THE PRIEST
Lo, thou art more than a father; for this is a man-child which I place in thine arms. Have I not done well? He is the fruit of thy power and of my beauty. He is the spirit of youth renewed; thy son and thine heir.
See, he sleeps, dreaming of mighty deeds. He will grow, as thou didst grow; he will become strong and beautiful and brave. He will bear thy name, as those after him will bear it, and will revere thee. The sons of his sons will revere thee through long ages.
I am Septi, a priest of Holy Isis, and I write in the reign of the twelfth Ptolemy. Full three-score of years have passed over my head, forgetting not their toll as they moved; and thus it is that I sit within my chamber and dream, not of that which is to come, like a youth, but of those things which are behind me. For the fountains of my youth and life are long since dried and as though covered by the desert sands.
Across my vision flit shadowy figures of the past. They slip through the veil to smile at me and beckon, moving their lips as though they spoke; but I close my understanding and hear them not, lest they draw me to them before my time.
Among the faintly tinted throng there is one who never smiles and who speaks no word . . . How many years ago she lived! How many years ago lived the youth who loved her! . . .
The temple of my goddess is racked and broken. Few people are seen here, now. And I, an old man, a servant of the gods, would spend an hour dreaming of dead days . . .
There was one mortal woman, only, in my life. In this mad age wherein this arid land blooms with a sinister and pulsing growth of women's flesh, certainly the remembrance of one woman only is strange enough. Yet so it was. She was a maiden named Aalea whom I met by chance, lost, upon the river bank, and escorted, without wayward thought, to her father's door. She was the daughter of a merchant and she was very beautiful, slender and sweet.
Often there comes to me the thought that the mission of woman to man is less to comfort than to wound. Many a noble man, greater than I, would gladly live in quiet, with his wife, the years allotted to him. Yet, how often such men have been shocked into action and a search for greater things by the faithlessness of the mortal woman held most dear! Even a woman taken as the plaything of a day, may do this great but thankless thing.
The girl Aalea was, to me, a promise and a hope. I saw her often and was welcome at her father's house. I seemed to find in her that warmth and gentleness which blend so gratefully with the colder nature of a man. And I, as many another one had done, felt that life held no greater end than to perfect that blending.
One day, when we were alone for an instant in the garden, she asked me if I had never loved. I knew not what to answer. I could have loved her easily, and that was my intention. But one would not speak of it so, to such a girl; so I smiled at her and told her I was sure I would, some day. Alas, I was but a youth and, in the flush of my own continence, knew not the sweep of woman's nature. I displeased her, and I did not know why.
Then I went among the islands with my father—a trip which, a few months before, would have filled me with delight. But as I lay at night upon the deck of the boat, the moonlight filled me with a thousand memories and longings; and the new, strange sights of the days brought no light to my eyes.
When I returned, I sought the dwelling of my hopes. It stood serene in the moonlight and the song of insects arose from the garden where I had spent so many happy moments; but, within, despair was throned. For Aalea had left her parents and had given herself to the temple of lascivious Aphrodite. She who would have been my wife and the mother of my son! Her father cursed her in a way that was terrible to hear.
I could not believe it. I drew my cloak about me and sought her in the gardens of the temple. And a shameless girl directed me, laughing, to one of the little houses. There I found Aalea, indeed, with a vile Persian, while a drowsy-eyed slave-girl, looking elsewhere, idly waved a fan above their foul desire . . .
I remember rushing into that room and dashing my clenched fist into the face of the idolator. I burned; and in that burning my youth flashed up and then sank forever into ashes. I remember one look at my lost love, her tears, and her hand clutching my sleeve as I staggered out into the night. And a loud lamentation, as though her heart, rather than mine, had been broken . . .
Ah well! Peace came to me again, in time—the long peace and the comfort of the Mother who casts out all sorrow and all joy. But my heart never turned again to earthly love; and now I am an old man. With the gods, there is no love nor torment nor burden, nor pulsing anger to wrench the spirit from its native element. But only silence, perfect peace, and shadows redolent of the highest mystery. And, thereafter, a blossom on the River of Death . . .