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

disappointment which he felt filled him with grief and amazement.

“Go and beg God to forgive thy fault,” said he, gloomily. “Flee before

the evil spirit who involved thee bring thee to utter fall, and before

thou oppose the Saviour. God died on the cross to redeem thy soul with

His blood, but thou hast preferred to love him who wished to make thee

his concubine. God saved thee by a miracle of His own hands, but thou

hast opened thy heart to impure desire, and hast loved the son of

darkness. Who is he? The friend and servant of Antichrist, his

copartner in crime and profligacy. Whither will he lead thee, if not to

that abyss and to that Sodom in which he himself is living, but which

God will destroy with the flame of His anger? But I say to thee, would

thou hadst died, would the walls of this house had fallen on thy head

before that serpent had crept into thy bosom and beslimed it with the

poison of iniquity.”

And he was borne away more and more, for Lygia’s fault filled him not

only with anger but with loathing and contempt for human nature in

general, and in particular for women, whom even Christian truth could

not save from Eve’s weakness. To him it seemed nothing that the maiden

had remained pure, that she wished to flee from that love, that she had

confessed it with compunction and penitence. Crispus had wished to

transform her into an angel, to raise her to heights where love for

Christ alone existed, and she had fallen in love with an Augustian. The

very thought of that filled his heart with horror, strengthened by a

feeling of disillusion and disappointment. No, no, he could not forgive

her. Words of horror burned his lips like glowing coals; he struggled

still with himself not to utter them, but he shook his emaciated hands

over the terrified girl. Lygia felt guilty, but not to that degree.

She had judged even that withdrawal from Miriam’s house would be her

victory over temptation, and would lessen her fault. Crispus rubbed her

into the dust; showed her all the misery and insignificance of her soul,

which she had not suspected hitherto. She had judged even that the old

presbyter, who from the moment of her flight from the Palatine had been

to her as a father, would show some compassion, console her, give her

courage, and strengthen her.

“I offer my pain and disappointment to God,” said he, “but thou hast

deceived the Saviour also, for thou hast gone as it were to a quagmire

which has poisoned thy soul with its miasma. Thou mightst have offered

it to Christ as a costly vessel, and said to Him, ‘Fill it with grace, O

Lord!’ but thou hast preferred to offer it to the servant of the evil

one. May God forgive thee and have mercy on thee; for till thou cast

out the serpent, I who held thee as chosen-”

But he ceased suddenly to speak, for he saw that they were not alone.

Through the withered vines and the ivy, which was green alike in summer

and winter, he saw two men, one of whom was Peter the Apostle. The

other he was unable to recognize at once, for a mantle of coarse woollen

stuff, called cilicium, concealed a part of his face. It seemed to

Crispus for a moment that that was Chilo.

They, hearing the loud voice of Crispus, entered the summer-house and

sat on a stone bench. Peter’s companion had an emaciated face; his

head, which was growing bald, was covered at the sides with curly hair;

he had reddened eyelids and a crooked nose; in the face, ugly and at the

same time inspired, Crispus recognized the features of Paul of Tarsus.

Lygia, casting herself on her knees, embraced Peter’s feet, as if from

despair, and, sheltering her tortured head in the fold of his mantle,

remained thus in silence.

“Peace to your souls!” said Peter.

And seeing the child at his feet he asked what had happened. Crispus

began then to narrate all that Lygia had confessed to him,—her sinful

love, her desire to flee from Miriam’s house,—and his sorrow that a

soul which he had thought to offer to Christ pure as a tear had defiled

itself with earthly feelings for a sharer in all those crimes into which

the pagan world had sunk, and which called for God’s vengeance.

Lygia during his speech embraced with increasing force the feet of the

Apostle, as if wishing to seek refuge near them, and to beg even a

little compassion.

But the Apostle, when he had listened to the end, bent down and placed

his aged hand on her head; then he raised his eyes to the old presbyter,

and said,—“Crispus, hast thou not heard that our beloved Master was in

Cana, at a wedding, and blessed love between man and woman?”

Crispus’s hands dropped, and he looked with astonishment on the speaker,

without power to utter one word. After a moment’s silence Peter asked

again,—“Crispus, dost thou think that Christ, who permitted Mary of

Magdala to lie at his feet, and who forgave the public sinner, would

turn from this maiden, who is as pure as a lily of the field?”

Lygia nestled up more urgently to the feet of Peter, with sobbing,

understanding that she had not sought refuge in vain. The Apostle

raised her face, which was covered with tears, and said to her,—“While

the eyes of him whom thou lovest are not open to the light of truth,

avoid him, lest he bring thee to sin, but pray for him, and know that

there is no sin in thy love. And since it is thy wish to avoid

temptation, this will be accounted to thee as a merit. Do not suffer,

and do not weep; for I tell thee that the grace of the Redeemer has not

deserted thee, and that thy prayers will be heard; after sorrow will

come days of gladness.”

When he had said this, he placed both hands on her head, and, raising

his eyes, blessed her. From his face there shone a goodness beyond that

of earth.

The penitent Crispus began humbly to explain himself; “I have sinned

against mercy,” said he; “but I thought that by admitting to her heart

an earthly love she had denied Christ.”

“I denied Him thrice,” answered Peter, “and still He forgave me, and

commanded me to feed His sheep.”

“And because,” concluded Crispus, “Vinicius is an Augustian.”

“Christ softened harder hearts than his,” replied Peter.

Then Paul of Tarsus, who had been silent so far, placed his finger on

his breast, pointing to himself, and said,—“I am he who persecuted and

hurried servants of Christ to their death; I am he who during the

stoning of Stephen kept the garments of those who stoned him; I am he

who wished to root out the truth in every part of the inhabited earth,

and yet the Lord predestined me to declare it in every land. I have

declared it in Judea, in Greece, on the Islands, and in this godless

city, where first I resided as a prisoner. And now when Peter, my

superior, has summoned me, I enter this house to bend that proud head to

the feet of Christ, and cast a grain of seed in that stony field, which

the Lord will fertilize, so that it may bring forth a bountiful

harvest.”

And he rose. To Crispus that diminutive hunchback seemed then that

which he was in reality,—a giant, who was to stir the world to its

foundations and gather in lands and nations.