There are often fine warm days in February, but those who fancy the
spring has come find themselves deceived. The bitter, hard Sabina could
at times let soft and tender emotions get the mastery over her, but as
soon as the longing of her languishing soul for maternal happiness was
gratified, she closed her heart again and extinguished the fire that had
warmed it. Every one who approached her, even her husband, felt himself
chilled and repelled again by her manner.
Verus was ill. The first symptoms of a liver complaint which his
physicians had warned him might ensue, if he, an European, persisted
in his dissipated life at Alexandria as if it were Rome, now began to
occasion him many uneasy hours, and this, the first physical pain that
fate had ever inflicted on him, he bore with the utmost impatience.
Even the great news which Sabina brought him, realizing his boldest
aspirations, had no power to reconcile him to the new sensation of
being ill. He learnt, at the same time, that Hadrian’s alarm at the
transcendent brightness of his star had nearly cost him his adoption,
and as he firmly believed that he had brought on his sufferings by his
efforts to extinguish the fire that Antinous had kindled, he bitterly
rued his treacherous interference with the Emperor’s calculations. Men
are always ready to cast any burden, and especially that of a fault they
have committed, on to the shoulders of another; and so the suffering
praetor cursed Antinous and the learning of Simeon Ben Jochai, because,
if it had not been for them the mischievous folly which had spoilt his
pleasure in life would never have been committed.
Hadrian had requested the Alexandrians to postpone the theatrical
displays and processions that they had prepared for him, as his
observations as to the course of destiny during the coming year were
not yet complete. Every evening he ascended the lofty observatory of
the Serapeum and gazed from thence at the stars. His labors ended on
the tenth of January; on the eleventh the festivities began. They lasted
through many days, and by the desire of the praetor the pretty daughter
of Apollodorus the Jew was chosen to represent Roxana. Everything
that the Alexandrians had prepared to do honor to their sovereign was
magnificent and costly. So many ships had never before been engaged in
any Naumachia as were destroyed here in the sham sea-fight, no greater
number of wild beasts had ever been seen together on any occasion even
in the Roman Circus; and how bloody were the fights of the gladiators,
in which black and white combatants afforded a varied excitement for
both heart and senses. In the processions, the different elements which
were supplied by the great central metropolis of Egyptian, Greek and
Oriental culture afforded such a variety of food for the eye that, in
spite of their interminable length, the effect was less fatiguing than
the Romans had feared. The performances of the tragedies and comedies
were equally rich in startling effects; conflagrations and floods were
introduced and gave the Alexandrian actors the opportunity of displaying
their talents with such brilliant success that Hadrian and his
companions were forced to acknowledge that even in Rome and Athens they
had never witnessed any representations equally perfect.
A piece by the Jewish author Ezekiel who, under the Ptolemies, wrote
dramas in the Greek language of which the subject was taken from the
history of his own people, particularly claimed the Emperor’s attention.
Titianus during all this festive season was unluckily suffering from an
attack of old-standing breathlessness, and he also had his hands full;
at the same time he did his best in helping Pontius in seeking out the
sculptor Pollux. Both men did their utmost, but though they soon were
able to find Euphorion and dame Doris, every trace of their son had
vanished. Papias, the former employer of the man who had disappeared,
was no longer in the city, having been sent by Hadrian to Italy to
execute centaurs and other figures to decorate his villa at Tibur. His
wife who remained at home, declared that she knew nothing of Pollux
but that he had abruptly quitted her husband’s service. The unfortunate
man’s fellow-workmen could give no news of him whatever, for not one
of them had been present when he was seized; Papias had had foresight
enough to have the man he dreaded placed in security without the
presence of any witnesses. Neither the prefect nor the architect thought
of seeking the worthy fellow in prison, and even if they had done so
they would hardly have found him, for Pollux was not kept in durance
in Alexandria itself. The prisons of the city had overflowed after the
night of the holiday and he had been transferred to Canopus and there
detained and brought up for trial.
Pollux had unhesitatingly owned to having taken the silver quiver and to
having been very angry at his master’s accusation. Thus he produced from
the first an unfavorable impression on the judge, who esteemed Papias
as a wealthy man, universally respected. The accused had hardly been
allowed to speak at all and judgment was immediately pronounced against
him, on the strength of his master’s accusation and his own admissions.
It would have been sheer waste of time to listen to the romances with
which this audacious rascal--who forgot all the respect he owed to
his teacher and benefactor--wanted to cram the judges. Two years of
reflection, the protectors of the law deemed, might suffice to teach
this dangerous fellow to respect the property of others and to keep him
from outbreaks against those to whom he owed gratitude and reverence.
Pollux, safe in the prison at Canopus, cursed his destiny and indulged
in vain hopes of the assistance of his friends. These were at last weary
of the vain search and only asked about him occasionally. He at first
was so insubordinate under restraint that he was put under close ward
from which he was not released until, instead of raging with fury he
dreamed away his days in sullen brooding. The gaoler knew men well, and
he thought he could safely predict that at the end of his two years’
imprisonment this young thief would quit his cell a harmless imbecile.
Titianus, Pontius, Balbilla and even Antinous had all attempted to speak
of him to the Emperor, but each was sharply repulsed and taught that
Hadrian was little inclined to pardon a wound to his artist’s vanity.
But the sovereign also proved that he had a good memory for benefits
he had received, for once, when a dish was set before him consisting of
cabbage and small sausages he smiled, and taking out his purse filled
with gold pieces, he ordered a chamberlain to take it in his name to
Doris, the wife of the evicted gate-keeper. The old couple now resided
in a little house of their own in the neighborhood of their widowed
daughter Diotima. Hunger and external misery came not nigh them, still
they had experienced a great change. Poor Doris’ eyes were now red and
bloodshot, for they were accustomed to many tears, which were seldom far
off and overflowed whenever a word, an object, a thought reminded her
of Pollux, her darling, her pride and her hope; and there were few
half-hours in the day when she did not think of him.
Soon after the steward’s death she had sought out Selene, but dame
Hannah could not and would not conduct her to see the sick girl, for
she learnt from Mary that she was the mother of her patient’s faithless
lover; and on a second visit Selene was so shy, so timid and so strange
in her demeanor, that the old woman was forced to conclude that her
visit was an unpleasant intrusion.
And from Arsinoe, whose residence she discovered from the deaconess, she
met with even a worse reception. She had herself announced as the mother
of Pollux the sculptor and was abruptly refused admission, with the
information that Arsinoe was not to be spoken with by her and that her
visits were, once for all, prohibited. After the architect Pontius had
been to seek her out and had encouraged her to make another attempt
to see and speak to Arsinoe, who clung faithfully to Pollux, Paulina
herself had received her and sent her away with such repellent words
that she went home to her husband deeply insulted and distressed to
tears. Nor had she resisted Euphorion’s decision when he prohibited her
ever again crossing the Christian’s threshold.
The Emperor’s donation had been most welcome and timely to the poor old
couple, for Euphorion had completely lost the softness of his voice as
well as his memory through the agitations and troubles of the last few
months; he had been dismissed from the chorus of the theatre and could
only find employment and very small pay of a few drachmae, in the
mysteries of certain petty sectarians or in singing at weddings or in
hymns of lamentation. At the same time the old folks had to maintain
their daughter whom Pollux could no longer provide for, and the birds,
the Graces and the cat all must eat. That it would be possible to get
rid of them was an idea which never occurred to either Euphorion or
Doris.
By day the old folks had ceased to laugh; but at night they still
had many cheerful hours, for then Hope would beguile them with bright
pictures of the future, and tell them all sorts of possible and
impossible romances which filled their souls with fresh courage. How
often they would see Pollux returning from the distant city whither he
had probably fled-from Rome, or even from Athens--crowned with laurels
and rich in treasure. The Emperor, who still so kindly remembered them,
could not always be angry with him; perhaps he might some day send a
messenger to seek Pollux and to make up to him by large commissions for
all he had made him suffer. That her darling was alive she was sure; in
that she could not be mistaken, often as Euphorion tried to persuade her
that he must be dead. The singer could tell many tales of luckless men
who had been murdered and never seen or heard of again; but she was not
to be convinced, she persisted in hope, and lived wholly in the purpose
of sending her younger son, Teuker, on his travels to seek his lost
brother as soon as his apprenticeship was over, which would be in a few
months.
Antinous, whose burnt hands had soon got well under the Emperor’s care,
and who had never felt a liking and friendship for any other young man
but Pollux, lamented the artist’s disappearance and wished much to seek
out dame Doris; but he found it harder than ever to leave his master,
and was so eager always to be at hand that Hadrian often laughingly
reproached him with making his slaves’ duties too light.
When at last he really was master of an hour to himself he postponed his
intention of seeing his friend’s parents; for with him there was always
a wide world between the purpose and the deed which he never could
overleap, if not urged by some strong impulse; and his most pressing
instincts prompted him, when the Emperor was disputing in the Museum
or receiving instructions from the chiefs of the different religious
communities as to the doctrines they severally professed, to visit the
suburban villa where, when February had already begun, Selene was still
living. He had often succeeded in stealing into Paulina’s garden, but
he could not at first realize his hope of being observed by Selene of
obtaining speech with her. Whenever he went near Hannah’s little house,
Mary, the deformed girl, would come in his way, tell him how her friend
was, and beg or desire him to go away. She was always with the sick
girl, for now her mother was nursed by her sister, and dame Hannah
had obtained permission for her to work at home in gumming the
papyrus-strips together.
The widow herself was obliged to be at her post in the factory, for her
duties as overseer made her presence indispensable in the work-room.
Thus it came to pass that it was always by Mary and never by Hannah that
Antinous was received and dismissed. A certain understanding had
arisen between the beautiful youth and the deformed girl. When Antinous
appeared and she called out to him: “What, again already!” he would
grasp her hand and implore her only once to grant his wish; but she was
always firm, only she never sent him away sternly but with smiles and
friendly admonitions. When he brought rare and lovely flowers in his
pallium and entreated her to give them to Selene in the name of her
friend at Lochias, she would take them and promise to place them in her
room; but she always said it would do neither him nor her any good at
all that Selene should know from whom they came. After such repulses he
well knew how to flatter and coax her with appealing words, but he had
never dared to defy her or to gain his end by force. When the flowers
were placed in the room Mary looked at them much oftener than Selene
did, and when Antinous had been long absent the deformed girl longed to
see him again, and would pace restlessly up and down between the garden
gate and her friend’s little house. She, like him, dreamed of an angel,
and the angel of whom she dreamed was exactly like himself. In all
her prayers she included the name of the handsome heathen and a soft
tenderness in which a gentle pity was often infused, a grief for his
unredeemed soul, was inseparable from all her thoughts of him.
Hannah was informed by her of each of the young man’s visits, and
as often as Mary mentioned Antinous the deaconess seemed anxious and
desired her to threaten to call the gate-keeper to him. The widow knew
full well who her patient’s indefatigable admirer was, for she had once
heard him speaking to Mastor, and she had asked the slave, who availed
himself of every spare moment to attend the services of the Christians,
who the lad was. All Alexandria, nay all the Empire, knew the name of
the most beautiful youth of his time, the spoilt favorite of Caesar.
Even Hannah had heard of him and knew that poets sang his praises and
heathen women were eager to obtain a glance from his eyes. She knew
how devoid of all morality were the lives of the nobles at Rome, and
Antinous appeared to her as a splendid falcon that wheels above a dove
to swoop down upon it at a favorable moment and to tear it in its beak
and talons. Hannah also knew that Selene was acquainted with Antinous,
that it was he who had formerly rescued her from the big dog and
afterward saved her from the water; but that Selene, who was now
recovering, did not know who her preserver had been on this second
occasion was clear from all that she said.
Towards the end of February Antinous had come on three days in
succession, and Hannah now took the step of begging the bishop, Eumenes,
to give the gate keeper strict injunctions to look out for the young
man and to forbid his entering the garden, even with force if it should
prove necessary.
But “love laughs at locksmiths” and finds its way through locked doors,
and Antinous succeeded all the same in finding his way into Paulina’s
garden. On one of these occasions he was so happy to surprise Selene,
as, supported on a stick and accompanied by a fair-haired boy and dame
Hannah herself, she hobbled up and down.
Antinous had learnt to regard everything crippled or defective with
aversion, as a monstrous failure of nature’s plastic harmony, but to
pity it tenderly; but now he felt quite differently. Mary with her
humpback had at first horrified him; now he was always glad to see her
though she always crossed his wishes; and poor lame Selene, who had been
mocked at by the street boys as she limped along, seemed to him more
adorable than ever. How lovely were her face and form, how peculiar her
way of walking--she did not limp--no, she swayed along the garden. Thus,
as he said to himself afterwards, the Nereids are borne along on the
undulating waves. Love is easily satisfied, nor is this strange, for
it raises all that comes within its embrace to a loftier level of
existence. In the light of love weakness is a virtue and want an
additional charm.
But the Bithynian’s visits were not the widow’s only cares; though
she bore the others, it is true, not anxiously but with pleasure. Her
household had increased by two living souls, and her income was very
small. That her patient might not want, she had to work with her own
hands while she superintended the girls in the factory, and to carry
home with her in the evening papyrus-leaves, not only for Mary, but
for herself too, and to glue them together during the long hours of the
night. As soon as Selene’s condition improved, she too helped willingly
and diligently, but for many weeks the convalescent had to give up every
kind of employment.
Mary often looked at Hannah in silent trouble, for she looked very pale.
After she had, on one occasion fallen in a fainting fit, the deformed
girl had gathered courage and had represented to her that though she
ought indeed to put out at interest the talent intrusted to her by the
Lord, she ought not to spend it recklessly. She was giving herself no
rest, working day and night; visiting the poor and sick in her hours of
recreation just as she used, and if she did not give herself more rest
would soon need nursing instead of nursing others.
“At any rate,” urged Mary, “give yourself a little indispensable sleep
at night.”
“We must live,” replied Hannah, “and I dare not borrow, for I may never
be able to repay.”
“Then beg Paulina to remit your house-rent; she will do so gladly.”
“No,” said Hannah, decidedly. “The rent of this little house goes to
benefit my poor people, and you know how badly they want it. What we
give we lend to the Lord, and he taxes no man above his ability.”
Selene was now well, but the physician had said that no human skill
could ever cure her of her lameness. She had become Hannah’s daughter,
and blind Helios the son of the house.
Arsinoe was only allowed to see her sister rarely and always accompanied
by her protectress, and she and Selene never were able to have any
unchecked and open conversation. The steward’s eldest daughter was now
contented and cheerful, while the younger was not only saddened by the
disappearance of her lover, but also, from being unhappy in her new
home, she had become fractious and easily moved to shed tears. All was
well with the younger orphans; they were often taken to see Selene, and
spoke with affection of their new parents.
As she got well her help diminished the strain on her two friends,
and in the beginning of March a call came to the widow which, if she
followed it, must give their simple existence a new aspect.
In Upper Egypt certain Christian fraternities had been established, and
one of these had addressed a prayer to the great mother-community at
Alexandria, that it would send to them a presbyter, a deacon and
a deaconess capable of organizing and guiding the believers and
catechumens in the province of Hermopolis where they were already
numbered by thousands. The life of the community and the care of the
poor, and sick in the outlying districts required organization by
experienced hands, and Hannah had been asked whether she could make up
her mind to leave the metropolis and carry on the work of benevolence at
Besa in an extended sphere.
She would there have a pleasant house, a palm-garden, and gifts from the
congregation which would secure not merely her own maintenance, but that
of her adopted children.
Hannah was bound to Alexandria by many ties; in the first place she
clung to the poor and sick, many of whom had grown very dear to her,
and how many girls who had gone astray had she rescued from evil in the
factory alone! She begged for a short time for reflection, and this was
granted to her. By the fifteenth of March she was to decide, but by
the fifth she had already made up her mind, for while Hannah was in the
papyrus-factory Antinous had succeeded in getting into Paulina’s garden
shortly before sunset and in stealing close up to Hannah’s house. Mary
again observed him as he approached and signed to him to go, in her
usual pleasant way; but the Bithynian was more excited than usual; he
seized her hand and clasped her with urgent warmth as he implored her
to be merciful. She endeavored at once to free herself, but he would not
let her go, but cried in coaxing tones:
“I must see her and speak to her to-day, dear, good Mary, only this
once!” And before she could prevent it he had kissed her forehead and
had flown into the house to Selene. The little hunchback did not know
what had happened to her; confused and almost paralyzed by conflicting
feelings she stood shame-faced, gazing at the ground. She felt that
something quite extraordinary had happened to her, but this wonderful
something radiated a dazzling splendor, and since this had risen for
her, for poor Mary, a feeling of pride quite new to her mingled with the
shame and indignation that filled her soul. She needed a few minutes
to collect herself and to recover a sense of her duty, and those few
minutes were made good use of by Antinous.
He flew with long steps into the room in which, on that
never-to-be-forgotten night, he had laid Selene on the couch, and even
at the threshold he called her by her name. She started and laid aside
the book out of which she was reading to her blind brother. He called a
second time, beseechingly. Selene recognized him and asked calmly:
“Do you want me, or dame Hannah?”
“You, you!” he cried passionately. “Oh Selene, I pulled you out of the
water, and since that night I have never ceased to think of you and I
must die for love of you. Have your thoughts never, never met mine on
the way to you? Are you still and always as cold, as passive as you were
then when you belonged half to life and half to death? For months have
I prowled round this house as the shade of a dead man haunts the spot
where he had left all that was dear to him on earth, and I have never
been able to tell you what I feel for you?” As he spoke the lad fell
on the ground before her and tried to clasp her knees; but she said
reproachfully:
“What does all this mean? Stand up and compose yourself.”
“Oh! let me, let me--” he besought her. “Do not be so cold and so hard;
have pity on me and do not reject me!”
“Stand up,” repeated the girl. “I will certainly not reproach you--I owe
you thanks on the contrary.”
“Not thanks, but love--a little love is all I ask.”
“I try to love all men,” replied the girl, “and so I love you because
you have shown me very much kindness.”
“Selene, Selene!” he exclaimed in joyful triumph. He threw himself again
at her feet and passionately seized her right hand; but hardly had he
taken it in his own when Mary, scarlet with agitation, rushed into the
room. In a husky voice, full of hatred and fury, she commanded him to
leave the house at once, and when he attempted again to besiege her ear
with entreaties she cried out:
“If you do not obey I will call the men in to help us, who are out there
attending to the flowers. I ask you, will you obey or will you not?”
“Why are you so cruel, Mary?” asked the blind boy. “This man is good and
kind and tells Selene he loves her.”
Antinous pointed to the child with an imploring gesture but Mary was
already by the window and was raising her hand to her mouth to make her
call heard.
“Don’t, don’t,” cried Antinous. “I am going at once.”
And he went slowly and silently towards the door, still gazing at Selene
with passionate ardor; then he quitted the room groaning with shame and
disappointment, though still with a look of radiant pride as though he
had achieved some great deed. In the garden he was met by Hannah, who
immediately hastened with accelerated steps to her own house where she
found Mary sobbing violently and dissolved in tears.
The widow was soon informed of all that had occurred in her absence, and
an hour later she had announced to the bishop that she would accept the
call to Besa and was ready to start for Upper Egypt.
“With your foster-children?” asked Eumenes.
“Yes. It was indeed Selene’s most earnest wish to be baptized by you,
but as a year of probation is required--”
“I will perform the rite to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow, Father?”
“Yes, Sister, in all confidence. She buried the old man in the waves of
the sea, and before we were her teachers she had gone through the school
and discipline of life. While she was yet a heathen she had taken up her
cross and proved herself as faithful as though she were a child of the
Lord. All that was lacking to her--Faith, Love and Hope--she has found
under your roof. I thank thee for this soul thou hast found Sister, in
the name of the Lord.”
“Not I, not I,” said the widow. “Her heart was frozen, but it is not I
but the innocent faith of the blind child that has melted it.”
“She owes her salvation to him and to you,” replied the bishop, “and
they both shall be baptized together. We will give the lovely boy the
name of the fairest of the disciples, and call him John. Selene for the
future, if she herself likes it, shall be known as Martha.”