Klea went quickly on towards the temple, without listening to Irene’s
excuses. She paid no heed to the worshippers who filled the forecourt,
praying either with heads bent low or with uplifted arms or, if they
were of Egyptian extraction, kneeling on the smooth stone pavement, for,
even as she entered, she had already begun to turn in supplication to
the divinity.
She crossed the great hall of the sanctuary, which was open only to
the initiated and to the temple-servants, of whom she was one. Here all
around her stood a crowd of slender columns, their shafts crowned with
gracefully curved flower calyxes, like stems supporting lilies, over
her head she saw in the ceiling an image of the midnight sky with the
bright, unresting and ever-restful stars; the planets and fixed stars
in their golden barks looked down on her silently. Yes! here were the
twilight and stillness befitting a personal communion with the divinity.
The pillars appeared to her fancy like a forest of giant growth, and it
seemed to her that the perfume of the incense emanated from the gorgeous
floral capitals that crowned them; it penetrated her senses, which
were rendered more acute by fasting and agitation, with a sort of
intoxication. Her eyes were raised to heaven, her arms crossed over
her bosom as she traversed this vast hall, and with trembling steps
approached a smaller and lower chamber, where in the furthest and
darkest background a curtain of heavy and costly material veiled the
brazen door of the holy of holies.
Even she was forbidden to approach this sacred place; but to-day she was
so filled with longing for the inspiring assistance of the god, that she
went on to the holy of holies in spite of the injunction she had never
yet broken, not to approach it. Filled with reverent awe she sank down
close to the door of the sacred chamber, shrinking close into the angle
formed between a projecting door-post and the wall of the great hall.
The craving desire to seek and find a power outside us as guiding the
path of our destiny is common to every nation, to every man; it is as
surely innate in every being gifted with reason--many and various as
these are--as the impulse to seek a cause when we perceive an effect, to
see when light visits the earth, or to hear when swelling waves of
sound fall on our ear. Like every other gift, no doubt that of religious
sensibility is bestowed in different degrees on different natures.
In Klea it had always been strongly developed, and a pious mother had
cultivated it by precept and example, while her father always had taught
her one thing only: namely to be true, inexorably true, to others as to
herself.
Afterwards she had been daily employed in the service of the god whom
she was accustomed to regard as the greatest and most powerful of all
the immortals, for often from a distance she had seen the curtain of the
sanctuary pushed aside, and the statue of Serapis with the Kalathos
on his head, and a figure of Cerberus at his feet, visible in the
half-light of the holy of holies; and a ray of light, flashing through
the darkness as by a miracle, would fall upon his brow and kiss his lips
when his goodness was sung by the priests in hymns of praise. At other
times the tapers by the side of the god would be lighted or extinguished
spontaneously.
Then, with the other believers, she would glorify the great lord of the
other world, who caused a new sun to succeed each that was extinguished,
and made life grow up out of death; who resuscitated the dead, lifting
them up to be equal with him, if on earth they had reverenced truth and
were found faithful by the judges of the nether world.
Truth--which her father had taught her to regard as the best possession
of life--was rewarded by Serapis above all other virtues; hearts were
weighed before him in a scale against truth, and whenever Klea tried to
picture the god in human form he wore the grave and mild features of her
father, and she fancied him speaking in the words and tones of the man
to whom she owed her being, who had been too early snatched from her,
who had endured so much for righteousness’ sake, and from whose lips
she had never heard a single word that might not have beseemed the god
himself. And, as she crouched closely in the dark angle by the holy of
holies, she felt herself nearer to her father as well as to the god, and
accused herself pitilessly, in that unmaidenly longings had stirred her
heart, that she had been insincere to herself and Irene, nay in that if
she could not succeed in tearing the image of the Roman from her heart
she would be compelled either to deceive her sister or to sadden the
innocent and careless nature of the impressionable child, whom she
was accustomed to succor and cherish as a mother might. On her, even
apparently light matters weighed oppressively, while Irene could throw
off even grave and serious things, blowing them off as it were into the
air, like a feather. She was like wet clay on which even the light touch
of a butterfly leaves a mark, her sister like a mirror from which the
breath that has dimmed it instantly and entirely vanishes.
“Great God!” she murmured in her prayer, “I feel as if the Roman had
branded my very soul. Help thou me to efface the mark; help me to
become as I was before, so that I may look again in Irene’s eyes without
concealment, pure and true, and that I may be able to say to myself,
as I was wont, that I had thought and acted in such a way as my father
would approve if he could know it.”
She was still praying thus when the footsteps and voices of two men
approaching the holy of holies startled her from her devotions; she
suddenly became fully conscious of the fact that she was in a forbidden
spot, and would be severely punished if she were discovered.
“Lock that door,” cried one of the new-comers to his companion, pointing
to the door which led from the prosekos into the pillared hall, “none,
even of the initiated, need see what you are preparing here for us--”
Klea recognized the voice of the high-priest, and thought for a moment
of stepping forward and confessing her guilt; but, though she did not
usually lack courage, she did not do this, but shrank still more closely
into her hiding-place, which was perfectly dark when the brazen door of
the room; which had no windows, was closed. She now perceived that the
curtain and door were opened which closed the inmost sanctuary, she
heard one of the men twirling the stick which was to produce fire, saw
the first gleam of light from it streaming out of the holy of holies,
and then heard the blows of a hammer and the grating sound of a file.
The quiet sanctum was turned into a forge, but noisy as were the
proceedings within, it seemed to Klea that the beating of her own heart
was even louder than the brazen clatter of the tools wielded by Krates;
he was one of the oldest of the priests of Serapis, who was chief in
charge of the sacred vessels, who was wont never to speak to any one
but the high-priest, and who was famous even among his Greek
fellow-countrymen for the skill with which he could repair broken
metal-work, make the securest locks, and work in silver and gold.
When the sisters first came into the temple five years since, Irene had
been very much afraid of this man, who was so small as almost to be a
dwarf, broad shouldered and powerfully knit, while his wrinkled face
looked like a piece of rough cork-bark, and he was subject to a painful
complaint in his feet which often prevented his walking; her fears had
not vexed but only amused the priestly smith, who whenever he met the
child, then eleven years old, would turn his lips up to his big red
nose, roll his eyes, and grunt hideously to increase the terror that
came over her.
He was not ill-natured, but he had neither wife nor child, nor brother,
nor sister, nor friend, and every human being so keenly desires that
others should have some feeling about him, that many a one would rather
be feared than remain unheeded.
After Irene had got over her dread she would often entreat the old
man--who was regarded as stern and inaccessible by all the other
dwellers in the temple--in her own engaging and coaxing way to make a
face for her, and he would do it and laugh when the little one, to his
delight and her own, was terrified at it and ran away; and just lately
when Irene, having hurt her foot, was obliged to keep her room for a
few days, an unheard of thing had occurred: he had asked Klea with the
greatest sympathy how her sister was getting on, and had given her a
cake for her.
While Krates was at his work not a word passed between him and the
high-priest. At length he laid down the hammer, and said:
“I do not much like work of this kind, but this, I think, is successful
at any rate. Any temple-servant, hidden here behind the altar, can now
light or extinguish the lamps without the illusion being detected by the
sharpest. Go now and stand at the door of the great hall and speak the
word.”
Klea heard the high-priest accede to this request and cry in a
chanting voice: “Thus he commands the night and it becomes day, and the
extinguished taper and lo! it flames with brightness. If indeed thou art
nigh, Oh Serapis! manifest thyself to us.”
At these words a bright stream of light flashed from the holy of holies,
and again was suddenly extinguished when the high-priest sang: “Thus
showest thou thyself as light to the children of truth, but dost punish
with darkness the children of lies.”
“Again?” asked Krates in a voice which conveyed a desire that the answer
might be ‘No.’
“I must trouble you,” replied the high-priest. “Good! the performance
went much better this time. I was always well assured of your skill; but
consider the particular importance of this affair. The two kings and the
queen will probably be present at the solemnity, certainly Philometor
and Cleopatra will, and their eyes are wide open; then the Roman who has
already assisted four times at the procession will accompany them, and
if I judge him rightly he, like many of the nobles of his nation, is
one of those who can trust themselves when it is necessary to be content
with the old gods of their fathers; and as regards the marvels we are
able to display to them, they do not take them to heart like the poor
in spirit, but measure and weigh them with a cool and unbiassed mind.
People of that stamp, who are not ashamed to worship, who do not
philosophize but only think just so much as is necessary for acting
rightly, those are the worst contemners of every supersensual
manifestation.”
“And the students of nature in the Museum?” asked Krates. “They believe
nothing to be real that they cannot see and observe.”
“And for that very reason,” replied the high-priest, “they are often
singularly easy to deceive by your skill, since, seeing an effect
without a cause, they are inclined to regard the invisible cause as
something supersensual. Now, open the door again and let us get out by
the side door; do you, this time, undertake the task of cooperating with
Serapis yourself. Consider that Philometor will not confirm the
donation of the land unless he quits the temple deeply penetrated by the
greatness of our god. Would it be possible, do you think, to have the
new censer ready in time for the birthday of King Euergetes, which is to
be solemnly kept at Memphis?”
“We will see,” replied Krates, “I must first put together the lock
of the great door of the tomb of Apis, for so long as I have it in my
workshop any one can open it who sticks a nail into the hole above the
bar, and any one can shut it inside who pushes the iron bolt. Send to
call me before the performance with the lights begins; I will come in
spite of my wretched feet. As I have undertaken the thing I will carry
it out, but for no other reason, for it is my opinion that even without
such means of deception--”
“We use no deception,” interrupted the high-priest, sternly rebuking his
colleague. “We only present to short-sighted mortals the creative power
of the divinity in a form perceptible and intelligible to their senses.”
With these words the tall priest turned his back on the smith and
quitted the hall by a side door; Krates opened the brazen door, and as
he gathered together his tools he said to himself, but loud enough for
Klea to hear him distinctly in her hiding-place:
“It may be right for me, but deceit is deceit, whether a god deceives a
king or a child deceives a beggar.”
“Deceit is deceit,” repeated Klea after the smith when he had left the
hall and she had emerged from her corner.
She stood still for a moment and looked round her. For the first time
she observed the shabby colors on the walls, the damage the pillars had
sustained in the course of years, and the loose slabs in the pavement.
The sweetness of the incense sickened her, and as she passed by an old
man who threw up his arms in fervent supplication, she looked at him
with a glance of compassion.
When she had passed out beyond the pylons enclosing the temple she
turned round, shaking her head in a puzzled way as she gazed at it; for
she knew that not a stone had been changed within the last hour, and yet
it looked as strange in her eyes as some landscape with which we have
become familiar in all the beauty of spring, and see once more in winter
with its trees bare of leaves; or like the face of a woman which we
thought beautiful under the veil which hid it, and which, when the veil
is raised, we see to be wrinkled and devoid of charm.
When she had heard the smith’s words, “Deceit is deceit,” she felt her
heart shrink as from a stab, and could not check the tears which started
to her eyes, unused as they were to weeping; but as soon as she had
repeated the stern verdict with her own lips her tears had ceased, and
now she stood looking at the temple like a traveller who takes leave of
a dear friend; she was excited, she breathed more freely, drew herself
up taller, and then turned her back on the sanctuary of Serapis, proudly
though with a sore heart.
Close to the gate-keeper’s lodge a child came tottering towards her with
his arms stretched up to her. She lifted him up, kissed him, and then
asked the mother, who also greeted her, for a piece of bread, for her
hunger was becoming intolerable. While she ate the dry morsel the child
sat on her lap, following with his large eyes the motion of her hand and
lips. The boy was about five years old, with legs so feeble that they
could scarcely support the weight of his body, but he had a particularly
sweet little face; certainly it was quite without expression, and it was
only when he saw Klea coming that tiny Philo’s eyes had lighted up with
pleasure.
“Drink this milk,” said the child’s mother, offering the young girl an
earthen bowl. “There is not much and I could not spare it if Philo would
eat like other children, but it seems as if it hurt him to swallow. He
drinks two or three drops and eats a mouthful, and then will take no
more even if he is beaten.”
“You have not been beating him again?” said Klea reproachfully, and
drawing the child closer to her. “My husband--” said the woman, pulling
at her dress in some confusion. “The child was born on a good day and
in a lucky hour, and yet he is so puny and weak and will not learn to
speak, and that provokes Pianchi.”
“He will spoil everything again!” exclaimed Klea annoyed. “Where is he?”
“He was wanted in the temple.”
“And is he not pleased that Philo calls him ‘father,’ and you ‘mother,’
and me by my name, and that he learns to distinguish many things?” asked
the girl.
“Oh, yes of course,” said the woman. “He says you are teaching him to
speak just as if he were a starling, and we are very much obliged to
you.”
“That is not what I want,” interrupted Klea. “What I wish is that you
should not punish and scold the boy, and that you should be as glad as
I am when you see his poor little dormant soul slowly waking up. If
he goes on like this, the poor little fellow will be quite sharp and
intelligent. What is my name, my little one?”
“Ke-ea,” stammered the child, smiling at his friend. “And now taste
this that I have in my hand; what is it?--I see you know. It is
called--whisper in my ear. That’s right, mil--mil-milk! to be sure, my
tiny, it is milk. Now open your little mouth and say it prettily after
me--once more--and again--say it twelve times quite right and I will
give you a kiss--Now you have earned a pretty kiss--will you have it
here or here? Well, and what is this? your ea-? Yes, your ear. And
this?--your nose, that is right.”
The child’s eyes brightened more and more under this gentle teaching,
and neither Klea nor her pupil were weary till, about an hour later, the
re-echoing sound of a brass gong called her away. As she turned to
go the little one ran after her crying; she took him in her arms and
carried him back to his mother, and then went on to her own room to
dress herself and her sister for the procession. On the way to the
Pastophorium she recalled once more her expedition to the temple and her
prayer there.
“Even before the sanctuary,” said she to herself, “I could not succeed
in releasing my soul from its burden--it was not till I set to work to
loosen the tongue of the poor little child. Every pure spot, it seems to
me, may be the chosen sanctuary of some divinity, and is not an infant’s
soul purer than the altar where truth is mocked at?”
In their room she found Irene; she had dressed her hair carefully and
stuck the pomegranate-flower in it, and she asked Klea if she thought
she looked well.
“You look like Aphrodite herself,” replied Klea kissing her forehead.
Then she arranged the folds of her sister’s dress, fastened on the
ornaments, and proceeded to dress herself. While she was fastening
her sandals Irene asked her, “Why do you sigh so bitterly?” and Klea
replied, “I feel as if I had lost my parents a second time.”