Hermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound
in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing
each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable
streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that
the grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and broken
fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of
Apollo’s temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just
after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside a
gushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness.
“How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in,
without religion! These questions about unseen things, perhaps about
unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices-if I were only
free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my
life as I pleased, and be happy.”
“Why not?” said a quiet voice at his back.
He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare cloak
(the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind him and
smiling curiously.
“How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?” said Hermas;
“and who are you that honour me with your company?”
“Forgive the intrusion,” answered the stranger; “it is not ill meant. A
friendly interest is as good as an introduction.”
“But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?”
“To your face,” said the old man, with a courteous inclination. “Perhaps
also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel
as if all visitors were my guests, in a way.”
“Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given up
your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?
“Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must
confess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In
fact, I am the solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found
here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty years
ago. You have heard of the incident?”
“Yes,” said Hermas, beginning to be interested; “the whole city must
have heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strange
sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo’s
temple?”
“You mean the ancient goose?” said the old man laughing. “Well, perhaps
it was not precisely what the emperor expected. But it was all that I
had, and it seemed to me not inappropriate. You will agree to that if
you are a Christian, as I guess from your dress.”
“You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo.”
“Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional
matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altars
do you think there have been in this grove?”
“I do not know.”
“Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose
ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do with
most of them in my time. They are transitory. They give employment to
care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing that
interests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game has
been going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantly
on summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know.
Daphne and Apollo are shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuing
lovers, the music and the dances, these are realities. Life is a game,
and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance
for one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the game?” The words
a key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him
the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father’s house;
the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he
heard John’s preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the
anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher’s
house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his
discontent with worship.
“And to-day,” said he, “I have been thinking that I am a fool. My life
is swept as bare as a hermit’s cell. There is nothing in it but a dream,
a thought of God, which does not satisfy me.”
The singular smile deepened on his companion’s face. “You are ready,
then,” he suggested, “to renounce your new religion and go back to that
of your father?”
“No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think about
it. I only wish to live.”
“A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see its
accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way of
securing it. Do you believe in magic?”
“I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not a day on which
I care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I see. I want
what will give me pleasure.”
“Well,” said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from the
laurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, “let us dismiss the
riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know this is a
Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his fortune here from
a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this leaf tells us. It is
already turning yellow. How do you read that?”
“Wealth,” said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments.
“And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What is that?”
“Pleasure,” answered Hermas, bitterly.
“And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make of
that?”
“What you will,” said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look.
“Suppose we say success and fame?”
“Yes,” said the stranger; “it is all written here. I promise that you
shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my promise. I am
not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I would serve. No such
hard conditions for me! There is only one thing that I ask. This is the
season that you Christians call the Christmas, and you have taken up the
pagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give
to me. It is a small thing, and really the thing you can best afford to
part with: a single word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me
take that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life,
so that you shall never hear it or speak it again. You will be richer
without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask in return.
Do you consent?”
“Yes. I consent,” said Hermas, mocking. “If you can take your price, a
word, you can keep your promise, a dream.”
The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young man’s
eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in his body was
drawn together there in a knot of agony.
Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A cool
languor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into a
profound sleep.