in the porches at the city of Hera. A man ascended, twice a

year, and remained there for a week. The people believed that this man

talked with the gods, and interceded with them for the prosperity of

Syria. The custom appeared senseless to me; nevertheless I did nothing

to put it down. For I consider that a functionary ought not to interfere

with the manners and customs of the people, but on the contrary, to see

that they are preserved. It is not the business of the government to

force a religion on a people, but to maintain that which exists, which,

whether good or bad, has been regulated by the spirit of the time,

the place, and the race. If it endeavours to put down a religion, it

proclaims itself revolutionary in its spirit, and tyrannical in its

acts, and is justly detested. Besides, how are you to raise yourself

above the superstitions of the vulgar, except by understanding them and

tolerating them? Aristaeus, I am of opinion that I should leave this

nephelo-coccygian(*) in the air, exposed only to the indignities the

birds shower on him. I should not gain anything by having him pulled

down, but I should by taking note of his thoughts and beliefs.”

(*) Nephelo-coccygia, the cloud-city built by the cuckoos,

in the _Birds_ of Aristophanes.

He puffed, coughed, and placed his hand on the secretary’s shoulder.

“My child, note down that, amongst certain sects of Christians, it is

considered praiseworthy to carry off courtesans and live upon columns.

You may add that these customs are evidence of the worship of genetic

divinities. But on this point we ought to question him himself.”

Then, raising his head, and shading his eyes with his hand, to keep off

the sun, he shouted--

“Hallo, Paphnutius! If you remember that you were once my guest, answer

me. What are you doing up there? Why did you go up, and why do you stay

there? Has this column any phallic signification in your mind?”

Paphnutius, considering Cotta as nothing but an idolater, did not deign

to reply. But his disciple, Flavian, approached, and said--

“Illustrious Sir, this holy man takes the sins of the world upon him,

and cures diseases.”

“By Jupiter! Do you hear, Aristaeus?” cried Cotta. “This

nephelo-coccygian practises medicine, like you. What do you think of so

high a rival?”

Aristaeus shook his head.

“It is very possible that he may cure certain diseases better than I

can; such, for instance, as epilepsy, vulgarly called the divine malady,

although all maladies are equally divine, for they all come from the

gods. But the cause of this disease lies, partly, in the imagination,

and you must confess, Lucius, that this monk, perched up on the head of

a goddess, strikes the minds of the sick people more forcibly than I,

bending over my mortars and phials in my laboratory, could ever do.

There are forces, Lucius, infinitely more powerful than reason and

science.”

“What are they?” asked Cotta.

“Ignorance and folly,” replied Aristaeus.

“I have rarely seen a more curious sight,” continued Cotta, “and I hope

that some day an able writer will relate the foundation of Stylopolis.

But even the most extraordinary spectacles should not keep, longer

than is befitting, a serious and busy man from his work. Let us go and

inspect the canals. Farewell, good Paphnutius! or rather, till our

next meeting! If ever you should come down to earth again, and revisit

Alexandria, do not fail to come and sup with me.”

These words, heard by all present, passed from mouth to mouth, and

being repeated by the believers, added greatly to the reputation of

Paphnutius. Pious minds amplified and transformed them, and it was

stated that Paphnutius, from the top of his pillar, had converted

the Prefect of the Fleet to the faith of the apostles and the Nicaean

fathers. The believers found a figurative meaning in the last words

uttered by Aurelius Cotta; to them, the supper to which this important

personage had invited the ascetic, was a holy communion, a spiritual

repast, a celestial banquet. The story of this meeting was embroidered

with wonderful details, which those who invented were the first to

believe. It was said that when Cotta, after a long argument, had

embraced the truth, an angel had come from heaven to wipe the sweat from

his brow. The physician and secretary of the Prefect of the Fleet had

also, it was asserted, been converted at the same time. And, the miracle

being public and notorious, the deacons of the principal churches of

Libya recorded it amongst the authentic facts. After that, it could be

said, without any exaggeration, that the whole world was seized with a

desire to see Paphnutius, and that, in the West as well as the East, all

Christians turned their astonished eyes towards him. The most celebrated

cities of Italy sent deputations to him, and the Roman Caesar, the

divine Constantine who favoured the Christian religion, wrote him a

letter which the legates brought to him with great ceremony. But one

night, whilst the budding city at his feet slept in the dew, he heard a

voice, which said--

“Paphnutius, thou art become celebrated by thy works and powerful by thy

word. God has raised thee up for His glory. He has chosen thee to work

miracles, heal the sick, convert the Pagans, enlighten sinners, confound

the Arians, and establish peace in the Church.”

Paphnutius replied--

“God’s will be done!”

The voice continued--

“Arise, Paphnutius, and go seek in his palace the impious Constans, who,

far from imitating the wisdom of his brother, Constantine, inclines

to the errors of Arius and Marcus. Go! The bronze gates shall fly open

before thee, and thy sandals shall resound on the golden floor of the

basilica before the throne of the Caesars, and thy awe-inspiring voice

shall change the heart of the son of Constantinus. Thou shalt reign over

a peaceful and powerful Church. And, even as the soul directs the

body, so shall the Church govern the empire. Thou shalt be placed above

senators, comites, and patricians. Thou shalt repress the greed of the

people, and check the boldness of the barbarians. Old Cotta, knowing

that thou art the head of the government, will seek the honour of

washing thy feet. At thy death thy _cilicium_ shall be taken to the

patriarch of Alexandria, and the great Athanasius, white with glory,

shall kiss it as the relic of a saint. Go!”

Paphnutius replied--

“Let the will of God be accomplished!”

And making an effort to stand up, he prepared to descend. But the voice,

divining his intention, said--

“Above all, descend not by the ladder. That would be to act like an

ordinary man, and to be unconscious of the gifts that are in thee. A

great saint, like thee, ought to fly through the air. Leap! the angels

are there to support thee. Leap, then!”

Paphnutius replied--

“The will of God be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Extending his long arms like the ragged wings of a huge sick bird, he

was about to throw himself down, when, suddenly, a hideous mocking laugh

rang in his ears. Terrified, he asked--

“Who laughs thus?”

“Ah? ah!” screamed the voice, “we are yet but at the beginning of our

friendship; thou wilt some day be better acquainted with me. My friend,

it was I who caused thee to ascend here, and I ought to be satisfied at

the docility with which thou hast accomplished my wishes. Paphnutius, I

am pleased with thee.”

Paphnutius murmured, in a voice stifled by fear--

“Avaunt, avaunt! I know thee now; thou art he who carried Jesus to a

pinnacle of the temple, and showed him all the kingdoms of this world.”

He fell, affrighted, on the stone.

“Why did I not know this sooner?” he thought. “More wretched than the

blind, deaf, and paralysed who trust in me, I have lost all knowledge of

things supernatural, and am more depraved than the maniacs who eat

earth and approach dead bodies. I can no longer distinguish between

the clamours of hell and the voices of heaven. I have lost even the

intuition of the new-born child, who cries when its nurse’s breast is

taken from it, of the dog that scents out its master’s footsteps, of the

plant that turns towards the sun. I am the laughing-stock of the devils.

So, then, it is Satan who led me here. When he elevated me on this

pedestal, lust and pride mounted with me. It is not the magnitude of my

temptations which terrifies me. Anthony, on his mountain, suffers the

same. I wish that all their swords may pierce my flesh, before the eyes

of the angels. I have even learned to like my sufferings. But God does

not speak to me, and His silence astonishes me. He has left me--and I

had but Him to look to. He leaves me alone in the horror of His absence.

He flies from me. I will follow after Him. This stone burns my feet. Let

me leave quickly, and come up with God.”

With that he seized the ladder which stood against the column, put his

feet on it, and having descended a rung, found himself face to face with

the monster’s head; she smiled strangely. He was certain then that what

he had taken for the site of his rest and glory, was but the diabolical

instrument of his trouble and damnation. He hastily descended and

touched the soil. His feet had forgotten their use, and he reeled. But,

feeling on him the shadow of the cursed column, he forced himself to

run. All slept. He traversed, without being seen, the great square

surrounded by wine-shops, inns, and caravanserias, and threw himself

into a by-street which led towards the Libyan Hills. A dog pursued him,

barking, and stopped only at the edge of the desert. Paphnutius went

through a country where there was no road but the trail of wild beasts.

Leaving behind him the huts abandoned by the coiners, he continued all

night and all day his solitary flight.

At last, almost ready to expire with hunger, thirst, and fatigue, and

not knowing if God was still far from him, he came to a silent city

which extended from right to left, and stretched away till it was lost

in the blue horizon. The buildings, which were widely separated and like

each other, resembled pyramids cut off at half their height. They were

tombs. The doors were broken, and in the shadow of the chambers could

be seen the gleaming eyes of hyaenas and wolves who brought forth their

young there, whilst the dead bodies lay on the threshold, despoiled

by robbers, and gnawed by the wild beasts. Having passed through this

funeral city, Paphnutius fell exhausted before a tomb which stood near a

spring surrounded by palm trees. This tomb was much ornamented, and, as

there was no door to it, he saw inside it a painted chamber, in which

serpents bred.

“Here,” he sighed, “is the abode I have chosen; the tabernacle of my

repentance and penitence.”

He dragged himself to it, drove out the reptiles with his feet, and

remained prostrate on the stone floor for eighteen hours, at the end

of which time he went to the spring, and drank out of his hand. Then he

plucked some dates and some stalks of lotus, the seeds of which he

ate. Thinking this kind of life was good, he made it the rule of his

existence. From morning to night he never lifted his forehead from the

stone.

One day, whilst he was thus prostrated, he heard a voice which said--

“Look at these images, that thou mayest learn.”

Then, raising his head, he saw, on the walls of the chamber, paintings

which represented lively and domestic scenes. They were of very old

work, and marvellously lifelike. There were cooks who blew the fire,

with their cheeks all puffed out; others plucked geese, or cooked

quarters of sheep in stew-pans. A little farther, a hunter carried on

his shoulders a gazelle pierced with arrows. In one place, peasants were

sowing, reaping, or gathering. In another, women danced to the sounds

of viols, flutes, and harp. A young girl played the theorbo. The lotus

flower shone in her hair, which was neatly braided. Her transparent

dress let the pure forms of her body be seen. Her bosom and mouth were

perfect. The face was turned in profile, and the beautiful eye looked

straight before her. The whole figure was exquisite. Paphnutius having

examined it, lowered his eyes, and replied to the voice--

“Why dost thou command me to look at these images? No doubt they

represent the terrestrial life of the idolater whose body rests here,

under my feet, at the bottom of a well, in a coffin of black basalt.

They recall the life of a dead man, and are, despite their bright

colours, the shadows of a shadow. The life of a dead man! O vanity!”

“He is dead, but he lived,” replied the voice; “and thou wilt die, and

wilt not have lived.”

From that day, Paphnutius had not a moment’s rest. The voice spoke to

him incessantly. The girl with the theorbo looked fixedly at him from

underneath the long lashes of her eye. At last she also spoke--

“Look. I am mysterious and beautiful. Love me. Exhaust in my arms the

love which torments you. What use is it to fear me? You cannot escape

me; I am the beauty of woman. Whither do you think to fly from me,

senseless fool? You will find my likeness in the radiancy of flowers,

and in the grace of the palm trees, in the flight of pigeons, in the

bounds of the gazelle, in the rippling of brooks, in the soft light of

the moon, and if you close your eyes, you will find me within yourself.

It is a thousand years since the man who sleeps here, swathed in linen,

in a bed of black stone, pressed me to his heart. It is a thousand years

since he received the last kiss from my mouth, and his sleep is yet

redolent with it. You know me well, Paphnutius. How is it you have not

recognised me? I am one of the innumerable incarnations of Thais. You

are a learned monk, and well skilled in the knowledge of things. You

have travelled, and it is by travel a man learns the most. Often a day

passed abroad will show more novelties than ten years passed at home.

You have heard that Thais lived formerly in Argos, under the name of

Helen. She had another existence in Thebes Hecatompyle. And I was Thais

of Thebes. How is it you have not guessed it? I took, when I was alive,

a large share in the sins of this world, and now reduced here to the

condition of a shadow, I am still quite capable of taking your sins

upon me, beloved monk. Whence comes your surprise? It was certain that,

wherever you went, you would find Thais again.”

He struck his forehead against the pavement, and uttered a cry of

terror. And every night the player of the theorbo left the wall,

approached him, and spoke in a clear voice mingled with soft breathing.

And as the holy man resisted the temptations she gave him, she said to

him--

“Love me; yield, friend. As long as you resist me I shall torment you.

You do not know what the patience of a dead woman is. I shall wait, if

necessary, till you are dead. Being a sorceress, I shall put into your

lifeless body a spirit who will reanimate it, and who will not refuse me

what I have asked in vain of you. And think, Paphnutius, what a strange

situation when your blessed soul sees, from the height of heaven, its

own body given up to sin. God, who has promised to return you this body

after the day of judgment and the end of time, will Himself be much

puzzled. How can He place in celestial glory a human form inhabited by

a devil, and guarded by a sorceress? You have not thought of that

difficulty. Nor God either, perhaps. Between ourselves, He is not very

knowing. Any ordinary magician can easily deceive Him, and if He had not

His thunder, and the cataracts of heaven, the village urchins would pull

His beard. He has certainly not as much sense as the old serpent, His

adversary. He, indeed, is a wonderful artist. If I am so beautiful, it

is because he adorned me with all my attractions. It was he who taught

me how to braid my hair, and to make for myself rosy fingers with agate

nails. You have misunderstood him. When you came to live in this tomb,

you drove out with your feet the serpents which were here, without

troubling yourself to know whether they were of his family, and you

crushed their eggs. I am afraid, my poor friend, you will have a

troublesome business on your hands. You were warned, however, that he

was a musician and a lover. What have you done? You have quarrelled with

science and beauty. You are altogether miserable, and Iaveh does not

come to your help. It is not probable that he will come. Being as

great as all things, he cannot move for want of space, and if, by an

impossibility, he made the least movement, all creation would be pushed

out of place. My handsome hermit, give me a kiss.”

Paphnutius was aware that great prodigies are performed by magic arts.

He thought--not without much uneasiness--

“Perhaps the dead man buried at my feet knows the words written in that

mysterious book which exists hidden, not far from here, at the bottom of

a royal tomb. By virtue of these words, the dead, taking the form which

they had upon earth, see the light of the sun and the smiles of women.”

His chief fear was that the girl with the theorbo and the dead man might

come together, as they did in their lifetime, and that he should see

them unite. Sometimes he thought he heard the sound of kissing.

He was troubled in his mind, and now, in the absence of God he feared

to think as much as to feel. One evening, when he was kneeling prostrate

according to his custom, an unknown voice said to him--

“Paphnutius, there are on earth more people than you imagine, and if I

were to show you what I have seen, you would die of astonishment. There

are men with a single eye in the middle of their forehead. There are

men who have but one leg, and advance by jumps. There are men who change

their sex, and the females become males. There are men-trees, who shoot

out roots in the ground. And there are men with no head, with two eyes,

a nose, and a mouth in their breast. Can you honestly believe that Jesus

Christ died for the salvation of these men?”

Another time he had a vision. He saw, in a strong light, a broad road,

rivulets, and gardens. On the road, Aristobulus and Chereas passed at

a gallop on their Syrian horses, and the joyous ardour of the race

reddened the cheeks of the two young men. Beneath a portico, Callicrates

recited his verses; satisfied pride trembled in his voice and shone in

his eyes. In the garden, Zenothemis picked apples of gold, and caressed

a serpent with azure wings. Clad in white, and wearing a shining mitre,

Hermodorus meditated beneath a sacred persea, which bore, instead

of flowers, small heads of pure profile, wearing, like the Egyptian

goddesses, vultures, hawks, or the shining disk of the moon; whilst

in the background, by the side of a fountain, Nicias studied, on an

armillary sphere, the harmonious movements of the stars.

Then a veiled woman approached the monk, holding in her hand a branch of

myrtle. She said to him--

“Look! Some seek eternal beauty, and place their ephemeral life in

the infinite. Others live without much thought. But by that alone they

submit to fair Nature, and they are happy and beautiful in the joy of

living only, and give glory to the supreme artist of all things; for man

is a noble hymn to God. All think that happiness is innocent, and that

pleasure is permitted to man. Paphnutius, if they are right, what a dupe

you have been!”

And the vision vanished.

Thus was Paphnutius tempted unceasingly in body and mind. Satan never

gave him a minute’s repose. The solitude of the tomb was more peopled

than the streets of a great city. The devils shouted with laughter, and

millions of imps, evil genii, and phantoms imitated all the ordinary

transactions of life. In the evening, when he went to the spring,

satyrs and nymphs capered round him, and tried to drag him into their

lascivious dances. The demons no longer feared him. They loaded him with

insults, obscene jests, and blows. One day a devil, no longer than his

arm, stole the cord he wore round his waist.

He said to himself--

“Thought, whither hast thou led me?”

And he resolved to work with his hands, in order to give his mind that

rest of which it had need. Near the spring, some banana trees, with

large leaves, grew under the shade of the palms. He cut the stalks, and

carried them to the tomb. He crushed them with a stone, and reduced them

to fibres, as he had seen ropemakers do. For he intended to make a cord,

to replace that which the devil had stolen. The demons were somewhat

displeased at this; they ceased their clamour, and the girl with the

theorbo no longer continued her magic arts, but remained quietly on the

wall. The courage and faith of Paphnutius increased whilst he pounded

the banana stems.

“With Heaven’s help,” he said to himself, “I shall subdue the flesh. As

to my soul, its confidence is still unshaken. In vain do the devils, and

that accursed woman, try to instil into my mind doubts as to the nature

of God. I will reply to them, by the mouth of the Apostle John, ‘In the

beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.’ That I firmly believe,

and that which I believe is absurd, I believe still more firmly. In fact

it should be absurd. If it were not so, I should not believe; I should

know. And it is not that which we know which gives eternal life; it is

faith only that saves.”

He exposed the separated fibres to the sun and the dew, and every

morning he took care to turn them, to prevent them rotting; and he

rejoiced to find that he had become as simple as a child. When he had

twisted his cord, he cut reeds to make mats and baskets. The sepulchral

chamber resembled a basket-maker’s workshop, and Paphnutius could pass

without difficulty from work to prayer. Yet still God was not merciful

to him, for one night he was awakened by a voice which froze him with

horror, for he guessed that it was the voice of the dead man.

The voice called quickly, in a light whisper--

“Helen! Helen! come and bathe with me! come quickly!”

A woman, whose mouth was close to the monk’s ear, replied--

“Friend, I cannot rise; a man is lying on me.”

Paphnutius suddenly perceived that his cheek rested on a woman’s breast.

He recognised the player of the theorbo, who, partly relieved of his

weight, raised her breast. He clung tightly to the sweet, warm, perfumed

body, and consumed with the desire of damnation, he cried--

“Stay, stay, my heavenly one!”

But she was already standing on the threshold. She laughed, and her

smile gleamed in the silver rays of the moon.

“Why should I stay?” she said. “The shadow of a shadow is enough for a

lover endowed with such a lively imagination. Besides, you have sinned.

What more was needed?”

Paphnutius wept in the night, and when the dawn came, he murmured a

prayer that was a meek complaint--

“Jesus, my Jesus, why hast Thou forsaken me! Thou seest the danger in

which I am. Come, and help me, sweet Saviour. Since Thy Father no longer

loves me, and does not hear me, remember that I have but Thee. From Him

nothing is to be hoped; I cannot comprehend Him, and He cannot pity me.

But Thou was born of a woman, and that is why I trust in Thee. Remember

that Thou wast a man. I pray to Thee, not because Thou art God of God,

Light of light, very God of very God, but because Thou hast lived poor

and humble on this earth where now I suffer, because Satan has tempted

Thy flesh, because the sweat of agony has bedewed Thy face. It is to Thy

humanity that I pray, Jesus, my brother Jesus!”

When he had thus prayed, wringing his hands, a terrible peal of laughter

shook the walls of the tomb, and the voice which rang in his ears on the

top of the column, said jeeringly--

“That is a prayer worthy of the breviary of Marcus, the heretic.

Paphnutius is an Arian! Paphnutius is an Arian!”

As though thunderstruck, the monk fell senseless.

*****

When he reopened his eyes, he saw around him monks wearing black hoods,

who poured water on his temples, and recited exorcisms. Many others were

standing outside, carrying palm leaves.

“As we passed through the desert,” said one of them, “we heard cries

issuing from this tomb, and, having entered, we found you lying

unconscious on the floor. Doubtless the devils had thrown you down, and

had fled at our approach.”

Paphnutius, raising his head, asked in a feeble voice--

“Who are you, my brothers? And why do you carry palms in your hands? Is

it for my burial?”

One of them replied--

“Brother, do you not know that our father, Anthony, now a hundred and

five years old, having been warned of his approaching end, has come

down from Mount Colzin, to which he had retired, to bless his numerous

spiritual children? We are going with palm leaves to greet our holy

father. But how is it, brother, that you are ignorant of such a great

event? Can it be possible that no angel came to this tomb to inform

you?”

“Alas!” replied Paphnutius, “I am not worthy of such a favour, and the

only denizens of this abode are demons and vampires. Pray for me. I am

Paphnutius, Abbot of Antinoe, the most wretched of the servants of God.”

At the name of Paphnutius, all waved their palm leaves and murmured his

praises. The monk who had previously spoken, cried in surprise--

“Can it be that thou art that holy Paphnutius, celebrated for so many

works that it was supposed he would some day equal the great Anthony

himself? Most venerable, it was thou who convertedst to God the

courtesan, Thais, and who, raised upon a high column, was carried away

by the seraphs. Those who watched by night, at the foot of the pillar,

saw thy blessed assumption. The wings of the angels encircled thee in

a white cloud, and with thy right hand extended thou didst bless the

dwellings of man. The next day, when the people saw thou wert no longer

there, a long groan rose to the summit of the discrowned pillar. But

Flavian, thy disciple, reported the miracle, and took thy place as the

head. But a foolish man, of the name of Paul, tried to contradict the

general opinion. He asserted that he had seen thee, in a dream, carried

away by the devils; the people wanted to stone him, and it was a miracle

that he escaped death. I am Zozimus, abbot of these solitary monks whom

thou seest prostrate at thy feet. Like them, I kneel before thee, that

thou mayest bless the father with the children. Then thou shalt relate

to us the marvels which God has deigned to accomplish by thy means.”

“Far from having favoured me as thou believest,” replied Paphnutius,

“the Lord has tried me with terrible temptations. I was not carried away

by angels. But a shadowy wall is raised in front of my eyes, and moves

before me. I have lived in a dream. Without God all is a dream. When I

made my journey to Alexandria, I heard, in a short space of time, many

discourses, and I learned that the army of errors was innumerable. It

pursues me, and I am compassed about with swords.”

Zozimus replied--

“Venerable father, we must remember that the saints, and especially the

solitary saints, undergo terrible trials. If thou wast not carried to

heaven by the seraphs, it is certain that the Lord granted that favour

to thy image, for Flavian, the monks, and the people were witnesses of

thy assumption.”

Paphnutius resolved to go and receive the blessing of Anthony.

“Brother Zozimus,” he said, “give me one of these palm leaves, and let

us go and meet our father.”

“Let us go,” replied Zozimus; “military order is most befitting for

monks, who are God’s soldiers. Thou and I, being abbots, will march in

front, and the others shall follow us, singing psalms.”

They set out on their march, and Paphnutius said--

“God is unity, for He is the truth, which is one. The world is many,

because it is error. We should turn away from all the sights of nature,

even those which appear the most innocent. Their diversity renders them

pleasant, which is a sign that they are evil. For that reason, I cannot

see a tuft of papyrus by the side of still waters without my soul

being imbued with melancholy. All things that the senses perceive are

detestable. The least grain of sand brings danger. Everything tempts us.

Woman is but a combination of all the temptations scattered in the thin

air, on the flowering earth, in the clear waters. Happy is he whose soul

is a sealed vase! Happy is he who knows how to be deaf, dumb, and blind,

and who knows nothing of the world, in order that he may know God!”

Zozimus, having meditated upon these words, replied as follows--

“Venerable father, it is fitting that I should avow my sins to thee,

since thou hast shown me thy soul. Thus we shall confess to each

other, according to the apostolic custom. Before I was a monk, I led

an abominable life. At Madaura, a city celebrated for its courtesans,

I sought out all kinds of worldly love. Every night I supped in company

with young debauchees and female flute players, and I took home with me

the one who pleased me the best. A saint like thee could never imagine

to what a pitch the fury of my desires carried me. Suffice it to

say that it spared neither matrons nor nuns, and spread adultery and

sacrilege everywhere. I excited my senses with wine, and was justly

known as the heaviest drinker in Madaura. Yet I was a Christian, and,

in all my follies, kept my faith in Jesus crucified. Having devoured my

substance in riotous living, I was beginning to feel the first attacks

of poverty, when I saw one of my companions in pleasure suddenly struck

with a terrible disease. His knees could not sustain him; his twitching

hands refused to obey him; his glazed eyes closed. Only horrible groans

came from his breast. His mind, heavier than his body, slumbered. To

punish him for having lived like a beast, God had changed him into a

beast. The loss of my property had already inspired me with salutary

reflections, but the example of my friend was of yet greater efficacy;

it made such an impression on my heart that I quitted the world and

retired into the desert. There I have enjoyed for twenty years a peace

that nothing has troubled. I work with my monks as weaver, architect,

carpenter, and even as scribe, though, to say the truth, I have little

taste for writing, having always preferred action to thought. My days

are full of joy, and my nights without dreams, and I believe that the

grace of the Lord is in me, because, even in the midst of the most

frightful sins, I have never lost hope.”

On hearing these words, Paphnutius lifted his eyes to heaven and

murmured--

“Lord, Thou lookest with kindness upon this man polluted by adultery,

sacrilege, and so many crimes, and Thou turnest away from me, who have

always kept Thy commandments! How inscrutable is Thy justice, O my God!

and how impenetrable are Thy ways!”

Zozimus extended his arms.

“Look, venerable father! On both sides of the horizon are long, black

files that look like emigrant ants. They are our brothers, who, like us,

are going to meet Anthony.”

When they came to the place of meeting, they saw a magnificent

spectacle. The army of monks extended, in three ranks, in an immense

semicircle. In the first rank stood the old hermits of the desert, cross

in hand, and with long beards that almost touched the ground. The monks,

governed by the abbots Ephrem and Serapion, and also all the cenobites

of the Nile, formed the second line. Behind them appeared the ascetics,

who had come from their distant rocks. Some wore, on their blackened

and dried-up bodies, shapeless rags; others had for their only clothes,

bundles of reeds held together by withies. Many of them were naked, but

God had covered them with a fell of hair as thick as a sheep’s fleece.

All held branches of palm; they looked like an emerald rainbow, or they

might have been also compared to the host of the elect--the living walls

of the city of God.

Such perfect order reigned in the assembly, that Paphnutius found,

without difficulty, the monks he governed. He placed himself near them,

after having taken care to hide his face under his hood, that he

might remain unknown, and not disturb them in their pious expectation.

Suddenly, an immense shout arose--

“The saint!” they all cried. “The saint! Behold the great saint, against

whom hell has not prevailed, the well-beloved of God! Our father,

Anthony!”

Then a great silence followed, and every forehead was lowered to the

sand.

From the summit of a dune, in the vast void space, Anthony advanced,

supported by his beloved disciples, Macarius and Amathas. He walked

slowly, but his figure was still upright, and showed the remains of a

superhuman strength. His white beard spread over his broad chest, his

polished skull reflected the rays of sunlight like the forehead of

Moses. The keen gaze of the eagle was in his eyes; the smile of a child

shone on his round cheek. To bless his people, he raised his arms, tired

by a century of marvellous works, and his voice burst forth for the last

time, with the words of love.

“How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, and thy tabernacles, O Israel!”

Immediately, from one end to the other of the living wall, like a peal

of harmonious thunder, the psalm, “Blessed is the man that feareth the

Lord,” broke forth.

Accompanied by Macarius and Amathas, Anthony passed along the ranks of

the old hermits, anchorites, and cenobites. This seer, who had beheld

heaven and hell; this hermit, who from a cave in the rock, governed

the Christian Church; this saint, who had sustained the faith of the

martyrs; this scholar, whose eloquence had paralysed the heretics, spoke

tenderly to each of his sons, and bade them a kindly farewell, on the

eve of the blessed death, which God, who loved him, had at last promised

him.

He said to the abbots Ephrem and Serapion--

“You command large armies, and you are both great generals. Therefore,

you shall put on in heaven an armour of gold, and the Archangel Michael

shall give you the title of kiliarchs of his hosts.”

Perceiving the old man Philemon, he embraced him, and said--

“Behold, the kindest and best of all my children. His soul exhales a

perfume as sweet as the flower of the beans he sows every year.”

To Abbot Zozimus he addressed these words--

“Thou hast never mistrusted divine goodness, and therefore the peace

of the Lord is in thee. The lily of thy virtues has flowered upon the

dunghill of thy corruption.”

To all he spoke words of unerring wisdom.

To the old hermits he said--

“The apostle saw, round the throne of God, eighty old men seated, clad

in white robes, and wearing crowns on their heads.”

To the young men--

“Be joyful; leave sadness to the happy ones of this world.”

Thus he passed along the front of his filial army, exhorting and

comforting. Paphnutius, seeing him approach, fell on his knees, his

heart torn by fear and hope.

“My father! my father!” he cried in his agony. “My father! come to my

help, for I perish. I have given to God the soul of Thais; I have lived

upon the top of a column, and in the chamber of a tomb. My forehead,

unceasingly in the dust, has become horny as a camel’s knee. And yet God

has gone from me. Bless me, my father, and I shall be saved; shake the

hyssop, and I shall be washed, and I shall shine as the snow.”

Anthony did not reply. He turned to the monks of Antinoe those eyes

whose looks no man could sustain. He gazed for a long time at Paul,

called the Fool; then he made a sign to him to approach. And, as all

were astonished that the saint should address himself to a man who was

not in his senses, Anthony said--

“God has granted to him more grace than to any of you. Lift thy eyes, my

son Paul, and tell me what thou seest in heaven.”

Paul the Fool raised his eyes; his face shone, and his tongue was

unloosed.

“I see in heaven,” he said, “a bed adorned with hangings of purple

and gold. Around it three virgins keep constant watch that no soul may

approach it, except the chosen one for whom the bed is prepared.”

Believing that this bed was the symbol of his glorification, Paphnutius

had already begun to return thanks to God. But Anthony made a sign

to him to be silent, and to listen to the Fool, who murmured in his

ecstasy--

“The three virgins speak to me; they say unto me: ‘A saint is about to

quit the earth; Thais of Alexandria is dying. And we have prepared the

bed of her glory, for we are her virtues--Faith, Fear, and Love.’”

Anthony asked--

“Sweet child, what else seest thou?”

Paul gazed vacantly from the zenith to the nadir, and from west to east,

when suddenly his eyes fell on the Abbot of Antinoe. His face grew pale

with a holy terror, and his eyeballs reflected invisible flames.

“I see,” he murmured, “three demons, who, full of joy, prepare to seize

that man. One of them is like unto a tower, one to a woman, and one to

a mage. All three bear their name, marked with red-hot iron; the first

on the forehead, the second on the belly, the third on the breast, and

those names are--Pride, Lust, and Doubt. I have finished.”

Having spoken thus, Paul, with haggard eyes and hanging jaw, returned to

his old simple ways.

And, as the monks of Antinoe looked anxiously at Anthony, the saint

pronounced these words--

“God has made known His just judgment. Let us bow to Him and hold our

peace.”

He passed. He bestowed blessings as he went. The sun, now descended to

the horizon, enveloped him in its glory, and his shadow, immeasurably

elongated by a miracle from heaven, unrolled itself behind him like an

endless carpet, as a sign of the long remembrance this great saint would

leave amongst men.

Upright, but thunderstruck, Paphnutius saw and heard nothing more. One

word alone rang in his ears, “Thais is dying!” The thought had never

occurred to him. Twenty years had he contemplated a mummy’s head, and

yet the idea that death would close the eyes of Thais astonished him

hopelessly.

“Thais is dying!” An incomprehensible saying! “Thais is dying!” In those

three words what a new and terrible sense! “Thais is dying!” Then why

the sun, the flowers, the brooks, and all creation? “Thais is dying!”

What good was all the universe? Suddenly he sprang forward. “To see her

again, to see her once more!” He began to run. He knew not where he was,

or whither he went, but instinct conducted him with unerring certainty;

he went straight to the Nile. A swarm of sails covered the upper waters

of the river. He sprang on board a barque manned by Nubians, and lying

in the forepart of the boat, his eyes devouring space, he cried, in

grief and rage--

“Fool, fool, that I was, not to have possessed Thais whilst there was

yet time! Fool to have believed that there was anything else in the

world but her! Oh, madness! I dreamed of God, of the salvation of my

soul, of life eternal--as if all that counted for anything when I had

seen Thais! Why did I not feel that blessed eternity was in a single

kiss of that woman, and that without her life was senseless, and no more

than an evil dream? Oh, stupid fool! thou hast seen her, and thou hast

desired the good things of the other world! Oh, coward! thou hast seen

her, and thou hast feared God! God! heaven! what are they? And what have

they to offer thee which are worth the least tittle of that which she

would have given thee? Oh, miserable, senseless fool, who sought divine

goodness elsewhere than on the lips of Thais! What hand was upon thy

eyes? Cursed be he who blinded thee then! Thou couldst have bought, at

the price of thy damnation, one moment of her love, and thou hast not

done it! She opened to thee her arms--flesh mingled with the perfume of

flowers--and thou wast not engulfed in the unspeakable enchantments of

her unveiled breast. Thou hast listened to the jealous voice which

said to thee, ‘Refrain!’ Dupe, dupe, miserable dupe! Oh, regrets! Oh,

remorse! Oh, despair! Not to have the joy to carry to hell the memory of

that never-to-be-forgotten hour, and to cry to God, ‘Burn my flesh, dry

up all the blood in my veins, break all my bones, thou canst not take

from me the remembrance which sweetens and refreshes me for ever and

ever!’ . . . Thais is dying! Preposterous God, if thou knewest how I

laugh at Thy hell! Thais is dying, and she will never be mine--never!

never!”

And as the boat came down the river with the current, he remained whole

days lying on his face, and repeating--

“Never! never! never!”

Then, at the idea that she had given herself to others, and not to him;

that she had poured forth an ocean of love, and he had not wetted his

lips therein, he stood up, savagely wild, and howled with grief. He tore

his breast with his nails, and bit the flesh of his arms. He thought--

“If I could but kill all those she has loved!”

The idea of these murders filled him with delicious fury. He dreamed of

killing Nicias slowly and leisurely, looking him full in the eyes whilst

he murdered him. Then suddenly his fury melted away. He wept, he sobbed.

He became feeble and meek. An unknown tenderness softened his soul.

He longed to throw his arms round the neck of the companion of his

childhood and say to him, “Nicias, I love thee, because thou hast loved

her. Talk to me about her. Tell me what she said to thee.” And still,

without ceasing, the iron of that phrase entered into his soul--“Thais

is dying!”

“Light of day, silvery shadows of night stars, heavens, trees with

trembling crests, savage beasts, domestic animals, all the anxious

souls of men, do you not hear? ‘Thais is dying!’ Disappear, ye lights,

breezes, and perfumes! Hide yourselves, ye shapes and thoughts of the

universe! ‘Thais is dying!’ She was the beauty of the world, and all

that drew near to her grew fairer in the reflection of her grace. The

old man and the sages who sat near her, at the banquet at Alexandria,

how pleasant they were, and how fascinating was their conversation! A

host of brilliant thoughts sprang to their lips, and all their ideas

were steeped in pleasure. And it was because the breath of Thais was on

them that all they said was love, beauty, truth. A delightful impiety

lent its grace to their discourse. They thoroughly expressed all human

splendour. Alas! all that is but a dream. Thais is dying! Oh, how easy

it will be to me to die of her death! But canst thou only die, withered

embryo, fetus steeped in gall and scalding tears? Miserable abortion,

dost thou think thou canst taste death, thou who hast never known life?

If only God exists, that he may damn me. I hope for it--I wish it. God,

I hate Thee--dost Thou hear? Overwhelm me with Thy damnation. To compel

Thee to, I spit in Thy face. I must find an eternal hell, to exhaust the

eternity of rage which consumes me.”

*****

The next day, at dawn, Albina received the Abbot of Antinoe at the

nunnery.

“Thou art welcome to our tabernacles of peace, venerable father, for no

doubt, thou comest to bless the saint thou hast given us. Thou knowest

that God, in his mercy, has called her to Him; how couldst thou fail to

know tidings that the angels have carried from desert to desert? It

is true that Thais is about to meet her blessed death. Her labours are

accomplished, and I ought to inform thee, in a few words, as to her

conduct whilst she was still amongst us. After thy departure, when she

was confined in a cell sealed with thy seal, I sent her, with her

food, a flute, similar to those which girls of her profession play at

banquets. I did that to prevent her from falling into a melancholy mood,

and that she should not show less skill and talent before God than she

had shown before men. In this I showed prudence and foresight, for all

day long Thais praised the Lord upon the flute, and the virgins, who

were attracted by the sound of this invisible flute, said, ‘We hear the

nightingale of the heavenly groves, the dying swan of Jesus crucified.’

Thus did Thais perform her penance, when, after sixty days, the door

which thou hadst sealed opened of itself, and the clay seal was broken

without being touched by any human hand. By that sign I knew that

the trial thou hadst imposed upon her was at an end, and that God had

pardoned the sins of the flute-player. From that time she has shared

the ordinary life of my nuns, working and praying with them. She was an

example to them by the modesty of her acts and words, and seemed like a

statue of purity amongst them. Sometimes she was sad; but those clouds

soon passed. When I saw that she was really drawn towards God by faith,

hope, and love, I did not hesitate to employ her talent, and even her

beauty, for the improvement of her sisters. I asked her to represent

before us the actions of the famous women and wise virgins of the

Scriptures. She acted Esther, Deborah, Judith, Mary, the sister of

Lazarus, and Mary, the mother of Jesus. I know, venerable father, that

thy austere mind is alarmed at the idea of these performances. But thou

thyself wouldest have been touched if thou hadst seen her in these pious

scenes, shedding real tears, and raising to heaven arms graceful as palm

leaves. I have long governed a community of women, and I make it a rule

never to oppose their nature. All seeds give not the same flowers. Not

all souls are sanctified in the same way. It must also not be forgotten

that Thais gave herself to God whilst she was still beautiful, and such

a sacrifice is, if not unexampled, at least very rare. This beauty--her

natural vesture--has not left her during the three months’ fever of

which she is dying. As, during her illness, she has incessantly asked to

see the sky, I have her carried every morning into the courtyard, near

the well, under the old fig tree, in the shade of which the abbesses of

this convent are accustomed to hold their meetings. Thou wilt find her

there, venerable father; but hasten, for God calls her, and this night

a shroud will cover that face which God made both to shame and to edify

this world.”

Paphnutius followed her into a courtyard flooded with the morning light.

On the edge of the brick roofs, the pigeons formed a string of pearls.

On a bed, in the shade of the fig tree, Thais lay quite white, her arms

crossed. By her side stood veiled women, reciting the prayers for the

dying.

_“Have mercy, upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness:

according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies blot out my

transgressions.”_

He called her--

“Thais!”

She raised her eyelids, and turned the whites of her eyes in the

direction of the voice.

Albina made a sign to the veiled women to retire a few paces.

“Thais!” repeated the monk.

She raised her head; a light breath came from her pale lips.

“Is it thou, my father? . . . Dost thou remember the water of the

spring, and the dates that we picked? . . . That day, my father, love

was born in my heart--the love of life eternal.”

She was silent, and her head fell back.

Death was upon her, and the sweat of the last agony bedewed her

forehead. A pigeon broke the still silence with its plaintive cooing.

Then the sobs of the monk mingled with the psalms of the virgins.

_“Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For

I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.”_

Suddenly Thais sat up in the bed. Her violet eyes opened wide, and with

a rapt gaze, her arms stretched towards the distant hills, she said in a

clear, fresh voice--

“Behold them--the roses of the eternal dawn!”

Her eyes shone; a slight flush suffused her face. She had revived, more

sweet and more beautiful than ever. Paphnutius knelt down, and threw his

long black arms around her.

“Do not die!” he cried, in a strange voice, which he himself did not

recognise. “I love thee! Do not die! Listen, my Thais. I have deceived

thee? I was but a wretched fool. God, heaven--all that is nothing. There

is nothing true but this worldly life, and the love of human beings. I

love thee! Do not die! That would be impossible--thou art too precious!

Come, come with me! Let us fly? I will carry thee far away in my arms.

Come, let us love! Hear me, O my beloved, and say, ‘I will live; I wish

to live.’ Thais, Thais, arise!”

She did not hear him. Her eyes gazed into infinity.

She murmured--

“Heaven opens. I see the angels, the prophets, and the saints. . . . The

good Theodore is amongst them, his hands filled with flowers; he smiles

on me and calls me. . . . Two angels come to me. They draw near. . . .

How beautiful they are! I see God!”

She uttered a joyful sigh, and her head fell back motionless on the

pillow. Thais was dead.

Paphnutius held her in a last despairing embrace; his eyes devoured her

with desire, rage, and love.

Albina cried to him--

“Avaunt, accursed wretch!”

And she gently placed her fingers on the eyelids of the dead girl.

Paphnutius staggered back, his eyes burning with flames and feeling the

earth open beneath his feet.

The virgins chanted the song of Zacharias:

_“Blessed be the Lord God of Israel.”_

Suddenly their voices stayed in their throat. They had seen the monk’s

face, and they fled in affright, crying--

“A vampire! A vampire!”

He had become so repulsive, that passing his hand over his face, he felt

his own hideousness.