第8章 THE LOTUS(8)

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.