Outside it was dawn. The lupanars were giving up their dead, some sailors and devotees of the great goddess were already congregating in the wine-shops. Muffled as I was in my great coarse cloak they suspected me of being one of the Roman soldiers, and none spoke to me or offered me insult. I did not heed them but passed along the quays, looking at Acrocorinth towering like Eryx, that other home of the sea-born and lure for sailors, into the infinite blue of a cloudless sky. Wreaths of vapour cloaked its lower reaches, and it seemed like a great dome suspended in the air. On the other side laughed the wide sea in multitudinous ripples of light. It all seemed to reflect some childish half-conscious gaiety of my soul. My sorrow still lay there, but comforted with human sympathy, and the two mystical gifts of the Christians, peace and love.
It was only after I had escaped from the enchantment of his presence that I was able to understand the aims and ambitions of Paul, as he showed them in the letter which he had dictated that night, and which was to be copied and sent to all the communities that had come together in Greece, Asia and Italy. His aim was principally to abolish the restrictions which hampered conversion into his faith, rites of the Jews, circumcision, the use of certain meats which they had considered unclean, and the huge body of formulæ and observances, which had grown and developed out of casuistry and the old Hebrew law; but beyond and above that he wished them to propitiate the civil power. When he spoke of the abolition of the law he meant those rites and ceremonies which seemed a profanation of, a bartering with, the divinity. He felt that his mission was not to the Jews alone, but to all the nations of the world. In this he was opposed by the more rigid Christians at Jerusalem, who held that circumcision was necessary, and that only a Jew could be saved. One of the most rigid adherents of this narrower sect was a brother of Christ, who seemed to pass his whole life in the Temple, praying and fasting.
Paul was often bitter against this sect. Yet it was out of that same kind of formalism that he himself had sprung; and he seldom lost traces of it, except in a few isolated moments, when love and indignation burnt him up. I went among these Christians again and again; and each time became more fascinated by their hidden, gentle lives. A very intimate tie bound Caius to Paul, for Paul had initiated him into their mysteries, which were, I imagine, the same as in other religions, a purification and a mystic meal. Caius was a man of considerable power, but of immense reserve, from whom I learnt very little. Paul was a fanatic, impatient of the opposition to his teaching at Jerusalem. Sometimes in anger he would satirise his opponents and the rite of circumcision with a bitter and sardonic humour. He was honey to those he loved, gall to those who withstood him.
The community in Corinth having fallen back during his absence into a moral laxity, almost excusable considering their environment, he withdrew them from all social intercourse with their fellow-citizens. They obeyed because they loved, but more, because they feared him. Before his conversion he had persecuted the Christians to turn them from their faith; afterwards he persecuted them to keep them in it. I learned the story of his conversion. It had its origin in the death of one called Stephen, who had been accused before the Jewish Collegium of blasphemy; a frivolous pretext for the punishment of one's opponents which had obtained everywhere but in Rome.
As you know, the law of the Empire is that no one shall be punished with death except by a Roman court, and only when he has been convicted of specified crimes; for the spirit of Roman usage has always been, in the words of Tiberius, that the injuries of the gods are the gods' affair. Stephen, after an argument with his accusers, suddenly cried out with a loud voice: "Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God." With one accord his exasperated enemies stripped off their cloaks and laid them at the feet of Paul, who took charge of them; and they stoned Stephen, Paul consenting to his death.
Even at the time, perhaps, standing aside and taking no part in the murder, Paul's conscience may have reproved him. In any case the incident assumed, afterwards, an enormous importance for him. He could not speak of it without emotion. Perhaps also he feared that he might be accused to the Roman authorities for his part in the riot. His mind became abnormally excited.
Some days afterwards he set out for Damascus to bring up some more Christians to Jerusalem, to be tried by the same barbarous assembly. Suddenly at noon he saw a blinding light, and he fell to the ground. A voice called to him out of the sky. According to some accounts the voice uttered a phrase from Euripides: it is hard for thee to kick against the goads. The phrase had passed into current use. However strange it may seem that a voice from heaven should have uttered these words, it is perfectly natural that Paul should have heard them; he must have heard them before, many times.
But what goads were meant? The pricks of conscience, perhaps, for his share in the murder of Stephen; some secret remorse, against which he had steeled his heart, in the hope that time and use would cure it. Such was the conversion of Paul. His nature had suffered no change from it; he had merely found a new aim for his life, and the same zeal, which he had used in his persecution of the Christians, he now asserted in their cause. To himself this incident of his conversion seemed unnatural, miraculous; but to us it is simple, and easily explained, being merely a repetition of Stephen's vision. As I have already written, he was of delicate health; some nervous, constitutional weakness affected him; epilepsy, perhaps, or something akin to it. His accounts of what happened varied; for he seemed to have told the story in different ways to different people. In one account, those who were with him heard the voice, but did not see the light; and in another version they saw the light, but did not hear the voice. Paul himself had not known Christ in the flesh. He knew little of him, except that he had been born, had gathered about him a group of disciples, had preached, and had died on the cross.
His mind therefore could fashion no clear image in the vision. He could only see a light and hear familiar words. He himself always treated this vision of the risen Master as distinct from the visions which had been manifested to the other disciples, as a purely spiritual manifestation: "and lastly," he said, "He appeared to me as to an abortion." What does he mean by this phrase? Does it mean that Paul's spiritual birth was effected by violence, prematurely; that it was precipitated by the murder of Stephen? Is it remorse for Stephen's death that forces him to apply this hideous epithet to himself; or is it a reference to the lack of definite, sensible impressions; or to the fact of the lateness of his conversion; or merely a scornful reference to his own physical deformities? He was accustomed to speak with a bitter mockery of his infirmities, yet, it seemed also, with a little pride. He mentioned in the letter, which Caius showed me, that he had prayed for the removal of some physical disability, but the prayer had not been granted. The fragility of his vision was even used by his opponents, the small sect practising poverty at Jerusalem, among whom was the brother of their Master, as a ground for denying his mission. One is almost tempted to agree with them. The evidence is vague, the accounts vary. We may wonder into what form these floating legends will crystallise, if the community endures and increases; if they will ever form a complete unity, like the myths of Orpheus and Dionysos.