{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4384/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4384","id":"gutenberg_4384","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4384","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christmas","Christmas stories"],"text":"Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST WORD\n\n\nA Christmas Legend of Long Ago\n\n\nBy\n\nHENRY VAN DYKE\n\n\n\nNew York\n\nMDCCCXCVIII\n\n\n\n\n\"DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND HAMILTON W. MABIE\"\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n   I THE POVERTY OF HERMAS\n  II A CHRISTMAS LOSS\n III PARTING, BUT NO FAREWELL\n  IV LOVE IN SEARCH OF A WORD\n   V RICHES WITHOUT REST\n  VI GREAT FEAR AND RECOVERED JOY\n\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nTHE POVERTY OF HERMAS\n\n\n\"COME down, Hermas, come down! The night is past. It is time to be\nstirring. Christ is born to-day. Peace be with you in His name. Make\nhaste and come down!\"\n\nA little group of young men were standing in a street of Antioch, in\nthe dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago. It was a class\nof candidates who had nearly finished their two years of training\nfor the Christian church. They had come to call their fellow-student\nHermas from his lodging.\n\nTheir voices rang out cheerily through the cool air. They were full\nof that glad sense of life which the young feel when they awake and\ncome to rouse one who is still sleeping. There was a note of\nfriendly triumph in their call, as if they were exulting\nunconsciously in having begun the adventure of the new day before\ntheir comrade.\n\nBut Hermas was not asleep. He had been waking for hours, and the\ndark walls of his narrow lodging had been a prison to his restless\nheart. A nameless sorrow and discontent had fallen upon him, and he\ncould find no escape from the heaviness of his own thoughts.\n\nThere is a sadness of youth into which the old cannot enter. It\nseems to them unreal and causeless. But it is even more bitter and\nburdensome than the sadness of age. There is a sting of resentment\nin it, a fever of angry surprise that the world should so soon be a\ndisappointment, and life so early take on the look of a failure. It\nhas little reason in it, perhaps, but it has all the more weariness\nand gloom, because the man who is oppressed by it feels dimly that\nit is an unnatural and an unreasonable thing, that he should be\nseparated from the joy of his companions, and tired of living before\nhe has fairly begun to live.\n\nHermas had fallen into the very depths of this strange self-pity. He\nwas out of tune with everything around him. He had been thinking,\nthrough the dead, still night, of all that he had given up when he\nleft the house of his father, the wealthy pagan Demetrius, to join\nthe company of the Christians. Only two years ago he had been one of\nthe richest young men in Antioch. Now he was one of the poorest. And\nthe worst of it was that, though he had made the choice willingly\nand accepted the sacrifice with a kind of enthusiasm, he was already\ndissatisfied with it.\n\nThe new life was no happier than the old. He was weary of vigils and\nfasts, weary of studies and penances, weary of prayers and sermons.\nHe felt like a slave in a treadmill. He knew that he must go on. His\nhonour, his conscience, his sense of duty, bound him. He could not\ngo back to the old careless pagan life again; for something had\nhappened within him which made a return impossible. Doubtless he had\nfound the true religion, but he had found it only as a task and a\nburden; its joy and peace had slipped away from him.\n\nHe felt disillusioned and robbed. He sat beside his hard little\ncouch, waiting without expectancy for the gray dawn of another empty\nday, and hardly lifting his head at the shouts of his friends.\n\n\"Come down, Hermas, you sluggard! Come down! It is Christmas morn.\nAwake and be glad with us!\"\n\n\"I am coming,\" he answered listlessly; \"only have patience a moment.\nI have been awake since midnight, and waiting for the day.\"\n\n\"You hear him!\" said his friends one to another. \"How he puts us all\nto shame! He is more watchful, more eager, than any of us. Our\nmaster, John the Presbyter, does well to be proud of him. He is the\nbest man in our class. When he is baptized the church will get a\nstrong member.\"\n\nWhile they were talking the door opened and Hermas stepped out. He\nwas a figure to be remarked in any company--tall, broad-shouldered,\nstraight-hipped, with a head proudly poised on the firm column of\nthe neck, and short brown curls clustering over the square forehead.\nIt was the perpetual type of vigourous and intelligent young manhood,\nsuch as may be found in every century among the throngs of ordinary\nmen, as if to show what the flower of the race should be. But the\nlight in his dark blue eyes was clouded and uncertain; his smooth\ncheeks were leaner than they should have been at twenty; and there\nwere downward lines about his mouth which spoke of desires unsatisfied\nand ambitions repressed. He joined his companions with brief\ngreetings,--a nod to one, a word to another,--and they passed together\ndown the steep street.\n\nOverhead the mystery of daybreak was silently transfiguring the sky.\nThe curtain of darkness had lifted softly upward along the edge of\nthe horizon. The ragged crests of Mount Silpius were outlined with\npale rosy light. In the central vault of heaven a few large stars\ntwinkled drowsily. The great city, still chiefly pagan, lay more\nthan half asleep. But multitudes of the Christians, dressed in white\nand carrying lighted torches in their hands, were hurrying toward\nthe Basilica of Constantine to keep the latest holy day of the\nchurch, the new festival of the birthday of their Master.\n\nThe vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts,\nwho were not yet permitted to stand among the baptized, found it\ndifficult to come to their appointed place between the first two\npillars of the house, just within the threshold. There was some\ngood-humoured pressing and jostling about the door; but the\ncandidates pushed steadily forward.\n\n\"By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let us\npass? Many thanks.\"\n\nA touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a little\npersistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas was\ntaller than his companions; he could look easily over their heads\nand survey the white sea of people stretching away through the\ncolumns, under the shadows of the high roof, as the tide spreads on\na calm day into the pillared cavern of Staffa, quiet as if the ocean\nhardly dared to breathe. The light of many flambeaux fell, in\nflickering, uncertain rays, over the assembly. At the end of the\nvista there was a circle of clearer, steadier radiance. Hermas could\nsee the bishop in his great chair, surrounded by the presbyters, the\nlofty desks on either side for the readers of the Scripture, the\ncommunion-table and the table of offerings in the middle of the\nchurch.\n\nThe call to prayer sounded down the long aisle. Thousands of hands\nwere joyously lifted in the air, as if the sea had blossomed into\nwaving lilies, and the \"Amen\" was like the murmur of countless\nripples in an echoing place.\n\nThen the singing began, led by the choir of a hundred trained voices\nwhich the Bishop Paul had founded in Antioch. Timidly, at first, the\nmusic felt its way, as the people joined with a broken and uncertain\ncadence, the mingling of many little waves not yet gathered into\nrhythm and harmony. Soon the longer, stronger billows of song rolled\nin, sweeping from side to side as the men and the women answered in\nthe clear antiphony.\n\nHermas had often been carried on those \"Tides of music's golden sea\nSetting toward eternity.\" But to-day his heart was a rock that stood\nmotionless. The flood passed by and left him unmoved.\n\nLooking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a man\nstanding far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted by\nsickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow,\nhe seemed at first like a person of no significance--a reed shaken\nin the wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as\nhe gathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that belied\nhis mean appearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well who\nit was: the man who had drawn him from his father's house, the\nteacher who was instructing him as a son in the Christian faith, the\nguide and trainer of his soul--John of Antioch, whose fame filled\nthe city and began to overflow Asia, and who was called already\nChrysostom, the golden-mouthed preacher.\n\nHermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day,\nas the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences\nmoved onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of\ncostly rhetoric and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and\ndrawing the hearts of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that\nthe preacher had never been more potent, more inspired.\n\nHe played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument.\nHe rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows,\nand they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories\nof their faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He\nhushed them into reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the\nwise men of the East, to the lowly birthplace of Jesus.\n\n\"Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled\ncity, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to\nBethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be\nbut a shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child\nin an inn. Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple\nrobe shall profit thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men,\nthis shall be no hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour\nand adore, with trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be\nglory, on this His birthday, and forever and forever.\"\n\nThe soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. The\nstrings of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response\nwithin him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man, only an\nunhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy\nwith the eager preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had\nno part. Was it for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and\nnarrowed his life to poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?\n\nThe gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and\ndismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had\nhe felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out\nwith his companions like a man departing from a banquet where all\nbut he had been fed.\n\n\"Farewell, Hermas,\" they cried, as he turned from them at the door.\nBut he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was alone already in\nhis heart.\n\nWhen he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had\nalready topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming\nthrough the long double row of archways and over the pavements of\ncrimson marble. But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and\nwalked with his shadow before him.\n\nThe street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life\nof a huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded\nyouths in their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from\ntheir windows, all intoxicated with the mere delight of living and\nthe gladness of a new day. The pagan populace of Antioch--reckless,\npleasure-loving, spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia.\nBut all this Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the\ncrowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide.\n\nAt the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the\nCamel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a story-teller had bewitched a\ncircle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love and\nadventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively\nfancy of the hearers lent it new interest, and the wit of the\nimproviser drew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.\n\nA yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermas\npassed, and smiled in his face. She put out her hand and caught him\nby the sleeve.\n\n\"Stay,\" she said, \"and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are--the\nson of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look so\nblack? Love is alive yet.\"\n\nHermas shook off her hand, but not ungently.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean,\" he said. \"You are mistaken in me. I am\npoorer than you are.\"\n\nBut as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through\nthe cloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had plucked him by the\nheart.\n\nHe went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that the\nEmperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and\nfixed upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbed\nthe hill to the road that led to the Grove of Daphne.\n\nIn all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It wound\nfor five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and\nvillas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks\nover the valley of Orontes and the distant, shimmering sea.\n\nThe richest of all the dwellings was the House of the Golden\nPillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of the\napostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship\nof the heathen gods, some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way\nto wealth and power for all who would mock and oppose Christianity.\nDemetrius was not a sincere fanatic like his royal master; but he\nwas bitter enough in his professed scorn of the new religion, to\nmake him a favourite at the court where the old religion was in\nfashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and a strange\nsense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to it than if it\nhad been a real faith. He was proud of being called \"the friend of\nJulian\"; and when his son joined himself to the Christians, and\nacknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult to his\nfather's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited\nhim.\n\nThe glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of\nthe well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed\nat once to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the\ndusty road. \"This is your birthright,\" whispered the clambering\nrose-trees by the gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze\nsaid: \"You have sold it for a thought--a dream.\"\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nA CHRISTMAS LOSS\n\n\nHERMAS found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound\nin the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing\neach other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of\ninnumerable streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate\npleasure that the grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered\npaths and broken fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned\nwith the ruins of Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriously\ndestroyed by fire just after Julian had restored and reconsecrated\nit, Hermas sat down beside a gushing spring, and gave himself up to\nsadness.\n\n\"How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in,\nwithout religion. These questions about unseen things, perhaps about\nunreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices--if I\nwere only free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I\ncould live my life as I pleased, and be happy.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said a quiet voice at his back.\n\nHe turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare\ncloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind\nhim and smiling curiously.\n\n\"How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?\" said\nHermas; \"and who are you that honour me with your company?\"\n\n\"Forgive the intrusion,\" answered the stranger; \"it is not ill\nmeant. A friendly interest is as good as an introduction.\"\n\n\"But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?\"\n\n\"To your face,\" said the old man, with a courteous inclination.\n\"Perhaps also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant\nhere, and feel as if all visitors were my guests, in a way.\"\n\n\"Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given\nup your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?\"\n\n\"Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must\nconfess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars.\nIn fact, I am that solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian\nfound here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some\ntwenty years ago. You have heard of the incident?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hermas, beginning to be interested; \"the whole city must\nhave heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a\nstrange sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of\nApollo's temple?\"\n\n\"You mean the goose? Well, perhaps it was not precisely what the\nemperor expected. But it was all that I had, and it seemed to me not\ninappropriate. You will agree to that if you are a Christian, as I\nguess from your dress.\"\n\n\"You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo.\"\n\n\"Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional\nmatter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many\naltars do you think there have been in this grove?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose\nruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do\nwith most of them in my time. They--are transitory. They give\nemployment to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and\nthe thing that interests me, is the human life that plays around\nthem. The game has been going on for centuries. It still disports\nitself very pleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks.\nBelieve me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo were shadows. But the\nflying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the dances,\nthese are the realities. Life is the game, and the world keeps it up\nmerrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young and\nso fair. Are you a loser in the game?\"\n\nThe words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as a key fits\nthe lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story\nof his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; the\nirresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heard\nJohn's preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the\nanchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his\nteacher's house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for\npoverty, his discontent with worship.\n\n\"And to-day,\" said he, \"I have been thinking that I am a fool. My\nlife is swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There is nothing in it but\na dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me.\"\n\nThe singular smile deepened on his companion's face. \"You are ready,\nthen,\" he suggested, \"to renounce your new religion and go back to\nthat of your father?\"\n\n\"No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think\nabout it. I only wish to live.\"\n\n\"A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see its\naccomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way\nof securing it. Do you believe in magic?\"\n\n\"I have told you already that I do not know whether I believe in\nanything. This is not a day on which I care to make professions of\nfaith. I believe in what I see. I want what will give me pleasure.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from the\nlaurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, \"let us dismiss\nthe riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know\nthis is a Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his\nfortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this\nleaf tells us. It is already turning yellow. How do you read that?\"\n\n\"Wealth,\" said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments.\n\n\"And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What is\nthat?\"\n\n\"Pleasure,\" answered Hermas, bitterly.\n\n\"And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make\nof that?\"\n\n\"What you will,\" said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look.\n\"Suppose we say success and fame?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the stranger; \"it is all written here. I promise that\nyou shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my\npromise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I\nwould serve. No such hard conditions for me! There is only one thing\nthat I ask. This is the season that you Christians call the\nChristmas, and you have taken up the pagan custom of exchanging\ngifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a small\nthing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: a\nsingle word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me take\nthat word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so\nthat you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will be\nricher without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask\nin return. Do you consent?\"\n\n\"Yes, I consent,\" said Hermas, mocking. \"If you can take your price,\na word, you can keep your promise, a dream.\"\n\nThe stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young\nman's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in\nhis body was drawn together there in a knot of agony.\n\nThen all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A cool\nlanguor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into\na profound sleep.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nPARTING, BUT NO FAREWELL\n\n\nTHERE is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like a\nfragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day\nseems like a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass as\none day.\n\nIt was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. An\nimmeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that he\ncould not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over him\nwhen his senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shooting\narrows of gold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretched\nhis arms, grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to make\nsure that he was alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch,\ntreading lightly as if on air.\n\nThe ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already his life had\nchanged, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him had\ndropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt as\nif anything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. He\nwas a new man, yet curiously familiar to himself--as if he had\ndone with playing a tiresome part and returned to his natural state.\nHe was buoyant and free, without a care, a doubt, a fear.\n\nAs he drew near to his father's house he saw a confusion of servants\nin the porch, and the old steward ran down to meet him at the gate.\n\n\"Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master is at the\npoint of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he calls\nyour name continually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear the\ntime is short.\"\n\nHermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day.\nHis father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with\nshrunken face and restless eyes, his lean fingers picking\nincessantly at the silken coverlet.\n\n\"My son!\" he murmured; \"Hermas, my son! It is good that you have\ncome back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away.\nYou shall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I have\nchanged everything. Hermas, my son, come nearer--close beside me.\nTake my hand, my son!\"\n\nThe young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered his\nfather's cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp.\n\n\"Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands,\nI--cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was my\nfriend. But now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing\nbeyond--very dark--I am afraid. But you know something better.\nYou found something that made you willing to give up your life for\nit--it must have been almost like dying--yet you were happy.\nWhat was it you found? See, I am giving you everything. I have\nforgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it? Your secret, your\nfaith--give it to me before I go.\"\n\nAt the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and\nlove took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as\nhe answered eagerly:\n\n\"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly\ntell, you all that I know. I will give you the secret of faith.\nFather, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength\nin--\"\n\nWhere was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night\nand morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever\nknown? What had become of it?\n\nHe groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he\ncould lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one\nhad taken it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror\nof death; the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; the\ninstant need of comfort and help. But at the one point where he\nlooked for help he could find nothing; only an empty space. The word\nof hope had vanished. He felt for it blindly and in desperate haste.\n\n\"Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped away\nfrom me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tell\nyou presently--oh, wait!\"\n\nThe bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider.\n\"Tell me,\" whispered the old man; \"tell me quickly, for I must go.\"\n\nThe voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, and\nrelaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.\n\nHermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping\nwatch by the dead.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nLOVE IN SEARCH OF A WORD\n\n\nTHE break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with\na knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in a\nback street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students,\nremained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the\nPresbyter, and the murmured sound of chanting, and the murmur of\ngreat congregations, still lingered in his ears; but it was like\nsomething that had happened to another person, something that he had\nread long ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.\n\nHis new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for any sense\nof loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred affairs to busy\nhim, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were shod with winged\nsandals.\n\nNothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything was\nready and waiting for him. All that he had to do was to go on with\nit. The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world had\nsupposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the emperor had\ngiven him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests of valuable\ntimber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villa contained chests of gold\nand silver; the secret cabinets in the master's room were full of\nprecious stones. The stewards were diligent and faithful. The\nservants of the magnificent household rejoiced at the young master's\nreturn. His table was spread; the rose-garland of pleasure was woven\nfor his head, and his cup was already filled with the spicy wine of\npower.\n\nThe period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment, to\nseclude and safeguard him from the storm of political troubles and\npersecutions that fell upon Antioch after the insults offered by the\nmob to the imperial statues in the year 887. The friends of\nDemetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermas\nand made him welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius,\nthe sophist, his nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been\nthe playmate of Hermas in the old days.\n\nHe had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman. What\ntransformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To see the\nuncertain lines of-youth rounded into firmness and symmetry, to\ndiscover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl matured\ninto perfect loveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear,\nserious eyes, not forgetting the past, but fully conscious of the\nchanged present--this is to behold a miracle in the flesh.\n\n\"Where have you been, these two years?\" said Athenais, as they\nwalked together through the garden of lilies where they had so often\nplayed.\n\n\"In a land of tiresome dreams,\" answered Hermas; \"but you have\nwakened me, and I am never going back again.\"\n\nIt was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermas\nfrom among his former associates could long remain unnoticed. At\nfirst it was a mystery. There was a fear, for two or three days,\nthat he might be lost. Some of his more intimate companions\nmaintained that his devotion had led him out into the desert to join\nthe anchorites. But the news of his return to the House of the\nGolden Pillars, and of his new life as its master, filtered quickly\nthrough the gossip of the city.\n\nThen the church was filled with dismay and grief and reproach.\nMessengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They disturbed him a\nlittle, but they took no hold upon him. It seemed to him as if the\nmessengers spoke in a strange language. As he read the letters there\nwere words blotted out of the writing which made the full sense\nunintelligible.\n\nHis old companions came to reprove him for leaving them, to warn him\nof the peril of apostasy, to entreat him to return. It all sounded\nvague and futile. They spoke as if he had betrayed or offended some\none; but when they came to name the object of his fear--the one\nwhom he had displeased, and to whom he should return--he heard\nnothing; there was a blur of silence in their speech. The clock\npointed to the hour, but the bell did not strike. At last Hermas\nrefused to see them any more.\n\nOne day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas was\nentertaining Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall. When the\nvisit of the Presbyter was announced, the young master loosed a\ncollar of gold and jewels from his neck, and gave it to his scribe.\n\n\"Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift from his\nformer pupil--as a token of remembrance, or to spend for the poor\nof the city. I will always send him what he wants, but it is idle\nfor us to talk together any more. I do not understand what he says.\nI have not gone to the temple, nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his\nteaching. I have simply forgotten. I do not think about those things\nany longer. I am only living. A happy man wishes him all happiness\nand farewell.\"\n\nBut John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor. \"Tell your\nmaster that we shall talk together again, after all,\" said he, as he\npassed sadly out of the hall.\n\nThe love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet that sinks\nout of sight in a cavern, but emerges again as a bright and brimming\nstream. The careless comradery of childhood was mysteriously changed\ninto a complete companionship.\n\nWhen Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as a bride,\nall the music of life came with her. Hermas called the feast of her\nwelcome \"the banquet of the full chord.\" Day after day, night after\nnight, week after week, month after month, the bliss of the home\nunfolded like a rose of a thousand leaves. When a child came to\nthem, a strong, beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such a\nhouse, the heart of the rose was filled with overflowing fragrance.\nHappiness was heaped upon happiness. Every wish brought its own\naccomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love--it was an\nabundance of felicity so great that the soul of Hermas could hardly\ncontain it.\n\nStrangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble him with\nthe very excess of joy. He felt as if there were something yet\nneeded to complete and secure it all. There was an urgency within\nhim, a longing to find some outlet for his feelings, he knew not\nhow--some expression and culmination of his happiness, he knew not\nwhat.\n\nUnder his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness began to\nburn--an expectancy of something yet to come which should put the\ntouch of perfection on his life, He spoke of it to Athenais, as they\nsat together, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with their\nboy playing at their feet. There had been music in the garden; but\nnow the singers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master\nand mistress alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with\ninarticulate melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the\nhour seeking vainly for utterance--a word waiting to be spoken at\nthe centre of the charm.\n\n\"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!\" said Hermas; \"deeper than\nthe sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet I feel it is\nnot quite full and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not\nyet known--a repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is\nit? I have no superstitious fears, like the king who cast his\nsignet-ring into the sea because he dreaded that some secret\nvengeance would fall on his unbroken good fortune. That was an idle\nterror. But there is something that oppresses me like an invisible\nburden. There is something still undone, unspoken, unfelt--something\nthat we need to complete everything. Have you not felt it, too? Can\nyou not lead me to it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; \"I, too, have\nfelt it, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. I\nthink I know what it means. It is gratitude--the language of the\nheart, the music of happiness. There is no perfect joy without\ngratitude. But we have never learned it, and the want of it troubles\nus. It is like being dumb with a heart full of love. We must find\nthe word for it, and say it together. Then we shall be perfectly\njoined in perfect joy. Come, my dear lord, let us take the boy with\nus, and give thanks.\"\n\nHermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais into\nthe depth of the garden. There was a dismantled shrine of some\nforgotten fashion of worship half hidden among the luxuriant\nflowers. A fallen image lay beside it, face downward in the grass.\nThey stood there, hand in hand, the boy drowsily resting on his\nfather's shoulder--a threefold harmony of strength and beauty and\ninnocence.\n\nSilently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of the\ncypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silently\nthe crystal stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven. The\nvery breath of being paused. It was the hour of culmination, the\nsupreme moment of felicity waiting for its crown. The tones of\nHermas were clear and low as he began, half speaking and half\nchanting, in the rhythm of an ancient song:\n\n\"Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day and\nnight, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and under\nthe dripping light of stars.\n\n\"Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music and\nmeaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling and\nknowing and being.\n\n\"Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, mingles\nour lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong and\nclear and swift, rejecting the stars in its bosom.\n\n\"Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Life is\nabundant within us--a measureless deep. Deepest of all is our\nlove, and it longs to speak.\n\n\"Come, thou final word! Come, thou crown of speech! Come, thou charm\nof peace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift the weight of our joy\nand bear it upward.\n\n\"For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, for\nthe world, we praise, we bless, we thank--\"\n\nAs a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky,\nso the song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flight of gratitude\nthere was nothing--a blank, a hollow space.\n\nHe looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for a hand, and\nclasped vacancy. His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion;\nthe bell swung to and fro within him, beating from side to side as\nif it would burst; but not a single note came from it. All the\nfulness of his feeling, that had risen upward like a living\nfountain, fell back from the empty sky, as cold as snow, as hard as\nhail, frozen and dead. There was no meaning in his happiness. No one\nhad sent it to him. There was no one to thank for it. His felicity\nwas a closed circle, a wall of eternal ice.\n\n\"Let us go back,\" he said sadly to Athenais; \"the child is heavy\nupon my shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library.\nThe air grows chilly. We were mistaken. The gratitude of life is\nonly a dream. There is no one to thank.\"\n\nAnd in the garden it was already night.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nRICHES WITHOUT REST\n\n\nNO outward change came to the House of the Golden Pillars.\nEverything moved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously, as\nbefore. But inwardly there was a subtle, inexplicable\ntransformation. A vague discontent--a final and inevitable sense\nof incompleteness, overshadowed existence from that night when\nHermas realized that his joy could never go beyond itself.\n\nThe next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Grove of\nDaphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the door of the\nhouse, as if he had been sent for, and entered, to dwell there like\nan invited guest.\n\nHermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried to\nregard him with reverence and affection as the one through whom\nfortune had come. But it was impossible. There was a chill in the\ninscrutable smile of Marcion, as he called himself, that seemed to\nmock at reverence. He was in the house as one watching a strange\nexperiment--tranquil, interested, ready to supply anything that\nmight be needed for its completion, but thoroughly indifferent to\nthe feelings of the subject; an anatomist of life, looking curiously\nto see how long it would continue, and how it would behave, after\nthe heart had been removed.\n\nIn his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, a\nresentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes that\nfollowed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over the\nsmiling mouth and the long white beard.\n\n\"Why do you look at me so curiously?\" asked Hermas, one morning, as\nthey sat together in the library. \"Do you see anything strange in\nme?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Marcion; \"something familiar.\"\n\n\"And what is that?\"\n\n\"A singular likeness to a discontented young man that I met some\nyears ago in the Grove of Daphne.\"\n\n\"But why should that interest you? Surely it was to be expected.\"\n\n\"A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it. Besides,\nmy curiosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping a secret from me.\"\n\n\"You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my life that you do\nnot know. What is the secret?\"\n\n\"Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growing tired of\nyour bargain. The game wearies you. That is foolish. Do you want to\ntry a new part?\"\n\nThe question was like a mirror upon which one comes suddenly in a\nhalf-lighted room, A quick illumination falls on it, and the\npasser-by is startled by the look of his own face.\n\n\"You are right,\" said Hermas. \"I am tired. We have been going on\nstupidly in this house, as if nothing were possible but what my\nfather had done before me. There is nothing original in being rich,\nand well fed, and well dressed. Thousands of men have tried it, and\nhave not been very well satisfied. Let us do something new. Let us\nmake a mark in the world.\"\n\n\"It is well said,\" nodded the old man; \"you are speaking again like\na man after my own heart. There is no folly but the loss of an\nopportunity to enjoy a new sensation.\"\n\nFrom that day Hermas seemed to be possessed with a perpetual haste,\nan uneasiness that left him no repose. The summit of life had been\nattained, the highest possible point of felicity. Henceforward the\ncourse could only be at a level--perhaps downward. It might be\nbrief; at the best it could not be very long. It was madness to lose\na day, an hour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeit\nanything of the bargain that he had made. He would have it, and hold\nit, and enjoy it all to the full. The world might have nothing\nbetter to give than it had already given; but surely it had many\nthings that were new to bestow upon him, and Marcion should help him\nto find them.\n\nUnder his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillars took on a\nnew magnificence. Artists were brought from Corinth and Rome and\nByzantium to adorn it with splendour. Its fame glittered around the\nworld. Banquets of incredible luxury drew the most celebrated guests\ninto its triclinium, and filled them with envious admiration. The\nbees swarmed and buzzed about the golden hive. The human insects,\ngorgeous moths of pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasites\nand flatterers and crowds of inquisitive idlers, danced and\nfluttered in the dazzling light that surrounded Hermas.\n\nEverything that he touched prospered. He bought a tract of land in\nthe Caucasus, and emeralds were discovered among the mountains. He\nsent a fleet of wheat-ships to Italy, and the price of grain doubled\nwhile it was on the way. He sought political favour with the\nemperor, and was rewarded with the governorship of the city. His\nname was a word to conjure with.\n\nThe beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passing seasons, but\ngrew more perfect, even under the inexplicable shade of\ndissatisfaction that sometimes veiled it as a translucent cloud that\npasses before the full moon. \"Fair as the wife of Hermas\" was a\nproverb in Antioch; and soon men began to add to it, \"Beautiful as\nthe son of Hermas\"; for the child developed swiftly in that\nfavouring clime. At nine years of age he was straight and strong,\nfirm of limb and clear of eye. His brown head was on a level with\nhis father's heart. He was the jewel of the House of the Golden\nPillars; the pride of Hermas, the new Fortunatus.\n\nThat year another drop of success fell into his brimming cup. His\nblack Numidian horses, which he had been training for three years\nfor the world-renowned chariot-races of Antioch, won the victory\nover a score of rivals. Hermas received the prize carelessly from\nthe judge's hands, and turned to drive once more around the circus,\nto show himself to the people. He lifted the eager boy into the\nchariot beside him to share his triumph.\n\nHere, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchless son, his\nbrighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory, touching his arm,\nand balancing himself proudly on the swaying floor of the chariot.\nAs the horses pranced around the ring, a great shout of applause\nfilled the amphitheatre, and thousands of spectators waved their\nsalutations of praise: \"Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success!\nHail, little Hermas, prince of good luck!\"\n\nThe sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering of\ninnumerable garments in the air, startled the horses. They dashed\nviolently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The left rein broke.\nThey swerved to the right, swinging the chariot sideways with a\ngrating noise, and dashing it against the stone parapet of the\narena. In an instant the wheel was shattered. The axle struck the\nground, and the chariot was dragged onward, rocking and staggering.\n\nBy a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frail platform,\nclinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy was tossed lightly from\nhis side at the first shock. His head struck the wall. And when\nHermas turned to look for him, he was lying like a broken flower on\nthe sand.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nGREAT FEAR AND RECOVERED JOY\n\n\nTHEY carried the boy in a litter to the House of the Golden Pillars,\nsummoning the most skilful physician of Antioch to attend him. For\nhours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the white\neyelids, folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watches\nfor the morning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever was\nburning in the eyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium.\n\nHour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls and\nchambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill calls\nof distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness and\ndull moaning. The stars waxed and waned; the sun rose and set; the\nroses bloomed and fell in the garden, the birds sang and slept among\nthe jasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no\nbloom, no light--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful\nlooking-for of desolation.\n\nHe was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror that\nwas moving toward him, but he was impotent to stay or to escape it.\nHe had done all that he could. There was nothing left but to wait.\n\nHe paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as if he could\nnot bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not\nendure to be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared\nto speak to him, there was something so vacant and desperate in his\nface.\n\nAt nightfall, on the second of those eternal days, he shut himself\nin the library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of\nsmoke in the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which\nthe room was sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the\ngloom with a close odor of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus\nwas tumbled in disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like\na man in whom the very spring of being is broken. Through the\ndarkness some one drew near. He did not even lift his head. A hand\ntouched him; a soft arm was laid over his shoulders. It was\nAthenais, kneeling beside him and speaking very low:\n\n\"Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weaker\nhour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he\nlaughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is\nrising now. Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is\nthere nothing we can do? Is there no power that can save him? Is\nthere no one to pity us and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for\ncompassion and help; let us pray for his life!\"\n\nYes; that was what he wanted--that was the only thing that could\nbring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a\ngreater strength than his own, and cling to it and plead for mercy\nand help. To leave that undone was to be false to his manhood; it\nwas to be no better than the dumb beasts when their young perish.\nHow could he let his boy suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a\nprayer?\n\nHe sank on his knees beside Athenais.\n\n\"Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity. The light\nof our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the child, the\nchild! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--\"\n\nNot a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretched\nout in supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the cool\nhardness of the polished stone beneath his fingers. A book,\ndislodged by his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open\ndoor, faint and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving\ncautiously. The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom.\nHe rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.\n\n\"It is in vain,\" he said; \"there is nothing for us to do. Long ago I\nknew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have\nforgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I\ncould bring it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our\nbitter trouble.\"\n\nA slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached\nhesitatingly.\n\n\"Master,\" he said, \"John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit\nto the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he\nwaits in the peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seeking\nto turn him away.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Hermas to his wife, \"let us go to him; for I think I\nsee the beginning of a way that may lead us out of this dreadful\ndarkness.\"\n\nIn the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, with\ndisdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest to\ndepart; John silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves\nlooked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze to the haggard\nface of Hermas.\n\n\"My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did not\nsend for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are in\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" answered Hermas, passionately; \"we are in trouble,\ndesperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is dying. We are\npoor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In all this house, in all\nthe world, there is no one that can help us. I knew something long\nago, when I was with you,--a word, a name,--in which we might\nhave found hope. But I have lost it. I gave it to this man. He has\ntaken it away from me forever.\"\n\nHe pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled scornfully. \"A\nword, a name!\" he sneered. \"What is that, O most wise and holy\nPresbyter? A thing of air, an unreal thing that men make to describe\ntheir own dreams and fancies. Who would go about to rob any one of\nsuch a thing as that? It is a prize that only a fool would think of\ntaking. Besides, the young man parted with it of his own free will.\nHe bargained with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure\nand fame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which was a\nburden--\"\n\n\"Servant of demons, be still!\" The voice of John rang clear, like a\ntrumpet, through the hall. \"There is a name which none shall dare to\ntake in vain. There is a name which none can lose without being\nlost. There is a name at which the devils tremble. Depart quickly,\nbefore I speak it!\"\n\nMarcion had shrunk into the shadow of one of the pillars. A bright\nlamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In the\nconfusion he vanished, as noiselessly as a shade.\n\nJohn turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said: \"My son,\nyou have sinned deeper than you know. The word with which you parted\nso lightly is the key-word of all life and joy and peace. Without it\nthe world has no meaning, and existence no rest, and death no\nrefuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comforts grief, and\nkeeps hope alive forever. It is the most precious thing that ever\near has heard, or mind has known, or heart has conceived. It is the\nname of Him who has given us life and breath and all things richly\nto enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget Him, never\nforgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your suffering\nchild; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us\nin the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me\nthis night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that\nis perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soul\nto the blessed name of God our Father.\"\n\nThe cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of\nice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spread\nthrough him from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of a\ndivine peace fell on his parched soul, and the withering flower of\nhuman love lifted its head again. The light of a new hope shone on\nhis face. He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.\n\n\"Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my God, be\nmerciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God, Thou hast\ngiven; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God! Spare the life of\nthis my child, O Thou God, my Father, my Father!\"\n\nA deep hush followed the cry. \"Listen!\" whispered Athenais,\nbreathlessly.\n\nWas it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--the voice of\nthe child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling: \"My\nfather, my father!\"","title":"The Lost Word: A Christmas Legend of Long Ago","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9303}