The Blue Flower [53]
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 and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as
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
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 and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as
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