The Blue Flower [52]
distant,
shimmering sea.
The richest of all the dwellings was the House
of the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won
the favor of the apostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts
to restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty years
ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for all who
would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a
sincere fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter
enough in his professed scorn of the new religion, to make him
a favourite at the court where the old religion was in
fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and a
strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to
it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being
called "the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himself
to the Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed
like an insult to his father's success. He drove the boy from
his door and disinherited him.
The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the
repose of the well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated
flowers, seemed at once to deride and to invite the young
outcast plodding along the dusty road. "This is your
birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the gate; and
the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it for
a thought--a dream."'
II
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
shimmering sea.
The richest of all the dwellings was the House
of the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won
the favor of the apostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts
to restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty years
ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for all who
would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a
sincere fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter
enough in his professed scorn of the new religion, to make him
a favourite at the court where the old religion was in
fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and a
strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to
it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being
called "the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himself
to the Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed
like an insult to his father's success. He drove the boy from
his door and disinherited him.
The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the
repose of the well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated
flowers, seemed at once to deride and to invite the young
outcast plodding along the dusty road. "This is your
birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the gate; and
the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it for
a thought--a dream."'
II
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