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

that by conversing with him, she might attract him to the faith. But at

the same time conscience told her that she was tempting herself; that

only love for him and the charm which he exerted were attracting her,

nothing else. Thus she lived in a ceaseless struggle, which was

intensified daily. At times it seemed that a kind of net surrounded

her, and that in trying to break through it she entangled herself more

and more. She had also to confess that for her the sight of him was

becoming more needful, his voice was becoming dearer, and that she had

to struggle with all her might against the wish to sit at his bedside.

When she approached him, and he grew radiant, delight filled her heart.

On a certain day she noticed traces of tears on his eyelids, and for the

first time in life the thought came to her, to dry them with kisses.

Terrified by that thought, and full of self-contempt, she wept all the

night following.

He was as enduring as if he had made a vow of patience. When at moments

his eyes flashed with petulance, self-will, and anger, he restrained

those flashes promptly, and looked with alarm at her, as if to implore

pardon. This acted still more on her. Never had she such a feeling of

being greatly loved as then; and when she thought of this, she felt at

once guilty and happy. Vinicius, too, had changed essentially. In his

conversations with Glaucus there was less pride. It occurred to him

frequently that even that poor slave physician and that foreign woman,

old Miriam, who surrounded him with attention, and Crispus, whom he saw

absorbed in continual prayer, were still human. He was astonished at

such thoughts, but he had them. After a time he conceived a liking for

Ursus, with whom he conversed entire days; for with him he could talk

about Lygia. The giant, on his part, was inexhaustible in narrative,

and while performing the most simple services for the sick man, he began

to show him also some attachment. For Vinicius, Lygia had been at all

times a being of another order, higher a hundred times than those around

her: nevertheless, he began to observe simple and poor people,—a thing

which he had never done before,—and he discovered in them various

traits the existence of which he had never suspected.

Nazarius, however, he could not endure, for it seemed to him that the

young lad had dared to fall in love with Lygia. He had restrained his

aversion for a long time, it is true; but once when he brought her two

quails, which he had bought in the market with his own earned money, the

descendant of the Quirites spoke out in Vinicius, for whom one who had

wandered in from a strange people had less worth than the meanest worm.

When he heard Lygia’s thanks, he grew terribly pale; and when Nazarius

went out to get water for the birds, he said,—“Lygia, canst thou endure

that he should give thee gifts? Dost thou not know that the Greeks call

people of his nation Jewish dogs?”

“I do not know what the Greeks call them; but I know that Nazarius is a

Christian and my brother.”

When she had said this she looked at Vinicius with astonishment and

regret, for he had disaccustomed her to similar outbursts; and he set

his teeth, so as not to tell her that he would have given command to

beat such a brother with sticks, or would have sent him as a compeditus

[A man who labors with chained feet] to dig earth in his Sicilian

vineyards. He restrained himself, however, throttled the anger within

him, and only after a while did he say,—“Pardon me, Lygia. For me thou

art the daughter of a king and the adopted child of Plautius.” And he

subdued himself to that degree that when Nazarius appeared in the

chamber again, he promised him, on returning to his villa, the gift of a

pair of peacocks or flamingoes, of which he had a garden full.

Lygia understood what such victories over himself must have cost him;

but the oftener he gained them the more her heart turned to him. His

merit with regard to Nazarius was less, however, than she supposed.

Vinicius might be indignant for a moment, but he could not be jealous of

him. In fact the son of Miriam did not, in his eyes, mean much more

than a dog; besides, he was a child yet, who, if he loved Lygia, loved

her unconsciously and servilely. Greater struggles must the young

tribune have with himself to submit, even in silence, to that honor with

which among those people the name of Christ and His religion was

surrounded. In this regard wonderful things took place in Vinicius.

That was in every case a religion which Lygia believed; hence for that

single reason he was ready to receive it. Afterward, the more he

returned to health, the more he remembered the whole series of events

which had happened since that night at Ostrianum, and the whole series

of thoughts which had come to his head from that time, the more he was

astonished at the superhuman power of that religion which changed the

souls of men to their foundations. He understood that in it there was

something uncommon, something which had not been on earth before, and he

felt that could it embrace the whole world, could it ingraft on the

world its love and charity, an epoch would come recalling that in which

not Jupiter, but Saturn had ruled. He did not dare either to doubt the

supernatural origin of Christ, or His resurrection, or the other

miracles. The eye-witnesses who spoke of them were too trustworthy and

despised falsehood too much to let him suppose that they were telling

things that had not happened. Finally, Roman scepticism permitted

disbelief in the gods, but believed in miracles. Vinicius, therefore,

stood before a kind of marvellous puzzle which he could not solve. On

the other hand, however, that religion seemed to him opposed to the

existing state of things, impossible of practice, and mad in a degree

beyond all others. According to him, people in Rome and in the whole

world might be bad, but the order of things was good. Had Cæsar, for

example, been an honest man, had the Senate been composed, not of

insignificant libertines, but of men like Thrasea, what more could one

wish? Nay, Roman peace and supremacy were good; distinction among

people just and proper. But that religion, according to the

understanding of Vinicius, would destroy all order, all supremacy, every

distinction. What would happen then to the dominion and lordship of

Rome? Could the Romans cease to rule, or could they recognize a whole

herd of conquered nations as equal to themselves? That was a thought

which could find no place in the head of a patrician. As regarded him

personally, that religion was opposed to all his ideas and habits, his

whole character and understanding of life. He was simply unable to

imagine how he could exist were he to accept it. He feared and admired

it; but as to accepting it, his nature shuddered at that. He

understood, finally, that nothing save that religion separated him from

Lygia; and when he thought of this, he hated it with all the powers of

his soul.

Still he acknowledged to himself that it had adorned Lygia with that

exceptional, unexplained beauty which in his heart had produced, besides

love, respect, besides desire, homage, and had made of that same Lygia a

being dear to him beyond all others in the world. And then he wished

anew to love Christ. And he understood clearly that he must either love

or hate Him; he could not remain indifferent. Meanwhile two opposing

currents were as if driving him: he hesitated in thoughts, in feelings;

he knew not how to choose, he bowed his head, however, to that God by

him uncomprehended, and paid silent honor for this sole reason, that He

was Lygia’s God.

Lygia saw what was happening in him; she saw how he was breaking

himself, how his nature was rejecting that religion; and though this

mortified her to the death, compassion, pity, and gratitude for the

silent respect which he showed Christ inclined her heart to him with

irresistible force. She recalled Pomponia Græcina and Aulus. For

Pomponia a source of ceaseless sorrow and tears that never dried was the

thought that beyond the grave she would not find Aulus. Lygia began now

to understand better that pain, that bitterness. She too had found a

being dear to her, and she was threatened by eternal separation from

this dear one.

At times, it is true, she was self-deceived, thinking that his soul

would open itself to Christ’s teaching; but these illusions could not

remain. She knew and understood him too well. Vinicius a Christian!—

These two ideas could find no place together in her unenlightened head.

If the thoughtful, discreet Aulus had not become a Christian under the

influence of the wise and perfect Pomponia, how could Vinicius become

one? To this there was no answer, or rather there was only one,—that

for him there was neither hope nor salvation.

But Lygia saw with terror that that sentence of condemnation which hung

over him instead of making him repulsive made him still dearer simply

through compassion. At moments the wish seized her to speak to him of

his dark future; but once, when she had sat near him and told him that

outside Christian truth there was no life, he, having grown stronger at

that time, rose on his sound arm and placed his head on her knees

suddenly. “Thou art life!” said he. And that moment breath failed in

her breast, presence of mind left her, a certain quiver of ecstasy

rushed over her from head to feet. Seizing his temples with her hands,

she tried to raise him, but bent the while so that her lips touched his

hair; and for a moment both were overcome with delight, with themselves,

and with love, which urged them the one to the other.

Lygia rose at last and rushed away, with a flame in her veins and a

giddiness in her head; but that was the drop which overflowed the cup

filled already to the brim. Vinicius did not divine how dearly he would

have to pay for that happy moment, but Lygia understood that now she

herself needed rescue. She spent the night after that evening without

sleep, in tears and in prayer, with the feeling that she was unworthy to

pray and could not be heard. Next morning she went from the cubiculum

early, and, calling Crispus to the garden summer-house, covered with ivy

and withered vines, opened her whole soul to him, imploring him at the

same time to let her leave Miriam’s house, since she could not trust

herself longer, and could not overcome her heart’s love for Vinicius.

Crispus, an old man, severe and absorbed in endless enthusiasm,

consented to the plan of leaving Miriam’s house, but he had no words of

forgiveness for that love, to his thinking sinful. His heart swelled

with indignation at the very thought that Lygia, whom he had guarded

since the time of her flight, whom he had loved, whom he had confirmed

in the faith, and on whom he looked now as a white lily grown up on the

field of Christian teaching undefiled by any earthly breath, could have

found a place in her soul for love other than heavenly. He had believed

hitherto that nowhere in the world did there beat a heart more purely

devoted to the glory of Christ. He wanted to offer her to Him as a

pearl, a