Part 7

She wished to show him the vase, which a kind uncle had sent her as a birthday present from Trebizond. Her countenance was radiant from sheer joy at having her beloved beside her alone, and at being able to show him something pretty, and he too was genuinely happy. Besides, there was sunshine in his heart at last, so that he could no longer keep his lips from smiling trustfully nor his eyes from sparkling.

But the ancients have forgotten to give a name to the envious divinity, the rival of gentle Eros, who, at the critical moment when good fortune is closest at hand, throws a veil over lovers' eyes, and twists the word in their mouth.

As she gave the bowl trustfully into his hands, and he asked who had sent it to her, a merry rashness misled her into the jest of answering "Fabricius." She felt sure that Theophilus could not fail to see the joke. But, as she was unable to give her merry excited smile that shade of mockery at the mention of the absent one, which would have made the jest evident, Theophilus was firmly convinced that her sweet and genuine joy was due to the present and its giver, and that he had fallen into a nasty trap by intruding into a circle which was forbidden and strange to him. Confounded and ashamed, he cast down his eyes, began to tremble, and let the glittering ornament fall to the ground, where it was shivered to pieces.

In her first dismay, Dorothea forgot all about her joke, and almost forgot Theophilus, and could only stoop aghast to pick up the pieces, exclaiming "How clumsy!" without bestowing a look upon him; so that she did not see the alteration in his features, and had no suspicion that he had misunderstood her.

But, when she had risen, and, recovering herself quickly, turned towards him, Theophilus had already regained his proud self-command. He looked at her inscrutably and indifferently, begged almost mockingly for pardon, promising her full restitution for the vase which had come to grief, then bowed and left the garden.

Pale and sorrowful she looked after his slim figure, with the white toga wrapped closely about it, and his black curly head bent to one side as if his thoughts were already far away from her.

The waves of the silvery sea lapped soft and lazy against the marble steps on the beach, all else around was still, and Dorothea's little devices were at an end.

Weeping, she slipped away with the collected fragments of the vase to hide them in her room.

They did not see each other again for many months. Theophilus returned at once to the capital, and when Dorothea went back there in the autumn, he sedulously avoided encountering her; for the mere possibility of meeting her alarmed and excited him. So all their happiness was gone for the nonce.

The natural result was that she sought consolation in the new faith of her parents, and as soon as they observed this, they lost no time in deciding their child in her resolution, and initiating her fully into their faith and practice.

Meanwhile, Dorothea's assumed friendliness for the governor had also its unfortunate effect, in that Fabricius considered himself justified in renewing his courtship with redoubled energy. He was all the more surprised, therefore, when Dorothea could scarcely endure the sight of him, and he seemed to have become more repugnant to her than Misfortune herself. But he did not draw back on that account; rather, he increased his importunity and began to quarrel with her because of her new faith, and to assail her conscience as he mingled flatteries with thinly-veiled threats.

Dorothea, however, acknowledged her faith openly and fearlessly, and turned away from him as from an unsubstantial shadow which cannot be seen.

Theophilus heard of all this, and how the good maiden was not having the happiest life of it. What surprised him most was the news that she would have nothing whatever to do with the proconsul. Although he was old-world or indifferent in the matter of religion, he was not offended at the maiden's new faith, and with his partiality for her he began to be more in her company again, the better to see and hear how she was faring. But in her present mood, she could speak of nothing except in the tenderest and most languishing accents of a Heavenly Bridegroom whom she had found, who was awaiting her in immortal beauty, to take her to His radiant breast, and give her the rose of eternal life, and so forth.

He could make neither head nor tail of this language. It offended and annoyed him, and filled his heart with a strange, painful jealousy of the unknown God who perverted a weak woman's mind; for he could not understand and interpret the excited and enthusiastic Dorothea's expressions otherwise than in the old mythological fashion. Jealousy of a superhuman being did not hurt his pride, but it blunted his sympathy with the woman who boasted of being united to deities. Yet it was nothing else than her unrequited love for himself that put such language into her mouth, just as he himself had the thorn of passion always fixed in his heart.

Matters had dragged on thus for some little time, when Fabricius suddenly pounced down. Taking advantage of renewed Imperial orders for a persecution of Christians, he had Dorothea and her parents imprisoned. The daughter, however, was placed in a separate gaol, and put to the question about her faith. Full of curiosity, he went in person and heard her loudly repudiating the ancient gods, and confessing as the only Lord of the world Christ, whose betrothed bride she was. At that, a savage jealousy took possession of the governor also. He resolved on her destruction, and ordered her to be tortured and, if she still persisted, to be put to death. Then he departed. She was laid on a gridiron, under which coals were fanned to a glow in such a fashion that the heat only increased slowly. Still, it hurt her tender frame. She uttered stifled screams for a time, while her limbs, which were chained down to the gridiron, quivered, and tears flowed from her eyes. Theophilus, who usually refrained from taking any part in such persecutions, had heard of the business, and hastened to her full of horror and disquiet. Forgetful of his own safety, he thrust his way through the gaping populace, and, when with his own ears he heard Dorothea's low moans, he snatched a sword from a soldier's hand, and stood at one bound before her bed of torture.

"Does it hurt, Dorothea?" he enquired with a bitter smile, intending to cut her fastenings. But she answered, feeling suddenly as if all pain had left her and she were filled with the most perfect bliss, "How could it hurt me, Theophilus? It is the roses of my well-beloved Bridegroom that I am lying upon. See! To-day is my wedding-day!"

Her lips played as if it were one of her favourite dainty jests, while her eyes looked at him blissfully. An unearthly radiance seemed to illumine her and her couch, a triumphant calm settled upon her. Theophilus lowered his sword, threw it from him, and once again retreated ashamed and confounded as on that morning in the garden by the sea.

Then the coals glowed red again. Dorothea sighed and longed for death. And her desire was granted; she was led away to the place of execution, to be beheaded.

She went to her fate with a light step, followed by the unthinking, shouting mob. Standing by the roadside she saw Theophilus, who never took his eyes off her. Their eyes met. Dorothea stood still an instant, and said cheerfully, "Theophilus, if you only knew how beautiful and splendid are my Lord's rose-gardens, where I shall soon be walking, and how sweet his apples taste which grow there, you would come along with me!"

Theophilus responded with a bitter smile: "I'll tell you what, Dorothea! Send me some of your roses and apples for a sample when you get there!"

She gave a friendly nod, and went on her way.

Theophilus followed her with his eyes until the cloud of dust, golden in the evening sunshine, which accompanied the procession, had vanished in the distance, and the street was empty and silent. Then with shrouded head he went home, and ascended with faltering steps to the house-top, from which there was a view out to the Argeus mountains. The place of execution was situated on one of the foot-hills. He could easily make out a dark cluster of humanity there, and he stretched out his longing arms in its direction. He fancied that in the light of the departing sun he could see the flash of the falling axe, and he dropped down and lay prone on the terrace. And, as a matter of fact, Dorothea's head did fall about that time.

But he had not long lain thus motionless, when a clear shining lightened the twilight, and pierced with blinding radiance beneath Theophilus's hands in which his face lay buried, and poured itself into his closed eyes like liquid gold. At the same time a rare fragrance filled the air. The young man arose as if pervaded by some new and unknown life. Before him stood a wondrous lovely boy, with golden ringlets, clad in a star-spangled garment, and with radiant naked feet, bearing a small basket in no less radiant hands. The basket was filled with the most beautiful roses, the like of which were never seen, and among the roses lay three apples of Paradise.

With an infinitely true-hearted and frank childish smile, yet not without a certain pleasant roguishness, the child said, "This is from Dorothea!" put the basket in his hands with the question, "Have you got it?" and vanished.

The basket did not vanish, and Theophilus had really got it in his hands. He found the three apples lightly marked by two tiny teeth, as was the custom among lovers in ancient times. He ate them slowly, with the blazing starry heavens above him. A mighty longing permeated him with a sweet fire, and, clasping the basket to his breast and concealing it with his mantle, he hastened down from the house-top, through the streets and into the palace of the governor, who was sitting at table endeavouring to drown his wild rage in untempered Colchian wine.

With flashing eyes, Theophilus advanced towards him, without uncovering the basket, and exclaimed before the whole company, "I declare that I am of the same faith as Dorothea, whom you have just now murdered. It is the only true faith!"

"Then go after the witch!" retorted the governor, who, racked by sudden wrath and consuming jealousy, sprang to his feet, and had his secretary beheaded that same hour.

Thus Theophilus was, after all, united for ever to Dorothea on that same day. She welcomed him with the restful look of the blessed. Like two doves, separated by the tempest, who have found each other again, and first fly in a wide circuit round their home, so the united pair swept hand in hand swiftly, swiftly, and unceasingly around the outmost circles of Heaven, freed from every weight, yet still themselves. Then they separated sportively and lost themselves in wide infinity, while each knew where the other tarried, and what the other thought, and joined with him in embracing every creature and all existence in sweet love. Then they sought each other again with waxing desire, which knew no pain and no impatience. They found each other, and once more eddied about, or reposed in contemplation of themselves and gazed near and far into the world of infinitude. But once in blissful forgetfulness they ventured too near the crystal habitation of the Holy Trinity, and entered within. There they lost all consciousness, and like twins beneath a mother's heart they fell on sleep, and no doubt are sleeping still, unless meantime they have been able to make their way out.

A LEGEND OF THE DANCE

O virgin of Israel: thou shalt again be adorned with thy tabrets, and shalt go forth in the dances.... Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, both young men and old together.

Jeremiah, xxxi. 4, 13.

According to Saint Gregory, Musa was the dancer among the saints. The child of good people, she was a bright young lady, a diligent servant of the Mother of God, and subject only to one weakness, such an uncontrollable passion for the dance, that when the child was not praying she was dancing without fail, and that on all imaginable occasions. Musa danced with her playmates, with children, with the young men, and even by herself. She danced in her own room and every other room in the house, in the garden, in the meadows. Even when she went to the altar, it was to a gracious measure rather than at a walk, and even on the smooth marble flags before the church-door she did not scruple to practise a few hasty steps.

In fact, one day when she found herself alone in the church, she could not refrain from executing some figures before the altar, and, so to speak, dancing a pretty prayer to the Virgin Mary. She became so oblivious of all else that she fancied she was merely dreaming when she saw an oldish but handsome gentleman dancing opposite her, and supplementing her figures so skilfully that the pair got into the most elaborate dance imaginable. The gentleman had a royal purple robe, a golden crown on his head, and a glossy black curled beard, which the silvery streaks of age had touched as with distant starlight. At the same time music sounded from the choir, where half-a-dozen small angels stood or sat with their chubby little legs hanging over the screen, and fingered or blew their various instruments. The urchins were very pleasant and skilful. Each rested his music on one of the stone angels with which the choir-screen was adorned, except the smallest, a puffy-cheeked piper, who sat cross-legged, and contrived to hold his music with his pink toes. He was the most diligent of them all. The others dangled their feet, kept spreading their pinions, one or other of them, with a rustle, so that their colours shimmered like doves' breasts, and they teased each other as they played.

Musa found no time to wonder at all this until the dance, which lasted a pretty long time, was over; for the merry gentleman seemed to enjoy himself as much as the maid, who felt as if she were dancing about in Heaven. But when the music ceased, and Musa stood there panting, she began to be scared in good earnest, and looked in astonishment at the ancient, who was neither out of breath nor warm, and who now began to speak. He introduced himself as David, the Virgin Mary's royal ancestor and her ambassador. And he asked if she would like to pass eternal bliss in an unending pleasure-dance, compared with which the dance they had just finished could only be called a miserable crawl.

To this she promptly answered that there was nothing she desired better. Whereupon the blessed King David said again that in that case she had nothing more to do than to renounce all pleasure and all dancing for the rest of her days on earth, and devote herself wholly to penance and spiritual exercises, and that without hesitation or relapse.

The maiden was taken aback at these conditions, and she asked whether she must really give up dancing altogether. She questioned, indeed, whether there was any dancing in Heaven; for there was a time for everything: this earth looked very fit and proper for dancing; it stood to reason that Heaven must have very different attractions, else death were a superfluity.

But David explained to her that her notions on this subject were quite erroneous, and proved from many Bible texts, and from his own example, that dancing was most assuredly a sanctified occupation for the blessed. But what was wanted just now was an immediate decision, Yes or No, whether she wished to enter into eternal joy by way of temporal self-denial or not. If she did not, then he would go farther on; for they wanted some dancers in Heaven.

Musa stood, still doubtful and undecided, and fumbled anxiously with her finger-tips in her mouth. It seemed too hard never to dance again from that moment, all for the sake of an unknown reward.

At that David gave a signal, and suddenly the musicians struck up some bars of a dance of such unheard-of bliss and unearthliness that the girl's soul leapt in her body, and all her limbs twitched; but she could not get one of them to dance, and she noted that her body was far too heavy and stiff for that tune. Full of longing she struck her hand into the king's, and made the promise which he demanded.

Forthwith he was no more to be seen, and the angel-musicians whirred and fluttered, and crowded out and away through an open window; but, in mischievous, childish fashion, before going, they dealt the patient stone angels a sounding slap on the cheeks with their rolled-up music.

Musa went home with devout step, carrying that celestial melody in her ears; and, having laid all her dainty raiment aside, she got a coarse gown made and put it on. At the same time, she built herself a cell at the bottom of her parents' garden, where the deep shade of the trees lingered, made a scant bed of moss, and from that day onwards separated herself from all her kindred, and took up her abode there as a penitent and saint. She spent all her time in prayer, and often disciplined herself with a scourge. But her severest penance consisted in holding her limbs stiff and immovable; for whenever she heard a sound, the twitter of a bird, or the rustling of the leaves in the wind, her feet twitched, as much as to tell her they must dance.

As this involuntary twitching would not forsake her, and often seduced her to a little skip before she was aware, she caused her tender little feet to be fastened together by a light chain. Her relatives and friends marvelled day and night at the transformation, rejoiced to possess such a saint, and guarded the hermitage under the trees as the apple of their eye. Many came for her counsel and intercession. In particular, they used to bring young girls to her who were rather clumsy on their feet; for it was observed that every one whom she touched at once became light and graceful in gait.

So she spent three years in her cell; but, by the end of the third year, Musa had become almost as thin and transparent as a summer cloud. She lay continually on her bed of moss, gazed wistfully into Heaven, and was convinced that she could already see the golden sandals of the blessed, dancing and gliding about through the azure.

At last, one harsh autumn day, the tidings spread that the saint lay on her death-bed. She had taken off her dark penitential robe, and caused herself to be arrayed in bridal garments of dazzling white. So she lay with folded hands, and smilingly awaited the hour of death. The garden was all filled with devout persons, the breezes murmured, and the leaves were falling from the trees on all sides. But suddenly the sighing of the wind changed into music, which appeared to be playing in the tree-tops, and, as the people looked up, lo! all the branches were clad in fresh green, the myrtles and pomegranates put out blossom and fragrance, the earth decked itself with flowers, and a rosy glow settled upon the white, frail form of the dying saint.

That same instant, she yielded up her spirit. The chain about her feet sprang asunder with a sharp twang, Heaven opened wide all around, full of unbounded radiance, so that all could see in. Then they saw many thousands of beautiful young men and maidens in the utmost splendour, dancing circle upon circle farther than the eye could reach. A magnificent king, throned on a cloud with a special band of six small angels seated on its edge, bore down a little way towards earth, and received the form of the sainted Musa from before the eyes of all the beholders who filled the garden. They saw, too, how she sprang into the opened Heaven, and immediately danced out of sight among the jubilant, radiant circles.

That was a high feast-day in Heaven. Now the custom--to be sure, it is denied by Saint Gregory of Nyssa; but it is stoutly maintained by his namesake of Nazianza--the custom on feast-days was to invite the Nine Muses, who sat for the rest of their time in Hell, and to admit them to Heaven, that they might be of assistance. They were well entertained; but, once the feast was over, had to go back to the other place.

When now the dances and songs and all the ceremonies had come to an end, and the Heavenly company sat down, Musa was taken to a table where the Nine Muses were being served. They sat huddled together half-scared, glancing about them with their fiery black or dark-blue eyes. The busy Martha of the gospels was caring for them in person; she had on her finest kitchen-apron and a tiny little smut on her white chin, and was pressing all manner of good things on the Muses in the friendliest possible way. But when Musa and Saint Caecilia and some other artistic women arrived, and greeted the shy Pierians cheerfully and joined their company, they began to thaw, grew confidential, and the feminine circle became quite pleasant and happy. Musa sat beside Terpsiehore, and Caecilia between Polyhymnia and Euterpe, and all took one another's hands. Next came the little minstrel urchins, and made up to the pretty women, with an eye to the bright fruit which shone on the ambrosial table. King David himself came and brought a golden cup, out of which all drank, so that gracious joy warmed them. He went round the table in high good-spirits, not omitting, as he passed, to chuck pretty Erato under the chin. While things were going on so famously at the Muses' table, our Gracious Lady herself appeared in all her beauty and goodness, sat down a few minutes beside the Muses, and kissed the august Urania with the starry coronet tenderly upon the lips, when she took her departure, whispering to her that she would not rest until the Muses could remain in Paradise for ever.

But that never came about. To declare their gratitude for the kindness and friendliness which had been shown them, and to prove their good will, the Muses took counsel together and practised a hymn of praise in a retired corner of the under-world. They tried to give it the form of the solemn chorals which were the fashion in Heaven. They arranged it in two parts of four voices each, with a sort of principal part which Urania took, and they thus produced a remarkable piece of vocal music.

The next time that a feast-day was celebrated in Heaven, and the Muses again rendered their assistance, they seized what appeared to be a favourable moment for their purpose, took their places, and commenced their song. It began softly, but soon swelled out mightily. But in those regions it sounded so dismal, almost defiant and harsh, yet so wistful and mournful, that first of all a horrified silence prevailed, and next the whole assembly was seized with a sad longing for earth and home, and broke into universal weeping.

A sigh without end throbbed through Heaven. All the Elders and Prophets hastened up in dismay, while the Muses, with the best of intentions, sang louder and more mournfully, and all Paradise with the Patriarchs and Elders and Prophets, and all who ever walked or lay in the green pastures, lost all command of themselves. Until at last, the High and Mighty Trinity Himself came to put things right, and reduced the too-zealous Muses to silence with a long, reverberating peal of thunder.

Then quiet and composure were restored to Heaven. But the poor Nine Sisters had to depart, and never dared enter it again from that day.

THE END

CONTENTS

Introduction

Eugenia

The Virgin and the Devil

The Virgin as Knight

The Virgin and the Nun

The Naughty Saint Vitalis

Dorothea's Flower-Basket

A Legend of the Dance

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.

MEISTERWERKE IN TASCHENAUSGABEN

With Introductions by Richard M. Meyer, Professor at Berlin University.