the happiest life of it. What surprised him most was the news that she
would have nothing whatever to do with the proconsul. Although he was
old-world or indifferent in the matter of religion, he was not offended
at the maiden's new faith, and with his partiality for her he began to
be more in her company again, the better to see and hear how she was
faring. But in her present mood, she could speak of nothing except in
the tenderest and most languishing accents of a Heavenly Bridegroom
whom she had found, who was awaiting her in immortal beauty, to take
her to His radiant breast, and give her the rose of eternal life, and
so forth.
He could make neither head nor tail of this language. It offended and
annoyed him, and filled his heart with a strange, painful jealousy of
the unknown God who perverted a weak woman's mind; for he could not
understand and interpret the excited and enthusiastic Dorothea's
expressions otherwise than in the old mythological fashion. Jealousy of
a superhuman being did not hurt his pride, but it blunted his sympathy
with the woman who boasted of being united to deities. Yet it was
nothing else than her unrequited love for himself that put such
language into her mouth, just as he himself had the thorn of passion
always fixed in his heart.
Matters had dragged on thus for some little time, when Fabricius
suddenly pounced down. Taking advantage of renewed Imperial orders for
a persecution of Christians, he had Dorothea and her parents
imprisoned. The daughter, however, was placed in a separate gaol, and
put to the question about her faith. Full of curiosity, he went in
person and heard her loudly repudiating the ancient gods, and
confessing as the only Lord of the world Christ, whose betrothed bride
she was. At that, a savage jealousy took possession of the governor
also. He resolved on her destruction, and ordered her to be tortured
and, if she still persisted, to be put to death. Then he departed. She
was laid on a gridiron, under which coals were fanned to a glow in such
a fashion that the heat only increased slowly. Still, it hurt her
tender frame. She uttered stifled screams for a time, while her limbs,
which were chained down to the gridiron, quivered, and tears flowed
from her eyes. Theophilus, who usually refrained from taking any part
in such persecutions, had heard of the business, and hastened to her
full of horror and disquiet. Forgetful of his own safety, he thrust his
way through the gaping populace, and, when with his own ears he heard
Dorothea's low moans, he snatched a sword from a soldier's hand, and
stood at one bound before her bed of torture.
"Does it hurt, Dorothea?" he enquired with a bitter smile, intending to
cut her fastenings. But she answered, feeling suddenly as if all pain
had left her and she were filled with the most perfect bliss, "How
could it hurt me, Theophilus? It is the roses of my well-beloved
Bridegroom that I am lying upon. See! To-day is my wedding-day!"
Her lips played as if it were one of her favourite dainty jests, while
her eyes looked at him blissfully. An unearthly radiance seemed to
illumine her and her couch, a triumphant calm settled upon her.
Theophilus lowered his sword, threw it from him, and once again
retreated ashamed and confounded as on that morning in the garden by
the sea.
Then the coals glowed red again. Dorothea sighed and longed for death.
And her desire was granted; she was led away to the place of execution,
to be beheaded.
She went to her fate with a light step, followed by the unthinking,
shouting mob. Standing by the roadside she saw Theophilus, who never
took his eyes off her. Their eyes met. Dorothea stood still an instant,
and said cheerfully, "Theophilus, if you only knew how beautiful and
splendid are my Lord's rose-gardens, where I shall soon be walking, and
how sweet his apples taste which grow there, you would come along with
me!"
Theophilus responded with a bitter smile: "I'll tell you what,
Dorothea! Send me some of your roses and apples for a sample when you
get there!"
She gave a friendly nod, and went on her way.
Theophilus followed her with his eyes until the cloud of dust, golden
in the evening sunshine, which accompanied the procession, had vanished
in the distance, and the street was empty and silent. Then with
shrouded head he went home, and ascended with faltering steps to the
house-top, from which there was a view out to the Argeus mountains. The
place of execution was situated on one of the foot-hills. He could
easily make out a dark cluster of humanity there, and he stretched out
his longing arms in its direction. He fancied that in the light of the
departing sun he could see the flash of the falling axe, and he dropped
down and lay prone on the terrace. And, as a matter of fact, Dorothea's
head did fall about that time.
But he had not long lain thus motionless, when a clear shining
lightened the twilight, and pierced with blinding radiance beneath
Theophilus's hands in which his face lay buried, and poured itself into
his closed eyes like liquid gold. At the same time a rare fragrance
filled the air. The young man arose as if pervaded by some new and
unknown life. Before him stood a wondrous lovely boy, with golden
ringlets, clad in a star-spangled garment, and with radiant naked feet,
bearing a small basket in no less radiant hands. The basket was filled
with the most beautiful roses, the like of which were never seen, and
among the roses lay three apples of Paradise.
With an infinitely true-hearted and frank childish smile, yet not
without a certain pleasant roguishness, the child said, "This is from
Dorothea!" put the basket in his hands with the question, "Have you got
it?" and vanished.
The basket did not vanish, and Theophilus had really got it in his
hands. He found the three apples lightly marked by two tiny teeth, as
was the custom among lovers in ancient times. He ate them slowly, with
the blazing starry heavens above him. A mighty longing permeated him
with a sweet fire, and, clasping the basket to his breast and
concealing it with his mantle, he hastened down from the house-top,
through the streets and into the palace of the governor, who was
sitting at table endeavouring to drown his wild rage in untempered
Colchian wine.
With flashing eyes, Theophilus advanced towards him, without uncovering
the basket, and exclaimed before the whole company, "I declare that I
am of the same faith as Dorothea, whom you have just now murdered. It
is the only true faith!"
"Then go after the witch!" retorted the governor, who, racked by sudden
wrath and consuming jealousy, sprang to his feet, and had his secretary
beheaded that same hour.
Thus Theophilus was, after all, united for ever to Dorothea on that
same day. She welcomed him with the restful look of the blessed. Like
two doves, separated by the tempest, who have found each other again,
and first fly in a wide circuit round their home, so the united pair
swept hand in hand swiftly, swiftly, and unceasingly around the outmost
circles of Heaven, freed from every weight, yet still themselves. Then
they separated sportively and lost themselves in wide infinity, while
each knew where the other tarried, and what the other thought, and
joined with him in embracing every creature and all existence in sweet
love. Then they sought each other again with waxing desire, which knew
no pain and no impatience. They found each other, and once more eddied
about, or reposed in contemplation of themselves and gazed near and far
into the world of infinitude. But once in blissful forgetfulness they
ventured too near the crystal habitation of the Holy Trinity, and
entered within. There they lost all consciousness, and like twins
beneath a mother's heart they fell on sleep, and no doubt are sleeping
still, unless meantime they have been able to make their way out.
A LEGEND OF THE DANCE
O virgin of Israel: thou shalt again be adorned
with thy tabrets, and shalt go forth in the dances....
Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both
young men and old together.
Jeremiah, xxxi. 4, 13.
According to Saint Gregory, Musa was the dancer among the saints. The
child of good people, she was a bright young lady, a diligent servant
of the Mother of God, and subject only to one weakness, such an
uncontrollable passion for the dance, that when the child was not
praying she was dancing without fail, and that on all imaginable
occasions. Musa danced with her playmates, with children, with the
young men, and even by herself. She danced in her own room and every
other room in the house, in the garden, in the meadows. Even when she
went to the altar, it was to a gracious measure rather than at a walk,
and even on the smooth marble flags before the church-door she did not
scruple to practise a few hasty steps.
In fact, one day when she found herself alone in the church, she could
not refrain from executing some figures before the altar, and, so to
speak, dancing a pretty prayer to the Virgin Mary. She became so
oblivious of all else that she fancied she was merely dreaming when she
saw an oldish but handsome gentleman dancing opposite her, and
supplementing her figures so skilfully that the pair got into the most
elaborate dance imaginable. The gentleman had a royal purple robe, a
golden crown on his head, and a glossy black curled beard, which the
silvery streaks of age had touched as with distant starlight. At the
same time music sounded from the choir, where half-a-dozen small angels
stood or sat with their chubby little legs hanging over the screen, and
fingered or blew their various instruments. The urchins were very
pleasant and skilful. Each rested his music on one of the stone angels
with which the choir-screen was adorned, except the smallest, a
puffy-cheeked piper, who sat cross-legged, and contrived to hold his
music with his pink toes. He was the most diligent of them all. The
others dangled their feet, kept spreading their pinions, one or other
of them, with a rustle, so that their colours shimmered like doves'
breasts, and they teased each other as they played.
Musa found no time to wonder at all this until the dance, which lasted
a pretty long time, was over; for the merry gentleman seemed to enjoy
himself as much as the maid, who felt as if she were dancing about in
Heaven. But when the music ceased, and Musa stood there panting, she
began to be scared in good earnest, and looked in astonishment at the
ancient, who was neither out of breath nor warm, and who now began to
speak. He introduced himself as David, the Virgin Mary's royal ancestor
and her ambassador. And he asked if she would like to pass eternal
bliss in an unending pleasure-dance, compared with which the dance they
had just finished could only be called a miserable crawl.
To this she promptly answered that there was nothing she desired
better. Whereupon the blessed King David said again that in that case
she had nothing more to do than to renounce all pleasure and all
dancing for the rest of her days on earth, and devote herself wholly to
penance and spiritual exercises, and that without hesitation or
relapse.
The maiden was taken aback at these conditions, and she asked whether
she must really give up dancing altogether. She questioned, indeed,
whether there was any dancing in Heaven; for there was a time for
everything: this earth looked very fit and proper for dancing; it stood
to reason that Heaven must have very different attractions, else death
were a superfluity.
But David explained to her that her notions on this subject were quite
erroneous, and proved from many Bible texts, and from his own example,
that dancing was most assuredly a sanctified occupation for the
blessed. But what was wanted just now was an immediate decision, Yes or
No, whether she wished to enter into eternal joy by way of temporal
self-denial or not. If she did not, then he would go farther on; for
they wanted some dancers in Heaven.
Musa stood, still doubtful and undecided, and fumbled anxiously with
her finger-tips in her mouth. It seemed too hard never to dance again
from that moment, all for the sake of an unknown reward.
At that David gave a signal, and suddenly the musicians struck up some
bars of a dance of such unheard-of bliss and unearthliness that the
girl's soul leapt in her body, and all her limbs twitched; but she
could not get one of them to dance, and she noted that her body was far
too heavy and stiff for that tune. Full of longing she struck her hand
into the king's, and made the promise which he demanded.
Forthwith he was no more to be seen, and the angel-musicians whirred
and fluttered, and crowded out and away through an open window; but, in
mischievous, childish fashion, before going, they dealt the patient
stone angels a sounding slap on the cheeks with their rolled-up music.
Musa went home with devout step, carrying that celestial melody in her
ears; and, having laid all her dainty raiment aside, she got a coarse
gown made and put it on. At the same time, she built herself a cell at
the bottom of her parents' garden, where the deep shade of the trees
lingered, made a scant bed of moss, and from that day onwards separated
herself from all her kindred, and took up her abode there as a penitent
and saint. She spent all her time in prayer, and often disciplined
herself with a scourge. But her severest penance consisted in holding
her limbs stiff and immovable; for whenever she heard a sound, the
twitter of a bird, or the rustling of the leaves in the wind, her feet
twitched, as much as to tell her they must dance.
As this involuntary twitching would not forsake her, and often seduced
her to a little skip before she was aware, she caused her tender little
feet to be fastened together by a light chain. Her relatives and
friends marvelled day and night at the transformation, rejoiced to
possess such a saint, and guarded the hermitage under the trees as the
apple of their eye. Many came for her counsel and intercession. In
particular, they used to bring young girls to her who were rather
clumsy on their feet; for it was observed that every one whom she
touched at once became light and graceful in gait.
So she spent three years in her cell; but, by the end of the third
year, Musa had become almost as thin and transparent as a summer cloud.
She lay continually on her bed of moss, gazed wistfully into Heaven,
and was convinced that she could already see the golden sandals of the
blessed, dancing and gliding about through the azure.
At last, one harsh autumn day, the tidings spread that the saint lay on
her death-bed. She had taken off her dark penitential robe, and caused
herself to be arrayed in bridal garments of dazzling white. So she lay
with folded hands, and smilingly awaited the hour of death. The garden
was all filled with devout persons, the breezes murmured, and the
leaves were falling from the trees on all sides. But suddenly the
sighing of the wind changed into music, which appeared to be playing in
the tree-tops, and, as the people looked up, lo! all the branches were
clad in fresh green, the myrtles and pomegranates put out blossom and
fragrance, the earth decked itself with flowers, and a rosy glow
settled upon the white, frail form of the dying saint.
That same instant, she yielded up her spirit. The chain about her feet
sprang asunder with a sharp twang, Heaven opened wide all around, full
of unbounded radiance, so that all could see in. Then they saw many
thousands of beautiful young men and maidens in the utmost splendour,
dancing circle upon circle farther than the eye could reach. A
magnificent king, throned on a cloud with a special band of six small
angels seated on its edge, bore down a little way towards earth, and
received the form of the sainted Musa from before the eyes of all the
beholders who filled the garden. They saw, too, how she sprang into the
opened Heaven, and immediately danced out of sight among the jubilant,
radiant circles.
That was a high feast-day in Heaven. Now the custom--to be sure, it is
denied by Saint Gregory of Nyssa; but it is stoutly maintained by his
namesake of Nazianza--the custom on feast-days was to invite the Nine
Muses, who sat for the rest of their time in Hell, and to admit them to
Heaven, that they might be of assistance. They were well entertained;
but, once the feast was over, had to go back to the other place.
When now the dances and songs and all the ceremonies had come to an
end, and the Heavenly company sat down, Musa was taken to a table
where the Nine Muses were being served. They sat huddled together
half-scared, glancing about them with their fiery black or dark-blue
eyes. The busy Martha of the gospels was caring for them in person; she
had on her finest kitchen-apron and a tiny little smut on her white
chin, and was pressing all manner of good things on the Muses in the
friendliest possible way. But when Musa and Saint Caecilia and some
other artistic women arrived, and greeted the shy Pierians cheerfully
and joined their company, they began to thaw, grew confidential, and
the feminine circle became quite pleasant and happy. Musa sat beside
Terpsiehore, and Caecilia between Polyhymnia and Euterpe, and all took
one another's hands. Next came the little minstrel urchins, and made up
to the pretty women, with an eye to the bright fruit which shone on the
ambrosial table. King David himself came and brought a golden cup, out
of which all drank, so that gracious joy warmed them. He went round the
table in high good-spirits, not omitting, as he passed, to chuck pretty
Erato under the chin. While things were going on so famously at the
Muses' table, our Gracious Lady herself appeared in all her beauty and
goodness, sat down a few minutes beside the Muses, and kissed the
august Urania with the starry coronet tenderly upon the lips, when she
took her departure, whispering to her that she would not rest until the
Muses could remain in Paradise for ever.
But that never came about. To declare their gratitude for the kindness
and friendliness which had been shown them, and to prove their good
will, the Muses took counsel together and practised a hymn of praise in
a retired corner of the under-world. They tried to give it the form of
the solemn chorals which were the fashion in Heaven. They arranged it
in two parts of four voices each, with a sort of principal part which
Urania took, and they thus produced a remarkable piece of vocal music.
The next time that a feast-day was celebrated in Heaven, and the Muses
again rendered their assistance, they seized what appeared to be a
favourable moment for their purpose, took their places, and commenced
their song. It began softly, but soon swelled out mightily. But in
those regions it sounded so dismal, almost defiant and harsh, yet so
wistful and mournful, that first of all a horrified silence prevailed,
and next the whole assembly was seized with a sad longing for earth and
home, and broke into universal weeping.
A sigh without end throbbed through Heaven. All the Elders and Prophets
hastened up in dismay, while the Muses, with the best of intentions,
sang louder and more mournfully, and all Paradise with the Patriarchs
and Elders and Prophets, and all who ever walked or lay in the green
pastures, lost all command of themselves. Until at last, the High and
Mighty Trinity Himself came to put things right, and reduced the
too-zealous Muses to silence with a long, reverberating peal of
thunder.
Then quiet and composure were restored to Heaven. But the poor Nine
Sisters had to depart, and never dared enter it again from that day.
THE END
CONTENTS
Introduction
Eugenia
The Virgin and the Devil
The Virgin as Knight
The Virgin and the Nun
The Naughty Saint Vitalis
Dorothea's Flower-Basket
A Legend of the Dance
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