The family of musicians were kindly received, but they were not
immediately called upon to perform, for as soon as Damia heard that the
pretty fair-haired child who had pleased her so much the day before
had been obliged to remain at home, she had one of her granddaughter’s
dresses brought out, and requested Herse to go back to fetch her. Some
slaves were to accompany Herse and transfer all her little property on
board a Nile-boat belonging to Porphyrius, which was lying at anchor
just off the ship-yard. In this large barge there were several cabins
which had often accommodated guests, and which would now serve very well
as a residence for Karnis and his party. Indeed, it was particularly
well suited for a family of musicians, for they could practise there
undisturbed, and Gorgo could at any time pay them a visit.
Herse went back to the Xenodochium with a lighter heart; her son also
returned to the city to replace a number of necessaries that had been
lost on board ship, and Karnis, rejoicing to be out of the monk-haunted
asylum had remained in the men’s room in the house of his new patron,
enjoying the good things which abounded there. He felt as though he was
here once more at home after years of exile. Here dwelt the spirit of
his fathers; here he found men who enjoyed life after his own fashion,
who could share his enthusiasms and his hatreds. He drank noble liquor
out of an elegantly carved onyx cup, all that he heard soothed his ears,
and all that he said met with entire sympathy. The future prospects of
his family, till now so uncertain, were hardly inferior to those which
his vivid imagination had painted the night before. And even if Fortune
should again desert him, the hours of present enjoyment should be
written down to the profit side of life, and remain a permanent gain at
any rate in memory.
The venerable Damia, her son Porphyrius, and the fair Gorgo were in
fact a trio such as are rarely met with. The master of the house, more
cautious than the women, was inclined to think that his mother and
daughter had been somewhat overhasty and imprudent in their advances and
he had at first received Karnis with considerable reserve; but after a
short interview he had convinced himself that the musician was a man of
unusual culture and superior stamp. The old lady had, from the first,
been predisposed in his favor, for she had read in the stars last night
that the day was to bring her a fortunate meeting. Her wish was law, and
Karnis could not help smiling when she addressed her son, whose hair
had long been grey and who looked fully competent to manage his own
household, as “my child,” not hesitating to scold and reprove him. Her
cathedra was a high arm-chair which she never quitted but to be
carried to her observatory on the roof of the house, where she kept her
astrological tablets and manuscripts. The only weakness about her was
in her feet; but strong, and willing arms were always at her disposal
to carry her about--to table, into her sleeping-room, and during the
daytime out to sunny spots in the garden. She was never so happy as when
Helios warmed her back with his rays, for her old blood needed it after
the long night-watches that she still would keep in her observatory.
Even during the hottest noon she would sit in the sun, with a large
green umbrella to shade her keen eyes, and those who desired to speak
with her might find shade as best they could. As she stood, much bent,
but propped on her ivory crutches, eagerly following every word of a
conversation, she looked as though she were prepared at any moment to
spring into the middle of it and interrupt the speaker. She always said
exactly what she meant without reserve or ruth; and throughout her long
life, as the mistress of great wealth, she had always been allowed to
have her own way. She asserted her rights even over her son, though
he was the centre of a web whose threads reached to the furthest
circumference of the known world. The peasants who tilled the earth by
the Upper and Lower Nile, the shepherds who kept their flocks in the
Arabian desert, in Syria, or on the Silphium meads of Cyrenaica, the
wood-cutters of Lebanon and Pontus, the mountaineers of Hispania and
Sardinia, the brokers, merchants, and skippers of every port on the
Mediterranean, were bound by these threads to the villa on the shore of
Mareotis, and felt the tie when the master there--docile as a boy to his
mother’s will--tightened or released his hold.
His possessions, even in his youth, had been so vast that their
increment could bring no added enjoyment to him or his family, and yet
their increase had become his life’s task. He strove for a higher sum to
figure on the annual balance sheet, as eagerly as an athlete strives
for a prize; and his mother not only inspected the account, but watched
every important undertaking with keen interest. When her son and his
colleagues doubted over some decision it was she who gave the casting
vote; but though her advice in most cases proved sound and profitable,
she herself ascribed this less to her own acumen and knowledge of the
world than to the hints she obtained from the stars and from magical
calculations. Her son did not follow her in these speculations, but
he rarely disputed the conclusions that she drew from her astrological
studies. While she was turning night into day he was glad to entertain
a few learned friends, for all the hours of leisure that he could snatch
from his pursuit of fortune, he devoted to philosophy, and the most
distinguished thinkers of Alexandria were happy to be received at
the hospitable table of so rich a patron. He was charmed to be called
“Callias,”
[The noble Athenian family of Callias was famed for its wealth and
splendor.]
and the heathen teachers at the schools of the Museum and Serapeum
regarded him as a faithful ally. It was known that he had been baptized,
but he never liked to hear the fact mentioned. He won all hearts by his
perfect modesty, but even more perhaps by a certain air of suffering
and melancholy which protected the wealthy merchant against the envy of
detractors.
In the course of her conversation with Karnis the old lady enquired
particularly as to the antecedent history of Agne, for if there had been
a stain on her character, or if she were by birth a slave, Gorgo could
not of course be seen with her in public, and in that case Karnis would
have to teach the lament of Isis to some freeborn singer. Karnis in
reply could only shrug his shoulders, and beg the ladies and Porphyrius
to judge for themselves when he should have related the young girl’s
story.
Three years since, he said, he had been staying at Antioch at the time
of a violent outbreak against the levying of certain taxes. There had
been much bloodshed, and he and his family had got out of the city
as quickly as they could. It was growing dusk when they turned into a
wayside inn, where they found Agne and her little brother captives to a
soldier. During the night the girl had crept up to the little boy’s bed,
and to comfort and lull him had begun to sing him a simple song. The
singer’s voice was so pure and pathetic that it had touched both him and
his wife and they had at once purchased the girl and her brother for a
small sum. He had simply paid what the soldier asked, not regarding the
children in the light of slaves; nor had he had any description of them
written out, though it was, no doubt, in his power to treat them as
slaves and to sell them again, since the sale had taken place before
witnesses who might still be found. He had afterwards learnt from the
girl that her parents were Christians and had settled in Antioch only
a few years previously; but she had no friends nor relatives there. Her
father, being a tax-collector in the service of the Emperor, had moved
about a great deal, but she remembered his having spoken of Augusta
Treviroruin in Belgica prima, as his native place.--[Now Trier or
Treves, on the Moselle.]
Agne had witnessed the attack on her father’s house by the angry mob
who had killed her parents, their two slaves, and her elder brother. Her
father must certainly have been an official of some rank, and probably,
as it would seem, a Roman citizen, in which case--as Porphyrius
agreed--both the young girl and her little brother could legally claim
their freedom. The insurgents who had dragged the two children out into
the street had been driven off by the troops, and it was from them that
Karnis had rescued them. “And I have never regretted it,” added the old
musician, “for Agne is a sweet, gentle soul. Of her voice I need say
nothing, since you yourselves heard it yesterday.”
“And were quite delighted with it!” cried Gorgo. “If flowers could sing
it would be like that!”
“Well, well,” said Karnis. “She has a lovely voice--but she wants wings.
Something--what, I know not, keeps the violet rooted to the soil.”
“Christian scruples,” said the merchant, and Damia added:
“Let Eros touch her--that will loosen her tongue.”
“Eros, always Eros!” repeated Gorgo shrugging her shoulders. “Nay, love
means suffering--those who love drag a chain with them. To do the best
of which he is capable man needs only to be free, true, and in health.”
“That is a great deal, fair mistress,” replied Karnis eagerly. “With
these three gifts the best work is done. But as to Agne--what can be
further from freedom than a girl bound to service? her body, to be sure
is healthy, but her spirit suffers; she can get no peace for dread of
the Christian’s terrors: Sin, Repentance, and Hell....”
“Oh, we know how their life is ruined!” interrupted the old lady. “Was
it Agne who introduced you to Mary’s Asylum?”
“No, noble lady.”
“But how then--that prudent saint generally selects her guests, and
those that are not baptized...”
“She certainly sheltered heathens on this occasion.”
“I am much surprised. Tell me how it happened.”
“We were at Rome,” began Karnis, “and my patron there persuaded Marcus,
Mary’s son, to take us on board his ship at Ostia. We dropped anchor at
Cyrene, where the young master wanted to pick up his brother and bring
him also to Alexandria.”
“Then is Demetrius here?” asked Porphyrius.
“Yes, sir. He came on board at Cyrene. Hardly had we got fairly to
sea again when we saw two pirate ships. Our trireme was at once turned
round, but in our hurry to regain the harbor we stuck fast on a
sand bank; the boats were at once put out to save the passengers and
Cynegius, the consul...”
“Cynegius--on his way here!” exclaimed Porphyrius, much excited.
“He landed yesterday with us in the harbor of Eunostus. The secretaries
and officers of his suite filled one boat and Marcus and his brother
were getting into the other with their men. We, and others of the free
passengers, should have been left behind if Dada...”
“That pretty little blonde?” asked Damia.
“The very same. Marcus had taken a great fancy to her prattle and her
songs during the voyage--no nightingale can sing more clearly--and when
she begged and prayed him he gave way at once, and said: he would take
her in his boat. But the brave child declared that she would jump into
the sea before she would leave without us.”
“Well done!” cried the old lady, and Porphyrius added:
“That speaks well for her and for you.”
“So after all Marcus found room for us in the boat--for all of us, and
we got safely to land. A few days after we all came on in a troop-ship:
Cynegius, the two brothers and the rest, all safe and sound; and, as
we had lost everything we possessed, Marcus gave us a certificate which
procured our admission into his mother’s Xenodochium. And then the gods
brought me and mine under the notice of your noble daughter.”
“Then Cynegius is here, positively here?” asked Porphyrius once more.
Karnis assured him that he was, and the merchant, turning to his mother,
went on:
“And Olympius has not yet come home. It is always the same thing; he is
as rash as a boy. If they should take him! The roads are swarming with
monks. There is something astir. Bring out the chariot, Syrus, at once;
and tell Atlas to be ready to accompany me. Cynegius here!--Ha, ha! I
thank the gods!”
The last exclamation was addressed to a man who at this instant came
into the room, muffled up to the eyes. He threw off the hood of his
cloak and the wrapper that went round his throat, concealing his long
white beard, and as he did so he exclaimed with a gasp for breath:
“Here I am once more!--Cynegius is here and matters look serious my
friend.”
“You have been to the Museum?”
“Without any obstruction. I found them all assembled. Brave lads. They
are all for us and the gods. There are plenty of weapons. The Jews--[At
that time about two-fifths of the whole population.]--are not stirring,
Onias thinks he may vouch for that; and we must surely be a match for
the monks and the imperial cohorts.”
“If the gods only stand by us to-day and tomorrow,” replied Porphyrius
doubtfully.
“For ever, if only the country people do their duty!” cried the other.
“But who is this stranger?”
“The chief of the singers who were here yesterday,” replied Gorgo.
“Karnis, the son of Hiero of Tauromenium,” said the musician, bowing to
the stranger, whose stately figure and handsome, thoughtful head struck
him with admiration.
“Karnis of Tauromenium!” exclaimed the newcomer with glad surprise. “By
Hercules! a strange meeting. Your hand, your hand, old man. How many
years is it since we last emptied a wine-jar together at the house of
old Hippias? Seven lustres have turned our hair grey, but we still can
stand upright. Well, Karnis son of Hiero--and who am I?”
“Olympius--the great Olympius!” cried Karnis, eagerly grasping the
offered hand. “May all the gods bless this happy day!”
“All the gods?” repeated the philosopher. “Is that what you say? Then
you have not crawled under the yoke of the cross?”
“The world can rejoice only under the auspices of the gods!” cried
Karnis excitedly.
“And it shall rejoice still, we will save it from gloom!” added the
other with a flash of vehemence.
“The times are fateful. We must fight; and no longer over trifles; we
cannot now break each other’s heads over a quibble, or believe that the
whole world hangs on the question whether the instant of death is the
last minute of this life or the first of the next. No--what now remains
to be decided is whether the old gods shall be victorious, whether we
shall continue to live free and happy under the rule of the Immortals,
or whether we shall bow under the dismal doctrine of the carpenter’s
crucified son; we must fight for the highest hopes and aims of
humanity.”
“I know,” interrupted Karnis, “you have already done battle valiantly
for great Serapis. They wanted to lay hands on his sanctuary but you and
your disciples put them to rout. The rest got off scot-free...”
“But they have taught me the value of my head,” said Olympius laughing.
“Evagrius prices it at three talents. Why, you might buy a house with
the money and a modest man could live upon the interest. This worthy man
keeps me concealed here. We must talk over a few things, Porphyrius; and
you, Gorgo, do not forget the solemn festival of Isis. Now that Cynegius
is here it must be made as splendid as possible, and he must tell the
Emperor, who has sent him, what temper we Alexandrians are in. But where
is the dark maiden I saw yesterday?”
“In the garden,” replied Gorgo.
“She is to sing at the foot of the bier!” cried Olympius. “That must not
be altered.”
“If I can persuade her--she is a Christian,” said Karnis doubtfully.
“She must,” said the philosopher positively. “It will be a bad lookout
indeed for the logic and rhetoric of Alexandria if an old professor and
disputant cannot succeed in turning a young girl’s resolutions upside
down. Leave that to me. I shall find time for a chat with you by and
bye, friend Karnis. How in the world does it happen that you, who so
often have helped us with your father’s coin, have come down to be the
chief of a band of travelling musicians? You will have much to tell me,
my good friend; but even such important matters must give way to those
that are more pressing. One word with you, Porphyrius.”
Agne had been all this time awaiting Herse’s return in the colonnade
that ran along the garden-front of the house. She was glad to be alone,
and it was very comfortable to rest on the soft cushions under the
gilt-coffered ceiling of the arcade. At each end stood large shrubs
covered with bunches of violet-blue flowers and the spreading branches
cast a pleasant shade on the couch where she sat; the beautiful flowers,
which were strange to her, were delightfully fragrant, and from time
to time she helped herself to the refreshments which Gorgo herself had
brought out to her. All she saw, heard, and felt, was soothing to her
mind; never had she seen or tasted juicier peaches, richer bunches of
grapes, fresher almonds or more tempting cakes; on the shrubs in the
garden and on the grass-plots between the paths there was not a dead
leaf, not a dry stem, not the tiniest weed. The buds were swelling on
the tall trees, shrubs without end were covered with blossoms--white,
blue, yellow, and red--while, among the smooth, shining leaves of the
orange and lemon trees, gleamed the swelling fruit. On a round tank
close at hand some black swans were noiselessly tracing evanescent
circles and uttering their strange lament. The song of birds mingled
with the plash of fountains, and even the marble statues, for all that
they were dumb, seemed to be enjoying the sweet morning air and the stir
and voice of nature.
Yes, she could be happy here; as she peeled a peach and slowly
swallowed the soft fragrant mouthfuls, she laughed to remember the
hard ship’s-biscuit, of the two previous days’ fare. And it was Gorgo’s
privilege to revel in these good things day after day, year after year.
It was like living in Eden, in the perpetual spring of man’s first
blissful home on earth. There could be no suffering here; who could
cry here, who could be sorrowful, who could die?... Here a new train of
thought forced itself upon her. She was still so young, and yet she was
as familiar with the idea of death as she was with life; for whenever
she had happened to tell any minister of her creed that she was an
orphan and a slave, and deeply sad and sorrowful, the joys of eternity
in Paradise had always been described to her for her consolation, and it
was in hopes of Heaven that her visionary nature found such a modicum of
comfort as might suffice to keep the young artist-soul from despair. And
now it struck her that it must be hard, very hard to die, in the midst
of all this splendor. Living here must be a foretaste of the joys of
Paradise--and in the next world, among the angels of Heaven, in the
presence of the Saviour--would it not be a thousand times more beautiful
even than this? She shuddered, for, sojourning here, she was no longer
to be counted as one of the poor and humble sufferers to whom Christ had
promised the Kingdom of Heaven--here she was one of the rich, who had
nothing to hope for after death.
She pushed the peaches away with a feeling of oppression, and closed
her eyes that she might no longer see all these perishable splendors
and sinful works of the heathen, which pandered only to the senses. She
longed to remain miserable and poor on earth, that she might rejoin her
parents and dwell with them eternally.
To her it was not a belief but a certainty that her father and mother
were dwelling in Heaven, and she had often felt moved to pray that she
might die and be reunited to them; but she must not die yet, for her
little brother still needed her care. The kind souls whom she served
let him lack for nothing, it is true, that could conduce to his bodily
welfare; still, she could not appear before her parents without the
little one in her hand, and he would be lost eternally if his soul fell
into the power of the enemies of her faith. Her heart ached when she
reflected that Karnis, who was certainly not one of the reprobate and
whom she affectionately revered as a master in the art she loved--that
Herse, and the light-hearted Dada, and Orpheus even, must all be doomed
to perish eternally; and to save Orpheus she would willingly have
forfeited half the joys of Paradise. She saw that he was no less an
idolater than his parents; and yet, day by day, she prayed that his soul
might be saved, and she never ceased to hope for a miracle--that he too
might see a vision, like Paul, and confess the Saviour. She was so happy
when she was with him, and never happier than when it was her fortune to
sing with him, or to his admirable accompaniment on the lute. When she
could succeed in forgetting herself completely, and in giving utterance
by her lovely voice to all that was highest and best in her soul, he,
whose ear was no less sensitive and appreciative than his father’s,
would frankly express his approval, and in these moments life was indeed
fair and precious.
Music was the bond between her and Orpheus, and when her soul was
stirred she could feel and express herself in music. Song was the
language of her heart, and she had learnt by experience that it was
a language which even the heathen could both use and understand. The
Eternal Father himself must find joy in such a voice as Gorgo’s. She was
a heathen, and yet she had thrown into her song all that Agne herself
could feel when she lifted up her heart in passionate prayer. The
Christian--so she had often been taught--must have no part with the
idolaters; but it was God himself who had cast her on the hands of
Karnis, and the Church commanded that servants should obey their
masters. Singing seemed to her to be a language in itself, bestowed by
God on all living creatures, even on the birds, wherein to speak to Him;
so she allowed herself to look forward with pleasure to an opportunity
of mingling her own voice with that of the heathen lady.