Homo Sum. Complete. Georg Ebers
Читать онлайн книгу.
night in his dwelling, as the scanty limits of the cave left but narrow room for the lad.
A new life had this day dawned upon the young man; all the grievances and desires which had filled his soul ever since his journey to Alexandria, crowding together in dull confusion, had taken form and color, and he knew now that he could not remain an anchorite, but must try his over abundant strength in real life.
“My father,” thought he, “was a warrior, and lived in a palace, before he retired into our dingy cave; Paulus was Menander, and to this day has not forgotten how to throw the discus; I am young, strong, and free-born as they were, and Petrus says, I might have been a fine man. I will not hew and chisel stones like his sons, but Caesar needs soldiers, and among all the Amalekites, nay among the Romans in the oasis, I saw none with whom I might not match myself.”
While thus he thought he stretched his limbs, and struck his hands on his broad breast, and when he was asleep, he dreamed of the wrestling school, and of a purple robe that Paulus held out to him, of a wreath of poplar leaves that rested on his scented curls, and of the beautiful woman who had met him on the stairs of the senator’s house.
CHAPTER V
Thanks to the senator’s potion Stephanus soon fell asleep. Paulus sat near him and did not stir; he held his breath, and painfully suppressed even an impulse to cough, so as not to disturb the sick man’s light slumbers.
An hour after midnight the old man awoke, and after he had lain meditating for some time with his eyes open, he said thoughtfully: “You called yourself and us all egotistic, and I certainly am so. I have often said so to myself; not for the first time to day, but for weeks past, since Hermas came back from Alexandria, and seems to have forgotten how to laugh. He is not happy, and when I ask myself what is to become of him when I am dead, and if he turns from the Lord and seeks the pleasures of the world, my heart sickens. I meant it for the best when I brought him with me up to the Holy Mountain, but that was not the only motive—it seemed to me too hard to part altogether from the child. My God! the young of brutes are secure of their mother’s faithful love, and his never asked for him when she fled from my house with her seducer. I thought he should at least not lose his father, and that if he grew up far away from the world he would be spared all the sorrow that it had so profusely heaped upon me, I would have brought him up fit for Heaven, and yet through a life devoid of suffering. And now—and now? If he is miserable it will be through me, and added to all my other troubles comes this grief.”
“You have sought out the way for him,” interrupted Paulus, “and the rest will be sure to come; he loves you and will certainly not leave you so long as you are suffering.”
“Certainly not?” asked the sick man sadly. “And what weapons has he to fight through life with?”
“You gave him the Saviour for a guide; that is enough,” said Paulus soothingly. “There is no smooth road from earth to Heaven, and none can win salvation for another.”
Stephanus was silent for a long time, then he said: “It is not even allowed to a father to earn the wretched experience of life for his son, or to a teacher for his pupil. We may point out the goal, but the way thither is by a different road for each of us.”
“And we may thank God for that,” cried Paulus. “For Hermas has been started on the road which you and I had first to find for ourselves.”
“You and I,” repeated the sick man thoughtfully. “Yes, each of us has sought his own way, but has enquired only which was his own way, and has never concerned himself about that of the other. Self! self!—How many years we have dwelt close together, and I have never felt impelled to ask you what you could recall to mind about your youth, and how you were led to grace. I learnt by accident that you were an Alexandrian, and had been a heathen, and had suffered much for the faith, and with that I was satisfied. Indeed you do not seem very ready to speak of those long past days. Our neighbor should be as dear to us as our self, and who is nearer to me than you? Aye, self and selfishness! There are many gulfs on the road towards God.”
“I have not much to tell,” said Paulus. “But a man never forgets what he once has been. We may cast the old man from us, and believe we have shaken ourselves free, when lo! it is there again and greets us as an old acquaintance. If a frog only once comes down from his tree he hops back into the pond again.”
“It is true, memory can never die!” cried the sick man. “I can not sleep any more; tell me about your early life and how you became a Christian. When two men have journeyed by the same road, and the moment of parting is at hand, they are fain to ask each other’s name and where they came from.”
Paulus gazed for some time into space, and then he began: “The companions of my youth called me Menander, the son of Herophilus. Besides that, I know for certain very little of my youth, for as I have already told you, I have long since ceased to allow myself to think of the world. He who abandons a thing, but clings to the idea of the thing, continues—”
“That sounds like Plato,” said Stephanus with a smile.
“All that heathen farrago comes back to me today,” cried Paulus. “I used to know it well, and I have often thought that his face must have resembled that of the Saviour.”
“But only as a beautiful song might resemble the voice of an angel,” said Stephanus somewhat drily. “He who plunges into the depths of philosophic systems—”
“That never was quite my case,” said Paulus. “I did indeed go through the whole educational course; Grammar, Rhetoric, Dialectic and Music—”
“And Arithmetic, Geometry, and Astronomy,” added Stephanus.
“Those were left to the learned many years since,” continued Paulus, “and I was never very eager for learning. In the school of Rhetoric I remained far behind my fellows, and if Plato was dear to me I owe it to Paedonomus of Athens, a worthy man whom my father engaged to teach us.”
“They say he had been a great merchant,” interrupted Stephanus. “Can it be that you were the son of that rich Herophilus, whose business in Antioch was conducted by the worthy Jew Urbib?”
“Yes indeed,” replied Paulus, looking down at the ground in some confusion. “Our mode of life was almost royal, and the multitude of our slaves quite sinful. When I look back on all the vain trifles that my father had to care for, I feel quite giddy. Twenty sea-going ships in the harbor of Eunostus, and eighty Nile-boats on Lake Mareotis belonged to him. His profits on the manufacture of papyrus might have maintained a cityfull of poor. But we needed our revenues for other things. Our Cyraenian horses stood in marble stalls, and the great hall, in which my father’s friends were wont to meet, was like a temple. But you see how the world takes possession of us, when we begin to think about it! Rather let us leave the past in peace. You want me to tell you more of myself? Well; my childhood passed like that of a thousand other rich citizens’ sons, only my mother, indeed, was exceptionally beautiful and sweet, and of angelic goodness.”
“Every child thinks his own mother the best of mothers,” murmured the sick man.
“Mine certainly was the best to me,” cried Paulus. “And yet she was a heathen. When my father hurt me with severe words of blame, she always had a kind word and loving glance for me. There was little enough, indeed, to praise in me. Learning was utterly distasteful to me, and even if I had done better at school, it would hardy have counted for much to my credit, for my brother Apollonius, who was about a year younger than I, learned all the most difficult things as if they were mere child’s play, and in dialectic exercises there soon was no rhetorician in Alexandria who could compete with him. No system was unknown to him, and though no one ever knew of his troubling himself particularly to study, he nevertheless was master of many departments of learning. There were but two things in which I could beat him—in music, and in all athletic exercises; while he was studying and disputing I was winning garlands in the palaestra. But at that time the best master of rhetoric and argument was the best man, and my father, who himself could shine in the senate as an ardent and elegant orator, looked upon me as a half idiotic ne’er-do-weel, until one clay a learned client of our house presented him with a pebble on which was carved an epigram to this effect: ‘He