THE PASSAGE INTO LIFE
Æmilius had sprung to his feet and called to the men to cease punting.
They rested on their poles, awaiting further instructions, and the impetus
given to the raft carried it among some yellow flags and rushes.
Callipodius said: “I mostly admire the splendor of your intellect, that
shines forth with solar effulgence. But there are seasons when the sun is
eclipsed or obscured, and such is this with thee. Surely thou dost not
contemplate a return to Nemausus to risk thy life without being in any way
able to assist the damsel. Consider, moreover—is it worth it—for a girl?”
“Callipodius,” said the young lawyer in a tone of vehemence, “I cannot fly
and place myself in security and leave her exposed to the most dreadful
danger. I did my work by half only. What I did was unpremeditated, but
that done must be made a complete whole. When I undertake anything it is
my way to carry it out to a fair issue.”
“That is true enough and worthy of your excellent qualities of heart and
mind. But you know nothing of this wench, and be she all that you imagine,
what is a woman that for her you should jeopardize your little finger?
Besides, her mother and kinsfolk will hardly desire your aid, will
certainly not invoke it.”
“Why not?”
Callipodius shrugged his shoulders. “You are a man of the world—a votary
of pleasure, and these people are Christians. They will do their utmost
for her. They hang together as a swarm of bees.”
“Who and what are these people—this mother and her kinsfolk?”
“I know little about them. They occupy a house in the lower town, and that
tells its own tale. They do not belong to the quality to which you belong.
The girl has been reputed beautiful, and many light fellows have sought to
see and have words with her. But she is so zealously guarded, and is
herself so retiring and modest that they have encountered only rebuff and
disappointment.”
“I must return. I will know for certain that she is in safety. Methinks no
sooner were they balked of me than they would direct all their efforts to
secure her.”
“You shall not go back to Nemausus. You would but jeopardize your own
valuable life without the possibility of assisting her; nay, rather
wouldst thou direct attention to her. Leave the matter with me and trust
my devotion to thine interests.”
“I must learn tidings of her. I shall not rest till assured that she is
out of danger. By the infernal gods, Callipodius, I know not what is come
upon me, but I feel that if ill befall her, I could throw myself on a
sword and welcome death, life having lost to me all value.”
“Then I tell thee this, most resolute of men,” said Callipodius, “I will
return to the town. My nothingness will pass unquestioned. Thou shalt
tarry at the house of Flavillus yonder on the promontory. He is a timber
merchant, and the place is clean. The woman bears a good name, and, what
is better, can cook well. The house is poor and undeserving of the honor
of receiving so distinguished a person as thyself; but if thou wilt
condescend——”
“Enough. I will do as thou advisest. And, oh, friend, be speedy, relieve
my anxiety and be true as thou dost value my esteem.”
Then Æmilius signed to the raftmen to put him ashore at the landing place
to the timber yard of Flavillus.
Having landed he mounted a slight ascent to a cottage that was surrounded
by piles of wood—of oak, chestnut, pine and olive. Flavillus was a
merchant on a small scale, but a man of energy and industry. He dealt with
the natives of the Cebennæ, and bought the timber they felled, conveyed it
to his stores, whence it was distributed to the towns in the neighborhood;
and supplies were furnished to the shipbuilders at Arelate.
The merchant was now away, but his wife received Æmilius with deference.
She had heard his name from the raftmen, and was acquainted with
Callipodius, a word from whom sufficed as an introduction.
She apologized because her house was small, as also because her mother,
then with her, was at the point of death from old age, not from any fever
or other disorder. If Æmilius Lentulus, under the circumstances, would
pardon imperfection in attendance, she would gladly extend to him such
hospitality as she could offer. Æmilius would have gone elsewhere, but
that the only other house he could think of that was near was a tavern,
then crowded by Utriculares, who occupied every corner. He was sorry to
inconvenience the woman, yet accepted her offer. The period was not one in
which much consideration was shown to those in a lower grade. The citizens
and nobles held that their inferiors existed for their convenience only.
Æmilius shared in the ideas of his time and class, but he had sufficient
natural delicacy to make him reluctant to intrude where his presence was
necessarily irksome. Nevertheless, as there was no other place to which he
could go, he put aside this feeling of hesitation.
The house was small, and was constructed of wood upon a stone basement.
The partitions between the rooms were of split planks, and the joints were
in places open, and knots had come out, so that what passed in one
apartment was audible, and, to some extent, visible in another. A bedroom
in a Roman house was a mere closet, furnished with a bed only. All washing
was done at the baths, not in the house. The room had no window, only a
door over which hung a curtain.
Æmilius divested himself of his wet garment and gave it to his hostess to
dry, then wrapped himself in his toga and awaited supper.
The meal was prepared as speedily as might be. It consisted of eggs, eels,
with melon, and apples of last year. Wine was abundant, and so was oil.
When he had eaten and was refreshed, moved by a kindly thought Æmilius
asked if he might see the sick mother. His hostess at once conducted him
to her apartment, and he stood by the old woman’s bed. The evening sun
shone in at the door, where stood the daughter holding back the curtain,
and lighted the face of the aged woman. It was thin, white and drawn. The
eyes were large and lustrous.
“I am an intruder,” said the young man, “yet I would not sleep the night
in this house without paying my respects to the mother of my kind hostess.
Alas! thou art one I learn who is unable to escape that which befalls all
mortals. It is a lot evaded only by the gods, if there be any truth in the
tales told concerning them. It must be a satisfaction to you to
contemplate the many pleasures enjoyed in a long life, just as after an
excellent meal we can in mind revert to it and retaste in imagination
every course—as indeed I do with the supper so daintily furnished by my
hostess.”
“Ah, sir,” said the old woman, “on the couch of death one looks not back
but forward.”
“And that also is true,” remarked Æmilius. “What is before you but
everything that can console the mind and gratify the ambition. With your
excellent daughter and the timber‐yard hard by, you may calculate on a
really handsome funeral pyre—plenty of olive wood and fragrant pine logs
from the Cebennæ. I myself will be glad to contribute a handful of
oriental spices to throw into the flames.”
“Sir, I think not of that.”
“And the numbers who will attend and the orations that will be made
lauding your many virtues! It has struck me that one thing only is wanting
in a funeral to make it perfectly satisfactory, and that is that the
person consigned to the flames should be able to see the pomp and hear the
good things said of him.”
“Oh, sir, I regard not that!”
“No, like a wise woman, you look beyond.”
“Aye! aye!” she folded her hands and a light came into her eyes. “I look
beyond.”
“To the mausoleum and the cenotaph. Unquestionably the worthy Flavillus
will give you a monument as handsome as his means will permit, and for
many centuries your name will be memorialized thereon.”
“Oh, sir! my poor name! what care I for that? I ask Flavillus to spend no
money over my remains; and may my name be enshrined in the heart of my
daughter. But—it is written elsewhere—even in Heaven.”
“I hardly comprehend.”
“As to what happens to the body—that is of little concern to me. I desire
but one thing—to be dissolved, and to be with Christ.”
“Ah!—so—with Christ!”
Æmilius rubbed his chin.
“He is my Hope. He is my Salvation. In Him I shall live. Death is
swallowed up in Victory.”
“She rambles in her talk,” said he, turning to the daughter.
“Nay, sir, she is clear in her mind and dwells on the thoughts that
comfort her.”
“And that is not that she will have an expensive funeral?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Nor that she will have a commemorative cenotaph belauding her virtues?”
Then the dying woman said: “I shall live—live forevermore. I have passed
from death unto life.”
Æmilius shook his head. If this was not the raving of a disordered mind,
what could it be?
He retired to his apartment.
He was tired. He had nothing to occupy him, so he cast himself on his bed.
Shortly he heard the voice of a man. He started and listened in the hopes
that Callipodius had returned, but as the tones were strange to him he lay
down again.
Presently a light struck through a knot in the boards that divided his
room from that of the dying woman. Then he heard the strange voice say:
“Peace be to this house and to all that dwell therein.”
“It is the physician,” said Æmilius to himself. “Pshaw! what can he do?
She is dying of old age.”
At first the newcomer did inquire concerning the health of the patient,
but then rapidly passed to other matters, and these strange to the ear of
the young lawyer. He had gathered that the old woman was a Christian; but
of Christians he knew no more than that they were reported to worship the
head of an ass, to devour little children, and to indulge in debauchery at
their evening banquets.
The strange man spoke to the dying woman—not of funeral and cenotaph as
things to look forward to, but to life and immortality, to joy and rest
from labor.
“My daughter,” said the stranger, “indicate by sign that thou hearest me.
Fortified by the most precious gift thou wilt pass out of darkness into
light, out of sorrow into joy, from tears to gladness of heart, from where
thou seest through a glass darkly to where thou shalt look on the face of
Christ, the Sun of Righteousness. Though thou steppest down into the
river, yet His cross shall be thy stay and His staff shall comfort thee.
He goeth before to be thy guide. He standeth to be thy defence. The
spirits of evil cannot hurt thee. The Good Shepherd will gather thee into
His fold. The True Physician will heal all thine infirmities. As the
second Joshua, He will lead thee out of the wilderness into the land of
Promise. The angels of God surround thee. The light of the heavenly city
streams over thee. Rejoice, rejoice! The night is done and the day is at
hand. For all thy labors thou shalt be recompensed double. For all thy
sorrows He will comfort thee. He will wipe away thy tears. He will cleanse
thee from thy stains. He will feed thee with all thy desire. Old things
are passed away; all things are made new. Thy heart shall laugh and
sing—Pax!”
Æmilius, looking through a chink, saw the stranger lay his hand on the
woman’s brow. He saw how the next moment he withdrew it, and how, turning
to her daughter, he said:
“Do not lament for her. She has passed from death unto life. She sees Him,
in whom she has believed, in whom she has hoped, whom she has loved.”
And the daughter wiped her eyes.
“Well,” said Æmilius to himself, “now I begin to see how these people are
led to face death without fear. It is a pity that it should be delusion
and mere talk. Where is the evidence that it is other? Where is the
foundation for all this that is said?”