The town was out of danger; the fire was extinct. Pontius had taken no
rest till noonday. Three horses had he tired out and replaced by fresh
ones, but his sinewy frame and healthy courage had till now defied every
strain. As soon as he could consider his task at an end he went off to
his own house, and he needed rest; but in the hall of his residence he
already found a number of persons waiting, and who were likely to stand
between him and the enjoyment of it.
A man who lives in the midst of important undertakings cannot, with
impunity, leave his work to take care of itself for several days. All
the claims upon him become pent up, and when he returns home they deluge
him like water when the sluice-gates are suddenly opened behind which it
has been dammed up.
At least twenty persons, who had heard of the architect’s return, were
waiting for him in his outer hall, and crowded upon him as soon as he
appeared. Among them he saw several who had come on important business,
but he felt that he had reached the farthest limit of his strength, and
he was determined to secure a little rest at any cost. The grave man’s
natural consideration, usually so conspicuous, could not hold out
against the demands made on his endurance, and he angrily and peevishly
pointed to his begrimed face as he made his way through the people
waiting for him.
“To-morrow, to-morrow,” he cried; “nay, if necessary, to-day, after
sunset. But now I need rest. Rest! Rest! Why, you yourselves can see the
state I am in.”
All--even the master-masons and purveyors who had come on urgent
affairs, drew back; only one elderly man, his sister Paulina’s
house-steward, caught hold of his chiton, stained as it was with smoke
and scorched in many places, and said quickly and in a low tone:
“My mistress greets you; she has things to speak of to you which will
bear no delay; I am not to leave you till you have promised to go to see
her to-day. Our chariot waits for you at the garden-door.”
“Send it home,” said Pontius, not even civilly; “Paulina must wait a few
hours.”
“But my orders are to take you with me at once.”
“But in this state--so--I cannot go with you,” cried the architect
with vehemence. “Have you no sort of consideration? And yet--who can
tell--well, tell her I will be with her in two hours.”
When Pontius had fairly escaped the throng he took a bath; then he had
some food brought to him, but even while he ate and drank, he was not
unoccupied, for he read the letters which awaited him, and examined some
drawings which his assistants had prepared during his absence.
“Give yourself an hour’s respite,” said the old housekeeper, who had
been his nurse and who loved him as her own son.
“I must go to my sister,” he answered with a shrug. “We know her of
old,” said the old woman. “For nothing, and less than nothing, she has
sent for you be fore now; and you absolutely need rest. There--are your
cushions right--so? And let me ask you, has the humblest stone-carrier
so hard a life as you have? Even at meals you never have an hour of
peace and comfort. Your poor head is never quiet; the nights are turned
into day; something to do, always something to do. If one only knew who
it is all for?”
“Aye--who for, indeed?” sighed Pontius, pushing his arm under his head,
between it and the pillow. “But, you see, little mother, work must
follow rest as surely as day follows night or summer follows winter. The
man who has something he loves in the House--a wife and merry children,
it may be, for aught I care--who sweeten his hours of rest and make
them the best of all the day, he, I say is wise when he tries to prolong
them; but his case is not mine--”
“But why is it not yours, my son Pontius?”
“Let me finish my speech. I, as you know full well, do not care for
gossip in the bath nor for reclining long over a banquet. In the
pauses of my work I am alone, with myself and with you, my very worthy
Leukippe. So the hours of rest are not for me the fairest scenes, but
empty waits between the acts of the drama of life; and no reasonable man
can find fault with me for trying to abridge them by useful occupation.”
“And what is the upshot of this sensible talk? Simply this: you must get
married.”
Pontius sighed, but Leukippe added eagerly:
“You have not far to look! The most respectable fathers and mothers are
running after you and would bring their prettiest daughters into your
door.”
“A daughter whom I do not know, and who might perhaps spoil the pauses
between the acts, which at present I can at any rate turn to some
account.”
“They say,” the old woman went on, “that marriage is a cast of the dice.
One throws a high number, another a low one; one wins a wife who is a
match for the busy bee, another gets a tiresome gnat. No doubt there
is some truth in it; but I have grown grey with my eyes open and I have
often seen it happen, that how the marriage turned out depended on the
husband. A man like you makes a bee out of a gnat--a bee that brings
honey to the hive. Of course a man must choose carefully.”
“How, pray?”
“First see the parents and then the child. A girl who has grown up
surrounded by good habits, in the house of a sensible father and a
virtuous mother--”
“And where in this city am I to find such a miracle? Nay, nay, Leukippe,
for the present all shall be left to my old woman. We both do our duty,
we are satisfied with each other and--”
“And time is flying,” said the housekeeper, interrupting her master in
his speech. “You are nearly thirty-five years of age, and the girls--”
“Let them be! let them be! They will find other men! Now send Cyrus with
my shoes and cloak, and have my litter got ready, for Paulina has been
kept waiting long enough.”
The way from the architect’s house to his sister’s was long, and on
his way he found ample time for reflection on various matters besides
Leukippe’s advice to marry. Still, it was a woman’s face and form
that possessed him heart and soul; at first, however, he did not feel
inclined to feast his fancy on Balbilla’s image, lovely as it appeared
to him; on the contrary, with self-inflicted severity he sought
everything in her which could be thought to be opposed to the highest
standard of feminine perfections. Nor did he find it difficult to detect
many defects and deficiencies in the Roman damsel; still he was forced
to admit that they were quite inseparable from her character, and that
she would no longer be what she was, if she were wholly free from them.
Each of her little weaknesses presently began to appear as an additional
charm to the stern man who had himself been brought up in the doctrine
of the Stoics.
He had learnt by experience that sorrow must cast its shadow over the
existence of every human being; but still, the man to whom it should be
vouchsafed to walk through life hand-in-hand with this radiant child of
fortune could, as it seemed to him, have nothing to look forward to but
pure sunshine. During his journey to Pelusium and his stay there he had
often thought of her, and each time that her image had appeared to his
inward eye he had felt as though daylight had shone in his soul. To have
met her he regarded as the greatest joy of his life, but he dared not
aspire to claim her as his own.
He did not undervalue himself and knew that he might well be proud of
the position he had won by his own industry and talents; and still
she was the grandchild of the man who had had the right to sell his
grandfather for mere coin, and was so high-born, rich and distinguished
that he would have thought it hardly more audacious to ask the Emperor
what he would take for the purple than to woo her. But to shelter her,
to warn her, to allow his soul to be refreshed by the sight of her and
by her talk--this he felt was permissible, this happiness no one could
deprive him of. And this she would grant him--she esteemed him and would
give him the right to protect her, this he felt, with thankfulness and
joy. He would, then and there, have gone through the exertions of the
last few hours all over again if he could have been certain that he
should once more be refreshed with the draught of water from her hand.
Only to think of her and of her sweetness seemed greater happiness than
the possession of any other woman.
As he got out of his litter at the door of his sister’s town-house he
shook his head, smiling at himself; for he confessed to himself that
the whole of the long distance he had hardly thought of anything but
Balbilla.
Paulina’s house had but few windows opening upon the street and these
belonged to the strangers’ rooms, and yet his arrival had been observed.
A window at the side of the house, all grown round with creepers, framed
in a sweet girlish head which looked down from it inquisitively on the
bustle in the street. Pontius did not notice it, but Arsinoe--for it was
her pretty face that looked out--at once recognized the architect whom
she had seen at Lochias and of whom Pollux had spoken as his friend and
patron.
She had now, for a week, been living with the rich widow; she wanted
for nothing, and yet her soul longed with all its might to be out in the
city, and to inquire for Pollux and his parents, of whom she had heard
nothing since the day of her father’s death. Her lover was no doubt
seeking her with anxiety and sorrow; but how was he to find her?
Three days after her arrival she had discovered the little window from
which she had a view of the street. There was plenty to be seen, for
it led to the Hippodrome and was never empty of foot-passengers and
chariots that were proceeding thither or to Necropolis. No doubt it was
a pleasure to her to watch the fine horses and garlanded youths and men
who passed by Paulina’s house; but it was not merely to amuse herself
that she went to the bowery little opening; no, she hoped, on the
contrary, that she might once see her Pollux, his father, his mother,
his bother Teuker or some one else they knew pass by her new home. Then
she might perhaps succeed in calling them, in asking what had become
of her friends, and in begging them to let her lover know where to seek
her.
Her adoptive mother had twice found her at the window and had forbidden
her, not unkindly but very positively, to look out into the street.
Arsinoe had followed her unresistingly into the interior of the house,
but as soon as she knew that Paulina was out or engaged, she slipped
back to the window again and looked out for him, who must at every hour
of the day be thinking of her. And she was not happy amid her new and
wealthy surroundings. At first she had found it very pleasant to stretch
her limbs on Paulina’s soft cushions, not to stir a finger to help
herself, to eat the best of food and to have neither to attend to the
children nor to labor in the horrible papyrus-factory; but by the third
day she pined for liberty--and still more for the children, for Selene
and Pollux. Once she went out driving with Paulina in a covered carriage
for the first time in her life. As the horses started she had enjoyed
the rapid movement and had leaned out at one side to see the houses and
men flying past her; but Paulina had regarded this as not correct--as
she did so many other things that she herself thought right and
permissible--had desired her to draw in her head, and had told her
that a well-conducted girl must sit with her eyes in her lap when out
driving.
Paulina was kind, never was irritable, had her dressed and waited upon
like her own daughter, kissed her in the morning and when she bid her
good-night; and yet Arsinoe had never once thought of Paulina’s demand
that she should love her. The proud woman, who was so cool in all the
friendly relations of life, and who, as she felt was always watching
her, was to her only a stranger who had her in her power. The fairest
sentiments of her soul she must always keep locked up from her.
Once, when Paulina, with tears in her eyes had spoken to her of her lost
daughter, Arsinoe had been softened and following the impulse of her
heart, had confided to her that she loved Pollux the sculptor and hoped
to be his wife.
“You love a maker of images!” Paulina had exclaimed, with as much horror
as if she had seen a toad; then she had paced uneasily up and down and
had added with her usual calm decision:
“No, no, my child! you will forget all this as soon as possible; I know
of a nobler Bridegroom for you; when once you have learned to know Him
you will never long for any other. Have you seen one single image in
this house?”
“No,” replied Arsinoe, “but so far as regards Pollux--”
“Listen to me” said the widow, “have I not told you of our loving Father
in Heaven? Have I not told you that the gods of the heathen are unreal
beings which the vain imaginings of fools have endowed with all the
weaknesses and crimes of humanity? Can you not understand how silly it
is to pray to stones? What power can reside in these frail figures of
brass or marble?
“Idols we call them. He who carves them, serves them and offers
sacrifice to them; aye and a great sacrifice, for he devotes his best
powers, to their service. Do you understand me?”
“No--Art is certainly a lofty thing, and Pollux is a good man, full of
the divinity as he works.”
“Wait a while, only wait--you will soon learn to understand,” Paulina
had answered, drawing Arsinoe towards her, and had added, at first
speaking gently but then more sternly: “Now go to bed and pray to your
gracious Father in Heaven that he may enlighten your heart. You must
forget the carved image-maker, and I forbid you ever to speak in my
presence again of such a man.”
Arsinoe had grown up a heathen, she clung with affection to the gods of
her fathers and hoped for happier days after the first bitterness of the
loss of her father and the separation from her brothers and sisters was
past. She was little disposed to sacrifice her young love and all
her earthly happiness for spiritual advantages of which she scarcely
comprehended the value. Her father had always spoken of the Christians
with hatred and contempt. She now saw that they could be kind and
helpful, and the doctrine that there was a loving God in Heaven who
cared for all men as his children appealed to her soul; but that we
ought to forgive our enemies, to remember our sins, and to repent of
them, and to regard all the pleasure and amusement which the gay city
of Alexandria could offer as base and worthless--this was absurd and
foolish.
And what great sins had she committed? Could a loving God require of
her that she should mar all her best days because as a child she had
pilfered a cake or broken a pitcher; or, as she grew older had sometimes
been obstinate or disobedient? Surely not. And then was an artist, a
kind faithful soul like her tall Pollux, to be odious in the eyes of God
the Father of all, because he was able to make such wonderful things as
that head of her mother, for instance? If this really was so she would
rather, a thousand times rather, lift her hands in prayer to the smiling
Aphrodite, roguish Eros, beautiful Apollo, and all the nine Muses who
protected her Pollux, than to Him.
An obscure aversion rose up in her soul against the stern woman who
could not understand her, and of whose teaching and admonitions she
scarcely took in half; and she rejected many a word of the widow’s which
might otherwise easily have found room in her heart, only because it was
spoken by the cold-mannered woman who at every hour seemed to try to lay
some fresh restraint upon her.
Paulina had never yet taken her with her to of the Christian assemblies
in her suburban villa; wished first to prepare her and to open her soul
to salvation. In this task no teacher of the congregation should assist
her. She, and she alone, should win to the Redeemer the soul of this
fair creature that had walked so resolutely in the ways of the heathen;
this was required of her as the condition of the covenant that she felt
she had made with Him, it was with the price of this labor that she
hoped to purchase her own child’s eternal happiness. Day after day she
had Arsinoe into her own room, that was decked with flowers and with
Christian symbols, and devoted several hours to her instruction. But her
disciple proved less impressionable and less attentive every day; while
Paulina was speaking Arsinoe was thinking of Pollux, of the children, of
the festival prepared for the Emperor or of the beautiful dress she
was to have worn as Roxana. She wondered what young girl would fill her
place, and how she could ever hope to see her lover again. And it was
the same during Paulina’s prayers as during her instruction, prayers
that often lasted more than hour, and which she had to attend, on her
knees on Wednesday and Friday, and with hands uplifted on all the other
days of the week.
When her adoptive mother had discovered how often she looked out into
the street she thought she had found out the reason of her pupil’s
distracted attention and only waited the return of her brother, the
architect, in order to have the window blocked up.
As Pontius entered the lofty hall of his sister’s house, Arsinoe came to
meet him. Her cheeks were flushed, she had hurried to fly down as fast
as possible from her window to the ground floor, in order to speak to
the architect before he went into the inner rooms or had talked with
his sister, and she looked lovelier than ever. Pontius gazed at her with
delight. He knew that he had seen this sweet face before, but he
could not at once remember where; for a face we have met with only
incidentally is not easily recognized when we find it again where we do
not expect it.
Arsinoe did not give him time to speak to her, for she went straight up
to him, greeted him, and asked timidly:
“You do not remember who I am?”
“Yes, yes,” said the architect, “and yet--for the moment--”
“I am the daughter of Keraunus, the palace-steward at Lochias, but you
know of course!”
“To be sure, to be sure! Arsinoe is your name; I was asking to-day after
your father and heard to my great regret--”
“He is dead.”
“Poor child! How everything has changed in the old palace since I
went away. The gate-house is swept away, there is a new steward and
there-but, tell me how came you here?”
“My father left us nothing and Christians took its in. There were eight
of us.”
“And my sister shelters you all?”
“No, no; one has been taken into one house and others into others. We
shall never be together again.” And as she spoke the tears ran down
Arsinoe’s cheeks; but she promptly recovered herself, and before Pontius
could express his sympathy she went on:
“I want to ask of you a favor; let me speak before any one disturbs us.”
“Speak, my child.”
“You know Pollux--the sculptor Pollux?”
“Certainly.”
“And you were always kindly disposed toward him?”
“He is a good man and an excellent artist.”
“Aye that he is, and besides all that--may I tell you something and will
you stand by me?”
“Gladly, so far as lies in my power.”
Arsinoe looked down at the ground in charming and blushing confusion and
said in a low tone:
“We love each other--I am to be his wife.”
“Accept my best wishes.”
“Ah, if only we had got as far as that! But since my father’s death we
have not seen each other. I do not know where he and his parents are,
and how are they ever to find me here?”
“Write to him.”
“I cannot write well, and even if I could my messenger--”
“Has my sister had any search made for him?”
“No--oh, no. I may not even let his name pass my lips. She wants to give
me to some one else; she says that making statues is hateful to the God
of the Christians.”
“Does she? And you want me to seek your lover?”
“Yes, yes, my dear lord! and if you find him tell him I shall be alone
to-morrow early, and again towards evening, every day indeed, for then
your sister goes to serve her God in her country house.”
“So you want to make me a lover’s go-between. You could not find a more
inexperienced one.”
“Ah! noble Pontius, if you have a heart--”
“Let me speak to the end, child! I will seek your lover, and if I find
him he shall know where you are, but I cannot and will not invite him
to an assignation here behind my sister’s back. He shall come openly to
Paulina and prefer his suit. If she refuses her consent I will try to
take the matter in hand with Paulina. Are you satisfied with this?”
“I must need be. And tell me, you will let me know when you have found
out where he and his parents have gone?”
“That I promise you. And now tell the one thing. Are you happy in this
house?”
Arsinoe looked down in some embarrassment, then she hastily shook her
head in vehement negation and hurried away. Pontius looked after her
with compassion and sympathy.
“Poor, pretty little creature!” he murmured to himself, and went on to
his sister’s room.
The house-steward had announced his visit, and Paulina met him on the
threshold. In his sister’s sitting-room the architect found Eumenes, the
bishop, a dignified old man with clear, kind eyes.
“Your name is in everybody’s mouth to-day,” said Paulina, “after the
usual greetings. They say you did wonders last night.”
“I got home very tired,” said Pontius, “but as you so pressingly desired
to speak to me, I shortened my hours of rest.”
“How sorry I am!” exclaimed the widow.
The bishop perceived that the brother and sister had business to discuss
together, and asked whether he were not interrupting it.
“On the contrary,” cried Paulina. “The subject under discussion is my
newly-adopted daughter who, unhappily, has her head full of silly and
useless things. She tells me she has seen you at Lochias, Pontius.”
“Yes, I know the pretty child.”
“Yes, she is lovely to look upon,” said the widow. “But her heart and
mind have been left wholly untrained, and in her the doctrine falls upon
stony ground, for she avails herself of every unoccupied moment to stare
at the horsemen and chariots that pass on the way to the Hippodrome. By
this inquisitive gaping she fills her head with a thousand useless and
distracting fancies; I am not always at home, and so it will be best to
have the pernicious window walled up.”
“And did you send for me only to have that done?” cried Pontius, much
annoyed. “Your house-slaves, I should think, might have been equal to
that without my assistance.”
“Perhaps, but then the wall would have to be freshly whitewashed--I know
how obliging you always are.”
“Thank you very much. To-morrow I will send you two regular workmen.”
“Nay, to-day, at once if possible.”
“Are you in such pressing haste to spoil the poor child’s amusement? And
besides I cannot but think that it is not to stare at the horsemen and
chariots that she looks out, but to see her worthy lover.”
“So much the worse. I was telling you, Eumenes, that a sculptor wants to
marry her.”
“She is a heathen,” replied the bishop.
“But on the road to salvation,” answered Paulina. “But we will speak of
that presently. There is still something else to discuss, Pontius. The
hall of my country villa must be enlarged.”
“Then send me the plans.”
“They are in the book-room of my late husband.” The architect left his
sister to go into the library, which he knew well.
As soon as the bishop was left alone with Paulina, he shook his head and
said:
“If I judge rightly, my dear sister, you are going the wrong way to work
in leading this child intrusted to your care. Not all are called, and
rebellious hearts must be led along the path of salvation with a gentle
hand, not dragged and driven. Why do you cut off this girl, who still
stands with both feet in the world, from all that can give her pleasure?
Allow the young creature to enjoy every permitted pleasure which can add
to the joys of life in youth. Do not hurt Arsinoe needlessly, do not let
her feel the hand that guides her. First teach her to love you from her
heart, and when she knows nothing dearer than you, a request from you
will be worth more than bolts or walled-up windows.”
“At first I wished nothing more than that she should love me,”
interrupted Paulina.
“But have you proved her? Do you see in her the spark which may be
fanned to a flame? Have you detected in her the germ which may possibly
grow to a strong desire for salvation and to devotion to the Redeemer?”
“That germ exists in every heart-these are your own words.”
“But in many of the heathen it is deeply buried in sand and stories; and
do you feel yourself equal to clearing them away without injury to the
seed or to the soil in which it lies?”
“I do, and I will win Arsinoe to Jesus Christ,” said Paulina firmly.
Pontius interrupted the conversation; he remained with his sister some
time longer discussing with her and with Eumenes the new building to be
done at her country house; then he and the bishop left at the same time
and Pontius proceeded to the scene of the fire by the harbor and in the
old palace.