IN THE CITRON‐HOUSE
Perpetua, at Ad Fines, was a prey to unrest. She was in alarm for the
safety of her mother, and she was disconcerted at having been smuggled off
to the house of a man who was a stranger, though to him she owed her life.
The villa was in a lovely situation, with a wide outstretch of landscape
before it to the Rhône, and beyond to the blue and cloudlike spurs of the
Alps; and the garden was in the freshness of its first spring beauty. But
she was in too great trouble to concern herself about scenery and flowers.
Her thoughts turned incessantly to her mother. In the embarrassing
situation in which she was—and one that was liable to become far more
embarrassing—she needed the support and counsel of her mother.
Far rather would she have been in prison at Nemausus, awaiting a hearing
before the magistrate, and perhaps condemnation to death, than be as at
present in a charming country house, attended by obsequious servants,
provided with every comfort, yet ignorant why she had been brought there,
and what the trials were to which she would be subjected.
The weather had changed with a suddenness not infrequent in the province.
The warm days were succeeded by some of raging wind and icy rains. In
fact, the mistral had begun to blow. As the heated air rose from the stony
plains, its place was supplied by that which was cold from the snowy
surfaces of the Alps, and the downrush was like that to which we nowadays
give the term of blizzard. So violent is the blast on these occasions that
the tillers of the soil have to hedge round their fields with funereal
cypresses, to form a living screen against a wind that was said, or
fabled, to have blown the cow out of one pasture into that of another
farmer, but which, without fable, was known to upset ricks and carry away
the roofs of houses.
To a cloudless sky, traversed by a sun of almost summer brilliancy,
succeeded a heaven dark, iron‐gray, with whirling vapors that had no
contour, and which hung low, trailing their dripping skirts over the
shivering landscape.
Trees clashed their boughs. The wood behind the villa roared like a
cataract. In the split ledges and prongs of limestone, among the box‐
bushes and junipers, the wind hissed and screamed. Birds fled for refuge
to the eaves of houses or to holes in the cliffs. Cattle were brought
under shelter. Sheep crouched dense packed on the lee side of a stone
wall. The very ponds and lagoons were whipped and their surfaces flayed by
the blast. Stones were dislodged on the mountain slopes, and flung down;
pebbles rolled along the plains, as though lashed forward by whips. The
penetrating cold necessitated the closing of every shutter, and the
heating of the hypocaust under the house. In towns, in the houses of the
better classes, the windows were glazed with thin flakes of mica (_lapis
specularis_), a transparent stone brought from Spain and Cappadocia, but
in the country this costly luxury was dispensed with, as the villas were
occupied only in the heat of summer, when there was no need to exclude the
air. The window openings were closed with shutters. Rooms were not warmed
by fireplaces, with wood fires on hearths, but by an arrangement beneath
the mosaic and cement floor, where a furnace was kindled, and the smoke
and heated air were carried by numerous pipes up the walls on all sides,
thus producing a summer heat within when all was winter without.
In the fever of her mind, Perpetua neither felt the asperity of the
weather nor noticed the comfort of the heated rooms. She was incessantly
restless, was ever running to the window or the door, as often to be
disappointed, in anticipation of meeting her mother. She was perplexed as
to the purpose for which she had been conveyed to Ad Fines. The slave
woman, Blanda, who attended her, was unable or unwilling to give her
information. All she pretended to know was that orders had been issued by
Callipodius, friend and client of Æmilius Lentulus, her master, that the
young lady was to be made comfortable, was to be supplied with whatever
she required, and was on no account to be suffered to leave the grounds.
The family was strictly enjoined not to mention to any one her presence in
the villa, under pain of severe chastisement.
Blanda was kind and considerate, and had less of the fawning dog in her
manner than was customary among slaves. It was never possible, even for
masters, to trust the word of their servants; consequently Perpetua, who
knew what slaves were, placed little reliance on the asseverations of
ignorance that fell from the lips of Blanda. There was, in the
conversation of Blanda, that which the woman intended to reassure, but
which actually heightened the uneasiness of the girl—this was the way in
which the woman harped continually on the good looks, amiability and
wealth of her master, who, as she insisted, belonged to the Voltinian
tribe, and was therefore one of the best connected and highest placed in
the colony.
The knowledge that she had been removed to Ad Fines to insure her safety
did not satisfy Perpetua; and she was by no means assured that she had
thus been carried off with the approbation and knowledge of her mother, or
of the bishop and principal Christians of her acquaintance in Nemausus. Of
Æmilius Varo she really knew nothing save that he was a man of pleasure
and a lawyer.
Adjoining the house was a conservatory. Citron trees and oleanders in
large green‐painted boxes were employed in summer to decorate the terrace
and gardens. They were allowed to be out in mild winters, but directly the
mistral began to howl, the men‐servants of the house had hurriedly
conveyed them within doors into the conservatory, as the gale would strip
them of their fruit, bruise the leaves and injure the flowers.
In her trouble of mind, unable to go abroad in the bitter weather,
impatient of quiet, Perpetua entered the citron‐house and walked among the
trees in their green tubs, now praying for help, then wiping the drops
from her eyes and brow.
As she thus paced, she heard a stir in the house, the opening of doors,
the rush of wind driving through it, the banging of valves and rattle of
shutters. Then she heard voices, and among them one that was imperious. A
moment later, Blanda ran to Perpetua, and after making a low obeisance
said: “The master is come. He desires permission to speak with you, lady,
when he hath had his bath and hath assumed a change of raiment. For by the
mother goddesses, no one can be many moments without and not be drenched
to the bone. And this exhibits the master’s regard for thee, lady; his
extreme devotion to your person and regard for your comfort, that he has
exposed himself to cold and rain and wind so as to come hither to inquire
if you are well, and if there be aught you desire that he can perform to
content you.”
What was Perpetua to do? She plucked some citron blossoms in her nervous
agitation, unknowing what she did, then answered timidly: “I am in the
house of the noble Æmilius. Let him speak with me here when it suits his
convenience. Yet stay, Blanda! Inquire at once, whether he brings me
tidings of my dear mother.”
The slave hasted away, and returned directly to inform Perpetua that her
master was grieved to relate that he was unable to give her the desired
information, but that he only awaited instructions from Perpetua to take
measures to satisfy her.
Then the girl was left alone, and in greater agitation than before. She
walked among the evergreens, putting the citron flowers to her nose,
plucking off the leaves, pressing her hand to her brow, and wiping her
distilling eyes.
The conservatory was unglazed. It was furnished with shutters in which
were small openings like those in fiddles. Consequently a twilight reigned
in the place; what light entered was colorless, and without brilliancy.
Through the openings could be seen the whirling vapors; through them also
the rain spluttered in, and the wind sighed a plaintive strain, now and
then rising to a scream.
Perpetua still held the little bunch of citron in her hand; she was as
unaware that she held it as that she had plucked it. Her mind was
otherwise engaged, and her nervous fingers must needs clasp something.
As she thus walked, fearing the appearance of Æmilius, and yet desirous of
having a term put to her suspense, she heard steps, and in another moment
the young lawyer stood before her. He bowed with hands extended, and with
courtly consideration would not draw near. Aware that she was shy or
frightened, he said: “I have to ask your pardon, young lady, for this
intrusion on your privacy, above all for your abduction to this house of
mine. It was done without my having been consulted, but was done with good
intent, by a friend, to place you out of danger. I had no part in the
matter; nevertheless I rejoice that my house has had the honor of serving
you as a refuge from such as seek your destruction.”
“I thank you,” answered the girl constrainedly. “I owe you a word of
acknowledgment of my lively gratitude for having rescued me from the
fountain, and another for affording me shelter here. But if I may be
allowed to ask a favor, it is that my mother be restored to me, or me to
my mother.”
“Alas, lady,” said Æmilius, “I have no knowledge where she is. I myself
have been in concealment—for the rabble has been incensed against me for
what I was privileged to do, at the Nemausean basin, unworthy that I was.
I have not since ventured into the town; not that I believe the rabble
would dare attempt violence against me, but I do not think it wise to
allow them the chance. I sent my good, blundering friend Callipodius to
inquire what had become of you, as I was anxious lest you should again be
in peril of your life; and he—Callipodius—seeing what a ferment there was
in the town, and how determined the priesthood was to get you once more
into its power, he consulted his mother wit, and had you conveyed to my
country house. Believe me, lady, he was actuated by a sincere wish to do
you service. If he had but taken the Lady Quincta away as well, and lodged
her here along with you, I would not have a word of reproach for him, nor
entertain a feeling of guilt in your eyes.”
“My mother was in the first litter.”
“That litter did not pass out of the gates of Nemausus. Callipodius was
concerned for your safety, as he knew that it was you who were menaced and
not your mother.”
“But it is painful for me to be away from my mother.”
“Lady! you are safer separated from her. If she be, as I presume, still in
the town, then those who pursue you will prowl about where she is, little
supposing that you are elsewhere, and the secret of your hiding‐place
cannot be wrung from her if she does not herself know it.”
“I concern myself little about my life,” said Perpetua. “But, to be alone
here, away from her, from every relation, in a strange house——”
“I know what you would say, or rather what you feel and do not like to
say. I have a proposal to make to you which will relieve your difficulty
if it commends itself to you. It will secure your union with your mother,
and prevent anything being spoken as to your having been concealed here
that may offend your honorable feelings.”
Perpetua said nothing. She plucked at the petals of the citron flower and
strewed them on the marble pavement.
“You have been brought to this house, and happily none know that you are
here, save my client, Callipodius, and myself. But what I desire to say is
this. Give me a right to make this your refuge, and me a right to protect
you. If I be not distasteful to you, permit this. I place myself
unreservedly in your hands. I love you, but my respect for you equals my
love. I am rich and enjoy a good position. I have nothing I can wish for
but to be authorized by you to be your defender against every enemy. Be my
wife, and not all the fools and _flamines_ of the province can touch a
hair of your head.”
The tears welled into Perpetua’s eyes. She looked at the young man, who
stood before her with such dignity and gentleness of demeanor. He seemed
to her to be as noble, as good as a heathen well could be. He felt for her
delicate position; he had risked his life and fortunes to save her. He had
roused the powerful religious faction of his native city against him, and
he was now extending his protection over her against the priesthood and
the mob of Nemausus.
“I know,” pursued Æmilius, “that I am not worthy of one such as yourself.
I offer myself because I see no other certain means of making you secure,
save by your suffering me to be your legitimate defender. If your mother
will consent, and I am so happy as to have yours, then we will hurry on
the rites which shall make us one, and not a tongue can stir against you
and not a hand be lifted to pluck you from my side.”
Perpetua dropped the flower, now petalless. She could not speak. He
respected her emotions, and continued to address her.
“I am confident that I can appease the excitement among the people and the
priests, and those attached to the worship of the divine ancestor. They
will not dare to push matters to extremities. The sacrifice has been
illegal all along, but winked at by the magistrates because a custom
handed down with the sanction of antiquity. But a resolute protest made—if
need be an appeal to Cæsar—and the priesthood are paralyzed. Consider also
that as my wife they could no longer demand you. Their hold on you would
be done for, as none but an unmarried maid may be sacrificed. The very
utmost they can require in their anger and disappointment will be that you
should publicly sprinkle a few grains of incense on the altar of
Nemausus.”
“I cannot do that. I am a Christian.”
“Believe what you will. Laugh at the gods as do I and many another. A few
crumbs of frankincense, a little puff of smoke that is soon sped.”
“It may not be.”
“Remain a Christian, adhere to its philosophy or revelation, as Castor
calls it. Attend its orgies, and be the protectress of your fellow‐
believers.”
“None the less, I cannot do it.”
“But why not?”
“I cannot be false to Christ.”
“What falsehood is there in this?”
“It is a denial of Him.”
“Bah! He died two hundred years ago.”
“He lives, He is ever present, He sees and knows all.”
“Well, then He will not look harshly on a girl who acts thus to save her
life.”
“I should be false to myself as well as to Him.”
“I cannot understand this——”
“No, because you do not know and love Him.”
“Love Him!” echoed Æmilius, “He is dead. You never saw Him at any time. It
is impossible for any one to love one invisible, unseen, a mere historical
character. See, we have all over Gallia Narbonensis thousands of
Augustals; they form a sect, if you will. All their worship is of Augustus
Cæsar, who died before your Christ. Do you suppose that one among those
thousands loves him whom they worship, and after whom they are named, and
who is their bond of connection? No—it is impossible. It cannot be.”
“But with us, to know is to love. Christ is the power of God, and we love
Him because He first loved us.”
“Riddles, riddles!” said Æmilius, shaking his head.
“It is a riddle that may be solved to you some day. I would give my life
that it were.”
“You would?”
“Aye, and with joy. You risked your life for me. I would give mine to win
for you——”
“What?”
“Faith. Having that you would know how to love.”