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THAIS

by Anatole France



Translated By Robert B. Douglas



CONTENTS

PART I. THE LOTUS
PART II. THE PAPYRUS
THE BANQUET
THE PAPYRUS (resumed)
PART III. THE EUPHORBIA





THAIS




PART THE FIRST -- THE LOTUS

In those days there were many hermits living in the desert. On both
banks of the Nile numerous huts, built by these solitary dwellers, of
branches held together by clay, were scattered at a little distance from
each other, so that the inhabitants could live alone, and yet help one
another in case of need. Churches, each surmounted by a cross, stood
here and there amongst the huts, and the monks flocked to them at each
festival to celebrate the services or to partake of the Communion. There
were also, here and there on the banks of the river, monasteries, where
the cenobites lived in separate cells, and only met together that they
might the better enjoy their solitude.

Both hermits and cenobites led abstemious lives, taking no food till
after sunset, and eating nothing but bread with a little salt and
hyssop. Some retired into the desert, and led a still more strange life
in some cave or tomb.

All lived in temperance and chastity; they wore a hair shirt and a hood,
slept on the bare ground after long watching, prayed, sang psalms, and,
in short, spent their days in works of penitence. As an atonement
for original sin, they refused their body not only all pleasures and
satisfactions, but even that care and attention which in this age are
deemed indispensable. They believed that the diseases of our members
purify our souls, and the flesh could put on no adornment more glorious
than wounds and ulcers. Thus, they thought they fulfilled the words of
the prophet, "The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose."

Amongst the inhabitants of the holy Thebaid, there were some who
passed their days in asceticism and contemplation; others gained their
livelihood by plaiting palm fibre, or by working at harvest-time for
the neighbouring farmers. The Gentiles wrongly suspected some of them
of living by brigandage, and allying themselves to the nomadic Arabs
who robbed the caravans. But, as a matter of fact, the monks despised
riches, and the odour of their sanctity rose to heaven.

Angels in the likeness of young men, came, staff in hand, as travellers,
to visit the hermitages; whilst demons--having assumed the form of
Ethiopians or of animals--wandered round the habitations of the hermits
in order to lead them into temptation. When the monks went in the
morning to fill their pitcher at the spring, they saw the footprints
of Satyrs and Aigipans in the sand. The Thebaid was, really and
spiritually, a battlefield, where, at all times, and more especially at
night, there were terrible conflicts between heaven and hell.

The ascetics, furiously assailed by legions of the damned, defended
themselves--with the help of God and the angels--by fasting, prayer,
and penance. Sometimes carnal desires pricked them so cruelly that
they cried aloud with pain, and their lamentations rose to the starlit
heavens mingled with the howls of the hungry hyaenas. Then it was that
the demons appeared in delightful forms. For though the demons are, in
reality, hideous, they sometimes assume an appearance of beauty which
prevents their real nature from being recognised. The ascetics of the
Thebaid were amazed to see in their cells phantasms of delights unknown
even to the voluptuaries of the age. But, as they were under the sign
of the Cross, they did not succumb to these temptations, and the unclean
spirits, assuming again their true character, fled at daybreak, filled
with rage and shame. It was not unusual to meet at dawn one of these
beings, flying away and weeping, and replying to those who questioned
it, "I weep and groan because one of the Christians who live here has
beaten me with rods, and driven me away in ignominy."

The power of the old saints of the desert extended over all sinners and
unbelievers. Their goodness was sometimes terrible. They derived from
the Apostles authority to punish all offences against the true and only
God, and no earthly power could save those they condemned. Strange tales
were told in the cities, and even as far as Alexandria, how the earth
had opened and swallowed up certain wicked persons whom one of these
saints struck with his staff. Therefore they were feared by all
evil-doers, and particularly by mimes, mountebanks, married priests, and
prostitutes.

Such was the sanctity of these holy men that even wild beasts felt their
power. When a hermit was about to die, a lion came and dug a grave with
its claws. The saint knew by this that God had called him, and he went
and kissed all his brethren on the cheek. Then he lay down joyfully, and
slept in the Lord.

Now that Anthony, who was more than a hundred years old, had retired
to Mount Colzin with his well-beloved disciples, Macarius and Amathas,
there was no monk in the Thebaid more renowned for good works than
Paphnutius, the Abbot of Antinoe. Ephrem and Serapion had a greater
number of followers, and in the spiritual and temporal management
of their monasteries surpassed him. But Paphnutius observed the most
rigorous fasts, and often went for three entire days without taking
food. He wore a very rough hair shirt, he flogged himself night and
morning, and lay for hours with his face to the earth.

His twenty-four disciples had built their huts near his, and imitated
his austerities. He loved them all dearly in Jesus Christ, and
unceasingly exhorted them to good works. Amongst his spiritual children
were men who had been robbers for many years, and had been persuaded by
the exhortations of the holy abbot to embrace the monastic life, and who
now edified their companions by the purity of their lives. One, who had
been cook to the Queen of Abyssinia, and was converted by the Abbot of
Antinoe, never ceased to weep. There was also Flavian, the deacon, who
knew the Scriptures, and spoke well; but the disciple of Paphnutius who
surpassed all the others in holiness was a young peasant named Paul, and
surnamed the Fool, because of his extreme simplicity. Men laughed at his
childishness, but God favoured him with visions, and by bestowing upon
him the gift of prophecy.

Paphnutius passed his life in teaching his disciples, and in ascetic
practices. Often did he meditate upon the Holy Scriptures in order to
find allegories in them. Therefore he abounded in good works, though
still young. The devils, who so rudely assailed the good hermits, did
not dare to approach him. At night, seven little jackals sat in the
moonlight in front of his cell, silent and motionless, and with their
ears pricked up. It was believed that they were seven devils, who, owing
to his sanctity, could not cross his threshold.

Paphnutius was born at Alexandria of noble parents, who had instructed
him in all profane learning. He had even been allured by the falsehoods
of the poets, and in his early youth had been misguided enough to
believe that the human race had all been drowned by a deluge in the days
of Deucalion, and had argued with his fellow-scholars concerning the
nature, the attributes, and even the existence of God. He then led a
life of dissipation, after the manner of the Gentiles, and he recalled
the memory of those days with shame and horror.

"At that time," he used to say to the brethren, "I seethed in the
cauldron of false delights."

He meant by that that he had eaten food properly dressed, and frequented
the public baths. In fact, until his twentieth year he had continued
to lead the ordinary existence of those times, which now seemed to
him rather death than life; but, owing to the lessons of the priest
Macrinus, he then became a new man.

The truth penetrated him through and through, and--as he used to
say--entered his soul like a sword. He embraced the faith of Calvary,
and worshipped Christ crucified. After his baptism he remained yet a
year amongst the Gentiles, unable to cast off the bonds of old habits.
But one day he entered a church, and heard a deacon read from the Bible,
the verse, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and
give to the poor." Thereupon he sold all that he had, gave away the
money in alms, and embraced the monastic life.

During the ten years that he had lived remote from men, he no longer
seethed in the cauldron of false delights, but more profitably macerated
his flesh in the balms of penitence.

One day when, according to his pious custom, he was recalling to mind
the hours he had lived apart from God, and examining his sins one by
one, that he might the better ponder on their enormity, he remembered
that he had seen at the theatre at Alexandria a very beautiful actress
named Thais. This woman showed herself in the public games, and did not
scruple to perform dances, the movements of which, arranged only too
cleverly, brought to mind the most horrible passions. Sometimes she
imitated the horrible deeds which the Pagan fables ascribe to Venus,
Leda, or Pasiphae. Thus she fired all the spectators with lust, and when
handsome young men, or rich old ones, came, inspired with love, to hang
wreaths of flowers round her door, she welcomed them, and gave herself
up to them. So that, whilst she lost her own soul, she also ruined the
souls of many others.

She had almost led Paphnutius himself into the sins of the flesh. She
had awakened desire in him, and he had once approached the house of
Thais. But he stopped on the threshold of the courtesan's house, partly
restrained by the natural timidity of extreme youth--he was then but
fifteen years old--and partly by the fear of being refused on account
of his want of money, for his parents took care that he should commit no
great extravagances.

God, in His mercy, had used these two means to prevent him from
committing a great sin. But Paphnutius had not been grateful to Him for
that, because at that time he was blind to his own interests, and did
not know that he was lusting after false delights. Now, kneeling in
his cell, before the image of that holy cross on which hung, as in a
balance, the ransom of the world, Paphnutius began to think of Thais,
because Thais was a sin to him, and he meditated long, according to
ascetic rules, on the fearful hideousness of the carnal delights with
which this woman had inspired him in the days of his sin and ignorance.
After some hours of meditation the image of Thais appeared to him
clearly and distinctly. He saw her again, as he had seen her when she
tempted him, in all the beauty of the flesh. At first she showed herself
like a Leda, softly lying upon a bed of hyacinths, her head bowed, her
eyes humid and filled with a strange light, her nostrils quivering, her
mouth half open, her breasts like two flowers, and her arms smooth and
fresh as two brooks. At this sight Paphnutius struck his breast and
said--

"I call Thee to witness, my God, that I have considered how heinous has
been my sin."

Gradually the face of the image changed its expression. Little by little
the lips of Thais, by lowering at the corners of the mouth, expressed a
mysterious suffering. Her large eyes were filled with tears and lights;
her breast heaved with sighs, like the sighing of a wind that precedes
a tempest. At this sight Paphnutius was troubled to the bottom of his
soul. Prostrating himself on the floor, he uttered this prayer--

"Thou who hast put pity in our hearts, like the morning dew upon the
fields, O just and merciful God, be Thou blessed! Praise! praise be unto
Thee! Put away from Thy servant that false tenderness which tempts to
concupiscence, and grant that I may only love Thy creatures in Thee, for
they pass away, but Thou endurest for ever. If I care for this woman,
it is only because she is Thy handiwork. The angels themselves feel
pity for her. Is she not, O Lord, the breath of Thy mouth? Let her not
continue to sin with many citizens and strangers. There is great pity
for her in my heart. Her wickednesses are abominable, and but to think
of them makes my flesh creep. But the more wicked she is, the more do I
lament for her. I weep when I think that the devils will torment her to
all eternity."

As he was meditating in this way, he saw a little jackal lying at his
feet. He felt much surprised, for the door of his cell had been closed
since the morning. The animal seemed to read the Abbot's thoughts, and
wagged its tail like a dog. Paphnutius made the sign of the cross and
the beast vanished. He knew then that, for the first time, the devil had
entered his cell, and he uttered a short prayer; then he thought again
about Thais.

"With God's help," he said to himself, "I must save her." And he slept.

The next morning, when he had said his prayers, he went to see the
sainted Palemon, a holy hermit who lived some distance away. He found
him smiling quietly as he dug the ground, as was his custom. Palemon
was an old man, and cultivated a little garden; the wild beasts came and
licked his hands, and the devils never tormented him.

"May God be praised, brother Paphnutius," he said, as he leaned upon his
spade.

"God be praised!" replied Paphnutius. "And peace be unto my brother."

"The like peace be unto thee, brother Paphnutius," said Palemon; and he
wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Brother Palemon, all our discourse ought to be solely the praise of Him
who has promised to be wheresoever two or three are gathered together in
His Name. That is why I come to you concerning a design I have formed to
glorify the Lord."

"May the Lord bless thy design, Paphnutius, as He has blessed my
lettuces. Every morning He spreads His grace with the dew on my garden,
and His goodness causes me to glorify Him in the cucumbers and melons
which He gives me. Let us pray that He may keep us in His peace. For
nothing is more to be feared than those unruly passions which trouble
our hearts. When these passions disturb us we are like drunken men,
and we stagger from right to left unceasingly, and are like to fall
miserably. Sometimes these passions plunge us into a turbulent joy, and
he who gives way to such, sullies the air with brutish laughter. Such
false joy drags the sinner into all sorts of excess. But sometimes also
the troubles of the soul and of the senses throw us into an impious
sadness which is a thousand times worse than the joy. Brother
Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but I have found, in my long
life, that the cenobite has no foe worse than sadness. I mean by that
the obstinate melancholy which envelopes the soul as in a mist, and
hides from us the light of God. Nothing is more contrary to salvation,
and the devil's greatest triumph is to sow black and bitter thoughts in
the heart of a good man. If he sent us only pleasurable temptations,
he would not be half so much to be feared. Alas! he excels in making
us sad. Did he not show to our father Anthony a black child of such
surpassing beauty that the very sight of it drew tears? With God's help,
our father Anthony avoided the snares of the demon. I knew him when he
lived amongst us; he was cheerful with his disciples, and never gave
way to melancholy. But did you not come, my brother, to talk to me of
a design you had formed in your mind? Let me know what it is--if, at
least, this design has for its object the glory of God."

"Brother Palemon, what I propose is really to the glory of God.
Strengthen me with your counsel, for you know many things, and sin has
never darkened the clearness of your mind."

"Brother Paphnutius, I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of thy
sandals, and my sins are as countless as the sands of the desert. But I
am old, and I will never refuse the help of my experience."

"I will confide in you, then, brother Palemon, that I am stricken with
grief at the thought that there is, in Alexandria, a courtesan named
Thais, who lives in sin, and is a subject of reproach unto the people."

"Brother Paphnutius, that is, in truth, an abomination which we do well
to deplore. There are many women amongst the Gentiles who lead lives of
that kind. Have you thought of any remedy for this great evil?"

"Brother Palemon, I will go to Alexandria and find this woman, and, with
God's help, I will convert her; that is my intention; do you approve of
it, brother?"

"Brother Paphnutius, I am but a miserable sinner, but our father Anthony
used to say, 'In whatsoever place thou art, hasten not to leave it to go
elsewhere.'"

"Brother Palemon, do you disapprove of my project?"

"Dear Paphnutius, God forbid that I should suspect my brother of bad
intentions. But our father Anthony also said, 'Fishes die on dry land,
and so is it with those monks who leave their cells and mingle with the
men of this world, amongst whom no good thing is to be found.'"

Having thus spoken, the old man pressed his foot on the spade, and began
to dig energetically round a fig tree laden with fruit. As he was thus
engaged, there was a rustling in the bushes, and an antelope leaped
over the hedge which surrounded the garden; it stopped, surprised and
frightened, its delicate legs trembling, then ran up to the old man, and
laid its pretty head on the breast of its friend.

"God be praised in the gazelle of the desert," said Palemon.

He went to his hut, the light-footed little animal trotting after him,
and brought out some black bread, which the antelope ate out of his
hand.

Paphnutius remained thoughtful for some time, his eyes fixed upon the
stones at his feet. Then he slowly walked back to his cell, pondering on
what he had heard. A great struggle was going on in his mind.

"The hermit gives good advice," he said to himself; "the spirit of
prudence is in him. And he doubts the wisdom of my intention. Yet it
would be cruel to leave Thais any longer in the power of the demon who
possesses her. May God advise and conduct me."

As he was walking along, he saw a plover, caught in the net that a
hunter had laid on the sand, and he knew that it was a hen bird, for
he saw the male fly to the net, and tear the meshes one by one with its
beak, until it had made an opening by which its mate could escape. The
holy man watched this incident, and as, by virtue of his holiness, he
easily comprehended the mystic sense of all occurrences, he knew that
the captive bird was no other than Thais, caught in the snares of sin,
and that--like the plover that had cut the hempen threads with its
beak--he could, by pronouncing the word of power, break the invisible
bonds by which Thais was held in sin. Therefore he praised God, and was
confirmed in his first resolution. But then seeing the plover caught
by the feet, and hampered by the net it had broken, he fell into
uncertainty again.

He did not sleep all night, and before dawn he had a vision. Thais
appeared to him again. There was no expression of guilty pleasure on her
face, nor was she dressed according to custom in transparent drapery.
She was enveloped in a shroud, which hid even a part of her face, so
that the Abbot could see nothing but the two eyes, from which flowed
white and heavy tears.

At this sight he began to weep, and believing that this vision came from
God, he no longer hesitated. He rose, seized a knotted stick, the symbol
of the Christian faith, and left his cell, carefully closing the door,
lest the animals of the desert and the birds of the air should enter,
and befoul the copy of the Holy Scriptures which stood at the head of
his bed. He called Flavian, the deacon, and gave him authority over the
other twenty-three disciples during his absence; and then, clad only in
a long cassock, he bent his steps towards the Nile, intending to follow
the Libyan bank to the city founded by the Macedonian monarch. He walked
from dawn to eve, indifferent to fatigue, hunger, and thirst; the sun
was already low on the horizon when he saw the dreadful river, the
blood-red waters of which rolled between the rocks of gold and fire.

He kept along the shore, begging his bread at the door of solitary
huts for the love of God, and joyfully receiving insults, refusals, or
threats. He feared neither robbers nor wild beasts, but he took great
care to avoid all the towns and villages he came near. He was afraid
lest he should see children playing at knuckle-bones before their
father's house, or meet, by the side of the well, women in blue smocks,
who might put down their pitcher and smile at him. All things are
dangerous for the hermit; it is sometimes a danger for him to read in
the Scriptures that the Divine Master journeyed from town to town and
supped with His disciples. The virtues that the anchorites embroider so
carefully on the tissue of faith, are as fragile as they are beautiful;
a breath of ordinary life may tarnish their pleasant colours. For that
reason, Paphnutius avoided the towns, fearing lest his heart should
soften at the sight of his fellow men.

He journeyed along lonely roads. When evening came, the murmuring of the
breeze amidst the tamarisk trees made him shiver, and he pulled his hood
over his eyes that he might not see how beautiful all things were. After
walking six days, he came to a place called Silsile. There the
river runs in a narrow valley, bordered by a double chain of granite
mountains. It was there that the Egyptians, in the days when they
worshipped demons, carved their idols. Paphnutius saw an enormous sphinx
carved in the solid rock. Fearing that it might still possess some
diabolical properties, he made the sign of the cross, and pronounced the
name of Jesus; he immediately saw a bat fly out of one of the monster's
ears, and Paphnutius knew that he had driven out the evil spirits which
had been for centuries in the figure. His zeal increased, and picking up
a large stone, he threw it in the idol's face. Then the mysterious face
of the sphinx expressed such profound sadness that Paphnutius was moved.
In fact, the expression of superhuman grief on the stone visage would
have touched even the most unfeeling man. Therefore Paphnutius said to
the sphinx--

"O monster, be like the satyrs and centaurs our father Anthony saw in
the desert, and confess the divinity of Jesus Christ, and I will bless
thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost."

When he had spoken a rosy light gleamed in the eyes of the sphinx; the
heavy eyelids of the monster quivered and the granite lips painfully
murmured, as though in echo to the man's voice, the holy name of Jesus
Christ; therefore Paphnutius stretched out his right hand, and blessed
the sphinx of Silsile.

That being done, he resumed his journey, and the valley having grown
wider, he saw the ruins of an immense city. The temples, which still
remained standing, were supported by idols which served as columns,
and--by the permission of God--these figures with women's heads and
cow's horns, threw on Paphnutius a long look which made him turn pale.
He walked thus seventeen days, his only food a few raw herbs, and
he slept at night in some ruined palace, amongst the wild cats and
Pharaoh's rats, with which mingled sometimes, women whose bodies ended
in a scaly tail. But Paphnutius knew that these women came from hell,
and he drove them away by making the sign of the cross.

On the eighteenth day, he found, far from any village, a wretched hut
made of palm leaves, and half buried under the sand which had been
driven by the desert wind. He approached it, hoping that the hut was
inhabited by some pious anchorite. He saw inside the hovel--for there
was no door--a pitcher, a bunch of onions, and a bed of dried leaves.

"This must be the habitation of a hermit," he said to himself. "Hermits
are generally to be found near their hut, and I shall not fail to meet
this one. I will give him the kiss of peace, even as the holy Anthony
did when he came to the hermit Paul, and kissed him three times. We will
discourse of things eternal, and perhaps our Lord will send us, by one
of His ravens, a crust of bread, which my host will willingly invite me
to share with him."

Whilst he was thus speaking to himself, he walked round the hut to see
if he could find any one. He had not walked a hundred paces when he saw
a man seated, with his legs crossed, by the side of the river. The man
was naked; his hair and beard were quite white, and his body redder than
brick. Paphnutius felt sure this must be the hermit. He saluted him with
the words the monks are accustomed to use when they meet each other.

"Peace be with you, brother! May you some day taste the sweet joys of
paradise."

The man did not reply. He remained motionless, and appeared not to have
heard. Paphnutius supposed this was due to one of those rhapsodies to
which the saints are accustomed. He knelt down, with his hands joined,
by the side of the unknown, and remained thus in prayer till sunset.
Then, seeing that his companion had not moved, he said to him--

"Father, if you are now out of the ecstasy in which you were lost, give
me your blessing in our Lord Jesus Christ."