*****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Thais, by Anatole France****

THAIS

by ANATOLE FRANCE



Translated By
Robert B. Douglas



CONTENTS

PART I. THE LOTUS
PART II. THE PAPYRUS
THE BANQUET
THE PAPYRUS (resumed)
PART III. THE EUPHORBIA





THAIS



PART THE FIRST

THE LOTUS

In those days there were many hermits living in the desert. On both
banks of the Nile numerous huts, built by these solitary dwellers, of
branches held together by clay, were scattered at a little distance
from each other, so that the inhabitants could live alone, and yet
help one another in case of need. Churches, each surmounted by a
cross, stood here and there amongst the huts, and the monks flocked to
them at each festival to celebrate the services or to partake of the
Communion. There were also, here and there on the banks of the river,
monasteries, where the cenobites lived in separate cells, and only met
together that they might the better enjoy their solitude.

Both hermits and cenobites led abstemious lives, taking no food till
after sunset, and eating nothing but bread with a little salt and
hyssop. Some retired into the desert, and led a still more strange
life in some cave or tomb.

All lived in temperance and chastity; they wore a hair shirt and a
hood, slept on the bare ground after long watching, prayed, sang
psalms, and, in short, spent their days in works of penitence. As an
atonement for original sin, they refused their body not only all
pleasures and satisfactions, but even that care and attention which in
this age are deemed indispensable. They believed that the diseases of
our members purify our souls, and the flesh could put on no adornment
more glorious than wounds and ulcers. Thus, they thought they
fulfilled the words of the prophet, "The desert shall rejoice and
blossom as the rose."

Amongst the inhabitants of the holy Thebaid, there were some who
passed their days in asceticism and contemplation; others gained their
livelihood by plaiting palm fibre, or by working at harvest-time for
the neighbouring farmers. The Gentiles wrongly suspected some of them
of living by brigandage, and allying themselves to the nomadic Arabs
who robbed the caravans. But, as a matter of fact, the monks despised
riches, and the odour of their sanctity rose to heaven.

Angels in the likeness of young men, came, staff in hand, as
travellers, to visit the hermitages; whilst demons--having assumed the
form of Ethiopians or of animals--wandered round the habitations of
the hermits in order to lead them into temptation. When the monks went
in the morning to fill their pitcher at the spring, they saw the
footprints of Satyrs and Aigipans in the sand. The Thebaid was, really
and spiritually, a battlefield, where, at all times, and more
especially at night, there were terrible conflicts between heaven and
hell.

The ascetics, furiously assailed by legions of the damned, defended
themselves--with the help of God and the angels--by fasting, prayer,
and penance. Sometimes carnal desires pricked them so cruelly that
they cried aloud with pain, and their lamentations rose to the starlit
heavens mingled with the howls of the hungry hyaenas. Then it was that
the demons appeared in delightful forms. For though the demons are, in
reality, hideous, they sometimes assume an appearance of beauty which
prevents their real nature from being recognised. The ascetics of the
Thebaid were amazed to see in their cells phantasms of delights
unknown even to the voluptuaries of the age. But, as they were under
the sign of the Cross, they did not succumb to these temptations, and
the unclean spirits, assuming again their true character, fled at
daybreak, filled with rage and shame. It was not unusual to meet at
dawn one of these beings, flying away and weeping, and replying to
those who questioned it, "I weep and groan because one of the
Christians who live here has beaten me with rods, and driven me away
in ignominy."

The power of the old saints of the desert extended over all sinners
and unbelievers. Their goodness was sometimes terrible. They derived
from the Apostles authority to punish all offences against the true
and only God, and no earthly power could save those they condemned.
Strange tales were told in the cities, and even as far as Alexandria,
how the earth had opened and swallowed up certain wicked persons whom
one of these saints struck with his staff. Therefore they were feared
by all evil-doers, and particularly by mimes, mountebanks, married
priests, and prostitutes.

Such was the sanctity of these holy men that even wild beasts felt
their power. When a hermit was about to die, a lion came and dug a
grave with its claws. The saint knew by this that God had called him,
and he went and kissed all his brethren on the cheek. Then he lay down
joyfully, and slept in the Lord.

Now that Anthony, who was more than a hundred years old, had retired
to Mount Colzin with his well-beloved disciples, Macarius and Amathas,
there was no monk in the Thebaid more renowned for good works than
Paphnutius, the Abbot of Antinoe. Ephrem and Serapion had a greater
number of followers, and in the spiritual and temporal management of
their monasteries surpassed him. But Paphnutius observed the most
rigorous fasts, and often went for three entire days without taking
food. He wore a very rough hair shirt, he flogged himself night and
morning, and lay for hours with his face to the earth.

His twenty-four disciples had built their huts near his, and imitated
his austerities. He loved them all dearly in Jesus Christ, and
unceasingly exhorted them to good works. Amongst his spiritual
children were men who had been robbers for many years, and had been
persuaded by the exhortations of the holy abbot to embrace the
monastic life, and who now edified their companions by the purity of
their lives. One, who had been cook to the Queen of Abyssinia, and was
converted by the Abbot of Antinoe, never ceased to weep. There was
also Flavian, the deacon, who knew the Scriptures, and spoke well; but
the disciple of Paphnutius who surpassed all the others in holiness
was a young peasant named Paul, and surnamed the Fool, because of his
extreme simplicity. Men laughed at his childishness, but God favoured
him with visions, and by bestowing upon him the gift of prophecy.

Paphnutius passed his life in teaching his disciples, and in ascetic
practices. Often did he meditate upon the Holy Scriptures in order to
find allegories in them. Therefore he abounded in good works, though
still young. The devils, who so rudely assailed the good hermits, did
not dare to approach him. At night, seven little jackals sat in the
moonlight in front of his cell, silent and motionless, and with their
ears pricked up. It was believed that they were seven devils, who,
owing to his sanctity, could not cross his threshold.

Paphnutius was born at Alexandria of noble parents, who had instructed
him in all profane learning. He had even been allured by the
falsehoods of the poets, and in his early youth had been misguided
enough to believe that the human race had all been drowned by a deluge
in the days of Deucalion, and had argued with his fellow-scholars
concerning the nature, the attributes, and even the existence of God.
He then led a life of dissipation, after the manner of the Gentiles,
and he recalled the memory of those days with shame and horror.

"At that time," he used to say to the brethren, "I seethed in the
cauldron of false delights."

He meant by that that he had eaten food properly dressed, and
frequented the public baths. In fact, until his twentieth year he had
continued to lead the ordinary existence of those times, which now
seemed to him rather death than life; but, owing to the lessons of the
priest Macrinus, he then became a new man.

The truth penetrated him through and through, and--as he used to say--
entered his soul like a sword. He embraced the faith of Calvary, and
worshipped Christ crucified. After his baptism he remained yet a year
amongst the Gentiles, unable to cast off the bonds of old habits. But
one day he entered a church, and heard a deacon read from the Bible,
the verse, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and
give to the poor." Thereupon he sold all that he had, gave away the
money in alms, and embraced the monastic life.

During the ten years that he had lived remote from men, he no longer
seethed in the cauldron of false delights, but more profitably
macerated his flesh in the balms of penitence.

One day when, according to his pious custom, he was recalling to mind
the hours he had lived apart from God, and examining his sins one by
one, that he might the better ponder on their enormity, he remembered
that he had seen at the theatre at Alexandria a very beautiful actress
named Thais. This woman showed herself in the public games, and did
not scruple to perform dances, the movements of which, arranged only
too cleverly, brought to mind the most horrible passions. Sometimes
she imitated the horrible deeds which the Pagan fables ascribe to
Venus, Leda, or Pasiphae. Thus she fired all the spectators with lust,
and when handsome young men, or rich old ones, came, inspired with
love, to hang wreaths of flowers round her door, she welcomed them,
and gave herself up to them. So that, whilst she lost her own soul,
she also ruined the souls of many others.

She had almost led Paphnutius himself into the sins of the flesh. She
had awakened desire in him, and he had once approached the house of
Thais. But he stopped on the threshold of the courtesan's house,
partly restrained by the natural timidity of extreme youth--he was
then but fifteen years old--and partly by the fear of being refused on
account of his want of money, for his parents took care that he should
commit no great extravagances.

God, in His mercy, had used these two means to prevent him from
committing a great sin. But Paphnutius had not been grateful to Him
for that, because at that time he was blind to his own interests, and
did not know that he was lusting after false delights. Now, kneeling
in his cell, before the image of that holy cross on which hung, as in
a balance, the ransom of the world, Paphnutius began to think of
Thais, because Thais was a sin to him, and he meditated long,
according to ascetic rules, on the fearful hideousness of the carnal
delights with which this woman had inspired him in the days of his sin
and ignorance. After some hours of meditation the image of Thais
appeared to him clearly and distinctly. He saw her again, as he had
seen her when she tempted him, in all the beauty of the flesh. At
first she showed herself like a Leda, softly lying upon a bed of
hyacinths, her head bowed, her eyes humid and filled with a strange
light, her nostrils quivering, her mouth half open, her breasts like
two flowers, and her arms smooth and fresh as two brooks. At this
sight Paphnutius struck his breast and said--

"I call Thee to witness, my God, that I have considered how heinous
has been my sin."

Gradually the face of the image changed its expression. Little by
little the lips of Thais, by lowering at the corners of the mouth,
expressed a mysterious suffering. Her large eyes were filled with
tears and lights; her breast heaved with sighs, like the sighing of a
wind that precedes a tempest. At this sight Paphnutius was troubled to
the bottom of his soul. Prostrating himself on the floor, he uttered
this prayer--

"Thou who hast put pity in our hearts, like the morning dew upon the
fields, O just and merciful God, be Thou blessed! Praise! praise be
unto Thee! Put away from Thy servant that false tenderness which
tempts to concupiscence, and grant that I may only love Thy creatures
in Thee, for they pass away, but Thou endurest for ever. If I care for
this woman, it is only because she is Thy handiwork. The angels
themselves feel pity for her. Is she not, O Lord, the breath of Thy
mouth? Let her not continue to sin with many citizens and strangers.
There is great pity for her in my heart. Her wickednesses are
abominable, and but to think of them makes my flesh creep. But the
more wicked she is, the more do I lament for her. I weep when I think
that the devils will torment her to all eternity."

As he was meditating in this way, he saw a little jackal lying at his
feet. He felt much surprised, for the door of his cell had been closed
since the morning. The animal seemed to read the Abbot's thoughts, and
wagged its tail like a dog. Paphnutius made the sign of the cross and
the beast vanished. He knew then that, for the first time, the devil
had entered his cell, and he uttered a short prayer; then he thought
again about Thais.

"With God's help," he said to himself, "I must save her." And he
slept.

The next morning, when he had said his prayers, he went to see the
sainted Palemon, a holy hermit who lived some distance away. He found
him smiling quietly as he dug the ground, as was his custom. Palemon
was an old man, and cultivated a little garden; the wild beasts came
and licked his hands, and the devils never tormented him.

"May God be praised, brother Paphnutius," he said, as he leaned upon
his spade.

"God be praised!" replied Paphnutius. "And peace be unto my brother."

"The like peace be unto thee, brother Paphnutius," said Palemon; and
he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Brother Palemon, all our discourse ought to be solely the praise of
Him who has promised to be wheresoever two or three are gathered
together in His Name. That is why I come to you concerning a design I
have formed to glorify the Lord."

"May the Lord bless thy design, Paphnutius, as He has blessed my
lettuces. Every morning He spreads His grace with the dew on my
garden, and His goodness causes me to glorify Him in the cucumbers and
melons which He gives me. Let us pray that He may keep us in His
peace. For nothing is more to be feared than those unruly passions
which trouble our hearts. When these passions disturb us we are like
drunken men, and we stagger from right to left unceasingly, and are
like to fall miserably. Sometimes these passions plunge us into a
turbulent joy, and he who gives way to such, sullies the air with
brutish laughter. Such false joy drags the sinner into all sorts of
excess. But sometimes also the troubles of the soul and of the senses
throw us into an impious sadness which is a thousand times worse than
the joy. Brother Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but I have
found, in my long life, that the cenobite has no foe worse than
sadness. I mean by that the obstinate melancholy which envelopes the
soul as in a mist, and hides from us the light of God. Nothing is more
contrary to salvation, and the devil's greatest triumph is to sow
black and bitter thoughts in the heart of a good man. If he sent us
only pleasurable temptations, he would not be half so much to be
feared. Alas! he excels in making us sad. Did he not show to our
father Anthony a black child of such surpassing beauty that the very
sight of it drew tears? With God's help, our father Anthony avoided
the snares of the demon. I knew him when he lived amongst us; he was
cheerful with his disciples, and never gave way to melancholy. But did
you not come, my brother, to talk to me of a design you had formed in
your mind? Let me know what it is--if, at least, this design has for
its object the glory of God."

"Brother Palemon, what I propose is really to the glory of God.
Strengthen me with your counsel, for you know many things, and sin has
never darkened the clearness of your mind."

"Brother Paphnutius, I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of thy
sandals, and my sins are as countless as the sands of the desert. But
I am old, and I will never refuse the help of my experience."

"I will confide in you, then, brother Palemon, that I am stricken with
grief at the thought that there is, in Alexandria, a courtesan named
Thais, who lives in sin, and is a subject of reproach unto the
people."

"Brother Paphnutius, that is, in truth, an abomination which we do
well to deplore. There are many women amongst the Gentiles who lead
lives of that kind. Have you thought of any remedy for this great
evil?"

"Brother Palemon, I will go to Alexandria and find this woman, and,
with God's help, I will convert her; that is my intention; do you
approve of it, brother?"

"Brother Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but our father
Anthony used to say, 'In whatsoever place thou art, hasten not to
leave it to go elsewhere.' "

"Brother Palemon, do you disapprove of my project?"

"Dear Paphnutius, God forbid that I should suspect my brother of bad
intentions. But our father Anthony also said, 'Fishes die on dry land,
and so is it with those monks who leave their cells and mingle with
the men of this world, amongst whom no good thing is to be found.' "

Having thus spoken, the old man pressed his foot on the spade, and
began to dig energetically round a fig tree laden with fruit. As he
was thus engaged, there was a rustling in the bushes, and an antelope
leaped over the hedge which surrounded the garden; it stopped,
surprised and frightened, its delicate legs trembling, then ran up to
the old man, and laid its pretty head on the breast of its friend.

"God be praised in the gazelle of the desert," said Palemon.

He went to his hut, the light-footed little animal trotting after him,
and brought out some black bread, which the antelope ate out of his
hand.

Paphnutius remained thoughtful for some time, his eyes fixed upon the
stones at his feet. Then he slowly walked back to his cell, pondering
on what he had heard. A great struggle was going on in his mind.

"The hermit gives good advice," he said to himself; "the spirit of
prudence is in him. And he doubts the wisdom of my intention. Yet it
would be cruel to leave Thais any longer in the power of the demon who
possesses her. May God advise and conduct me."

As he was walking along, he saw a plover, caught in the net that a
hunter had laid on the sand, and he knew that it was a hen bird, for
he saw the male fly to the net, and tear the meshes one by one with
its beak, until it had made an opening by which its mate could escape.
The holy man watched this incident, and as, by virtue of his holiness,
he easily comprehended the mystic sense of all occurrences, he knew
that the captive bird was no other than Thais, caught in the snares of
sin, and that--like the plover that had cut the hempen threads with
its beak--he could, by pronouncing the word of power, break the
invisible bonds by which Thais was held in sin. Therefore he praised
God, and was confirmed in his first resolution. But then seeing the
plover caught by the feet, and hampered by the net it had broken, he
fell into uncertainty again.

He did not sleep all night, and before dawn he had a vision. Thais
appeared to him again. There was no expression of guilty pleasure on
her face, nor was she dressed according to custom in transparent
drapery. She was enveloped in a shroud, which hid even a part of her
face, so that the Abbot could see nothing but the two eyes, from which
flowed white and heavy tears.

At this sight he began to weep, and believing that this vision came
from God, he no longer hesitated. He rose, seized a knotted stick, the
symbol of the Christian faith, and left his cell, carefully closing
the door, lest the animals of the desert and the birds of the air
should enter, and befoul the copy of the Holy Scriptures which stood
at the head of his bed. He called Flavian, the deacon, and gave him
authority over the other twenty-three disciples during his absence;
and then, clad only in a long cassock, he bent his steps towards the
Nile, intending to follow the Libyan bank to the city founded by the
Macedonian monarch. He walked from dawn to eve, indifferent to
fatigue, hunger, and thirst; the sun was already low on the horizon
when he saw the dreadful river, the blood-red waters of which rolled
between the rocks of gold and fire.

He kept along the shore, begging his bread at the door of solitary
huts for the love of God, and joyfully receiving insults, refusals, or
threats. He feared neither robbers nor wild beasts, but he took great
care to avoid all the towns and villages he came near. He was afraid
lest he should see children playing at knuckle-bones before their
father's house, or meet, by the side of the well, women in blue
smocks, who might put down their pitcher and smile at him. All things
are dangerous for the hermit; it is sometimes a danger for him to read
in the Scriptures that the Divine Master journeyed from town to town
and supped with His disciples. The virtues that the anchorites
embroider so carefully on the tissue of faith, are as fragile as they
are beautiful; a breath of ordinary life may tarnish their pleasant
colours. For that reason, Paphnutius avoided the towns, fearing lest
his heart should soften at the sight of his fellow men.

He journeyed along lonely roads. When evening came, the murmuring of
the breeze amidst the tamarisk trees made him shiver, and he pulled
his hood over his eyes that he might not see how beautiful all things
were. After walking six days, he came to a place called Silsile. There
the river runs in a narrow valley, bordered by a double chain of
granite mountains. It was there that the Egyptians, in the days when
they worshipped demons, carved their idols. Paphnutius saw an enormous
sphinx carved in the solid rock. Fearing that it might still possess
some diabolical properties, he made the sign of the cross, and
pronounced the name of Jesus; he immediately saw a bat fly out of one
of the monster's ears, and Paphnutius knew that he had driven out the
evil spirits which had been for centuries in the figure. His zeal
increased, and picking up a large stone, he threw it in the idol's
face. Then the mysterious face of the sphinx expressed such profound
sadness that Paphnutius was moved. In fact, the expression of
superhuman grief on the stone visage would have touched even the most
unfeeling man. Therefore Paphnutius said to the sphinx--

"O monster, be like the satyrs and centaurs our father Anthony saw in
the desert, and confess the divinity of Jesus Christ, and I will bless
thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

When he had spoken a rosy light gleamed in the eyes of the sphinx; the
heavy eyelids of the monster quivered and the granite lips painfully
murmured, as though in echo to the man's voice, the holy name of Jesus
Christ; therefore Paphnutius stretched out his right hand, and blessed
the sphinx of Silsile.

That being done, he resumed his journey, and the valley having grown
wider, he saw the ruins of an immense city. The temples, which still
remained standing, were supported by idols which served as columns,
and--by the permission of God--these figures with women's heads and
cow's horns, threw on Paphnutius a long look which made him turn pale.
He walked thus seventeen days, his only food a few raw herbs, and he
slept at night in some ruined palace, amongst the wild cats and
Pharaoh's rats, with which mingled sometimes, women whose bodies ended
in a scaly tail. But Paphnutius knew that these women came from hell,
and he drove them away by making the sign of the cross.

On the eighteenth day, he found, far from any village, a wretched hut
made of palm leaves, and half buried under the sand which had been
driven by the desert wind. He approached it, hoping that the hut was
inhabited by some pious anchorite. He saw inside the hovel--for there
was no door--a pitcher, a bunch of onions, and a bed of dried leaves.

"This must be the habitation of a hermit," he said to himself.
"Hermits are generally to be found near their hut, and I shall not
fail to meet this one. I will give him the kiss of peace, even as the
holy Anthony did when he came to the hermit Paul, and kissed him three
times. We will discourse of things eternal, and perhaps our Lord will
send us, by one of His ravens, a crust of bread, which my host will
willingly invite me to share with him."

Whilst he was thus speaking to himself, he walked round the hut to see
if he could find any one. He had not walked a hundred paces when he
saw a man seated, with his legs crossed, by the side of the river. The
man was naked; his hair and beard were quite white, and his body
redder than brick. Paphnutius felt sure this must be the hermit. He
saluted him with the words the monks are accustomed to use when they
meet each other.

"Peace be with you, brother! May you some day taste the sweet joys of
paradise."

The man did not reply. He remained motionless, and appeared not to
have heard. Paphnutius supposed this was due to one of those
rhapsodies to which the saints are accustomed. He knelt down, with his
hands joined, by the side of the unknown, and remained thus in prayer
till sunset. Then, seeing that his companion had not moved, he said to
him--

"Father, if you are now out of the ecstasy in which you were lost,
give me your blessing in our Lord Jesus Christ."

The other replied without turning his head--

"Stranger, I understand you not, and I know not the Lord Jesus
Christ."

"What!" cried Paphnutius. "The prophets have announced Him; legions of
martyrs have confessed His name; Caesar himself has worshipped Him,
and, but just now, I made the sphinx of Silsile proclaim His glory. Is
it possible that you do not know Him?"

"Friend," replied the other, "it is possible. It would even be
certain, if anything in this world were certain."

Paphnutius was surprised and saddened by the incredible ignorance of
the man.

"If you know not Jesus Christ," he said, "all your works serve no
purpose, and you will never rise to life immortal."

The old man replied--

"It is useless to act, or to abstain from acting. It matters not
whether we live or die."

"Eh, what?" asked Paphnutius. "Do you not desire to live through all
eternity? But, tell me, do you not live in a hut in the desert as the
hermits do?"

"It seems so."

"Do I not see you naked, and lacking all things?"

"It seems so."

"Do you not feed on roots, and live in chastity?"

"It seems so."

"Have you not renounced all the vanities of this world?"

"I have truly renounced all those vain things for which men commonly
care."

"Then you are like me, poor, chaste, and solitary. And you are not so
--as I am--for the love of God, and with a hope of celestial
happiness! That I cannot understand. Why are you virtuous if you do
not believe in Jesus Christ? Why deprive yourself of the good things
of this world if you do not hope to gain eternal riches in heaven?"

"Stranger, I deprive myself of nothing which is good, and I flatter
myself that I have found a life which is satisfactory enough, though--
to speak more precisely--there is no such thing as a good or evil
life. Nothing is itself, either virtuous or shameful, just or unjust,
pleasant or painful, good or bad. It is our opinion which gives those
qualities to things, as salt gives savour to meats."

"So then, according to you there is no certainty. You deny the truth
which the idolaters themselves have sought. You lie in ignorance--like
a tired dog sleeping in the mud."

"Stranger, it is equally useless to abuse either dogs or philosophers.
We know not what dogs are or what we are. We know nothing."

"Old man, do you belong, then, to the absurd sect of sceptics? Are you
one of those miserable fools who alike deny movement and rest, and who
know not how to distinguish between the light of the sun and the
shadows of night?"

"Friend, I am truly a sceptic, and of a sect which appears
praiseworthy to me, though it seems ridiculous to you. For the same
things often assume different appearances. The pyramids of Memphis
seem at sunrise to be cones of pink light. At sunset they look like
black triangles against the illuminated sky. But who shall solve the
problem of their true nature? You reproach me with denying
appearances, when, in fact, appearances are the only realities I
recognise. The sun seems to me illuminous, but its nature is unknown
to me. I feel that fire burns--but I know not how or why. My friend,
you understand me badly. Besides, it is indifferent to me whether I am
understood one way or the other."

"Once more. Why do you live on dates and onions in the desert? Why do
you endure great hardships? I endure hardships equally great, and,
like you, I live in abstinence and solitude. But then it is to please
God, and to earn eternal happiness. And that is a reasonable object,
for it is wise to suffer now for a future gain. It is senseless, on
the contrary, to expose yourself voluntarily to useless fatigue and
vain sufferings. If I did not believe--pardon my blasphemy, O
uncreated Light!--if I did not believe in the truth of that which God
has taught us by the voice of the prophets, by the example of His Son,
by the acts of the Apostles, by the authority of councils, and by the
testimony of the martyrs,--if I did not know that the sufferings of
the body are necessary for the salvation of the soul--if I were, like
thee, lost in ignorance of sacred mysteries--I would return at once
amongst the men of this day, I would strive to acquire riches, that I
might live in ease, like those who are happy in this world, and I
would say to the votaries of pleasure, 'Come, my daughters, come, my
servants, come and pour out for me your wines, your philtres, your
perfumes.' But you, foolish old man! you deprive yourself of all these
advantages; you lose without hope of any gain; you give without hope
of any return, and you imitate foolishly the noble deeds of us
anchorites, as an impudent monkey thinks, by smearing a wall, to copy
the picture of a clever artist. What, then, are your reasons, O most
besotted of men?"

Paphnutius spoke with violence and indignation, but the old man
remained unmoved.

"Friend," he replied, gently, "what matter the reasons of a dog
sleeping in the dirt or a mischievous ape?"

Paphnutius' only aim was the glory of God. His anger vanished, and he
apologised with noble humility.

"Pardon me, old man, my brother," he said, "if zeal for the truth has
carried me beyond proper bounds. God is my witness, that it is thy
errors and not thyself that I hate. I suffer to see thee in darkness,
for I love thee in Jesus Christ, and care for thy salvation fills my
heart. Speak! give me your reasons. I long to know them that I may
refute them."

The old man replied quietly--

"It is the same to me whether I speak or remain silent. I will give my
reasons without asking yours in return, for I have no interest in you
at all. I care neither for your happiness nor your misfortune, and it
matters not to me whether you think one way or another. Why should I
love you, or hate you? Aversion and sympathy are equally unworthy of
the wise man. But since you question me, know then that I am named
Timocles, and that I was born at Cos, of parents made rich by
commerce. My father was a shipowner. In intelligence he much resembled
Alexander, who is surnamed the Great. But he was not so gross. In
short, he was a man of no great parts. I had two brothers, who, like
him, were shipowners. As for me, I followed wisdom. My eldest brother
was compelled by my father to marry a Carian woman, named Timaessa,
who displeased him so greatly that he could not live with her without
falling into a deep melancholy. However, Timaessa inspired our younger
brother with a criminal passion, and this passion soon turned to a
furious madness. The Carian woman hated them both equally; but she
loved a flute-player, and received him at night in her chamber. One
morning he left there the wreath which he usually wore at feasts. My
two brothers, having found this wreath, swore to kill the flute-
player, and the next day they caused him to perish under the lash, in
spite of his tears and prayers. My sister-in-law felt such grief that
she lost her reason, and these three poor wretches became beasts
rather than human beings, and wandered insane along the shores of Cos,
howling like wolves and foaming at the mouth, and hooted at by the
children, who threw shells and stones at them. They died, and my
father buried them with his own hands. A little later his stomach
refused all nourishment, and he died of hunger, though he was rich
enough to have bought all the meats and fruits in the markets of Asia.
He was deeply grieved at having to leave me his fortune. I used it in
travels. I visited Italy, Greece, and Africa without meeting a single
person who was either wise or happy. I studied philosophy at Athens
and Alexandria, and was deafened by noisy arguments. At last I
wandered as far as India, and I saw on the banks of the Ganges a naked
man, who had sat there motionless with his legs crossed for more than
thirty years. Climbing plants twined round his dried up body, and the
birds built their nests in his hair. Yet he lived. At the sight of him
I called to mind Timaessa, the flute-player, my two brothers, and my
father, and I realised that this Indian was a wise man. 'Men,' I said
to myself, 'suffer because they are deprived of that which they
believe to be good; or because, possessing it they fear to lose it; or
because they endure that which they believe to be an evil. Put an end
to all beliefs of this kind, and the evils would disappear.' That is
why I resolved henceforth to deem nothing an advantage, to tear myself
entirely from the good things of this world, and to live silent and
motionless, like the Indian."

Paphnutius had listened attentively to the old man's story.

"Timocles of Cos," he replied, "I own that your discourse is not
wholly devoid of sense. It is, in truth, wise to despise the riches of
this world. But it would be absurd to despise also your eternal
welfare, and render yourself liable to be visited by the wrath of God.
I grieve at your ignorance, Timocles, and I will instruct you in the
truth, in order that knowing that there really exists a God in three
hypostases, you may obey this God as a child obeys its father."

Timocles interrupted him.

"Refrain, stranger, from showing me your doctrines, and do not imagine
that you will persuade me to share your opinions. All discussions are
useless. My opinion is to have no opinion. My life is devoid of
trouble because I have no preferences. Go thy ways, and strive not to
withdraw me from the beneficent apathy in which I am plunged, as
though in a delicious bath, after the hardships of my past days."

Paphnutius was profoundly instructed in all things relating to the
faith. By his knowledge of the human heart, he was aware that the
grace of God had not fallen on old Timocles, and the day of salvation
for this soul so obstinately resolved to ruin itself had not yet come.
He did not reply, lest the power given for edification should turn to
destruction. For it sometimes happens, in disputing with infidels,
that the means used for their conversion may steep them still farther
in sin. Therefore they who possess the truth should take care how they
spread it.

"Farewell, then, unhappy Timocles," he said; and heaving a deep sigh,
he resumed his pious pilgrimage through the night.

In the morning, he saw the ibises motionless on one leg at the edge of
the water, which reflected their pale pink necks. The willows
stretched their soft grey foliage to the bank, cranes flew in a
triangle in the clear sky, and the cry of unseen herons was heard from
the sedges. Far as the eye could reach, the river rolled its broad
green waters o'er which white sails, like the wings of birds, glided,
and here and there on the shores, a white house shone out. A light
mist floated along the banks, and from out the shadow of the islands,
which were laden with palms, flowers, and fruits, came noisy flocks of
ducks, geese, flamingoes, and teal. To the left, the grassy valley
extended to the desert its fields and orchards in joyful abundance;
the sun shone on the yellow wheat, and the earth exhaled forth its
fecundity in odorous wafts. At this sight, Paphnutius fell on his
knees, and cried--

"Blessed be the Lord, who has given a happy issue to my journey. O
God, who spreadest Thy dew upon the fig trees of the Arsiniote, pour
Thy grace upon Thais, whom Thou hast formed with Thy love, as Thou
hast the flowers and trees of the field. May she, by Thy loving care,
flourish like a sweet-scented rose in the heavenly Jerusalem."

And every time that he saw a tree covered with blossom, or a bird of
brilliant plumage, he thought of Thais. Keeping along the left arm of
the river and through a fertile and populous district, he reached, in
a few days, the city of Alexandria, which the Greeks have surnamed the
Beautiful and the Golden. The sun had risen an hour, when he beheld,
from the top of a hill, the vast city, the roofs of which glittered in
the rosy light. He stopped, and folded his arms on his breast.

"There, then," he said, "is the delightful spot where I was born in
sin; the bright air where I breathed poisonous perfumes; the sea of
pleasure where I heard the songs of the sirens. There is my cradle,
after the flesh; my native land--in the parlance of the men of these
days! A rich cradle, an illustrious country, in the judgment of men!
It is natural that thy children should reverence thee like a mother,
Alexandria, and I was begotten in thy magnificently adorned breast.
But the ascetic despises nature, the mystic scorns appearances, the
Christian regards his native land as a place of exile, the monk is not
of this earth. I have turned away my heart from loving thee,
Alexandria. I hate thee! I hate thee for thy riches, thy science, thy
pleasures, and thy beauty. Be accursed, temple of demons! Lewd couch
of the Gentiles, tainted pulpit of Arian heresy, be thou accursed! And
thou, winged son of heaven who led the holy hermit Anthony, our
father, when he came from the depths of the desert, and entered into
the citadel of idolatry to strengthen the faith of believers and the
confidence of martyrs, beautiful angel of the Lord, invisible child,
first breath of God, fly thou before me, and cleanse, by the beating
of thy wings, the corrupted air I am about to breathe amongst the
princes of darkness of this world!"

Having thus spoken, he resumed his journey. He entered the city by the
Gate of the Sun. This gate was a handsome structure of stone. In the
shadow of its arch, crowded some poor wretches, who offered lemons and
figs for sale, or with many groans and lamentations, begged for an
obolus.

An old woman in rags, who was kneeling there, seized the monk's
cassock, kissed it, and said--

"Man of the Lord, bless me, that God may bless me. I have suffered
many things in this world that I may have joys in the world to come.
You come from God, O holy man, and that is why the dust of your feet
is more precious than gold."

"The Lord be praised!" said Paphnutius, and with his half-closed hand
he made the sign of redemption on the old woman's head.

But hardly had he gone twenty paces down the street, than a band of
children began to jeer at him, and throw stones, crying--

"Oh, the wicked monk! He is blacker than an ape, and more bearded than
a goat! He is a skulker! Why not hang him in an orchard, like a wooden
Priapus, to frighten the birds? But no; he would draw down the hail on
the apple-blossom. He brings bad luck. To the ravens with the monk! to
the ravens!" and stones mingled with the cries.

"My God, bless these poor children!" murmured Paphnutius.

And he pursued his way, thinking.

"I was worshipped by the old woman, and hated and despised by these
children. Thus the same object is appreciated differently by men who
are uncertain in their judgment and liable to error. It must be owned
that, for a Gentile, old Timocles was not devoid of sense. Though
blind, he knew he was deprived of light. His reasoning was much better
than that of these idolaters, who cry from the depths of their thick
darkness, 'I see the day!' Everything in this world is mirage and
moving sand. God alone is steadfast."

He passed through the city with rapid steps. After ten years of
absence he would still recognise every stone, and every stone was to
him a stone of reproach that recalled a sin. For that reason he struck
his naked feet roughly against the kerb-stones of the wide street, and
rejoiced to see the bloody marks of his wounded feet. Leaving on his
left the magnificent portico of the Temple of Serapis, he entered a
road lined with splendid mansions, which seemed to be drowsy with
perfumes. Pines, maples, and larches raised their heads above the red
cornices and golden acroteria. Through the half-open doors could be
seen bronze statues in marble vestibules, and fountains playing amidst
foliage. No noise troubled the stillness of these quiet retreats. Only
the distant strains of a flute could be heard. The monk stopped before
a house, rather small, but of noble proportions, and supported by
columns as graceful as young girls. It was ornamented with bronze
busts of the most celebrated Greek philosophers.

He recognised Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Epicurus, and Zeno, and
having knocked with the hammer against the door, he waited, wrapped in
meditation.

"It is vanity to glorify in metal these false sages; their lies are
confounded, their souls are lost in hell, and even the famous Plato
himself, who filled the earth with his eloquence, now disputes with
the devils."

A slave opened the door, and seeing a man with bare feet standing on
the mosaic threshold, said to him roughly--

"Go and beg elsewhere, stupid monk, or I will drive you away with a
stick."

"Brother," replied the Abbott of Antinoe, "all that I ask is that you
conduct me to your master, Nicias."

The slave replied, more angrily than before--

"My master does not see dogs like you."

"My son," said Paphnutius, "will you please do what I ask, and tell
your master that I desire to see him.

"Get out, vile beggar!" cried the porter furiously; and he raised his
stick and struck the holy man, who, with his arms crossed upon his
breast, received unmovedly the blow, which fell full in his face, and
then repeated gently--

"Do as I ask you, my son, I beg."

The porter tremblingly murmured--

"Who is this man who is not afraid of suffering?"

And he ran and told his master.

Nicias had just left the bath. Two pretty slave girls were scraping
him with strigils. He was a pleasant-looking man, with a kind smile.
There was an expression of gentle satire in his face. On seeing the
monk, he rose and advanced with open arms.

"It is you!" he cried, "Paphnutius, my fellow-scholar, my friend my
brother! Oh, I knew you again, though, to say the truth, you look more
like a wild animal than a man. Embrace me. Do you remember the time
when we studied grammar, rhetoric, and philosophy together? You were,
even then, of a morose and wild character, but I liked you because of
your complete sincerity. We used to say that you looked at the
universe with the eyes of a wild horse, and it was not surprising you
were dull and moody. You needed a pinch of Attic salt, but your
liberality knew no bounds. You cared nothing for either your money or
your life. And you had the eccentricity of genius, and a strange
character which interested me deeply. You are welcome, my dear
Paphnutius, after ten years of absence. You have quitted the desert;
you have renounced all Christian superstitions, and now return to your
old life. I will mark this day with a white stone."

"Crobyle and Myrtale," he added, turning towards the girls, "perfume
the feet, hands, and beard of my dear guest."

They smiled, and had already brought the basin, the phials, and the
metal mirror. But Paphnutius stopped them with an imperious gesture,
and lowered his eyes that he might not look upon them, for they were
naked. Nicias brought cushions for him, and offered him various meats
and drinks, which Paphnutius scornfully refused.

"Nicias," he said, "I have not renounced what you falsely call the
Christian superstition, which is the truth of truths. 'In the
beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was
God. All things were made by Him, and without Him was not anything
made that was made. In Him was the life, and the life was the light of
men.' "

"My dear Paphnutius," replied Nicias, who had now put on a perfumed
tunic, "do you expect to astonish me by reciting a lot of words
jumbled together without skill, which are no more than a vain murmur?
Have you forgotten that I am a bit of a philosopher myself? And do you
think to satisfy me with some rags, torn by ignorant men from the
purple garment of AEmilius, when AEmilius, Porphyry, and Plato, in all
their glory, did not satisfy me! The systems devised by the sages are
but tales imagined to amuse the eternal childishness of men. We divert
ourselves with them, as we do with the stories of /The Ass/, /The
Tub/, and /The Ephesian Matron/, or any other Milesian fable."

And, taking his guest by the arm, he led him into a room where
thousands of papyri were rolled up and lay in baskets.

"This is my library," he said. "It contains a small part of the
various systems which the philosophers have constructed to explain the
world. The Serapeium itself, with all its riches, does not contain
them all. Alas! they are but the dreams of sick men."

He compelled his guest to sit down in an ivory chair, and sat down
himself. Paphnutius scowled gloomily at all the books in the library,
and said--

"They ought all to be burned."

"Oh, my dear guest, that would be a pity!" replied Nicias. "For the
dreams of sick men are sometimes amusing. Besides, if we should
destroy all the dreams and visions of men, the earth would lose its
form and colours, and we should all sleep in a dull stupidity."

Paphnutius continued in the same strain as before--

"It is certain that the doctrines of the pagans are but vain lies. But
God, who is the truth, revealed Himself to men by miracles, and He was
made flesh, and lived among us."

Nicias replied--

"You speak well, my dear Paphnutius, when you say that he was made
flesh. A God who thinks, acts, speaks, who wanders through nature,
like Ulysses of old on the glaucous sea, is altogether a man. How do
you expect that we should believe in this new Jupiter, when the
urchins of Athens, in the time of Pericles, no longer believed in the
old one?

"But let us leave all that. You did not come here; I suppose, to argue
about the three hypostases. What can I do for you, my dear fellow-
scholar?"

"A good deed," replied the Abbot of Antinoe. "Lend me a perfumed
tunic, like the one you have just put on. Be kind enough to add to the
tunic, gilt sandals, and a vial of oil to anoint my beard and hair. It
is needful also, that you should give me a purse with a thousand
drachmae in it. That, O Nicias, is what I came to ask of you, for the
love of God, and in remembrance of our old friendship."

Nicias made Crobyle and Myrtale bring his richest tunic; it was
embroidered, after the Asiatic fashion, with flowers and animals. The
two girls held it open, and skilfully showed its bright colours,
waiting till Paphnutius should have taken off the cassock which
covered him down to his feet. But the monk having declared that they
should rather tear off his flesh than this garment, they put on the
tunic over it. As the two girls were pretty, they were not afraid of
men, although they were slaves. They laughed at the strange appearance
of the monk thus clad. Crobyle called him her dear satrap, as she
presented him with the mirror, and Myrtale pulled his beard. But
Paphnutius prayed to the Lord, and did not look at them. Having tied
on the gilt sandals, and fastened the purse to his belt, he said to
Nicias, who was looking at him with an amused expression--

"O Nicias, let not these things be an offence in your eyes. For know
that I shall make pious use of this tunic, this purse, and these
sandals."

"My dear friend," replied Nicias, "I suspect no evil, for I believe
that men are equally incapable of doing evil or doing good. Good and
evil exist only in the opinion. The wise man has only custom and usage
to guide him in his acts. I conform with all the prejudices which
prevail at Alexandria. That is why I pass for an honest man. Go,
friend, and enjoy yourself."

But Paphnutius thought that it was needful to inform his host of his
intention.

"Do you know Thais," he said, "who acts in the games at the theatre?"

"She is beautiful," replied Nicias, "and there was a time when she was
dear to me. For her sake, I sold a mill and two fields of corn, and I
composed in her honour three books full of detestably bad verses.
Surely beauty is the most powerful force in the world, and were we so
made that we could possess it always, we should care as little as may
be for the demiurgos, the logos, the aeons, and all the other reveries
of the philosophers. But I am surprised, my good Paphnutius, that you
should have come from the depths of the Thebaid to talk about Thais."

Having said this, he sighed gently. And Paphnutius gazed at him with
horror, not conceiving it possible that a man should so calmly avow
such a sin. He expected to see the earth open, and Nicias swallowed up
in flames. But the earth remained solid, and the Alexandrian silent,
his forehead resting on his hand, and he smiling sadly at the memories
of his past youth. The monk rose, and continued in solemn tones--

"Know then, O Nicias, that, with the aid of God, I will snatch this
woman Thais from the unclean affections of the world, and give her as
a spouse to Jesus Christ. If the Holy Spirit does not forsake me,
Thais will leave this city and enter a nunnery."

"Beware of offending Venus," replied Nicias. "She is a powerful
goddess, she will be angry with you if you take away her chief
minister."

"God will protect me," said Paphnutius. "May He also illumine thy
heart, O Nicias, and draw thee out of the abyss in which thou art
plunged."

And he stalked out of the room. But Nicias followed him, and overtook
him on the threshold, and placing his hand on his shoulder whispered
into his ear the same words--

"Beware of offending Venus; her vengeance is terrible."

Paphnutius, disdainful of these trivial words, left without turning
his head. He felt only contempt for Nicias; but what he could not bear
was the idea that his former friend had received the caresses of
Thais. It seemed to him that to sin with that woman was more
detestable than to sin with any other. To him this appeared the height
of iniquity, and he henceforth looked upon Nicias as an object of
execration. He had always hated impurity, but never before had this
vice appeared so heinous to him; never before had it so seemed to
merit the anger of Jesus Christ and the sorrow of the angels.

He felt only a more ardent desire to save Thais from the Gentiles, and
that he must hasten to see the actress in order to save her.
Nevertheless, before he could enter her house, he must wait till the
heat of the day was over, and now the morning had hardly finished.
Paphnutius wandered through the most frequented streets. He had
resolved to take no food that day, in order to be the less unworthy of
the favours he had asked of the Lord. To the great grief of his soul,
he dared not enter any of the churches in the city, because he knew
they were profaned by the Arians, who had overturned the Lord's table.
For, in fact, these heretics, supported by the Emperor of the East,
had driven the patriarch Athanasius from his episcopate, and sown
trouble and confusion among the Christians of Alexandria.

He therefore wandered about aimlessly, sometimes with his eyes fixed
on the ground in humility, and sometimes raised to heaven in ecstasy.
After some time, he found himself on the quay. Before him lay the
harbour, in which were sheltered innumerable ships and galleys, and
beyond them, smiling in blue and silver, lay the perfidious sea. A
galley, which bore a Nereid at its prow, had just weighed anchor. The
rowers sang as the oars struck the water; and already the white
daughter of the waters, covered with humid pearls, showed no more than
a flying profile to the monk. Steered by her pilot, she cleared the
passage leading from the basin of the Eunostos, and gained the high
seas, leaving a glittering trail behind her.

"I also," thought Paphnutius, "once desired to embark singing on the
ocean of the world. But I soon saw my folly, and the Nereid did not
carry me away."

Lost in his thoughts, he sat down upon a coil of rope, and went to
sleep. During his sleep, he had a vision. He seemed to hear the sound
of a clanging trumpet, and the sky became blood red, and he knew that
the day of judgment had come. Whilst he was fervently praying to God,
he saw an enormous monster coming towards him, bearing on its forehead
a cross of light, and he recognised the sphinx of Silsile. The monster
seized him between its teeth, without hurting him, and carried him in
its mouth, as a cat carries a kitten. Paphnutius was thus conveyed
across many countries, crossing rivers and traversing mountains, and
came at last to a desert place, covered with scowling rocks and hot
cinders. The ground was rent in many places, and through these
openings came a hot air. The monster gently put Paphnutius down on the
ground, and said--

"Look!"

And Paphnutius, leaning over the edge of the abyss, saw a river of
fire which flowed in the interior of the earth, between two cliffs of
black rocks. There, in a livid light, the demons tormented the souls
of the damned. The souls preserved the appearance of the bodies which
had held them, and even wore some rags of clothing. These souls seemed
peaceful in the midst of their torments. One of them, tall and white,
his eyes closed, a white fillet across his forehead, and a sceptre in
his hand, sang; his voice filled the desert shores with harmony; he
sang of gods and heroes. Little green devils pierced his lips and
throat with red-hot irons. And the shade of Homer still sang. Near by,
old Anaxagoras, bald and hoary, traced figures in the dust with a
compass. A demon poured boiling oil into his ear, yet failed, however,
to disturb the sage's meditations. And the monk saw many other
persons, who, on the dark shore by the side of the burning river,
read, or quietly meditated, or conversed with other spirits while
walking,--like the sages and pupils under the shadow of the sycamore
trees of Academe. Old Timocles alone had withdrawn from the others,
and shook his head like a man who denies. One of the demons of the
abyss shook a torch before his eyes, but Timocles would see neither
the demon nor the torch.

Mute with surprise at this spectacle, Paphnutius turned to the
monster. It had disappeared, and, in place of the sphinx, the monk saw
a veiled woman, who said--

"Look and understand. Such is the obstinacy of these infidels, that,
even in hell, they remain victims of the illusions which deluded them
when on earth. Death has not undeceived them; for it is very plain
that it does not suffice merely to die in order to see God. Those who
are ignorant of the truth whilst living, will be ignorant of it
always. The demons which are busy torturing these souls, what are they
but agents of divine justice? That is why these souls neither see them
nor feel them. They were ignorant of the truth, and therefore unaware
of their own condemnation, and God Himself cannot compel them to
suffer.

"God can do all things," said the Abbot of Antinoe.

"He cannot do that which is absurd," replied the veiled woman. "To
punish them, they must first be enlightened, and if they possessed the
truth, they would be like unto the elect."

Vexed and horrified, Paphnutius again bent over the edge of the abyss.
He saw the shade of Nicias smiling, with a wreath of flowers on his
head, sitting under a burnt myrtle tree. By his side was Aspasia of
Miletus, gracefully draped in a woollen cloak, and they seemed to talk
together of love and philosophy; the expression of her face was sweet
and noble. The rain of fire which fell on them was as a refreshing
dew, and their feet pressed the burning soil as though it had been
tender grass. At this sight Paphnutius was filled with fury.

"Strike him, O God! strike him!" he cried. "It is Nicias! Let him
weep! let him groan! let him grind his teeth! He sinned with Thais!"

And Paphnutius woke in the arms of a sailor, as strong as Hercules,
who cried--

"Quietly! quietly! my friend! By Proteus, the old shepherd of the
seals, you slumber uneasily. If I had not caught hold of you, you
would have tumbled into the Eunostos. It is as true as that my mother
sold salt fish, that I saved your life."

"I thank God," replied Paphnutius.

And, rising to his feet, he walked straight before him, meditating on
the vision which had come to him whilst he was asleep.

"This vision," he said to himself, "is plainly an evil one; it is an
insult to divine goodness to imagine hell is unreal. The dream
certainly came from the devil."

He reasoned thus because he knew how to distinguish between the dreams
sent by God and those produced by evil angels. Such discernment is
useful to the hermit, who lives surrounded by apparitions, and who, in
avoiding men, is sure to meet with spirits. The deserts are full of
phantoms. When the pilgrims drew near the ruined castle, to which the
holy hermit, Anthony, had retired, they heard a noise like that which
goes up from the public square of a large city at a great festival.
The noise was made by the devils, who were tempting the holy man.

Paphnutius remembered this memorable example. He also called to mind
St. John the Egyptian, who for sixty years was tempted by the devil.
But John saw through all the tricks of the demon. One day, however,
the devil, having assumed the appearance of a man, entered the grotto
of the venerable John, and said to him, "John, you must continue to
fast until to-morrow evening." And John, believing that it was an
angel who spoke, obeyed the voice of the demon, and fasted the next
day until the vesper hour. That was the only victory that the Prince
of Darkness ever gained over St. John the Egyptian, and that was but a
trifling one. It was therefore not astonishing that Paphnutius knew at
once that the vision which had visited him in his sleep was an evil
one.

Whilst he was gently remonstrating with God for having given him into
the power of the demons, he felt himself pushed and dragged amidst a
crowd of people who were all hurrying in the same direction. As he was
unaccustomed to walk in the streets of a city, he was shoved and
knocked from one passer to another like an inert mass; and being
embarrassed by the folds of his tunic, he was more than once on the
point of falling. Desirous of knowing where all these people could be
going, he asked one of them the cause of this hurry.

"Do you not know, stranger," replied he, "that the games are about to
begin, and that Thais will appear on the stage? All the citizens are
going to the theatre, and I also am going. Would you like to accompany
me?"

It occurred to him at once that it would further his design to see
Thais in the games, and Paphnutius followed the stranger. In front of
them stood the theatre, its portico ornamented with shining masks, and
its huge circular wall covered with innumerable statues. Following the
crowd, they entered a narrow passage, at the end of which lay the
amphitheatre, glittering with light. They took their places on one of
the seats, which descended in steps to the stage, which was empty but
magnificently decorated. There was no curtain to hide the view, and on
the stage was a mound, such as used to be erected in old times to the
shades of heroes. This mound stood in the midst of a camp. Lances were
stacked in front of the tents, and golden shields hung from masts,
amidst boughs of laurel and wreaths of oak. On the stage all was
silence, but a murmur like the humming of bees in a hive rose from the
vast hemicycle filled with spectators. All their faces, reddened by
the reflection from the purple awning which waved above them, turned
with attentive curiosity towards the large, silent stage, with its
tomb and tents. The women laughed and ate lemons, and the regular
theatre-goers called gaily to one another from their seats.

Paphnutius prayed inwardly, and refrained from uttering any vain
words, but his neighbour began to complain of the decline of the
drama.

"Formerly," he said, "clever actors used to declaim, under a mask, the
verses of Euripides and Menander. Now they no longer recite dramas,
they act in dumb show; and of the divine spectacles with which Bacchus
was honoured in Athens, we have kept nothing but what a barbarian--a
Scythian even--could understand--attitude and gesture. The tragic
mask, the mouth of which was provided with metal tongues that
increased the sound of the voice; the cothurnus, which raised the
actors to the height of gods; the tragic majesty and the splendid
verses that used to be sung, have all gone. Pantomimists, and dancing
girls with bare faces, have replaced Paulus and Roscius. What would
the Athenians of the days of Pericles have said if they had seen a
woman on the stage? It is indecent for a woman to appear in public. We
must be very degenerate to permit it. It is as certain as that my name
is Dorion, that woman is the natural enemy of man, and a disgrace to
human kind."

"You speak wisely," replied Paphnutius; "woman is our worst enemy. She
gives us pleasure, and is to be feared on that account."

"By the immovable gods," cried Dorion, "it is not pleasure that woman
gives to man, but sadness, trouble, and black cares. Love is the cause
of our most biting evils. Listen, stranger. When I was a young man I
visited Troezene, in Argolis, and I saw there a myrtle of a most
prodigious size, the leaves of which were covered with innumerable
pinholes. And this is what the Troezenians say about that myrtle.
Queen Phaedra, when she was in love with Hippolytos, used to recline
idly all day long under this same tree. To beguile the tedium of her
weary life she used to draw out the golden pin which held her fair
locks, and pierce with it the leaves of the sweet-scented bush. All
the leaves were riddled with holes. After she had ruined the poor
young man whom she pursued with her incestuous love, Phaedra, as you
know, perished miserably. She locked herself up in her bridal chamber,
and hanged herself by her golden girdle from an ivory peg. The gods
willed that the myrtle, the witness of her bitter misery, should
continue to bear, in its fresh leaves, the marks of the pin-holes. I
picked one of these leaves, and placed it at the head of my bed, that
by the sight of it I might take warning against the folly of love, and
conform to the doctrine of the divine Epicurus, my master, who taught
that all lust is to be feared. But, properly speaking, love is a
disease of the liver, and one is never sure of not catching the
malady."

Paphnutius asked--

"Dorion, what are your pleasures?"

Dorion replied sadly--

"I have only one pleasure, and, it must be confessed, that it is not a
very exciting one; it is meditation. When a man has a bad digestion,
he must not look for any others."

Taking advantage of these words, Paphnutius proceeded to initiate the
Epicurean into those spiritual joys which the contemplation of God
procures. He began--

"Hear the truth, Dorion, and receive the light."

But he saw then that all heads were turned towards him, and everybody
was making signs for him to be quiet. Dead silence prevailed in the
theatre, broken at last by the strains of heroic music.

The play began. The soldiers left their tents, and were preparing to
depart, when a prodigy occurred--a cloud covered the summit of the
funeral pile. Then the cloud rolled away, and the ghost of Achilles
appeared, clad in golden armour. Extending his arms towards the
warriors, he seemed to say to them, "What! do you depart, children of
Dana