The Sisters of Serapis (Historical Novel). Georg Ebers
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drew back her hand and said with an air of importance:
“The queen has had them in her hand. My sister Klea got them yesterday in the procession.”
Scipio’s face grew grave at these words, and he asked with commanding brevity and sharpness:
“Has your sister black hair and is she taller than you are, and did she wear a golden fillet in the procession? Did she give you these flowers? Yes—do you say? Well then, she had the bunch from me, but although she accepted them she seems to have taken very little pleasure in them, for what we value we do not give away—so there they may go, far enough!”
With these words he flung the flowers over the house and then he went on:
“But you, child, you shall be held guiltless of their loss. Give me your pomegranate-flower, Lysias!”
“Certainly not,” replied the Greek. “You chose to do pleasure to your friend Serapion in your own person when you kept me from going to fetch the peaches, and now I desire to offer this flower to the fair Irene with my own hand.”
“Take this flower,” said Publius, turning his back abruptly on the girl, while Lysias laid the blossom on the trencher in the maiden’s hand; she felt the rough manners of the young Roman as if she had been touched by a hard hand; she bowed silently and timidly and then quickly ran home.
Publius looked thoughtfully after her till Lysias called out to him:
“What has come over me? Has saucy Eros perchance wandered by mistake into the temple of gloomy Serapis this morning?”
“That would not be wise,” interrupted the recluse, “for Cerberus, who lies at the foot of our God, would soon pluck the fluttering wings of the airy youngster,” and as he spoke he looked significantly at the Greek.
“Aye! if he let himself be caught by the three-headed monster,” laughed Lysias. “But come away now, Publius; Eulaeus has waited long enough.”
“You go to him then,” answered the Roman, “I will follow soon; but first I have a word to say to Serapion.”
Since Irene’s disappearance, the old man had turned his attention to the acacia-grove where Eulaeus was still feasting. When the Roman addressed him he said, shaking his great head with dissatisfaction:
“Your eyes of course are no worse than mine. Only look at that man munching and moving his jaws and smacking his lips. By Serapis! you can tell the nature of a man by watching him eat. You know I sit in my cage unwillingly enough, but I am thankful for one thing about it, and that is that it keeps me far from all that such a creature as Eulaeus calls enjoyment—for such enjoyment, I tell you, degrades a man.”
“Then you are more of a philosopher than you wish to seem,” replied Publius.
“I wish to seem nothing,” answered the anchorite.
“For it is all the same to me what others think of me. But if a man who has nothing to do and whose quiet is rarely disturbed, and who thinks his own thoughts about many things is a philosopher, you may call me one if you like. If at any time you should need advice you may come here again, for I like you, and you might be able to do me an important service.”
“Only speak,” interrupted the Roman, “I should be glad from my heart to be of any use to you.”
“Not now,” said Serapion softly. “But come again when you have time—without your companions there, of course—at any rate without Eulaeus, who of all the scoundrels I ever came across is the very worst. It may be as well to tell you at once that what I might require of you would concern not myself but the weal or woe of the water-bearers, the two maidens you have seen and who much need protection.”
“I came here for my parents’ sake and for Klea’s, and not on your account,” said Publius frankly. “There is something in her mien and in her eyes which perhaps may repel others but which attracts me. How came so admirable a creature in your temple?”
“When you come again,” replied the recluse, “I will tell you the history of the sisters and what they owe to Eulaeus. Now go, and understand me when I say the girls are well guarded. This observation is for the benefit of the Greek who is but a heedless fellow; but you, when you know who the girls are, will help me to protect them.”
“That I would do as it is, with real pleasure,” replied Publius; he took leave of the recluse and called out to Eulaeus.
“What a delightful morning it has been!”
“It would have been pleasanter for me,” replied Eulaeus, “if you had not deprived me of your company for such a long time.”
“That is to say,” answered the Roman, “that I have stayed away longer than I ought.”
“You behave after the fashion of your race,” said the other bowing low. “They have kept even kings waiting in their ante-chambers.”
“But you do not wear a crown,” said Publius evasively. “And if any one should know how to wait it is an old courtier, who—”
“When it is at the command of his sovereign,” interrupted Eulaeus, “the old courtier may submit, even when youngsters choose to treat him with contempt.”
“That hits us both,” said Publius, turning to Lysias. “Now you may answer him, I have heard and said enough.”
CHAPTER III.
Irene’s foot was not more susceptible to the chafing of a strap than her spirit to a rough or an unkind word; the Roman’s words and manner had hurt her feelings.
She went towards home with a drooping head and almost crying, but before she had reached it her eyes fell on the peaches and the roast bird she was carrying. Her thoughts flew to her sister and how much the famishing girl would relish so savory a meal; she smiled again, her eyes shone with pleasure, and she went on her way with a quickened step. It never once occurred to her that Klea would ask for the violets, or that the young Roman could be anything more to her sister than any other stranger.
She had never had any other companion than Klea, and after work, when other girls commonly discussed their longings and their agitations and the pleasures and the torments of love, these two used to get home so utterly wearied that they wanted nothing but peace and sleep. If they had sometimes an hour for idle chat Klea ever and again would tell some story of their old home, and Irene, who even within the solemn walls of the temple of Serapis sought and found many innocent pleasures, would listen to her willingly, and interrupt her with questions and with anecdotes of small events or details which she fancied she remembered of her early childhood, but which in fact she had first learnt from her sister, though the force of a lively imagination had made them seem a part and parcel of her own experience.
Klea had not observed Irene’s long absence since, as we know, shortly after her sister had set out, overpowered by hunger and fatigue she had fallen asleep. Before her nodding head had finally sunk and her drooping eyelids had closed, her lips now and then puckered and twitched as if with grief; then her features grew tranquil, her lips parted softly and a smile gently lighted up her blushing cheeks, as the breath of spring softly thaws a frozen blossom. This sleeper was certainly not born for loneliness and privation, but to enjoy and to keep love and happiness.
It was warm and still, very still in the sisters’ little room. The buzz of a fly was audible now and again, as it flew round the little oil-cup Irene had left empty, and now and again the breathing of the sleeper, coming more and more rapidly. Every trace of fatigue had vanished from Klea’s countenance, her lips parted and pouted as if for a kiss, her cheeks glowed, and at last she raised both hands as if to defend herself and stammered out in her dream, “No, no, certainly not—pray, do not! my love—” Then her arm fell again by her side, and dropping on the chest on which she was sitting, the blow woke her. She slowly