The Blue Flower [56]
His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them,
to warn him of the peril of apostasy, to entreat him to
return. It all sounded vague and futile. They spoke as if he
had betrayed or offended some one; but when they came to name
the object of his fear--the one whom he had displeased, and to
whom he should return--he heard nothing; there was a blur of
silence in their speech. The clock pointed to the hour, but the
bell did not strike. At last Hermas refused to see them any
more.
One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas
was entertaining Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall.
When the visit of the Presbyter was announced, the young
master loosed a collar of gold and jewels from his neck, and
gave it to his scribe.
"Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift
from his former pupil--as a token of remembrance, or to spend
for the poor of the city. I will always send him what he
wants, but it is idle for us to talk together any more. I do
not understand what he says. I have not gone to the temple,
nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his teaching. I have simply
forgotten. I do not think about those things any longer. I
am only living. A happy man wishes him all happiness and
farewell."
But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor.
"Tell your master that we shall talk together again, in due
time," said he, as he passed sadly out of
the hall.
The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet
that sinks out of sight in a cavern, but emerges again a
bright and brimming stream. The careless comradery of
childhood was mysteriously changed into a complete
companionship.
When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as
a bride, all the music of life came with her. Hermas called
the feast of her welcome "the banquet of the full chord." Day
after day, night after night, week after week, month after
month, the bliss of the home unfolded like a rose of a
thousand leaves. When a child came to them, a strong,
beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such a house, the
heart of the rose was filled with overflowing fragrance.
Happiness was heaped upon happiness. Every wish brought its
own accomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love--it
was an abundance of felicity so great that the soul of Hermas
could hardly contain it.
Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble
him with the very excess of joy. He felt as if there were
something yet needed to complete and secure it all. There was an
urgency within him, a longing to find some outlet for his
feelings, he knew not how--some expression and culmination of his
happiness, he knew not what.
Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness
began to burn--an expectancy of something yet to come which
should put the touch of perfection on his life. He spoke of
it to Athenais, as they sat together, one summer evening, in
a bower of jasmine, with their boy playing at their feet.
There had been music in the garden; but now the singers and
lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master and mistress
alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with inarticulate
melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hour
seeking vainly for utterance a word waiting to be spoken.
"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas;
"deeper than the sea that slumbers yonder, below the city.
And yet it is not quite full and perfect. There is a depth of
joy that we have not yet known--a repose of happiness that is
still beyond us. What is it? I have no superstitions, like the
king who cast his signet-ring into the sea because he dreaded
that some secret vengeance would fall on his unbroken good
fortune. That was an idle terror. But there is something
that oppresses me like an invisible burden. There is
something still undone, unspoken, unfelt--something that we
need to complete everything. Have you not felt it, too? Can
you not lead me to it?"
"Yes," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; "I,
too, have