Priscilla of Alexandria

by Maurice Magre

  In the distance, on the rocky path that snaked around the ruins of the temple of Venus there was a flickering light. A man carrying a lantern whose flame the wind threatened to extinguish was descending toward Corinth. The little glimmer seemed to be struggling against the darkness and gave the impression that it was about to expire at any moment.

  “Alas,” said Proclus, again, following his train of thought, “the reign of the mind is over. Yesterday, the emperor ordered the destruction of the books of Porphyry. Tomorrow, we’ll no longer be safe, either in Corinth or in Athens. Behold the image of our epoch: a man with a lantern that is about to go out, descending the hill where the ruins of the temple of Venus are.”

  Footsteps resounded. A voice pronounced the formula of Greek salutation: “Rejoice!”

  It was Priscilla,

  She was wearing a blue-tinted veil with silver spangles, like the one Hypatia had been accustomed to wear, and her light step was not exempt from a certain majesty. Clear and rapid, her gaze posed on all the faces.

  Palladius had hastened toward her. He was almost stammering. He piled cushions on top of one another and made her a sign to take her place.

  Telamon was staring at Priscilla, but he remained impassive.

  “Palladius,” said Isidore of Gaza, leaning over the poet’s shoulder and drawing him toward him. “You haven’t asked me about my second dream. It has a symbolic and prophetic range, however, which concerns you. Well, you can be less agitated. I’ve seen you in a closed room. You were holding Priscilla in your arms and you had a bed behind you. And as it’s a matter of a dream that I had just before sunrise, its realization is very imminent.”

  Then Telamon, who had overheard involuntarily, half-closed his wide eyes, and lay down as if he were going to sleep.

  Sitting on the deck at sunset the merchant Ibas was covered with sweat.

  He was the captain of his own ship and he only had six crewmen. The sea had been rough in the vicinity of the isle of Seriphos and he had hardly slept. In the morning, within sight of the rocks of Aegina, the wind had dropped and it had been necessary to row. For several hours Ibas had rowed ardently, but now a favorable breeze was blowing and driving the ship, with all sails hoisted, toward the port of Corinth.

  The sweat that bathed his forehead was caused by a greater effort than the one that he had required to avoid the reefs or ply the oar forcefully. He was holding Plato’s Symposium in his hand and striving, for the hundredth time, to decipher its mysterious meaning.

  Alas, he did not understand the ancient Greek in which the book was written very well. There were scholarly words in it that he had never pronounced. But even when the words were comprehensible, the thought escaped him. He sensed it close to him, marvelous, invisible and winged, but he strove to pursue in vain.

  H got up. He smiled in a melancholy fashion at a hope that was drawing away. His resolution was made. He had just made one last attempt, which had failed. The die was cast. He gave up. He would never understand philosophy. He was renouncing many other things more precious than the works of Plato. Since he was only a poor limited merchant, that was what he would remain. Perhaps he would become even more limited.

  He took the thick scrolls of papyrus and, with all this might, threw them into the sea. There was not even a fleck of foam when they disappeared.

  Then Ibas considered his garments, and found himself extremely ridiculous. An hour before, when he had distinguished the patch of white stone that the Acropolis of Corinth made on the horizon, he had changed his trousers and his chiton of coarse cloth for a dalmatic with grandiose embroidery representing a fabulous mythical bird. He had thought himself very handsome in that dalmatic, and had marched with pride through the streets of Alexandria because of it, but now the dalmatic weighed upon him, inconveniencing him. The fabulous bird was sinking its golden claws into his breast. Then too, he divined the contained laughter of one of his mariners, who was considering him, creasing his eyes. The mariner was a brute whose judgment he would have scorned the day bore. Since the books of Plato had disappeared into the sea, the brute had resumed his importance, with a hidden gaiety.

  He ran to the low cabin that he had between the decks. He took off the dalmatic. He took clothes out of a chest. He picked up a patched tunic, but dropped it. No, that was still too fine. He put on one that was uglier. He resembled the slave of a grape-merchant rather than a merchant himself. That is because one descends again far more rapidly than one had climbed.

  The sun was about to disappear when the ship moored in the harbor. The humble captain ordered the crew not to go far; they were going to depart again shortly.

  Rapidly, he traversed the yards where triremes were under construction and he quays encumbered by ivory from Libya, leather from Cyrene, incense from Syria and carpets from Carthage, and hastened toward the road to Cenchreae, where the house was that he had bought for Priscilla after the flight from Constantinople.

  Priscilla had never been as beautiful as she was that evening.

  All the shades of blue from sapphire blue to the pale blue of the early morning sky were mingled in her garments and harmonized with the milky oval of her face. Her hair, once tinted blonde in accordance with the custom of Byzantine prostitutes, had resumed its natural color and made an ardent black mass under a fine golden network.

  She was walking along the only path in the minuscule garden that surrounded her house, respiring an acacia branch, in the perfume of which she was trying to recover a memory.

  Ibas appeared before her abruptly.

  She could not retain an exclamation of surprise.

  He was not longer the slightly vain, taciturn and good merchant who had once me to visit her in Spartacus’ house and how had saved her life one morning with so much joy; he was no longer the faithful companion who had respected her sudden intoxication with chastity, whom she had made to share her love of study; he was no longer the silent confidant, the friend concerned for her happiness.

  He was a servant, a poor servant—not even that, a slave.

  He fixed his eyes on the ground. “I’ve just got back from Alexandria. I did everything you asked. Your father Diodorus believed you to be dead. He forgives you and would like to see you before dying.”

  And he fell silent.

  He hardly said anything more. He only responded briefly to Priscilla’s questions.

  Oh, yes, certainly, he had seen it, his palace overlooking the sea, he had seen the slaves, the marble staircase, the onyx colonnades, and he had been shown the ships in the port four times as large as his, and the formidable cargoes that belonged to Diodorus, Priscilla’s father!

  What he had been told was nothing. It is necessary to see such things!

  And he, who had been so proud of his boat, his six crewmen and the extent of his transactions!

  The sight of omnipotent wealth, the face of a true master sitting in the depths of his palace had rendered Ibas a sense of reality. He had been abruptly returned to his place as a former peasant to whom a petty commerce had given a petty ease. In passing through Diodorus’ great portal his forehead had been curbed toward the earth, and had not risen again since. For a man born on the stony hills of Zante, where there is nothing but sun and vine ceps, a man emerged directly from the rude earth, cannot march with impunity into rooms where there are precious mosaics and rare Oriental carpets, crimson magnificence and the sumptuousness of mirrors, without retaining an imperishable dazzlement.

  Iban no longer had anything to say to the heir to the age-old fortune of Diodorus, except to ask her whether she had any orders to give him. He was leaving Corinth. He would not come back. He would go, as before, from Zante to Constantinople and from Constantinople to Zante. He would not complain about that. To each his life. And above all, no more philosophy! He had never been able to understand it. Minerva had not granted his prayers. He was returning to Jesus.

  In vain, Priscilla tried to retain him.

  They walked for a long time in the falling n
ight. They perceived, in the end, that they had arrived without suspecting it in the vicinity of Palladius’ villa, where Priscilla was awaited.

  She was late. They would be astonished by her absence. It was necessary to part. It was Ibas who said that first, and Priscilla acquiesced immediately.

  A bright light emerged through the open portico. In the garden, lamps were hanging in the trees, and by their light, the branches gave the impression of being cut out in pieces of jade. Under the torches of the terrace, white robes could be seen that were agitating, the profiles of philosophers with prominent temples, sculpted by intelligence.

  And when Priscilla bid him adieu and drew way under her veil, like a fragment of blue sky, the peasant from Zante remained in the shadow, motionless, for a long time, gazing at that forbidden universe into which the woman who had been the beauty of his life had just disappeared.

  “They’ll all tell you that you resemble her,” said Palladius, in a voice that passion rendered tremulous, as he inclined his curly head over Priscilla’s shoulder, “but you’re more beautiful than her! In your gaze there’s a love of life that she didn’t possess. Your voice has a warmth that never animated the marble of her words.”

  Palladius and Priscilla were walking along a path that bordered the sea. The sky, moonless but streaming with stars, illuminated the garden dimly. Behind the curtain of sculpted spindle trees the voices of philosophers were audible, debating, mingled with the distant voices of boatmen and the songs of belated passers-by.

  Sometimes Priscilla turned round abruptly as if to see whether someone was following them, but every time she saw nothing behind them but the whiteness of the deserted path, like a young woman asleep under a tunic of gilded sand.

  “I’ve always been more loved than I have loved myself,” Palladius went on, “And I didn’t know what it was to suffer from amour. But since I’ve seen you, that has changed. I’d like to take you away to a land where no one will know the syllables of your name and where I alone will have the right to look at you.”

  “You say that because you’re able to forget,” Priscilla replied, smiling. “Forgetfulness is easy for some, difficult for others. I wish I were like you.”

  “To what are you alluding?” stopping and plunging his eyes into those of Priscilla, who did not turn away.

  “Haven’t you loved already, more than you love me?”

  “Who?”

  “Hypatia, perhaps?”

  Palladius’ face altered, shrank, becoming gray for a moment. A surge of anger had invaded him. He recovered his self-control and uttered a little bitter laugh, repeating, scornfully: “Hypatia!”

  Priscilla contained her amazement. “Why deny it? I know it. You loved her more than me.” And there was a hint of melancholy in her voice.

  Palladius protested with all his might. He had never experienced before what he felt for her. His life had no other goal henceforth but her amour.

  While walking they had almost made a tour of the garden and they had returned to the extremity of the terrace. They perceived the silhouette of Telamon, who was gazing at the sea.

  Then Priscilla leaned on the balustrade and remained motionless, as if she were lost in a reverie.

  “Why are you looking at Telamon like that?” said Palladius.

  “He’s younger than you. Perhaps he’s never loved...”

  “So what?” said Palladius, gritting his teeth in fury.

  “So nothing. But I have one regret.”

  “What?”

  “You loved Hypatia. I would have liked to encounter you before you loved her. Now, it’s too late,”

  Palladius exploded. He had never loved Hypatia. Perhaps he had desired her, at first, but he had ended up hating her. Her virtue had been exaggerated. Her genius had been exaggerated. Love Hypatia! Him! He had demonstrated clearly that there was nothing of the sort.

  “Oh, if you could prove to me that what you’re saying is true…,” murmured Priscilla, staring at a point in the sky.

  Palladius lowered his voice. “I could have tried to save her, and I didn’t.”

  He stopped.

  “Explain,” said Priscilla, softly her eyes still lost in space.

  “Yes, the morning of her death, a monk came to warn me what was in preparation. I’ve often reflected since that it was already too late. I didn’t have the time to gather the students of the Museum and arm them. By jumping into a chariot I might have been able to arrive in time to stop her going out. But she had irritated me. I’ve always noticed, in any case, that misfortune overtakes those I don’t like. I’ve sometimes regretted my inaction. At other times I’ve thought that great pride is always punished and that the death of Hypatia, in its unjust form, was inevitable. No matter! I only love those who love me. Hypatia loved Telamon.”

  Priscilla’s gaze quit the sky to contemplate the face of Palladius.

  Either because of the memory he had evoked, or because of his physical desire for Priscilla, Palladius appeared to be enveloped by a material aureole of baseness. His eyelids were fluttering; his lips, protruding slightly, were thicker, and allowed the sight of his gleaming teeth. He had the air of a lustful sheep that has the jaws of a wolf in order to bite.

  Then Priscilla made a large movement full of spontaneity. She placed her hand on Palladius’ arm. He shuddered.

  “I’m not promising you anything, but perhaps…”

  She stopped. He was agog with attention.

  “You know my house on the road to Cenchreae?”

  He nodded his head.

  “There’s a narrow window that overlooks the road. Tomorrow, at the sixth hour of the night, come to stick your ear to the shutter. I’ll tell you then through the crack in the cedar-wood what I dare not tell you now...”

  Palladius put out his arm to embrace her. He saw more in that rendezvous than the promise of a word.

  “Be careful,” said Priscilla, “Telamon, over there, is watching us. He loved Hypatia, you say. He might be jealous.

  “Oh, I hope so! I can’t imagine a greater joy. He must desire you because you’re beautiful, and perhaps he’s told you so. I’d give my entire fortune for him to suffer because of me.”

  And Palladius made another movement to clasp Priscilla’s body against him.

  But she slipped away, lightly.

  And she came back into the light of the torches, her eyelids half-closed, with an expression in which there was not the slightest trace of emotion.

  Women! thought Palladius. They’re all the same!

  “Look,” said Proclus, vaguely indicating the shadow that was opposite the terrace. “The man descending with his lantern has just disappeared. Even so, a star is casting a little white gleam on the fronton of the temple of Venus.”

  “You ask me,” Proclus relied to Priscilla, “why the goddess Nemesis is always represented with a crown of narcissi. Nemesis isn’t vengeance. Nemesis isn’t justice. She’s a law of cause and effect. The evil that one accomplishes inevitably engenders a similar evil, which strikes you. But when one receives the punishment of a sin, one had always forgotten the sin. The narcissi, whose perfume has a narcotic effect, symbolize that forgetfulness.”

  “But why? Why?” said Priscilla, avidly. “That law is unjust. The person who is being punished ought to know why.”

  “The law appears unjust because our vision of things is restricted. It’s only from a certain height that one can perceive the equilibrium of the world. Then again, humans couldn’t have the merit of making progress if they knew with rigorous exactitude that Nemesis would render every parcel of good and every parcel of evil that they have done. But when and in what manner that retribution will occur, neither the Chaldean priests nor those of Egypt informed the initiates of their mysteries. The law is so great in its effects that it isn’t susceptible to measurement.”

  “Oh, the goddess Nemesis is too slow! When it’s a matter of certain crimes, don’t you think that one ought to strive with all one’s might to hasten the p
unishment?”

  “The crown of narcissi has two meanings,” said Proclus then. “The man who is guilty forgets his fault. The one who wants to punish ought to forget too.”

  The following day, toward the fifth hour of the night, surrounded by perfumes and sparkling with jewels, Palladius emerged from his villa and headed for the road to Cenchreae.

  At that moment, in Priscilla’s bedroom, the bronze lamp suspended from the wall began to burn lower. As if she had been woken up by the shadow, Priscilla raised her heavy head, which was resting on Telamon’s breast and showed him a bottle placed on a small shelf.

  He got up, took the bottle and poured its contents into the lamp, whose flame revived. Then he resumed his place by Priscilla’s side on the narrow bed of sculpted olive-wood.

  “It’s with the eyes that one sees ones happiness,” he said. “The lines of the human body contain the greatest sum of beauty that there is in the world. It has never been given to me to contemplate such perfection in the form of a woman. I need to see you in order to be certain that you’re really here and that I’m not dreaming.”

  And having enlaced Priscilla with a gesture simultaneously voluptuous and indolent, he pressed his lips to hers for a long time.

  Her hair had spread over her shoulders. She sensed a heaviness in her eyelids and a lassitude in her loins. All of her flesh was numbed by abandonment, but her mind was singularly alert. She ran through memories, built edifices of hopes. She only stopped in order to be astonished by what had happened.

  Certainly, she was not surprised to be lying in Telamon’s arms. It was her who had wanted him to come. She had met him in the public gardens at the bottom of the road to Cenchreae, where the philosophers were accustomed to gather at dusk had had not had any difficulty making him understand, for reciprocal desire has a mute language that is clearer than that of words.