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THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE
IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
EDITED BY FREDERIC CHAPMAN
MOTHER OF PEARL
[Illustration: decoration]
MOTHER OF PEARL
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
A TRANSLATION BY
FREDERIC CHAPMAN
[Illustration: decoration]
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMVIII
WM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE PROCURATOR OF JUDÆA 3
AMYCUS AND CELESTINE 29
THE LEGEND OF SAINTS OLIVERIA AND LIBERETTA 39
ST. EUPHROSINE 55
SCHOLASTICA 75
OUR LADY’S JUGGLER 83
THE MASS OF SHADOWS 97
LESLIE WOOD 109
GESTAS 129
THE MANUSCRIPT OF A VILLAGE DOCTOR 143
MEMOIRS OF A VOLUNTEER 161
DAWN 225
MADAME DE LUZY 243
THE BOON OF DEATH BESTOWED 257
A TALE OF THE MONTH OF FLORÉAL IN THE YEAR II 265
THE LITTLE LEADEN SOLDIER 277
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE PROCURATOR OF JUDÆA
MOTHER OF PEARL
THE PROCURATOR OF JUDÆA
Lælius Lamia, born in Italy of illustrious parents, had not yet
discarded the _toga prætexta_ when he set out for the schools of Athens
to study philosophy. Subsequently he took up his residence at Rome, and
in his house on the Esquiline, amid a circle of youthful wastrels,
abandoned himself to licentious courses. But being accused of engaging
in criminal relations with Lepida, the wife of Sulpicius Quirinus, a man
of consular rank, and being found guilty, he was exiled by Tiberius
Cæsar. At that time he was just entering his twenty-fourth year. During
the eighteen years that his exile lasted he traversed Syria, Palestine,
Cappadocia, and Armenia, and made prolonged visits to Antioch, Cæsarea,
and Jerusalem. When, after the death of Tiberius, Caius was raised to
the purple, Lamia obtained permission to return to Rome. He even
regained a portion of his possessions. Adversity had taught him wisdom.
He avoided all intercourse with the wives and daughters of Roman
citizens, made no efforts towards obtaining office, held aloof from
public honours, and lived a secluded life in his house on the Esquiline.
Occupying himself with the task of recording all the remarkable things
he had seen during his distant travels, he turned, as he said, the
vicissitudes of his years of expiation into a diversion for his hours of
rest. In the midst of these calm employments, alternating with assiduous
study of the works of Epicurus, he recognized with a mixture of surprise
and vexation that age was stealing upon him. In his sixty-second year,
being afflicted with an illness which proved in no slight degree
troublesome, he decided to have recourse to the waters at Baiæ. The
coast at that point, once frequented by the halcyon, was at this date
the resort of the wealthy Roman, greedy of pleasure. For a week Lamia
lived alone, without a friend in the brilliant crowd. Then one day,
after dinner, an inclination to which he yielded urged him to ascend the
incline, which, covered with vines that resembled bacchantes, looked out
upon the waves.
Having reached the summit he seated himself by the side of a path
beneath a terebinth, and let his glances wander over the lovely
landscape. To his left, livid and bare, the Phlegræan plain stretched
out towards the ruins of Cumæ. On his right, Cape Misenum plunged its
abrupt spur beneath the Tyrrhenian sea. Beneath his feet luxurious Baiæ,
following the graceful outline of the coast, displayed its gardens, its
villas thronged with statues, its porticos, its marble terraces along
the shores of the blue ocean where the dolphins sported. Before him, on
the other side of the bay, on the Campanian coast, gilded by the already
sinking sun, gleamed the temples which far away rose above the laurels
of Posilippo, whilst on the extreme horizon Vesuvius looked forth
smiling.
Lamia drew from a fold of his toga a scroll containing the _Treatise
upon Nature_, extended himself upon the ground, and began to read. But
the warning cries of a slave necessitated his rising to allow of the
passage of a litter which was being carried along the narrow pathway
through the vineyards. The litter being uncurtained, permitted Lamia to
see stretched upon the cushions as it was borne nearer to him the figure
of an elderly man of immense bulk, who, supporting his head on his hand,
gazed out with a gloomy and disdainful expression. His nose, which was
aquiline, and his chin, which was prominent, seemed desirous of meeting
across his lips, and his jaws were powerful.
From the first moment Lamia was convinced that the face was familiar to
him. He hesitated a moment before the name came to him. Then suddenly
hastening towards the litter with a display of surprise and delight—
“Pontius Pilate!” he cried. “The gods be praised who have permitted me
to see you once again!”
The old man gave a signal to the slaves to stop, and cast a keen glance
upon the stranger who had addressed him.
“Pontius, my dear host,” resumed the latter, “have twenty years so far
whitened my hair and hollowed my cheeks that you no longer recognize
your friend Ælius Lamia?”
At this name Pontius Pilate dismounted from the litter as actively as
the weight of his years and the heaviness of his gait permitted him, and
embraced Ælius Lamia again and again.
“Gods! what a treat it is to me to see you once more! But, alas, you
call up memories of those long-vanished days when I was Procurator of
Judæa in the province of Syria. Why, it must be thirty years ago that I
first met you. It was at Cæsarea, whither you came to drag out your
weary term of exile. I was fortunate enough to alleviate it a little,
and out of friendship, Lamia, you followed me to that depressing place
Jerusalem, where the Jews filled me with bitterness and disgust. You
remained for more than ten years my guest and my companion, and in
converse about Rome and things Roman we both of us managed to find
consolation—you for your misfortunes, and I for my burdens of State.”
Lamia embraced him afresh.
“You forget two things, Pontius; you are overlooking the facts that you
used your influence on my behalf with Herod Antipas, and that your purse
was freely open to me.”
“Let us not talk of that,” replied Pontius, “since after your return to
Rome you sent me by one of your freedmen a sum of money which repaid me
with usury.”
“Pontius, I could never consider myself out of your debt by the mere
payment of money. But tell me, have the gods fulfilled your desires? Are
you in the enjoyment of all the happiness you deserve? Tell me about
your family, your fortunes, your health.”
“I have withdrawn to Sicily, where I possess estates, and where I
cultivate wheat for the market. My eldest daughter, my best-beloved
Pontia, who has been left a widow, lives with me, and directs my
household. The gods be praised, I have preserved my mental vigour; my
memory is not in the least degree enfeebled. But old age always brings
in its train a long procession of griefs and infirmities. I am cruelly
tormented with gout. And at this very moment you find me on my way to
the Phlegræan plain in search of a remedy for my sufferings. From that
burning soil, whence at night flames burst forth, proceed acrid
exhalations of sulphur, which, so they say, ease the pains and restore
suppleness to the stiffened joints. At least, the physicians assure me
that it is so.”
“May you find it so in your case, Pontius! But, despite the gout and its
burning torments, you scarcely look as old as myself, although in
reality you must be my senior by ten years. Unmistakably you have
retained a greater degree of vigour than I ever possessed, and I am
overjoyed to find you looking so hale. Why, dear friend, did you retire
from the public service before the customary age? Why, on resigning your
governorship in Judæa, did you withdraw to a voluntary exile on your
Sicilian estates? Give me an account of your doings from the moment that
I ceased to be a witness of them. You were preparing to suppress a
Samaritan rising when I set out for Cappadocia, where I hoped to draw
some profit from the breeding of horses and mules. I have not seen you
since then. How did that expedition succeed? Pray tell me. Everything
interests me that concerns you in any way.”
Pontius Pilate sadly shook his head.
“My natural disposition,” he said, “as well as a sense of duty, impelled
me to fulfil my public responsibilities, not merely with diligence, but
even with ardour. But I was pursued by unrelenting hatred. Intrigues and
calumnies cut short my career in its prime, and the fruit it should have
looked to bear has withered away. You ask me about the Samaritan
insurrection. Let us sit down on this hillock. I shall be able to give
you an answer in few words. Those occurrences are as vividly present to
me as if they had happened yesterday.
“A man of the people, of persuasive speech—there are many such to be met
with in Syria—induced the Samaritans to gather together in arms on Mount
Gerizim (which in that country is looked upon as a holy place) under the
promise that he would disclose to their sight the sacred vessels which
in the ancient days of Evander and our father, Æneas, had been hidden
away by an eponymous hero, or rather a tribal deity, named Moses. Upon
this assurance the Samaritans rose in rebellion; but having been warned
in time to forestall them, I dispatched detachments of infantry to
occupy the mountain, and stationed cavalry to keep the approaches to it
under observation.
“These measures of prudence were urgent. The rebels were already laying
siege to the town of Tyrathaba, situated at the foot of Mount Gerizim. I
easily dispersed them, and stifled the as yet scarcely organized revolt.
Then, in order to give a forcible example with as few victims as
possible, I handed over to execution the leaders of the rebellion. But
you are aware, Lamia, in what strait dependence I was kept by the
proconsul Vitellius, who governed Syria not in, but against the
interests of Rome, and looked upon the provinces of the empire as
territories which could be farmed out to tetrarchs. The head-men among
the Samaritans, in their resentment against me, came and fell at his
feet lamenting. To listen to them, nothing had been further from their
thoughts than to disobey Cæsar. It was I who had provoked the rising,
and it was purely in order to withstand my violence that they had
gathered together round Tyrathaba. Vitellius listened to their
complaints, and handing over the affairs of Judæa to his friend
Marcellus, commanded me to go and justify my proceedings before the
Emperor himself. With a heart overflowing with grief and resentment I
took ship. Just as I approached the shores of Italy, Tiberius, worn out
with age and the cares of empire, died suddenly on the selfsame Cape
Misenum, whose peak we see from this very spot magnified in the mists of
evening. I demanded justice of Caius, his successor, whose perception
was naturally acute, and who was acquainted with Syrian affairs. But
marvel with me, Lamia, at the maliciousness of fortune, resolved on my
discomfiture. Caius then had in his suite at Rome the Jew Agrippa, his
companion, the friend of his childhood, whom he cherished as his own
eyes. Now Agrippa favoured Vitellius, inasmuch as Vitellius was the
enemy of Antipas, whom Agrippa pursued with his hatred. The Emperor
adopted the prejudices of his beloved Asiatic, and refused even to
listen to me. There was nothing for me to do but bow beneath the stroke
of unmerited misfortune. With tears for my meat and gall for my portion,
I withdrew to my estates in Sicily, where I should have died of grief if
my sweet Pontia had not come to console her father. I have cultivated
wheat, and succeeded in producing the fullest ears in the whole
province. But now my life is ended; the future will judge between
Vitellius and me.”
“Pontius,” replied Lamia, “I am persuaded that you acted towards the
Samaritans according to the rectitude of your character, and solely in
the interests of Rome. But were you not perchance on that occasion a
trifle too much influenced by that impetuous courage which has always
swayed you? You will remember that in Judæa it often happened that I
who, younger than you, should naturally have been more impetuous than
you, was obliged to urge you to clemency and suavity.”
“Suavity towards the Jews!” cried Pontius Pilate. “Although you have
lived amongst them, it seems clear that you ill understand those enemies
of the human race. Haughty and at the same time base, combining an
invincible obstinacy with a despicably mean spirit, they weary alike
your love and your hatred. My character, Lamia, was formed upon the
maxims of the divine Augustus. When I was appointed Procurator of Judæa,
the world was already penetrated with the majestic ideal of the _pax
romana_. No longer, as in the days of our internecine strife, were we
witnesses to the sack of a province for the aggrandisement of a
proconsul. I knew where my duty lay. I was careful that my actions
should be governed by prudence and moderation. The gods are my witnesses
that I was resolved upon mildness, and upon mildness only. Yet what did
my benevolent intentions avail me? You were at my side, Lamia, when, at
the outset of my career as ruler, the first rebellion came to a head. Is
there any need for me to recall the details to you? The garrison had
been transferred from Cæsarea to take up its winter quarters at
Jerusalem. Upon the ensigns of the legionaries appeared the presentment
of Cæsar. The inhabitants of Jerusalem, who did not recognize the
indwelling divinity of the Emperor, were scandalized at this, as though,
when obedience is compulsory, it were not less abject to obey a god than
a man. The priests of their nation appeared before my tribunal imploring
me with supercilious humility to have the ensigns removed from within
the holy city. Out of reverence for the divine nature of Cæsar and the
majesty of the empire, I refused to comply. Then the rabble made common
cause with the priests, and all around the pretorium portentous cries of
supplication arose. I ordered the soldiers to stack their spears in
front of the tower of Antonia, and to proceed, armed only with sticks
like lictors, to disperse the insolent crowd. But, heedless of blows,
the Jews continued their entreaties, and the more obstinate amongst them
threw themselves on the ground and, exposing their throats to the rods,
deliberately courted death. You were a witness of my humiliation on that
occasion, Lamia. By the order of Vitellius I was forced to send the
insignia back to Cæsarea. That disgrace I had certainly not merited.
Before the immortal gods I swear that never once during my term of
office did I flout justice and the laws. But I am grown old. My enemies
and detractors are dead. I shall die unavenged. Who will now retrieve my
character?”
He moaned and lapsed into silence. Lamia replied—
“That man is prudent who neither hopes nor fears anything from the
uncertain events of the future. Does it matter in the least what
estimate men may form of us hereafter? We ourselves are after all our
own witnesses, and our own judges. You must rely, Pontius Pilate, on the
testimony you yourself bear to your own rectitude. Be content with your
own personal respect and that of your friends. For the rest, we know
that mildness by itself will not suffice for the work of government.
There is but little room in the actions of public men for that
indulgence of human frailty which the philosophers recommend.”
“We’ll say no more at present,” said Pontius. “The sulphureous fumes
which rise from the Phlegræan plain are more powerful when the ground
which exhales them is still warm beneath the sun’s rays. I must hasten
on. Adieu! But now that I have rediscovered a friend, I should wish to
take advantage of my good fortune. Do me the favour, Ælius Lamia, to
give me your company at supper at my house to-morrow. My house stands on
the seashore, at the extreme end of the town in the direction of
Misenum. You will easily recognize it by the porch which bears a
painting representing Orpheus surrounded by tigers and lions, whom he is
charming with the strains from his lyre.
“Till to-morrow, Lamia,” he repeated, as he climbed once more into his
litter. “To-morrow we will talk about Judæa.”
* * * * *
The following day at the supper hour Lamia presented himself at the
house of Pontius Pilate. Two couches only were in readiness for
occupants. Creditably but simply equipped, the table held a silver
service in which were set out beccaficos in honey, thrushes, oysters
from the Lucrine lake, and lampreys from Sicily. As they proceeded with
their repast, Pontius and Lamia interchanged inquiries with one another
about their ailments, the symptoms of which they described at
considerable length, mutually emulous of communicating the various
remedies which had been recommended to them. Then, congratulating
themselves on being thrown together once more at Baiæ, they vied with
one another in praise of the beauty of that enchanting coast and the
mildness of the climate they enjoyed. Lamia was enthusiastic about the
charms of the courtesans who frequented the seashore laden with golden
ornaments and trailing draperies of barbaric broidery. But the aged
Procurator deplored the ostentation with which by means of trumpery
jewels and filmy garments foreigners and even enemies of the empire
beguiled the Romans of their gold. After a time they turned to the
subject of the great engineering feats that had been accomplished in the
country; the prodigious bridge constructed by Caius between Puteoli and
Baiæ, and the canals which Augustus excavated to convey the waters of
the ocean to Lake Avernus and the Lucrine lake.
“I also,” said Pontius, with a sigh, “I also wished to set afoot public
works of great utility. When, for my sins, I was appointed Governor of
Judæa, I conceived the idea of furnishing Jerusalem with an abundant
supply of pure water by means of an aqueduct. The elevation of the
levels, the proportionate capacity of the various parts, the gradient
for the brazen reservoirs to which the distribution pipes were to be
fixed—I had gone into every detail, and decided everything for myself
with the assistance of mechanical experts. I had drawn up regulations
for the superintendents so as to prevent individuals from making
unauthorized depredations. The architects and the workmen had their
instructions. I gave orders for the commencement of operations. But far
from viewing with satisfaction the construction of that conduit, which
was intended to carry to their town upon its massive arches not only
water but health, the inhabitants of Jerusalem gave vent to lamentable
outcries. They gathered tumultuously together, exclaiming against the
sacrilege and impiousness, and, hurling themselves upon the workmen,
scattered the very foundation stones. Can you picture to yourself,
Lamia, a filthier set of barbarians? Nevertheless, Vitellius decided in
their favour, and I received orders to put a stop to the work.”
“It is a knotty point,” said Lamia, “how far one is justified in
devising things for the commonweal against the will of the populace.”
Pontius Pilate continued as though he had not heard this interruption.
“Refuse an aqueduct! What madness! But whatever is of Roman origin is
distasteful to the Jews. In their eyes we are an unclean race, and our
very presence appears a profanation to them. You will remember that they
would never venture to enter the pretorium for fear of defiling
themselves, and that I was consequently obliged to discharge my
magisterial functions in an open-air tribunal on that marble pavement
your feet so often trod.
“They fear us and they despise us. Yet is not Rome the mother and warden
of all those peoples who nestle smiling upon her venerable bosom? With
her eagles in the van, peace and liberty have been carried to the very
confines of the universe. Those whom we have subdued we look on as our
friends, and we leave those conquered races, nay, we secure to them the
permanence of their customs and their laws. Did Syria, aforetime rent
asunder by its rabble of petty kings, ever even begin to taste of peace
and prosperity until it submitted to the armies of Pompey? And when Rome
might have reaped a golden harvest as the price of her goodwill, did she
lay hands on the hoards that swell the treasuries of barbaric temples?
Did she despoil the shrine of Cybele at Pessinus, or the Morimene and
Cilician sanctuaries of Jupiter, or the temple of the Jewish god at
Jerusalem? Antioch, Palmyra, and Apamea, secure despite their wealth,
and no longer in dread of the wandering Arab of the desert, have erected
temples to the genius of Rome and the divine Cæsar. The Jews alone hate
and withstand us. They withhold their tribute till it is wrested from
them, and obstinately rebel against military service.”
“The Jews,” replied Lamia, “are profoundly attached to their ancient
customs. They suspected you, unreasonably I admit, of a desire to
abolish their laws and change their usages. Do not resent it, Pontius,
if I say that you did not always act in such a way as to disperse their
unfortunate illusion. It gratified you, despite your habitual
self-restraint, to play upon their fears, and more than once have I seen
you betray in their presence the contempt with which their beliefs and
religious ceremonies inspired you. You irritated them particularly by
giving instructions for the sacerdotal garments and ornaments of their
high priest to be kept in ward by your legionaries in the Antonine
tower. One must admit that though they have never risen like us to an
appreciation of things divine, the Jews celebrate rites which their very
antiquity renders venerable.”
Pontius Pilate shrugged his shoulders.
“They have very little exact knowledge of the nature of the gods,” he
said. “They worship Jupiter, yet they abstain from naming him or
erecting a statue of him. They do not even adore him under the semblance
of a rude stone, as certain of the Asiatic peoples are wont to do. They
know nothing of Apollo, of Neptune, of Mars, nor of Pluto, nor of any
goddess. At the same time, I am convinced that in days gone by they
worshipped Venus. For even to this day their women bring doves to the
altar as victims; and you know as well as I that the dealers who trade
beneath the arcades of their temple supply those birds in couples for
sacrifice. I have even been told that on one occasion some madman
proceeded to overturn the stalls bearing these offerings, and their
owners with them. The priests raised an outcry about it, and looked on
it as a case of sacrilege. I am of opinion that their custom of
sacrificing turtledoves was instituted in honour of Venus. Why are you
laughing, Lamia?”
“I was laughing,” said Lamia, “at an amusing idea which, I hardly know
how, just occurred to me. I was thinking that perchance some day the
Jupiter of the Jews might come to Rome and vent his fury upon you. Why
should he not? Asia and Africa have already enriched us with a
considerable number of gods. We have seen temples in honour of Isis and
the dog-faced Anubis erected in Rome. In the public squares, and even on
the race-courses, you may run across the Bona Dea of the Syrians mounted
on an ass. And did you never hear how, in the reign of Tiberius, a young
patrician passed himself off as the horned Jupiter of the Egyptians,
Jupiter Ammon, and in this disguise procured the favours of an
illustrious lady who was too virtuous to deny anything to a god? Beware,
Pontius, lest the invisible Jupiter of the Jews disembark some day on
the quay at Ostia!”
At the idea of a god coming out of Judæa, a fleeting smile played over
the severe countenance of the Procurator. Then he replied gravely—
“How would the Jews manage to impose their sacred law on outside peoples
when they are in a perpetual state of tumult amongst themselves as to
the interpretation of that law? You have seen them yourself, Lamia, in
the public squares, split up into twenty rival parties, with staves in
their hands, abusing each other and clutching one another by the beard.
You have seen them on the steps of the temple, tearing their filthy
garments as a symbol of lamentation, with some wretched creature in a
frenzy of prophetic exaltation in their midst. They have never realized
that it is possible to discuss peacefully and with an even mind those
matters concerning the divine which yet are hidden from the profane and
wrapped in uncertainty. For the nature of the immortal gods remains
hidden from us, and we cannot arrive at a knowledge of it. Though I am
of opinion, none the less, that it is a prudent thing to believe in the
providence of the gods. But the Jews are devoid of philosophy, and
cannot tolerate any diversity of opinions. On the contrary, they judge
worthy of the extreme penalty all those who on divine subjects profess
opinions opposed to their law. And as, since the genius of Rome has
towered over them, capital sentences pronounced by their own tribunals
can only be carried out with the sanction of the proconsul or the
procurator, they harry the Roman magistrate at any hour to procure his
signature to their baleful decrees, they besiege the pretorium with
their cries of ‘Death!’ A hundred times, at least, have I known them,
mustered, rich and poor together, all united under their priests, make a
furious onslaught on my ivory chair, seizing me by the skirts of my
robe, by the thongs of my sandals, and all to demand of me—nay, to exact
from me—the death sentence on some unfortunate whose guilt I failed to
perceive, and as to whom I could only pronounce that he was as mad as
his accusers. A hundred times, do I say! Not a hundred, but every day
and all day. Yet it was my duty to execute their law as if it were ours,
since I was appointed by Rome not for the destruction, but for the
upholding of their customs, and over them I had the power of the rod and
the axe. At the outset of my term of office I endeavoured to persuade
them to hear reason; I attempted to snatch their miserable victims from
death. But this show of mildness only irritated them the more; they
demanded their prey, fighting around me like a horde of vultures with
wing and beak. Their priests reported to Cæsar that I was violating
their law, and their appeals, supported by Vitellius, drew down upon me
a severe reprimand. How many times did I long, as the Greeks used to
say, to dispatch accusers and accused in one convoy to the crows!
“Do not imagine, Lamia, that I nourish the rancour of the discomfited,
the wrath of the superannuated, against a people which in my person has
prevailed against both Rome and tranquillity. But I foresee the
extremity to which sooner or later they will reduce us. Since we cannot
govern them, we shall be driven to destroy them. Never doubt it. Always
in a state of insubordination, brewing rebellion in their inflammatory
minds, they will one day burst forth upon us with a fury beside which
the wrath of the Numidians and the mutterings of the Parthians are mere
child’s play. They are secretly nourishing preposterous hopes, and madly
premeditating our ruin. How can it be otherwise, when, on the strength
of an oracle, they are living in expectation of the coming of a prince
of their own blood whose kingdom shall extend over the whole earth?
There are no half measures with such a people. They must be
exterminated. Jerusalem must be laid waste to the very foundation.
Perchance, old as I am, it may be granted me to behold the day when her
walls shall fall and the flames shall envelop her houses, when her
inhabitants shall pass under the edge of the sword, when salt shall be
strown on the place where once the temple stood. And in that day I shall
at length be justified.”
Lamia exerted himself to lead the conversation back to a less
acrimonious note.
“Pontius,” he said, “it is not difficult for me to understand both your
long-standing resentment and your sinister forebodings. Truly, what you
have experienced of the character of the Jews is nothing to their
advantage. But I lived in Jerusalem as an interested onlooker, and
mingled freely with the people, and I succeeded in detecting certain
obscure virtues in these rude folk which were altogether hidden from
you. I have met Jews who were all mildness, whose simple manners and
faithfulness of heart recalled to me what our poets have related
concerning the Spartan lawgiver. And you yourself, Pontius, have seen
perish beneath the cudgels of your legionaries simple-minded men who
have died for a cause they believed to be just without revealing their
names. Such men do not deserve our contempt. I am saying this because it
is desirable in all things to preserve moderation and an even mind. But
I own that I never experienced any lively sympathy for the Jews. The
Jewesses, on the contrary, I found extremely pleasing. I was young then,
and the Syrian women stirred all my senses to response. Their ruddy
lips, their liquid eyes that shone in the shade, their sleepy gaze
pierced me to the very marrow. Painted and stained, smelling of nard and
myrrh, steeped in odours, their physical attractions are both rare and
delightful.”
Pontius listened impatiently to these praises.
“I was not the kind of man to fall into the snares of the Jewish women,”
he said; “and since you have opened the subject yourself, Lamia, I was
never able to approve of your laxity. If I did not express with
sufficient emphasis formerly how culpable I held you for having
intrigued at Rome with the wife of a man of consular rank, it was
because you were then enduring heavy penance for your misdoings.
Marriage from the patrician point of view is a sacred tie; it is one of
the institutions which are the support of Rome. As to foreign women and
slaves, such relations as one may enter into with them would be of
little account were it not that they habituate the body to a humiliating
effeminacy. Let me tell you that you have been too liberal in your
offerings to the Venus of the Market-place; and what, above all, I blame
in you is that you have not married in compliance with the law and given
children to the Republic, as every good citizen is bound to do.”
But the man who had suffered exile under Tiberius was no longer
listening to the venerable magistrate. Having tossed off his cup of
Falernian, he was smiling at some image visible to his eye alone.
After a moment’s silence he resumed in a very deep voice, which rose in
pitch by little and little—
“With what languorous grace they dance, those Syrian women! I knew a
Jewess at Jerusalem who used to dance in a poky little room, on a
threadbare carpet, by the light of one smoky little lamp, waving her
arms as she clanged her cymbals. Her loins arched, her head thrown back,
and, as it were, dragged down by the weight of her heavy red hair, her
eyes swimming with voluptuousness, eager, languishing, compliant, she
would have made Cleopatra herself grow pale with envy. I was in love
with her barbaric dances, her voice—a little raucous and yet so
sweet—her atmosphere of incense, the semi-somnolescent state in which
she seemed to live. I followed her everywhere. I mixed with the vile
rabble of soldiers, conjurers, and extortioners with which she was
surrounded. One day, however, she disappeared, and I saw her no more.
Long did I seek her in disreputable alleys and taverns. It was more
difficult to learn to do without her than to lose the taste for Greek
wine. Some months after I lost sight of her, I learned by chance that
she had attached herself to a small company of men and women who were
followers of a young Galilean thaumaturgist. His name was Jesus; he came
from Nazareth, and he was crucified for some crime, I don’t quite know
what. Pontius, do you remember anything about the man?”
Pontius Pilate contracted his brows, and his hand rose to his forehead
in the attitude of one who probes the deeps of memory. Then after a
silence of some seconds—
“Jesus?” he murmured, “Jesus—of Nazareth? I cannot call him to mind.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AMYCUS AND CELESTINE
TO GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE
AMYCUS AND CELESTINE
Prone upon the threshold of his rude cavern the hermit Celestine passed
in prayer the eve of the Easter Festival, that unearthly night upon
which the shuddering demons are hurled into the abyss. And whilst the
shades still enveloped the earth, at the moment when the exterminating
angel winged his flight across Egypt, Celestine shivered, for he was
seized with anguish and unease. He heard from afar in the forest the
cries of the wild cats and the shrill voices of the frogs. Immersed in
the unholy darkness, he even doubted whether the glorious mystery could
come to pass. But when he saw the first signals of the day, gladness
entered into his heart together with the dawn; he realized that Christ
was risen from the dead, and cried—
“Jesus is arisen from the grave. Love has conquered death. Alleluia! He
is risen all glorious from the foot of the hill. Alleluia! The whole
creation is restored and made anew. Darkness and evil are put to flight.
Light and pardon encompass the world. Alleluia!”
A lark, awakened amidst the wheat, answered him with song.
“He is risen again. I have dreamed of nests and eggs—white eggs, flecked
with brown. Alleluia! He is risen again.”
Then the hermit Celestine left his cavern to go to the neighbouring
chapel and celebrate the holy Easter Feast.
As he passed through the forest he saw in the midst of a glade a
splendid beech, whose bursting buds already gave passage to tiny leaves
of a tender green. Garlands of ivy and fillets of wool were hung upon
its branches, which spread out groundwards. Votive tablets fastened to
its gnarled trunk spoke of youth and love, and here and there some Eros,
fashioned in clay, shorn of garments and with outspread wings, balanced
himself lightly upon a branch. At this sight the hermit Celestine
knitted his whitened brows.
“It is the fairies’ tree,” he said, “and the country maidens, according
to ancient custom, have laden it with offerings. My life is passed in
struggling against these fairies, and no one could conceive the
annoyance these tiny creatures cause me. They do not openly rebel
against me. Each year at harvest time I exorcise the tree with the
customary rites, and sing the Gospel of St. John to them.
“There is nothing better to be done. Holy water and the Gospel of St.
John have power to put them to flight, and there is nothing more heard
of the little damsels throughout the winter; but in the spring back they
come once more, and each year one must begin all over again.
“And they are subtle; a single bush of hawthorn is large enough to
shelter a whole swarm. And they cast their spells upon the young folks,
both the youths and the maidens.
“As I have grown older my sight has become dim and now I can scarcely
perceive their presence. They make a mock of me, sport under my nose and
laugh in my beard. But when I was only twenty, I often saw them in the
clearings dancing in circles beneath the light of the moon like garlands
of flowers. Oh, Lord God, Thou who madest the heaven and the dew,
praised be Thou in Thy works. But why didst Thou create unholy trees and
fairy springs? Why hast Thou planted beneath the hazel the screaming
mandrake? These things of nature seduce the young to sin, and are the
cause of unnumbered labours to anchorites who, like myself, have
undertaken the sanctification of Thy creatures. If only the Gospel of
St. John still availed to put the demons to flight! But it is no longer
enough, and I am perplexed to know what to do.”
And as the good hermit went sighing on his way, the tree—for it was a
fairy tree—called to him with a fresh rustling.
“Celestine! Celestine! My buds are eggs—true Easter eggs. Alleluia!
Alleluia!”
Celestine plunged into the wood without turning his head. He made his
way with difficulty by a narrow path through the midst of thorns which
tore his gown, when suddenly the road was barred to him by a young lad
who came bounding out of a thicket. He was half-clothed in the skin of
some beast, and was indeed rather a faun than a boy. His glance was
penetrating, his nose flattened, his countenance laughing. His curly
hair concealed the two little horns upon his stubborn forehead; his lips
disclosed white pointed teeth; a fair forked beard descended from his
chin. Upon his chest a golden down shone. He was agile and slender, and
his cloven feet were hidden in the grass.
Celestine, who had made himself possessor of all the wisdom to be won by
meditation, saw at once with whom he had to do, and raised his arm to
make the sign of the cross. But the faun, seizing his hand, prevented
him from completing the mighty spell.
“Good hermit,” said he, “do not exorcise me. For me, as for you, this
day is a day of festival. You would be wanting in charity if you should
plunge me in grief during the Easter Feast. If you are willing, we will
stroll along together, and you will see that I am not malicious.”
By good fortune Celestine was well versed in the sacred sciences. He
recalled to himself in these circumstances that St. Jerome in the desert
had had for fellow-travellers both satyrs and centaurs who had confessed
the Truth.
He said to the faun—
“Faun raise a hymn to God. Declare: He is risen.”
“He is indeed arisen,” replied the faun. “And behold me all gladness
thereupon.”
Here the path widened, so that they walked side by side. The hermit
became pensive, and reflected—
“He cannot be a demon since he has witnessed to the Truth. It is well
that I refrained from grieving him. The example of the great St. Jerome
has not been lost upon me.”
Then, turning towards his goat-footed companion, he asked him—
“What is your name?”
“I am called Amycus,” replied the faun. “I dwell in this wood, where I
was born. I came to you, good father, because behind your long white
beard your countenance was kindly. It seems to me that hermits must be
fauns borne down by the years. When I am grown old I shall be like unto
you.”
“He is risen,” said the hermit.
“He is indeed arisen,” said Amycus.
And thus conversing they climbed the hill on which arose a chapel
consecrated to the true God. It was small and of homely construction.
Celestine had built it with his own hands with the fragments of a temple
of Venus. Within, the table of the Lord stood forth shapeless and
uncovered.
“Let us fall down,” said the hermit, “and sing Alleluia, for He is
arisen. And do you, mysterious being, remain kneeling whilst I offer the
holy sacrifice.”
But the faun drew near to the hermit, and stroked his beard, and said—
“Venerable old man, you are wiser than I, and you can discern that which
is invisible. But the woods and the springs are better known to me than
to you. I will bring to God leafage and blossoms. I know the banks where
the cress half opens its lilac clusters, the meadows where the cowslip
blossoms in yellow bunches. I detect by its faint odour the mistletoe
upon the wild apple tree. Already the blackthorn bushes are decked with
a snowy crown of flowers. Wait for me, good father.”
With three goat-like leaps he was back in the woods, and when he
returned Celestine fancied he beheld a walking hawthorn tree. Amycus had
disappeared beneath his odorous harvest. He hung garlands of flowers
about the rustic altar; he sprinkled it with violets, and said solemnly—
“I dedicate these flowers to the God who gave them being.”
And whilst Celestine celebrated the sacrifice of the mass, the
goat-footed one bowed his horned head down to the very ground and
worshipped the sun, and said—
“The earth is a vast egg which thou, O Sun, most holy Sun, dost render
fruitful.”
From that day forward Celestine and Amycus lived together in fellowship.
The hermit never succeeded, despite all his endeavours, in making the
half-human creature understand the ineffable mysteries; but as through
the exertions of Amycus the chapel of the true God was constantly hung
with garlands, and more gaily decked than the fairies’ tree, the holy
priest said—
“The faun is himself a hymn to God.”
And it was for this reason that he bestowed on him the rite of holy
baptism.
Upon the hill where Celestine once raised the meagre chapel which Amycus
garlanded with flowers from the hills, the woods, and the streams, there
stands at the present day a church the nave of which goes back to the
eleventh century, whilst the porch dates from the period of Henry II,
when it was rebuilt in the style of the Renaissance. It is a place of
pilgrimage, and the faithful assemble there to hold in pious memory the
saints Amycus and Celestine.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE LEGEND OF SAINTS OLIVERIA AND LIBERETTA
TO MADEMOISELLE JEANNE POUQUET
THE LEGEND OF
SAINTS OLIVERIA AND LIBERETTA
CHAPTER I
_How Messire St. Berthold, son of Theodulus, King of Scotland, came over
to the Ardennes to preach to the inhabitants of the Pays Porcin._
The forest of the Ardennes extended at that time as far as the waters of
the Aisne, and covered the Pays Porcin, in which now rises the town of
Rethel. Its ravines swarmed with innumerable wild boars, stags of
immense height of a species now extinct thronged in the impenetrable
thickets, and wolves of prodigious strength were encountered in winter
on the skirts of the woods. The basilisk and the unicorn had their
quarters in that forest, as well as a frightful dragon, which later on,
by the grace of God, met with destruction at the prayers of a holy
hermit. And because in those days the mysteries of nature were revealed
to men, and for the glory of the Creator things which were naturally
invisible became visible, it was common to meet in the clearings nymphs,
satyrs, centaurs, and aigypans.
Now it is in no respect doubtful that these malevolent beings have
indeed been seen just as they have been described in the fables of the
pagans. But it must be remembered that they are devils, as is apparent
by their feet, which are cloven. Unhappily the fairies are not so easy
to detect; these have all the appearance of damsels, and at times the
resemblance is so pronounced that one must possess all the prudence of a
hermit if one would avoid being deceived. The fairies also are demons,
and there were in the forest of the Ardennes great numbers of them. It
was for this very reason that that forest so abounded in mystery and
horror.
The Romans in the time of Cæsar had consecrated it to Diana, and the
inhabitants of the Pays Porcin on the shores of the Aisne worshipped an
idol in the form of a woman. They made offerings to her of cakes, milk,
and honey, and sang hymns in her honour.
Now Berthold, the son of Theodulus, King of Scotland, having received
holy baptism, lived in the palace of his father, more after the fashion
of a hermit than of a prince. Close shut in his apartment, he spent the
livelong day in reciting prayers and meditating upon the Holy
Scriptures, and the desire kindled in him to imitate the labours of the
apostles. Having learned through a miraculous source the abominations of
the Pays Porcin, he straightway loathed and resolved to put an end to
them.
He crossed the sea in a ship which had neither sail nor rudder, and
which was drawn by a swan. Happily arrived in the Pays Porcin, he
wandered through the villages, the walled towns, and the castles,
announcing the glad tidings.
“The God whom I preach to you,” he said, “is the only true God. He is
one God in three Persons, and His Son was born of a Virgin.”
But these rude men answered him—
“Youthful stranger, it is very simple on your part to imagine that there
is but one God. For the gods are countless. They dwell in the woods, the
mountains, and the streams. There are even gods so intimate that they do
not disdain a place by the hearths of pious men. Others, again, take up
their station in the stables and byres, and so the race of the gods
fills the whole universe. But what you have to say about a Divine Virgin
is not without warrant. We know of a Virgin with a threefold countenance
to whom we sing canticles, and say, ‘Hail most benign! Hail most
terrible!’ She is called Diana, and beneath her silvery tread under the
pale beams of the moon the mountain thyme bursts into blossom. She has
not disdained to receive upon her couch blossoming hyacinths, the
offering of shepherds and huntsmen like ourselves. Nevertheless, she
remains ever virgin.”
Thus spake these ignorant men whilst they drove the apostle to the
confines of the village, and pursued him with mocking words.