In a perfectly dark spot by the wall of the widow’s garden, stood
the cynic philosopher who had met Antinous with so little courtesy,
defending himself eagerly, but in low tones against the rebukes of
another man, who, dressed, like himself in a ragged cloak and bearing a
beggar’s wallet, appeared to be one of the same kidney.
“Do not deny,” said the latter, “that you cling much to the Christians.”
“But hear me out,” urged the other.
“I need hear nothing, for I have seen you for the tenth time sneaking in
to one of their meetings.”
“And do I deny it? Do I not honestly confess that I seek truth wherever
I may, where I see even a gleam of hope of finding it?”
“Like the Egyptian who wanted to catch the miraculous fish, and at last
flung his hook into the sand.”
“The man acted very wisely.”
“What now!”
“A marvel is not to be found just where everything else is. In hunting
for truth you must not be afraid of a bog.”
“And the Christian doctrine seems to be very much such a muddy thicket.”
“Call it so for aught I care.”
“Then beware lest you find yourself sticking in the morass.”
“I will take care of myself.”
“You said just now that there were decent folks among them.”
“A few no doubt. But the others! eternal gods! mere slaves, beggars,
ruined handicraftstmen, common people, untaught and unphilosophical
brains, and women, for the most part.”
“Avoid them then.”
“You ought to be the last to give me that advice.”
“What do you mean?”
The other went close up to him and asked him in a whisper:
“Why, where do you suppose I get the money with which I pay for our food
and lodging?”
“So long as you do not steal it, it is all the same to me.”
“If I had no more, you would ask the question fast enough.”
“Certainly not, we strive after virtue and ought to do everything to
render ourselves independent of nature and her cravings. But to be
sure she often asserts her rights--to return then: where do you get the
money?”
“Why, it burns in the purses of the people in there. It is their duty
to give to the poor, and to tell the truth, their pleasure also; and so
week by week they give me a few drachmae for my suffering brother.”
“Bah! you are the only son of your father, and he is dead.”
“‘All men are brethren’ say the Christians, consequently I may call you
mine without lying.”
“Join them then for aught I care,” laughed the other. “How would it
be if I followed you among the Christians? Perhaps they would give
me weekly money too, for my suffering brother, and then we could have
double meals.”
The cynics laughed loudly and parted; one went back into the city, the
other into the garden belonging to the Christian widow.
Arsinoe had entered here before the dishonest philosopher and had gone
straight to Hannah’s house without being detained by the gate-keeper. As
she got nearer to her destination, she tried more and more earnestly to
devise some way in which she might inform her sister of all the dreadful
things that had happened, and which she must learn sooner or later,
without giving her too great a shock. Her dread was not much less than
her grief. As she reflected on the last few days and on all that had
occurred, it almost seemed as though she herself had been the cause of
the misfortunes of her family.
On the way to see Selene she could shed no tears, but she could not help
softly moaning to herself now and then. A woman, who for some distance
had kept pace with her, thought she must be suffering some severe bodily
pain, and when the girl passed her, she looked after her with sincere
compassion, the wailing of the desolate young creature had sounded so
piteous.
True, midway, Arsinoe had suddenly stopped and had thought that instead
of going to Selene for advice, she would turn round and seek Pollux and
ask him to help her. The thought of her lover forced its way through all
her sorrow and anxiety, through the reproaches she heaped upon herself
and the vague plans floating in the air which her brain--unaccustomed to
any serious thought, vainly tried to sketch for the future. He was kind,
and would certainly be ready to help her; but maidenly modesty held
her back from seeking him at so late an hour; besides, how could she
discover him or his parents?
The place where her sister was she was now familiar with, and no one
could judge of their position better or give sounder counsel than
prudent Selene. So she had not turned round, but had hurried on to reach
her destination as soon as possible; and now she was standing before
the little house in the garden. Before opening the door she once more
considered in what way she could prepare Selene and tell her terrible
news, and, as all that happened stood vividly before her mind’s eye, she
began to weep once more.
In front of her, and following her, men and veiled women, singly or in
couples or in larger groups, passed into Paulina’s garden. They came
from workshops and writing-rooms, from humble houses in narrow lanes,
and from the handsomest and largest in the main street. Each and all,
from the wealthy merchant down to the slave who could not call the
coarse tunic or scanty apron that he wore, his own, walked gravely and
with a certain dignified reserve. All who met within that gate greeted
each other as friends; the master gave a brotherly kiss to the servant,
the slave to his owner; for the congregation to which they all belonged
was as one body, animated and dwelt in by Christ, so that each member
was esteemed as equal to the others however different their gifts of
body or mind might be, or the worldly possessions with which they
were endowed. Before God and his Saviour the rich ship-owner or the
grey-haired sage stood no higher than the defenceless widow and the
ignorant slave crippled with blows. Still, the members of the community
submitted to those more implicitly than to these, for the special
talents which graced certain superior Christians were gifts of grace
from the Lord, readily acknowledged as such and, so far as they
concerned the inner man, deemed worthy of honor.
On Sunday, the day of the Resurrection of the Lord, all Christians,
without exception, visited their place of assembly for divine worship.
To-day, being the middle of the week, all who could or chose came to the
love-feast at Paulina’s suburban house. She herself dwelt in the city
and she had placed the banqueting hall of her villa, which would hold
more than a hundred souls, at the disposal of her fellow Christians in
that quarter of the town. The regular service was held in the morning,
but after the day’s labor was ended the Christians met at one table to
have an evening meal in common, or--on other occasions to partake of
the sacramental supper. After sunset the elders, deacons, and
deaconesses--most of whom, so long as it was light, had secular work to
attend to--met to take counsel together.
Paulina, the widow of Pudeus and sister of Pontius the architect, was a
woman of considerable property and at the same time a prudent steward,
who did not consider herself justified in seriously impairing her son’s
inheritance. This son was residing at Smyrna as a partner in an uncle’s
business, and always avoided Alexandria, as he did not like his mother’s
intercourse with the Christians. Paulina took the most anxious care not
to make any inroads on the capital intended for him, and never allowed
her hospitality to her fellow-believers to cost her any more than it did
the other wealthy members of the circle that met at her house. There
the rich brought more than they needed for themselves and the poor were
always welcome; not feeling themselves oppressed by the benevolence they
profited by, for they were often told that their entertainer was not
a mortal, but the Saviour, who invited each one who followed him
faithfully to be his guest.
The hour was approaching which would summon dame Hannah to join the
assembly of her fellow Christians. She could not fail to appear, for she
was one of the deaconesses entrusted with the distribution of alms and
the care of the sick. She noiselessly made her preparations for going,
carefully setting the lamp behind the water-pitcher so that it should
not dazzle Selene, and she desired Mary to be exact in administering the
medicine to her patient. She knew that the girl had yesterday attempted
to make away with herself, and guessed the cause; but she asked no
questions and disturbed the poor child, who slept a good deal or lay
dreaming with open eyes, as little as possible. The old physician
wondered at her sound constitution, for since her plunge into the water
the fever had left her and even the injured foot was not much the worse.
Hannah might now hope the best for Selene if no unforeseen contingency
checked her recovery. To prevent this the unfortunate girl was never to
be left alone, and Mary had gladly agreed with her friend to fill her
place whenever she was obliged to leave the house.
The meeting of the elders and guardians had already begun when Hannah
took her tablets in her hand, on which was noted the distribution she
had made of the money entrusted to her during the last week. She greeted
the sick girl and Mary with a kindly look and whispered to the deformed
girl:
“I will think of thee in my prayers thou faithful soul. There is some
food in the little cupboard--not much, for we must be sparing, the last
medicine was so dear.”
In the little anteroom a lamp was burning which Mary had lighted as
it began to grow dark, and the widow paused for a moment, considering
whether she should not extinguish it to save the oil. She had taken up
the tongs that hung by it, and was about to put it out, when she heard
a gentle tap at the house-door. Before she could enquire who it was
that asked admission at so late an hour, the door was opened and Arsinoe
entered the little hall. Her eyes were still full of tears and she had
great difficulty in finding words to return Hannah’s greeting.
“Why what ails you my child?” asked the Christian anxiously when by the
dim light, she saw how tearful and sad the girl looked. Arsinoe was long
before she could answer. At last she collected herself sufficiently to
sob out amid her tears:
“Oh dame Hannah! It is all over with us--my father, our poor father--”
The widow guessed at the blow that bad fallen on the sisters and full of
anxiety on Selene’s account she interrupted the weeping child saying:
“Hush, hush my child-Selene must not hear you. Come out with me and then
you can tell me all.” Once outside the door Hannah put her arm round
Arsinoe drew her towards her, kissed her forehead, and said:
“Now speak and tell me every thing; think that I am your mother or
your sister. Poor Selene is still too weak to advise or help you. Take
courage. What happened to your poor father?”
“Struck by apoplexy, dead--dead!” wept the girl. “Poor, dear little
orphan,” said the widow in a husky voice and she clasped Arsinoe closely
in her arms. For some time she allowed the girl to weep silently on her
bosom; then she spoke:
“Give me your hand my daughter and tell me how it has all happened so
suddenly. Your father was quite well yesterday and now? Yes my girl life
is a grave matter, you have to learn it while you are still young. I
know you have six little brothers and sisters and perhaps you may
soon lack even the necessaries of life. But that is no disgrace; I am
certainly even poorer than you and yet, by God’s help, I hope to be able
to advise you and perhaps even to assist you. Every thing that I can
possibly do shall be done, but first I must know how matters stand with
you and what you need.”
There was so much kindness and consolation in the Christian’s tones, so
much to revive hope that Arsinoe willingly complied with her demand and
began her story.
At first, to be sure, her pride shunned confessing how poor, how
absolutely destitute they were; but Hannah’s questions soon brought the
truth to light; and when Arsinoe perceived that the widow understood the
misfortunes of their house in their fullest extent, and that it would be
unavailing to conceal how matters stood with her and the children, she
yielded to the growing impulse to relieve her soul by pouring out her
griefs and described frankly and without reserve the whole position of
the family, to the good woman who listened with attention and sympathy.
The widow asked about each child separately, and ended by enquiring who,
in Arsinoe’s absence, was left in charge of the little ones; and when
she heard that the old slave-woman to whose care the children were
entrusted, was infirm and half-blind, she shook her head thoughtfully.
“Here help is needed and at once,” she said decidedly. “You must go back
to the little ones presently. Your sister must not at present hear of
your father’s death; when your future lot is to some extent secure we
will tell her by degrees all that has occurred. Now come with me, it is
by the Lord’s guidance that you came here at the right moment.”
Hannah conducted Arsinoe to Paulina’s villa, first into a small room
at the side of the entrance hall, where the deaconesses took off their
veils and their warm wraps in winter evenings. There the girl could be
alone, and safe from inquisitive questionings which could not fail to be
painful to her. Hannah desired her to await her return, and then joined
her colleagues.
In order to do so she had to pass through the room where the elders
and deacons were sitting in council. The bishop, who presided over the
assembly, sat on a raised seat at the head of an oblong table, and on
his right hand and his left sat a number of elderly men, some of whom
seemed to be of Jewish or Egyptian extraction but most of them were
Greeks. In these the lofty intellectual brow was conspicuous, in those
a bright, ecstatic expression particularly in the eyes. Hannah went
past the assembly with a reverential greeting into the adjoining room in
which the deaconesses sat waiting, for women were not admitted to join
or hear the deliberations of the elders. The bishop, a fine old man
with a full white beard; raised his kindly eyes as the door closed upon
Hannah, fixed them for a few moments on the tips of his fingers that
he had raised and then addressed the presbyter who had presented for
baptism several candidates who had been grounded during the past year in
the Christian faith and doctrine, as follows:
“Most of the catechumens you have presented to me cling faithfully no
doubt to the Redeemer. They believe in Him and love Him. But have they
attained to that sanctification, that new birth in Christ, which alone
can justify us in admitting them through baptism among the lambs of our
Good Shepherd? Let us beware of the tainted sheep which may infect the
whole flock. Verily, in these latter years there has been no lack of
them, and they have been received among us and have brought the name of
Christian into evil repute. Shall I give you an example? There was an
Egyptian in Rhakotis; few seemed to strive so fervently as he for the
remission of his sins. He could fast for many days, and yet no sooner
was he baptized than he broke into a goldsmith’s shop. He was condemned
to death, and before his end he sent for me and confessed to me that in
former years he had soiled his soul with many robberies and murders. He
had hoped to win forgiveness of his sins by the act of baptism, the mere
washing in water, not by repentance and a new birth to a pure and holy
life; and he had gone on boldly in new sin because he confidently hoped
that he might again count on the unwearying mercy of the Saviour. Others
again, who had been brought up in the practice of the ablutions which
have to be performed by those who are initiated into the deeper secrets
of the heathen mysteries, regarded baptism as an act of purification,
a mystical process of happy augury, or at the best a figurative
purification of the soul, and crowded to receive it. Here, in
Alexandria, the number of these deluded ones is especially great; for
where could any superstition find a more favorable soil than in this
seat of philosophical half-culture, or over-culture; of the worship
of Serapis, of astrology, of societies of Mystics, of visionaries
and exorcisers, and of incredulity--the twin-sister of credulity. Be
cautious then to hold back from baptism all those who regard it as a
preserving charm or an act of good omen--remembering that the same water
which, sprinkled on sanctified hearts, leads them to holy living, brings
death to the unclean soul. It is your turn to speak, Irenaeus.”
“I only have to say,” began the young Christian thus designated, “that
I have recently met among the catechumens with some who have attached
themselves to us from the basest motives. I mean the idlers who are glad
to receive our alms. Have you noticed here a cynic philosopher whose
starving brother we maintain? Our deacon Clemens has just ascertained
that he is the only son of his father--”
“We will investigate this matter more closely when we discuss the
distribution of alms,” replied the bishop. “Here we have petitions from
several women who desire to have their children baptized; this question
we cannot decide here; it must be referred to the next Synod. So far
as I am concerned, I should be inclined not to reject the prayer of the
mothers. Wherein does the utmost aim of the Christian life consist?
It seems to me in being perfectly conformable to the example of the
Saviour. And was not he a Man among men, a Youth among the young, a
Child among children? Did not His existence lend sanctity to every age,
and especially childhood? He commanded that little children should be
brought to Him, and He promised them the Kingdom of Heaven. Wherefore
then should we exclude them and deny them baptism?”
“I cannot share your views,” replied a presbyter with a high forehead
and sunken eyes. “We ought no doubt to follow the Saviour, but those who
tread in His steps should do so of their own free choice, out of love
for Him, and after He has sanctified their souls. What is the sense of a
new birth in a life that has scarcely begun.
“Your discourse,” replied the bishop, “only confirms my opinion that
this question is one for a higher assembly. We will now close our
discussion of that point, and go on to the care of the poor. Call in the
women, my good Justinius.”
The deaconesses came into the room and took seats at the lower end of
the table, Paulina, the widow of Pudeus, taking her place opposite the
bishop in the middle of the other women. She had learnt from Selene’s
kind nurse in what pressing difficulties the children of the deceased
steward now found themselves, and that Hannah had promised to assist
them.
The deacons first gave their reports of what their works had been among
the poor; after them the women were allowed to speak. Paulina, a tall,
slight woman with black hair faintly streaked with gray, drew from her
dress, which was perfectly plain, but made of particularly soft, fine
white woollen stuff--a tablet that she placed before her, and slowly
raising her eyes and looking at the assembly she said:
“Dame Hannah has a melancholy story to tell you, for which I crave your
sympathy. Will you be so good as to allow her to speak?”
Paulina seemed to feel that she was the hostess to her brethren. She
looked ill and suffering; a line of pain had settled about her lips, and
there were always dark shades under her eyes; still, there was something
firm and decisive in her voice, and her glance was anything rather than
soft and winning. After her commanding tones Hannah’s tale sounded as
soft as a song. She described the different natures of the two sisters
as lovingly as though they were her own daughters, each in her own
way seemed to her so worthy of compassion, and she spoke with pathetic
lament of the unprotected, helpless orphans abandoned to misery, and
among them a pretty little blind boy. And she ended her speech by
saying:
“The steward’s second daughter--she is sixteen and so beautiful that
she must be exposed to every temptation--has now the whole charge of the
nourishment and care of her six young brothers and sisters. Ought we
to withhold from them a protecting hand? No, so surely as we love the
Saviour we ought not. You agree with me? Well then, do not let us delay
our help. The second daughter of the deceased Keraunus is here, in this
house; to-morrow early the children must all quit the palace, and now,
while I am speaking, are at home alone and but ill tended.”
The Christian woman’s good words fell on kindly soil, and the presbyters
and deacons determined to recommend the congregation who should assemble
at the love-feast to give their assistance to the steward’s children.
The elders had still much to discuss, so Hannah and Paulina were charged
with the task of appealing to the hearts of the well-to-do members
of the congregation to provide for the orphans. The poor widow first
conducted her wealthy friend and hostess to the little room where
Arsinoe was waiting with growing impatience. She looked paler than usual
but, in spite of her tear-reddened eyes which she kept fixed on the
ground, she was so lovely, so touchingly lovely, that the mere sight
of her moved Paulina’s heart. She had once had two children, an only
daughter besides her son. The girl bad died in the spring-time of her
maidenhood, and Paulina thought of her at every hour of her life. It was
for her sake that she had been baptized and devoted her existence to a
series of painful sacrifices. She strove with all her might to be a good
Christian--for surely she, the self-denying woman who had taken up the
cross of her own free will, the suffering creature who loved stillness
and who had made her country-house, which she visited daily, a scene of
unrest, could not fail to win Heaven, and there she hoped to meet her
innocent child.
Arsinoe reminded her of her Helena, who certainly had been far less fair
than the steward’s lovely daughter, but whose image had assumed new and
glorified forms in the mother’s faithful heart. Since her son had left
home for a foreign country she had often asked herself whether she
might not find some young creature to take into her home, to attach to
herself, to bring up as a Christian, and to bring as an offering to her
Saviour’s feet.
Her daughter had died a heathen, and nothing troubled Paulina so deeply
as that her soul was lost, and that her own struggling and striving
for grace could not lead her to the goal beyond the grave. No sacrifice
seemed too great to purchase her child’s beatitude, and now, standing
before Arsinoe and looking at her with deep emotion and admiration, she
was seized with an idea which swiftly ripened to resolve. She would win
this sweet soul for the Redeemer, and implore Him with ceaseless prayers
to save her hapless child as a reward for the work of grace in Arsinoe’s
soul; and she felt as if she had signed the compact with the Redeemer,
when, fully determined on this course, she went up to the girl and asked
her:
“You are quite forlorn, quite without relations?” Arsinoe bowed her head
in assent, and Paulina went on:
“And do you bear your loss with resignation?”
“What is resignation?” asked the girl modestly. Hannah laid her hand on
the widow’s arm and whispered:
“She is a heathen.”
“I know it,” said Paulina shortly, and then went on kindly but
positively:
“You and yours have lost both parents and a home by your father’s death.
You shall find a new home in my house, with me; I ask nothing of you in
return but your love.”
Arsinoe looked at the haughty lady in astonishment. She could not
yet feel any impulse of affection towards her, and she did not as yet
understand that what was required of her was the one gift which the best
will, the most loving heart in the world, could not offer at a command.
Paulina did not wait for her reply, but signed to Hannah to follow her
to join the congregation now assembled at the evening meal.
A quarter of an hour later the two women returned. The steward’s orphans
were provided for. Two or three Christian families were ready and
willing to take in some of them, and many a kindly house-mother had
begged to have the blind child; but in vain, for Hannah had claimed the
right to bring up the hapless little boy in her own house, at any rate
for the present. She knew how Selene clung to him, and hoped by his
presence to be able to work powerfully on the crushed and chilled heart
of the poor girl.
Arsinoe did not contravene the arrangements of the two women. She
thanked them, indeed, for she felt that she once more stood on firm
ground, but she also was immediately aware that it would be strewn
with sharp stones. The thought of parting from her little brothers and
sisters was terrible and cruel, and never left her mind for an instant,
while, accompanied by Hannah in person, she made her way back to
Lochias.
The next morning her kind friend appeared again and led her and the
little troup to Paulina’s town-house. The steward’s creditors divided
his little possessions; nothing but the chest of papyri followed the
girl to her new home. The hour in which the fondly-linked circle of
children was riven asunder, when one child was taken here and another
there, was the bitterest which Arsinoe had ever experienced or ever
could experience through all the after years of her life.