In Alexandria the news of the nomination of the “sham Eros” to be
the Emperor’s successor was hailed with joy, and the citizens availed
themselves gladly of his fresh and favorable opportunity to hold one
festival after another. Titianus took care to provide for the due
performance of the usual acts of grace, and among others he threw open
the prison-gates of Canopus, and the sculptor Pollux was set at liberty.
The hapless artist had grown pale, it is true, in durance vile, but
neither leaner nor enfeebled in body; on the other hand all the vigor
of his intellect, all his bright courage for life and his happy creative
instinct, seemed altogether crushed out of him. His face, as in his
dirty and ragged chiton, he journeyed from Canopus to Alexandria,
revealed neither eager thankfulness for the unexpected boon of liberty,
nor happiness at the prospect of seeing again his own people and
Arsinoe.
In the town he went, unintelligently dreaming as he walked, from one
street to another, but he was familiar with every stone of the way, and
his feet found their way to his sister’s house. How happy was Diotima,
how her children rejoiced, how impatient was each one to conduct him
to the old folks! How high in the air the Graces frisked and leaped
in front of the new little home to welcome the returned absentee! And
Doris, poor Doris, almost fainted with joyful surprise and her husband
had to support her in his arms when her long vanished son, whom she had
never given up for lost, however, suddenly stood before her and said:
“Here am I.” How fondly she kissed and caressed her dear, cruel,
restored fugitive. The singer too loudly expressed his joy alike in
verse and in prose, and fetched his best theatrical dress out of the
chest to put it on his son in the place of his ragged chiton.
A mighty torrent of curses and execrations flowed from the old man’s
lips as Pollux told his story. The sculptor found it difficult to bring
it to an end, for his father interrupted him at every word, and all the
while he was talking his mother forced him to eat and drink incessantly,
even when he could no more. After he had assured her that he was long
since replete, she pushed two more pots on to the fire, for he must have
been half-starved in prison, and what he did not want now he would find
room for two hours hence. Euphorion himself conducted Pollux to the bath
in the evening, and as they went home together he never for an instant
left his side; the sense of being near him did him good and was like
some comfortable physical sensation.
The singer was not usually inquisitive, but on this occasion he never
ceased asking questions till Doris led her son to the bed she had
freshly made for him. After the artist had gone to rest, the old woman
once more slipped into his room, kissed his forehead, and said:
“To-day you have still been thinking too much of that hideous
prison--but to-morrow my boy, to-morrow you will be the same as before,
will you not?”
“Only leave me alone mother; I shall soon be better,” he replied. “This
bed is as good as a sleeping-draught; the plank in the prison was quite
a different thing.”
“You have never asked once for your Arsinoe,” said Doris.
“What can she matter to me? Only let me sleep.” But the next morning
Pollux was just the same as he had been the previous evening, and as the
days went on his condition remained unchanged. His head drooped on his
breast, he never spoke but when he was spoken to, and when Doris or
Euphorion tried to talk to him of the future, he would ask: “Am I a
burden to you?” or begged them not to worry him.
Still, he was gentle and kind, took his sister’s children in his arms,
played with the Graces, whistled to the birds, went in and out, and
played a valiant part at every meal. Now and again he would ask after
Arsinoe. Once he allowed himself to be guided to the house where she
lived, but he would not knock at Paulina’s door and seemed overawed by
the grandeur of the house. After he had been brooding and dreaming for
a week, so idle, listless, and absent that his mother’s heart was filled
with anxious fears every time she looked at him, his brother Teuker hit
upon a happy idea.
The young gem-cutter was not usually a frequent visitor to his parents’
house, but since the return of the hapless Pollux he called there almost
daily. His apprenticeship was over and he seemed on the high-road to
become a great master in his art; nevertheless he esteemed his brother’s
gifts as far beyond his own and had tried to devise some means of
reawakening the dormant energies of the luckless man’s brain.
“It was at this table,” said Teuker to his mother, “that Pollux used
to sit. This evening I will bring in a lump of clay and a good piece
of modelling wax. Just put it all on the table and lay his tools by
the side of it; perhaps when he sees them he will take a fancy again
to work. If he can only make up his mind to model even a doll for the
children he will soon get into the vein again, and he will go on from
small things to great.”
Teuker brought the materials, Doris set them out with the modelling
tools, and next morning watched her son’s proceedings with an anxious
heart. He got up late, as he had always done since his return home, and
sat a long time over the bowl of porridge which his mother had prepared
for his breakfast. Then he sauntered across to his table, stood in front
of it awhile, broke off a piece of clay and kneaded and moulded it in
his fingers into balls and cylinders, looked at one of them more closely
and then, flinging it on the ground, he said, as he leaned across
the table supporting himself on both hands to put his face near his
mother’s:
“You want me to work again; but it is of no use--I could do no good with
it.”
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears, but she did not answer him. In
the evening Pollux begged her to put away the tools.
When he was gone to bed she did so, and while she was moving about with
a light in the dark, lumber-room in which she had kept them with other
disused things, her eye fell on the unfinished wax model which had been
the last work of her ill-starred son. A new idea struck her. She called
Euphorion, made him throw the clay into the court-yard and place the
model on the table by the side of the wax. Then she put out the very
same tools as he had been using on the fateful day of their expulsion
from Lochias, close to the cleverly-sketched portrait, and begged her
husband to go out with her quite early next morning and to remain absent
till mid-day.
“You will see,” she said, “when he is standing face to face with his
last work and there is no one by to disturb him or look at him, he will
find the ends of the threads that have been cut and perhaps be able to
gather them up again and go on with the work where it was interrupted.”
The mother’s heart had hit upon the right idea. When Pollux had eaten
his breakfast he went to his table exactly as he had done the clay
before; but the sight of the work in hand had quite a different effect
to the mere raw clay and wax. His eyes sparkled; he walked round the
table with an attentive gaze examining his work as keenly and as eagerly
as if it were some fine thing he saw for the first time. Memory revived
in his mind. He laughed aloud, clasped his hands and said to himself,
“Capital! Something may be made of that!”
His dull weariness slipped off him, as it were; a confident smile parted
his lips and he seized the wax with a firm hand. But he did not begin
to work at once; he only tried whether his fingers had not lost their
cunning, and whether the yielding material was obedient to his will. The
wax was no less docile to his touch than in former days, as he pinched
or pulled it. Perhaps then the tormenting thought that blighted his
life, the dread that in the prison he had ceased to be an artist, and
had lost all his faculty was nothing more than a mad delusion! He must
at any rate try how he could get on at the work.
No one was by to observe him--he might dare the attempt at once.
The sweat of anguish stood in large beads on his brow as he finally
concentrated his volition, shook back the hair from his face and took
up a lump of the wax in both hands. There stood the portrait of Antinous
with the head only half-finished. Now--could he succeed in modelling
that lovely head free-hand and from memory?
His breath came fast, and his hands trembled as he set to work; but soon
his hand was as steady as ever, his eye was calm and keen again, and the
work progressed. The fine features of the young Bithynian were distinct
to his mind’s eye, and when, about four hours after, his mother looked
in at the window to see what Pollux was doing, whether her little
stratagem had succeeded, she cried out with surprise, for the favorite’s
bust, a likeness in every feature, stood on a plinth side by side with
the original sketch. Before she could cross the threshold her son had
run to meet her, lifted her in his arms, and kissing her forehead and
lips he exclaimed, radiant with delight:
“Mother, I still can work. Mother, mother, I am not lost!”
In the afternoon his brother came in and saw what he had been doing, and
now--and not till now--could Teuker honestly be glad to have found his
brother again.
While the two artists were sitting together, and the gem-cutter was
suggesting to the sculptor, who had complained of the bad light in
his parent’s house, that he should carry the statue to his master’s
workshop--which was much lighter--to complete it, Euphorion had quietly
gone to some remote corner of his provision-shed and brought to light an
amphora full of noble Chian wine which had been given to him by a rich
merchant, for whose wedding he had performed the part of Hymenaeus with
a chorus of youths. For twenty years had he still preserved this jar of
wine for some specially happy occasion. This jar and his best lute were
the only objects which Euphorion had carried with his own hand from
Lochias to his daughter’s house and then again to his own new abode.
With an air of dignified pride the singer set the old amphora before his
sons, but Doris laid hands upon it at once and said:
“I am glad to bestow the good gift upon you, and would willingly drink a
cup of it with you; but a prudent general does not celebrate his triumph
before he has won the battle. As soon as the statue of the beautiful lad
is completed, I myself, will wreathe this venerable jar with ivy, and
beg you spare it to us, my dear old man--but not before.”
“Mother is right,” said Pollux. “And if the amphora is really destined
for me, if you will allow it, my father shall not remove the pitch wig
from its venerable head, till Arsinoe is mine once more!”
“That is well my boy,” cried Doris, “and then I will crown, not merely
the jar but all of us too, with nothing but sweet roses.”
The next day Pollux, with his unfinished statue, removed to the workshop
of his brother’s master. The worthy man cleared the best place for the
young sculptor, for he thought highly of him and wished to make good, as
far as lay in his power, the injustice the poor fellow had suffered from
the treachery of Papias. Now, from sunrise till evening fell, Pollux was
constant to his work. He gave himself up to the resuscitated pleasure
and power of creation with real passion. Instead of using wax he had
recourse to clay, and formed a tall figure which represented Antinous as
the youthful Bacchus, as the god might have appeared to the pirates. A
mantle fell in light folds from his left shoulder to his ankles, leaving
the broad breast and right aria entirely free; vine-leaves and grapes
wreathed his flowing locks, and a pine-cone, flame-shaped, crowned
his brow. The left arm was raised in a graceful curve, and his fingers
lightly grasped a thyrsus which rested on the ground and stood taller
than the god’s head; by the side of this magnificent figure stood a
mighty wine-jar, half hidden by the drapery.
For a whole week Pollux had devoted himself to this task during all the
hours of daylight with unflagging zeal and diligence. Before night fell
he was accustomed to leave his work and walk up and down in front of
Paulina’s house, but for the present he refrained from knocking at the
door and asking after the girl he loved. He had heard from his mother
how anxiously she was guarded from him and his; still Paulina’s severity
would certainly not have hindered the artist from making the attempt to
possess himself of his dearest treasure. What held him back from even
approaching Arsinoe, was the vow he had made to himself never to tempt
her to quit her new and sheltered home till he had acquired a firm
certainty of being once for all an artist, a true artist, who might hope
to do something great, and who might dare to link the fate of the woman
he loved, with his own.
When, on the eighth morning of his labors, he was taking a few minutes
rest, his brother’s master came past the rapidly advancing work, and
after contemplating it for some time exclaimed:
“Splendid, splendid! Our time has produced nothing to compare with it!”
An hour later Pollux was standing at the door of Paulina’s town-house,
and let the knocker fall heavily on the door. The steward opened to him
and asked him what he wanted. He asked to speak with dame Paulina,
but she was not at home. Then he asked after Arsinoe, the daughter of
Keraunus, who had found a home with the rich widow. The servant shook
his head.
“My mistress is having her searched for,” he said. “She disappeared
yesterday evening. The ungrateful creature! She has tried to run away
several times before now.”
The artist laughed, slapped the steward on the back, and said:
“I will soon find her!” and he sprang away down the street, and back to
his parents.
Arsinoe had received much kindness in Paulina’s house, but she had also
gone through many bad hours. For months she had been obliged to believe
that her lover was dead. Pontius had told her that Pollux had entirely
vanished and her benefactress persisted in al ways speaking of him as
of one dead. The poor child had shed many tears for him, and when
the longing to talk of him with some one who had known him had taken
possession of her she had entreated Paulina to allow her to go to see
his mother or to let Doris visit her. But the widow had desired her to
give up all thought of the idol-maker and his belongings, speaking with
contempt of the gate-keeper’s worthy wife. Just at that time Selene also
left the city, and now Arsinoe’s longing for her old friends grew to a
passionate craving to see them again.
One day she yielded to the promptings of her heart and slipped out into
the street to seek Doris; but the door-keeper, who had been charged by
Paulina never to allow her to go outside the door without his
mistress’s express permission, noticed her and brought her back to her
protectress--not this time only, but, on several subsequent occasions
when she attempted to escape.
It was not merely her longing to talk about Pollux which made her new
home unendurable to Arsinoe, but many other reasons besides. She felt
like a prisoner; and in fact she was one, for after each attempt at
flight her freedom of movement was still farther impeded. It is true
that she had soon ceased to submit patiently to all that was required of
her and even had often opposed her adoptive mother with vehement words,
tears and execrations, but these unpleasant scenes, which always ended
by a declaration on Paulina’s part that she forgave the girl, had
always resulted in a long break in her drives and in a variety of
small annoyances. Arsinoe was beginning to hate her benefactress and
everything that surrounded her, and the hours of catechising and of
prayer, which she could not escape, were a positive martyrdom. Ere long
the doctrine to which Paulina sought to win her was confounded in her
mind with that which it was intended to drive out, and she defiantly
shut her heart against it.
Bishop Eumenes, who had been elected in the spring Patriarch of the
Christians of Alexandria, visited her oftener than usual during the
summer when Paulina lived in her suburban villa. Paulina, it is true,
had fancied she could do without his help, and that she could and must
carry her task through to the end by herself; but the worthy old man had
felt sympathetically drawn to the poor ill-guided child, and sought to
soothe and calm her mind and show her the goal, towards which Paulina
desired to lead her, in all its beauty. After such discourses Arsinoe
would be softened and felt inclined to believe in God and to love
Christ, but no sooner had her protectress called her again into the
school-room and put the very same things before her in her own way than
the girl’s heartstrings drew close again; and when she was desired to
pray she raised her hands, indeed, but out of sheer defiance, she prayed
in spirit to the Greek gods.
Frequently Paulina received visits from heathen acquaintances in rich
dresses and the sight of them always reminded Arsinoe of former days.
How poor she had been then! and yet she had always had a blue or a red
ribbon to plait in her hair and trim the edge of her peplum. Now
she might wear none but white dresses and the least scrap of colored
ornament to dress her hair or smarten her robe was strictly forbidden.
Such vain trifles, Paulina would say, were very well for the heathen,
but the Lord looked not at the body but at the heart.
Ah! and the poor little heart of the hapless child could not offer a
very pleasing sight to the Father in Heaven, for hatred and disgust,
sadness, impatience, and blasphemy seethed in it from morning till
night. This young nature was surely formed for love and contentment, and
both had left her weeping. Still Arsinoe never ceased to yearn for them.
When November had begun and another attempt to run away during their
move back to the town-house had failed, Paulina tried to punish her by
never speaking a word to her for a fortnight, and forbidding even the
slave-women to speak to her. In these two weeks the talkative girl was
reduced almost to desperation, and she even thought of throwing herself
off the roof down into the court-yard. But she clung too dearly to life
to carry this horrible project into execution. On the first of December
Paulina once more spoke to her, forgave her ingratitude, as usual in a
long, kind speech, and told her how many hours she had spent in praying
for her enlightenment and improvement.
Paulina spoke the truth, and yet but half the truth, for she had never
felt a real love for Arsinoe, and had now for a long time watched her
come and go with actual dislike; but she required her conversion in
order that the warmest wish of her heart might find fulfilment. It
was for the happiness of her daughter, and not for the sake of her
recalcitrant companion, that she prayed for her enlightenment and never
ceased in her efforts to open the callous heart of her adopted child to
the true faith.
In the afternoon preceding that morning when Pollux had at last knocked
at the Christian widow’s door, the sun shone with particular brilliancy,
and Paulina had allowed the girl to go out with her. They spent some
little time with a Christian family who dwelt on the shore of Lake
Mareotis, and so it fell out that they did not return home till late in
the evening. Arsinoe had long learnt, while she sat apparently gazing at
the ground, to keep her eyes out of the carriage and to see everything
that was going on around her; and as the chariot turned into their
own street she spied in the distance a tall man who looked like her
long-wept Pollux. She fixed her eyes upon him, and had some difficulty
in keeping herself from calling out aloud, for he it was who walked
slowly down the street. She could not be mistaken, for the torches of
two slaves who were walking in front of a litter had broadly lighted up
his face and figure.
He was not lost--he was living, and seeking her. She could have shouted
aloud for joy, but she did not stir till Paulina’s chariot was standing
still in front of her house. The door-keeper bustled out as usual to
help his mistress to step out of the high-slung vehicle. Thus Paulina
for an instant turned her back, and in that moment Arsinoe sprang out of
the opposite side of the chariot, and was flying down towards the street
where she had seen her lover. Before Paulina could discover that she was
gone the runaway found herself in the midst of the throng which, when
the day’s work was over, poured out from the workshops and factories on
their way home.
Paulina’s slaves, who were sent out at once to seek the fugitive, had
to return home this time empty-handed; but Arsinoe, on her part, had not
succeeded in finding him she sought. For an hour she looked round
and about her in vain; then she perceived that her search must be
unsuccessful, and wondered how she might find her way to his parents’
house. Rather than return to her benefactress she would have joined the
roofless crew who passed the night on the hard marble pavement of the
forecourts of the temple.
At first she rejoiced in the sense of recovered liberty, but when none
of the passers-by could tell her where Euphorion, the singer, lived, and
some young men followed her and addressed her with impudent speeches,
terror made her turn aside into a street which led to the Bruchiom;
her persecutors had not even then ceased to follow her, when a litter,
escorted by lictors and several torch-bearers, was carried past. It was
Julia, the kind wife of the prefect, who sat in it; Arsinoe recognized
her at once, followed her, and reached the door of her residence at
the same moment as she herself. As the matron got out of her litter she
observed the girl who placed herself modestly, but with hands uplifted
in entreaty, at the side of her path. Julia greeted the pretty creature
in whom she had once taken a motherly interest with affectionate
sympathy, beckoned Arsinoe to her, smiled as she listened to her
request for a night’s shelter, and led her with much satisfaction to her
husband.
Titianus was ill; still he was glad once more to see the ill-fated
palace-steward’s pretty daughter; he listened to her story of her flight
with many signs of disapprobation, but kindly withal, and expressed the
warmest satisfaction at hearing that the sculptor Pollux was still in
the land of the living.
The grand and lordly bed in one of the strangers’ rooms in the prefect’s
house had held many a more illustrious guest, but never one whose
sleep was brightened by happier dreams than the poor orphaned “little
fugitive,” who, no longer ago than yesterday, had cried herself to
sleep.