Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

hearts; therefore I have not seen Pomponia from the hour when I left her

house. From time to time distant echoes barely reach her that I am

alive and not in danger.”

Here a longing seized Lygia, and her eyes were moist with tears; but she

calmed herself quickly, and said,—“I know that Pomponia, too, yearns

for me; but we have consolation which others have not.”

“Yes,” answered Vinicius, “Christ is your consolation, but I do not

understand that.”

“Look at us! For us there are no partings, no pains, no sufferings; or

if they come they are turned into pleasure. And death itself, which for

you is the end of life, is for us merely its beginning,—the exchange of

a lower for a higher happiness, a happiness less calm for one calmer and

eternal. Consider what must a religion be which enjoins on us love even

for our enemies, forbids falsehood, purifies our souls from hatred, and

promises happiness inexhaustible after death.”

“I heard those teachings in Ostrianum, and I have seen how ye acted with

me and with Chilo; when I remember your deeds, they are like a dream,

and it seems to me that I ought not to believe my ears or eyes. But

answer me this question: Art thou happy?”

“I am,” answered Lygia. “One who confesses Christ cannot be unhappy.”

Vinicius looked at her, as though what she said passed every measure of

human understanding.

“And hast thou no wish to return to Pomponia?”

“I should like, from my whole soul, to return to her; and shall return,

if such be God’s will.”

“I say to thee, therefore, return; and I swear by my lares that I will

not raise a hand against thee.”

Lygia thought for a moment, and answered,—“No, I cannot expose those

near me to danger. Cæsar does not like the Plautiuses. Should I return

—thou knowest how every news is spread throughout Rome by slaves—my

return would be noised about in the city. Nero would hear of it surely

through his slaves, and punish Aulus and Pomponia,—at least take me

from them a second time.”

“True,” answered Vinicius, frowning, “that would be possible. He would

do so, even to show that his will must be obeyed. It is true that he

only forgot thee, or would remember thee, because the loss was not his,

but mine. Perhaps, if he took thee from Aulus and Pomponia, he would

send thee to me and I could give thee back to them.”

“Vinicius, wouldst thou see me again on the Palatine?” inquired Lygia.

He set his teeth, and answered,—“No. Thou art right. I spoke like a

fool! No!”

And all at once he saw before him a precipice, as it were without

bottom. He was a patrician, a military tribune, a powerful man; but

above every power of that world to which he belonged was a madman whose

will and malignity it was impossible to foresee. Only such people as

the Christians might cease to reckon with Nero or fear him,—people for

whom this whole world, with its separations and sufferings, was as

nothing; people for whom death itself was as nothing. All others had to

tremble before him. The terrors of the time in which they lived showed

themselves to Vinicius in all their monstrous extent. He could not

return Lygia to Aulus and Pomponia, then, through fear that the monster

would remember her, and turn on her his anger; for the very same reason,

if he should take her as wife, he might expose her, himself, and Aulus.

A moment of ill-humor was enough to ruin all. Vinicius felt, for the

first time in life, that either the world must change and be

transformed, or life would become impossible altogether. He understood

also this, which a moment before had been dark to him, that in such

times only Christians could be happy.

But above all, sorrow seized him, for he understood, too, that it was he

who had so involved his own life and Lygia’s that out of the

complication there was scarcely an outcome. And under the influence of

that sorrow he began to speak:

“Dost thou know that thou art happier than I? Thou art in poverty, and

in this one chamber, among simple people, thou hast thy religion and thy

Christ; but I have only thee, and when I lacked thee I was like a beggar

without a roof above him and without bread. Thou art dearer to me than

the whole world. I sought thee, for I could not live without thee. I

wished neither feasts nor sleep. Had it not been for the hope of finding

thee, I should have cast myself on a sword. But I fear death, for if

dead I could not see thee. I speak the pure truth in saying that I

shall not be able to live without thee. I have lived so far only in the

hope of finding and beholding thee. Dost thou remember our

conversations at the house of Aulus? Once thou didst draw a fish for me

on the sand, and I knew not what its meaning was. Dost thou remember

how we played ball? I loved thee then above life, and thou hadst begun

already to divine that I loved thee. Aulus came, frightened us with

Libitina, and interrupted our talk. Pomponia, at parting, told

Petronius that God is one, all-mighty and all-merciful, but it did not

even occur to us that Christ was thy God and hers. Let Him give thee to

me and I will love Him, though He seems to me a god of slaves,

foreigners, and beggars. Thou sittest near me, and thinkest of Him

only. Think of me too, or I shall hate Him. For me thou alone art a

divinity. Blessed be thy father and mother; blessed the land which

produced thee! I should wish to embrace thy feet and pray to thee, give

thee honor, homage, offerings, thou thrice divine! Thou knowest not, or

canst not know, how I love thee.”

Thus speaking, he placed his hand on his pale forehead and closed his

eyes. His nature never knew bounds in love or anger. He spoke with

enthusiasm, like a man who, having lost self-control, has no wish to

observe any measure in words or feelings. But he spoke from the depth

of his soul, and sincerely. It was to be felt that the pain, ecstasy,

desire, and homage accumulated in his breast had burst forth at last in

an irresistible torrent of words. To Lygia his words appeared

blasphemous, but still her heart began to beat as if it would tear the

tunic enclosing her bosom. She could not resist pity for him and his

suffering. She was moved by the homage with which he spoke to her. She

felt beloved and deified without bounds; she felt that that unbending

and dangerous man belonged to her now, soul and body, like a slave; and

that feeling of his submission and her own power filled her with

happiness. Her recollections revived in one moment. He was for her

again that splendid Vinicius, beautiful as a pagan god; he, who in the

house of Aulus had spoken to her of love, and roused as if from sleep

her heart half childlike at that time; he from whose embraces Ursus had

wrested her on the Palatine, as he might have wrested her from flames.

But at present, with ecstasy, and at the same time with pain in his

eagle face, with pale forehead and imploring eyes,—wounded, broken by

love, loving, full of homage and submissive,—he seemed to her such as

she would have wished him, and such as she would have loved with her

whole soul, therefore dearer than he had ever been before.

All at once she understood that a moment might come in which his love

would seize her and bear her away, as a whirlwind; and when she felt

this, she had the same impression that he had a moment before,—that she

was standing on the edge of a precipice. Was it for this that she had

left the house of Aulus? Was it for this that she had saved herself by

flight? Was it for this that she had hidden so long in wretched parts

of the city? Who was that Vinicius? An Augustian, a soldier, a

courtier of Nero! Moreover he took part in his profligacy and madness,

as was shown by that feast, which she could not forget; and he went with

others to the temples, and made offerings to vile gods, in whom he did

not believe, perhaps, but still he gave them official honor. Still more

he had pursued her to make her his slave and mistress, and at the same

time to thrust her into that terrible world of excess, luxury, crime,

and dishonor which calls for the anger and vengeance of God. He seemed

changed, it is true, but still he had just said to her that if she would

think more of Christ than of him, he was ready to hate Christ. It

seemed to Lygia that the very idea of any other love than the love of

Christ was a sin against Him and against religion. When she saw then

that other feelings and desires might be roused in the depth of her

soul, she was seized by alarm for her own future and her own heart.

At this moment of internal struggle appeared Glaucus, who had come to

care for the patient and study his health. In the twinkle of an eye,

anger and impatience were reflected on the face of Vinicius. He was

angry that his conversation with Lygia had been interrupted; and when

Glaucus questioned him, he answered with contempt almost. It is true

that he moderated himself quickly; but if Lygia had any illusions as to

this,—that what he had heard in Ostrianum might have acted on his

unyielding nature,—those illusions must vanish. He had changed only

for her; but beyond that single feeling there remained in his breast the

former harsh and selfish heart, truly Roman and wolfish, incapable not

only of the sweet sentiment of Christian teaching but even of gratitude.

She went away at last filled with internal care and anxiety. Formerly in

her prayers she had offered to Christ a heart calm, and really pure as a

tear. Now that calmness was disturbed. To the interior of the flower a

poisonous insect had come and began to buzz. Even sleep, in spite of

the two nights passed without sleep, brought her no relief. She dreamed

that at Ostrianum Nero, at the head of a whole band of Augustians,

bacchantes, corybantes, and gladiators, was trampling crowds of

Christians with his chariot wreathed in roses; and Vinicius seized her

by the arm, drew her to the quadriga, and, pressing her to his bosom,

whispered “Come with us.”