The Blue Flower [55]
haste.
"Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped
away from me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I
will tell you presently--oh, wait!"
The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened
wider. "Tell me," whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I
must go."
The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed
once more, and relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.
Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was
keeping watch by the dead.
IV
The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut
with a knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare
lodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full of
earnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo
of the voice of John the Presbyter, and the measured sound of
chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, still
lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had
happened to another person, something that he had read long
ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.
His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for
any sense of loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred
affairs to busy him, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were
shod with winged sandals.
Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun.
Everything was ready and waiting for him. All that he had to
do was to go on.
The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world
had supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the
emperor had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests
of valuable timber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villa
contained chests of gold and silver; the secret cabinets in
the master's room were full of precious stones. The stewards
were diligent and faithful. The servants of the household
rejoiced at the young master's return. His table was spread;
the rose-garland of pleasure was woven for his head; his cup
was overflowing with the spicy wine of power.
The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate
moment to seclude and safeguard him from the storm of
political troubles and persecutions that fell upon Antioch
after the insults offered by the people to the imperial
statues in the year 387. The friends of Demetrius, prudent and
conservative persons, gathered around Hermas and made him welcome
to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, his
nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the playmate
of Hermas in the old days.
He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman.
What transformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To
see the uncertain lines of youth rounded into firmness and
symmetry, to discover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of
the girl matured into perfect loveliness, and looking at you
with calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the past, but
fully conscious of the changed present--this is to behold a
miracle in the flesh.
"Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as
they walked together through the garden of lilies where they
had so often played.
"In a land of tiresome dreams," answered Hermas; "but you
have wakened me, and I am never going back again."
It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of
Hermas from among his former associates could long remain
unnoticed. At first it was a mystery. There was a fear, for two
or three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimate
companions maintained that his devotion had led him out into the
desert to join the anchorites. But the news of his return to the
House of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life as its
master, filtered quickly through the gossip of the city.
Then the church was filled with dismay and grief and
reproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They
disturbed him a little, but they took no hold upon him. It
seemed to him as if the messengers spoke in a strange
language. As he read the letters there were words blotted out
of the writing which made the full sense unintelligible.
"Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped
away from me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I
will tell you presently--oh, wait!"
The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened
wider. "Tell me," whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I
must go."
The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed
once more, and relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.
Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was
keeping watch by the dead.
IV
The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut
with a knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare
lodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full of
earnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo
of the voice of John the Presbyter, and the measured sound of
chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, still
lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had
happened to another person, something that he had read long
ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.
His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for
any sense of loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred
affairs to busy him, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were
shod with winged sandals.
Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun.
Everything was ready and waiting for him. All that he had to
do was to go on.
The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world
had supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the
emperor had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests
of valuable timber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villa
contained chests of gold and silver; the secret cabinets in
the master's room were full of precious stones. The stewards
were diligent and faithful. The servants of the household
rejoiced at the young master's return. His table was spread;
the rose-garland of pleasure was woven for his head; his cup
was overflowing with the spicy wine of power.
The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate
moment to seclude and safeguard him from the storm of
political troubles and persecutions that fell upon Antioch
after the insults offered by the people to the imperial
statues in the year 387. The friends of Demetrius, prudent and
conservative persons, gathered around Hermas and made him welcome
to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, his
nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the playmate
of Hermas in the old days.
He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman.
What transformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To
see the uncertain lines of youth rounded into firmness and
symmetry, to discover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of
the girl matured into perfect loveliness, and looking at you
with calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the past, but
fully conscious of the changed present--this is to behold a
miracle in the flesh.
"Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as
they walked together through the garden of lilies where they
had so often played.
"In a land of tiresome dreams," answered Hermas; "but you
have wakened me, and I am never going back again."
It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of
Hermas from among his former associates could long remain
unnoticed. At first it was a mystery. There was a fear, for two
or three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimate
companions maintained that his devotion had led him out into the
desert to join the anchorites. But the news of his return to the
House of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life as its
master, filtered quickly through the gossip of the city.
Then the church was filled with dismay and grief and
reproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They
disturbed him a little, but they took no hold upon him. It
seemed to him as if the messengers spoke in a strange
language. As he read the letters there were words blotted out
of the writing which made the full sense unintelligible.