Irene’s foot was not more susceptible to the chafing of a strap than her
spirit to a rough or an unkind word; the Roman’s words and manner had
hurt her feelings.
She went towards home with a drooping head and almost crying, but before
she had reached it her eyes fell on the peaches and the roast bird she
was carrying. Her thoughts flew to her sister and how much the famishing
girl would relish so savory a meal; she smiled again, her eyes shone
with pleasure, and she went on her way with a quickened step. It never
once occurred to her that Klea would ask for the violets, or that
the young Roman could be anything more to her sister than any other
stranger.
She had never had any other companion than Klea, and after work, when
other girls commonly discussed their longings and their agitations and
the pleasures and the torments of love, these two used to get home so
utterly wearied that they wanted nothing but peace and sleep. If they
had sometimes an hour for idle chat Klea ever and again would tell some
story of their old home, and Irene, who even within the solemn walls of
the temple of Serapis sought and found many innocent pleasures, would
listen to her willingly, and interrupt her with questions and with
anecdotes of small events or details which she fancied she remembered
of her early childhood, but which in fact she had first learnt from her
sister, though the force of a lively imagination had made them seem a
part and parcel of her own experience.
Klea had not observed Irene’s long absence since, as we know, shortly
after her sister had set out, overpowered by hunger and fatigue she had
fallen asleep. Before her nodding head had finally sunk and her drooping
eyelids had closed, her lips now and then puckered and twitched as if
with grief; then her features grew tranquil, her lips parted softly and
a smile gently lighted up her blushing cheeks, as the breath of spring
softly thaws a frozen blossom. This sleeper was certainly not born for
loneliness and privation, but to enjoy and to keep love and happiness.
It was warm and still, very still in the sisters’ little room. The buzz
of a fly was audible now and again, as it flew round the little oil-cup
Irene had left empty, and now and again the breathing of the sleeper,
coming more and more rapidly. Every trace of fatigue had vanished from
Klea’s countenance, her lips parted and pouted as if for a kiss, her
cheeks glowed, and at last she raised both hands as if to defend herself
and stammered out in her dream, “No, no, certainly not--pray, do not! my
love--” Then her arm fell again by her side, and dropping on the chest
on which she was sitting, the blow woke her. She slowly opened her eyes
with a happy smile; then she raised her long silken lashes till her eyes
were open, and she gazed fixedly on vacancy as though something strange
had met her gaze. Thus she sat for some time without moving; then she
started up, pressed her hand on her brow and eyes, and shuddering as
if she had seen something horrible or were shivering with ague, she
murmured in gasps, while she clenched her teeth:
“What does this mean? How come I by such thoughts? What demons are these
that make us do and feel things in our dreams which when we are waking
we should drive far, far from our thoughts? I could hate myself, despise
and hate myself for the sake of those dreams since, wretch that I am!
I let him put his arm round me--and no bitter rage--ah! no--something
quite different, something exquisitely sweet, thrilled through my soul.”
As she spoke, she clenched her fists and pressed them against her
temples; then again her arms dropped languidly into her lap, and shaking
her head she went on in an altered and softened voice:
“Still-it was only in a dream and--Oh! ye eternal gods--when we are
asleep--well! and what then? Has it come to this; to impure thoughts I
am adding self-deception! No, this dream was sent by no demon, it was
only a distorted reflection of what I felt yesterday and the day before,
and before that even, when the tall stranger looked straight into my
eyes--four times he has done so now--and then--how many hours ago, gave
me the violets. Did I even turn away my face or punish his boldness with
an angry look? Is it not sometimes possible to drive away an enemy with
a glance? I have often succeeded when a man has looked after us; but
yesterday I could not, and I was as wide awake then as I am at this
moment. What does the stranger want with me? What is it he asks with his
penetrating glance, which for days has followed me wherever I turn, and
robs me of peace even in my sleep? Why should I open my eyes--the gates
of the heart--to him? And now the poison poured in through them is
seething there; but I will tear it out, and when Irene comes home I will
tread the violets into the dust, or leave them with her; she will soon
pull them to pieces or leave them to wither miserably--for I will remain
pure-minded, even in my dreams--what have I besides in the world?”
At these words she broke off her soliloquy, for she heard Irene’s voice,
a sound that must have had a favorable effect on her spirit, for she
paused, and the bitter expression her beautiful features had but just
now worn disappeared as she murmured, drawing a deep breath:
“I am not utterly bereft and wretched so long as I have her, and can
hear her voice.”
Irene, on her road home, had given the modest offerings of the anchorite
Phibis into the charge of one of the temple-servants to lay before the
altar of Serapis, and now as she came into the room she hid the platter
with the Roman’s donation behind her, and while still in the doorway,
called out to her sister:
“Guess now, what have I here?”
“Bread and dates from Serapion,” replied Klea.
“Oh, dear no!” cried the other, holding out the plate to her sister,
“the very nicest dainties, fit for gods and kings. Only feel this peach,
does not it feel as soft as one of little Philo’s cheeks? If I could
always provide such a substitute you would wish I might eat up your
breakfast every day. And now do you know who gave you all this? No, that
you will never guess! The tall Roman gave them me, the same you had the
violets from yesterday.”
Klea’s face turned crimson, and she said shortly and decidedly:
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me so himself,” replied Irene in a very altered tone,
for her sister’s eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of stern
gravity, such as Irene had never seen in her before.
“And where are the violets?” asked Klea.
“He took them, and his friend gave me this pomegranate-flower,”
stammered Irene. “He himself wanted to give it me, but the Greek--a
handsome, merry man--would not permit it, and laid the flower there on
the platter. Take it--but do not look at me like that any longer, for I
cannot bear it!”
“I do not want it,” said her sister, but not sharply; then, looking
down, she asked in a low voice: “Did the Roman keep the violets?”
“He kept--no, Klea--I will not tell you a lie! He flung them over the
house, and said such rough things as he did it, that I was frightened
and turned my back upon him quickly, for I felt the tears coming into
my eyes. What have you to do with the Roman? I feel so anxious, so
frightened--as I do sometimes when a storm is gathering and I am afraid
of it. And how pale your lips are! that comes of long fasting, no
doubt--eat now, as much as you can. But Klea! why do you look at me
so--and look so gloomy and terrible? I cannot bear that look, I cannot
bear it!”
Irene sobbed aloud, and her sister went up to her, stroked her soft hair
from her brow, kissed her kindly, and said:
“I am not angry with you, child, and did not mean to hurt you. If only I
could cry as you do when clouds overshadow my heart, the blue sky would
shine again with me as soon as it does with you. Now dry your eyes,
go up to the temple, and enquire at what hour we are to go to the
singing-practice, and when the procession is to set out.”
Irene obeyed; she went out with downcast eyes, but once out she looked
up again brightly, for she remembered the procession, and it occurred
to her that she would then see again the Roman’s gay acquaintance,
and turning back into the room she laid her pomegranate-blossom in the
little bowl out of which she had formerly taken the violets, kissed her
sister as gaily as ever, and then reflected as to whether she would wear
the flower in her hair or in her bosom. Wear it, at any rate, she must,
for she must show plainly that she knew how to value such a gift.
As soon as Klea was alone she seized the trencher with a vehement
gesture, gave the roast bird to the gray cat, who had stolen back into
the room, turning away her head, for the mere smell of the pheasant was
like an insult. Then, while the cat bore off her welcome spoils into
a corner, she clutched a peach and raised her hand to fling it away
through a gap in the roof of the room; but she did not carry out her
purpose, for it occurred to her that Irene and little Philo, the son of
the gate-keeper, might enjoy the luscious fruit; so she laid it back on
the dish and took up the bread, for she was painfully hungry.
She was on the point of breaking the golden-brown cake, but acting on a
rapid impulse she tossed it back on the trencher saying to herself: “At
any rate I will owe him nothing; but I will not throw away the gifts of
the gods as he threw away my violets, for that would be a sin. All is
over between him and me, and if he appears to-day in the procession, and
if he chooses to look at me again I will compel my eyes to avoid meeting
his--aye, that I will, and will carry it through. But, Oh eternal gods!
and thou above all, great Serapis, whom I heartily serve, there is
another thing I cannot do without your aid. Help me, oh! help me to
forget him, that my very thoughts may remain pure.”
With these words she flung herself on her knees before the chest,
pressed her brow against the hard wood, and strove to pray.
Only for one thing did she entreat the gods; for strength to forget the
man who had betrayed her into losing her peace of mind.
But just as swift clouds float across the sky, distracting the labors
of the star-gazer, who is striving to observe some remote planet--as the
clatter of the street interrupts again and again some sweet song we fain
would hear, marring it with its harsh discords--so again and again the
image of the young Roman came across Klea’s prayers for release from
that very thought, and at last it seemed to her that she was like a
man who strives to raise a block of stone by the exertion of his utmost
strength, and who weary at last of lifting the stone is crushed to the
earth by its weight; still she felt that, in spite of all her prayers
and efforts, the enemy she strove to keep off only came nearer, and
instead of flying from her, overmastered her soul with a grasp from
which she could not escape.
Finally she gave up the unavailing struggle, cooled her burning face
with cold water, and tightened the straps of her sandals to go to the
temple; near the god himself she hoped she might in some degree recover
the peace she could not find here.
Just at the door she met Irene, who told her that the singing-practice
was put off, on account of the procession which was fixed for four hours
after noon. And as Klea went towards the temple her sister called after
her.
“Do not stay too long though, water will be wanted again directly for
the libations.”
“Then will you go alone to the work?” asked Klea; “there cannot be
very much wanted, for the temple will soon be empty on account of the
procession. A few jars-full will be enough. There is a cake of bread and
a peach in there for you; I must keep the other for little Philo.”