ACTÉ, page 13
“But all the people began to shout: ‘This is the feast of the Passover, and you are bound to release a criminal unto us; put this man to death, and deliver Barabbas to us.’
“Pilate again remonstrated with the multitude, which demanded the death of Jesus; but they all answered: ‘Crucify him, crucify him!’
“And I,” continued the old man, smiting his breast, “I was one of that crowd, and shouted with all my might: ‘Crucify him, crucify him!’
“Pilate accordingly ordered that Barabbas should be released, and abandoned Jesus to the will of his executioners.
“Ah! Lord, pardon me,” said the old man, prostrating himself with his face to the ground; “Lord, I followed thee to Calvary; I saw thy hands and feet nailed to the cross; I saw thee drink the vinegar; I saw the sky covered with darkness and the sun hidden behind the clouds, and the veil of the Temple rent in twain; I heard thee cry with a loud voice ‘Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit;’ at thy voice I felt the earth tremble to its foundations — or rather I saw nothing, I heard nothing, for I was blind and deaf. Lord, pardon me; it was my fault, my grievous fault.”
The old man remained for some time with his face bowed to the ground, praying and groaning in a low tone, while Acté looked at him silently, with her hands clasped, surprised at this exhibition of remorse and humility in one whom she thought so powerful.
At last he rose and said:
“That is not all, my daughter. My hatred for the prophet was succeeded by a hatred for his disciples. The Apostles, occupied in preaching the Word, chose seven deacons to distribute the alms; the people rose against one of these deacons, named Stephen, and haled him before the tribunal, where false witnesses accused him of having spoken blasphemously against God, against Moses and the Law. Stephen was condemned to death; his foes immediately threw themselves upon him, dragged him outside Jerusalem, in order to stone him in accordance with the laws against blasphemers. I was among those who had demanded the death of the first martyr; I was not of the number of those who threw stones, but I kept the raiment of those who did. Doubtless I was included among those for whom the condemned martyr prayed in that sublime prayer, unknown before Jesus Christ: ‘Lord, lay not this sin to their charge; forgive them, for they know not what they do.’
“However, if the moment of forgiveness had not arrived, it was at least approaching quickly. The chiefs of the Synagogue, seeing my zeal in persecuting the infant Church, sent me into Syria to hunt out Christians and bring them to Jerusalem. I followed the banks of the Jordan from the river Jaher as far as Capernaum: I saw once more the shores of the Lake of Gennesareth where the miraculous draught of fishes had taken place. At last I reached the Hermon range, still pursuing my scheme of vengeance, when, on reaching the top of a hill from which is visible the plain of Damascus and the twenty-seven rivers that water it, I was suddenly surrounded and struck down by a light from heaven; then I fell to the ground like a dead man and heard a voice saying to me: ‘Saul! Saul! why persecutest thou Me?’
“‘Lord,’ said I, trembling, ‘who art Thou, and what wilt Thou with me?’
“‘I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest,’ the voice replied, ‘and I would use thee to spread abroad My Gospel — thou who hast hitherto striven to destroy it.’
“‘Lord,’ I continued, more trembling and affrighted than before, ‘what wilt Thou have me to do?’
“‘Rise, and enter the city, and there it shall be told thee what thou must do.’
“Those who accompanied me were almost as much astonished as myself, for they heard a loud voice though they saw no man. At last, hearing nothing more, I rose and opened my eyes; but it seemed to me as though the brilliant light had been succeeded by the thickest darkness. I was blind; I stretched out my arms therefore and said: ‘Lead me, for I can see nothing.’ One of my attendants then took me by the hand and led me to Damascus, where I remained three days without eating or drinking.
“On the third day, an unknown man, whose name, however, I knew to be Ananias, seemed to approach me; at the same moment I felt that hands were laid upon me, and a voice said: ‘Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to thee in the way by which thou earnest, hath sent me that thou mayest recover thy sight and be filled with the Holy Ghost.’ And immediately there fell from my eyes as it had been scales, and I saw. Then, falling on my knees, I asked to be baptised.
“Since that time, as zealous in my faith as I had been implacable in my hatred, I have traversed Judaea from Sidon to Arad, and from Mount Seir to the torrent of Besor; I have gone through Asia, Bithynia and Macedonia; I have visited Athens and Corinth, have touched at Malta and landed at Syracuse. From there, after coasting round Sicily, I entered the harbour of Puteoli, where I have been for fifteen days waiting for letters from Rome, which reached me yesterday; these letters are from my Christian brethren, asking me to visit them. The day of triumph is at hand, and God is preparing the way for us; for, while he sends hope to His people, He is sending madness upon the Emperors to the end the old world may be undermined from top to base. It was not Chance, but Providence, that dealt out panic terror to Tiberius, weak imbecility to Claudius and madness to Nero. A succession of Emperors such as these makes the existence of the gods they worship to be called in question; and so gods and Emperors will fall together — the former despised, the latter execrated.”
“Oh! my father!” cried Acté, “stop — have pity on me.”
“Why! what have you to do with these names of blood and terror?” replied Paul in astonishment.
“My father,” continued the girl, hiding her face in her hands, “you have told me your story and you ask me to tell mine; it is a very short, though a terrible, a criminal one: I am Caesar’s mistress.”
“I look upon that but as a fault, my child,” answered Paul, approaching her with interest and curiosity.
“Ah! but I love him,” cried Acté; “I love him more than I shall ever love man on earth or God in heaven.”
“Alas! Alas!” murmured the old man, “that is where the crime is;” and kneeling down in a corner of the hut, he began to pray.
CHAPTER XII
WHEN night arrived, Paul also girded up his loins, made fast his sandals, took his staff, and then turned to Acté, who was quite ready, and still determined on flight. Where she was going mattered little, so long as she got out of reach of Nero. For the moment, the horror and dread she had experienced on the previous evening still urged her to accomplish this project. But she fully realised that if she hesitated for a day, or if she saw this man again who exerted such a powerful influence over her heart, she was lost; that she would have neither courage nor strength to relinquish her love, spite of all that had passed, and that her life would yet be lost in his feverish and overpowering life, as a rivulet is swallowed up by the ocean. For, strange to say, her lover was always Lucius in her eyes, and never Nero; the victor in the Olympic games and the Emperor were two distinct individuals, and her life was divided into two quite different phases — one consisting of her love for Lucius, of the sincerity of which she felt quite sure, entirely convinced; the other, of Nero’s love for her, which seemed to her only like a dream.
On quitting the cottage, her eyes turned towards the bay which had witnessed on the previous evening the terrible catastrophe which we have related; the sea was calm and the air clear, the moon lit up the sky, and the lighthouse of Misenum the land, so that the other side of the gulf was as clearly visible as by daylight. Acté perceived the dark mass of the trees surrounding Bauli, and, thinking that Lucius was there, she stopped and uttered a sigh. Paul waited for a moment, then, taking a few steps towards her, he asked in a sympathetic tone:
“Are you not coming, my child?”
“O my father!” said Acté, not daring to confess to the old man the emotions which had caused her to stop, “yesterday I left Nero, and accompanied his mother Agrippina. The ship which carried us was wrecked, and we both had to swim for our lives, and after the boat took her in, I saw no more of her. I should not like to quit this shore without knowing what has become of her.”
Paul extended his hand towards the villa of Julius Caesar, and pointing out to Acté a bright light rising between that building and the road to Misenum, observed:
“You see that flame?”
“Yes.”
“Well!” continued the old man, “that is the flame of her funeral pyre.”
And he resumed the journey, as though knowing that these few words would form an answer to what was passing in Acté’s mind; and, in point of fact, she followed him without another word or another sigh.
They kept close to the sea for some time, passed through Puteoli, and took the road to Neapolis. On arriving within about a mile of the city, they left it on the right and took a path which lead them into the road to Capua. Towards one o’clock in the morning they came to Atella, and presently they saw a man standing in the road, apparently expecting them; this man proved to be Silas, Paul’s messenger. The old man and he exchanged a few words, and then Silas struck across the fields, followed by Paul and Acté, and they presently reached a small, secluded house, where they were evidently looked for, for the door was opened directly Silas knocked at it.
The whole family, including the servants, were assembled in an elegant atrium and seemed to be waiting for them. No sooner did Paul appear at the threshold than they all knelt down. Paul extended his hands over them and blessed them; the mistress of the house then conducted him to the dining-hall, and insisted on herself washing the traveller’s feet before he partook of the meal which was already served and waiting for them. As for Acté, who was a stranger to this new religion, and who was entirely absorbed in the multitude of thoughts which were oppressing her heart, she asked to be allowed to retire. Immediately a handsome girl of fifteen or sixteen, veiled like a vestal, conducted her to her chamber, and returned presently, bringing Acté her share of the family meal.
Everything was a subject of astonishment to Acté. At her father’s house she had never heard the Christians spoken of except as a crack-brained sect of ideologists, who added one more to the number of those petty schools of fanaticism in which the doctrines of Pythagoras, the morality of Socrates, the philosophy of Epicurus or the theories of Plato were discussed and refuted; at the Court of Caesar, she had only heard them alluded to as an impious race given over to the most odious superstitions and the most abominable debaucheries — useful to be thrown to the people when they demanded a scapegoat, or to the lions when the leaders of society wanted a holiday. It was but a day since her life had been saved by Paul, but a day since she had become acquainted with the Christians; and yet these few hours had sufficed to efface this mistaken impression which she had derived from Greek philosophy and the Emperor’s hatred. What she had realised particularly in regard to the new sect was their devotion, for devotion is almost always the predominant virtue of the woman who is in love, be her faith or her creed what it may; and she had come to feel an instinctive sympathy for this religion which enjoined upon the powerful the protection of the weak, upon the rich, charity towards the poor, and on the very martyrs, prayers for their executioners.
The next evening they resumed their journey at the same hour at which they had set out on the day before. This time, they travelled a longer distance; they left Capua on their right, the city which an error of Hannibal’s has rendered as famous as any victory could have done; then they halted on the banks of the river Vulturnus. They had hardly arrived there when a boat rowed by a waterman issued from a small creek and came towards them; Paul and the boatman exchanged signs of recognition, and the old man and Acté stepped into the boat. When they had reached the farther bank, Paul held out a piece of money to the boatman; but the latter, falling on his knees, silently kissed the hem of the Apostle’s cloak, and remained in this humble attitude long after the man to whom he had just accorded this mark of respect had left him. Towards three o’clock a man who was seated on one of those stones which the Romans placed by the roadside to assist travellers in mounting their horses rose at their approach; this was their silent and watchful messenger, who was waiting for them as on the previous evening to conduct them to their resting-place. This time no elegant mansion, as on the night before, awaited them, but a poor cottage; no splendid supper, served in a marble triclinium, but only a share of bread steeped in tears — the poor man’s staff of life offered with the same respect as that with which the superfluity of the rich man had been bestowed.
The host who received them bore on his forehead the brand of a slave, and had an iron collar round his neck and two iron rings round his legs; this man was the shepherd of a wealthy estate, and drove to their pasture the thousands of sheep belonging to a hard and avaricious master, yet he had not a sheepskin to throw over his shoulders. He had placed a loaf on the table, and beside the loaf an earthenware vase, common in material, but artistic in shape; in a corner of the room he had spread a bed of ferns and reeds; and these humble preparations were doubtless of more value in the sight of God than the most splendid hospitality of the wealthiest could have been.
Paul sat at the table with Acté beside him: their host, having done for them all he could, went into a room at the side, and presently they heard through the half-closed door the sound of grief and sobs. Acté laid her hand on Paul’s arm:
“Don’t you hear, my father?” she said.
“Yes, my daughter,” answered the old man; “tears of bitterness are being shed in yonder room, but He who afflicts can comfort.”
A moment later their host entered and sat down, without saying a word, in a corner of the room; then, resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands.
And Acté, seeing him so sad and dejected, went and knelt beside him and said in a low tone:
“Slave, why do you not speak to this man here? perhaps he may have some remedy for your affliction, some consolation for your grief.”
“Thank you,” replied the slave, “but our sorrow is not such as can be healed by words.”
“O man of little faith,” said Paul, rising, “wherefore dost thou doubt? Knowest thou not the miracles wrought by the Christ?”
“Yes, but Christ is dead,” exclaimed the slave, shaking his head; “the Jews nailed Him to the cross, and He is now in Heaven at the right hand of His Father. Blessed be His Name!”
“Knowest thou not,” replied Paul, “that He has bequeathed His power to His Apostles?”
“My child, my poor child!” said the father, bursting into sobs and without answering Paul.
A dull groan which was heard in the adjoining room sounded like an echo to this outburst of grief.
“0 my father!” said Acté, turning to Paul, “if you can do anything for these unhappy people, do it, I beg of you. Though I do not know the cause of their despair, it rends my heart; ask him what is the matter, perhaps he will give you an answer.”
“I know what is the matter,” said the old man; “he lacks faith.”
“And how would you have me believe? how would you have me hope?” said the afflicted man: “my whole life has been nothing but sorrow. A slave, the son of a slave, I have never known a moment’s happiness; as a child, I was not even free when I lay at my mother’s breast; as a young man, I had to toil incessantly beneath the rod and the lash; as a husband and a father, I was robbed each day of the food necessary for my wife and child — my child who, struck even when in his mother’s womb by the blows which they heaped on her during her pregnancy, came into this world a cripple and dumb — my child, whom we loved, victim of the wrath of heaven though he was, and who we hoped would escape his natural destiny by his very misfortunes. Well! no, such happiness was not to be; his master sold him yesterday to one of the men who traffic in human flesh; who value what can be made out of every infirmity; who grow rich by making the unhappy creatures, whose sores they reopen or whose limbs they twist every evening, beg for them in the streets of Rome; and to-morrow, to-morrow! they are going to tear him from us to hand him over to this torture — the poor innocent, who will not have even a voice with which to complain, to call us to his help, or to curse his tormentors!”
“And what if God were to cure your child?” said the old man.
“Oh! in that case they would leave him with us,” cried the father, “for what these wretches are making merchandise of is his misfortunes, his crippled limbs, his tied tongue; if he could walk and talk, he would be like other children, and possess no money value until he grew into a man.”
“Open that door,” said Paul.
The slave rose with astonishment depicted on his countenance, filled at once with doubt and hope, and, going to the door, obeyed the Apostle’s order. Acté, though her eyes were filled with tears, could then see into the other room; it contained, like the one they were in, a bed of ferns; on this bed was seated a child of four or five, smiling unconcernedly and playing with some flowers, while a woman lay beside him, stiff and motionless, her face turned towards the ground and her hands buried in her hair, her whole attitude resembling that of a statue of Despair.
At this sight the Apostle’s face assumed a sublime expression of confidence and faith; his eyes were uplifted to heaven with a fixed and eager gaze as though they penetrated to the throne of the Holy One; a ray of light played like an aureole around his white locks, and, without moving a step from his place he extended his hand slowly and solemnly towards the child and uttered but these words: “In the name of the living God, Creator of heaven and earth, arise and speak!” The child rose and said: “Blessed be Thy Name, O Lord!” The mother sprang to her feet with a cry, the father fell on his knees; the child was saved.
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