As soon as the friends were alone, the elder observed:
“That worthy, foolhardy, old child who is now dead, seems to have left you some strange request. I could see that as you were reading.”
“There—take it!” replied Philippus; and again he walked up and down the room, while Horapollo took the letter. Both faces of the tablets were covered with irregular, up-and-down lines of writing to the following effect:
“Rufinus, in view of death, to his beloved Philippus:
“One shivering fit after another comes over me; I shall certainly
die to-day. I must make haste. Writing is difficult. If only I
can say what is most pressing.—First: Joanna and the poor child.
Be everything you can be to them. Protect them as their guardian,
Kyrios, and friend. They have enough to live on and something still
to spare for others. My brother Leonax manages the property, and he
is honest. Joanna knows all about it.—Tell her and the poor child
that I send them ten thousand blessings—and to Joanna endless
thanks for all her goodness.—And to you, my friend: heed the old
man’s words. Rid your heart of Paula. She is not for you: you
know, young Orion. But as to yourself: Those who were born in high
places rarely suit us, who have dragged ourselves up from below to a
better position. Be her friend; that she deserves—but let that be
all. Do not live alone, a wife brings all that is best into a man’s
life; it is she who weaves sweet dreams into his dull sleep. You
know nothing of all this as yet; and your worthy old friend—to whom
my greetings—has held aloof from it all his life....
“For your private eye: it is a dying man who speaks thus. You must
know that my poor child, our Pul, regards you as the most perfect of
men and esteems you above all others. You know her and Joanna.
Bear witness to your friend that no evil word ever passed the lips
of either of them. Far be it from me to advise you, who bear the
image of another woman in your heart,—to say: marry the child, she
is the wife for you. But this much to you both—Father and son—I
do advise you to live with the mother and daughter as true and
friendly house-mates. You will none of you repent doing so. This
is a dying man’s word. I can write no more. You are the women’s
guardian, Philip, a faithful one I know. A common aim makes men
grow alike. You and I, for many a year.—Take good care of them for
me; I entreat you—good care.”
The last words were separated and written all astray; the old man could hardly make them out. He now sat looking, as Phillipus had done before, sorely puzzled and undecided over this strange document.
“Well?” asked the leech at last.
“Aye-well?” repeated the other with a shrug. Then both again were silent; till Horapollo rose, and taking his staff, also paced the room while he murmured, half to himself and half to his younger friend “They are two quiet, reasonable women. There are not many of that sort, I fancy. How the little one helped me up from the low seat in the garden!” It was a reminiscence that made him chuckle to himself; he stopped Philippus, who was pacing at his side, by lightly patting his arm, exclaiming with unwonted vivacity: “A man should be ready to try everything—the care of women even, before he steps into the grave. And is it a fact that neither of them is a scold or a chatter-box?”
“It is indeed.”
“And what ‘if’ or ‘but’ remains behind?” asked the old man. “Let us be reckless for once, brother! If the whole business were not so diabolically serious, it would be quite laughable. The young one for me and the old one for you in our leisure hours, my son; better washed linen; clothes without holes in them; no dust on our books; a pleasant ‘Rejoice’ every morning, or at meal-times;—only look at the fruit on that dish! No better than the oats they strew before horses. At the old man’s everything was as nice as it used to be in my own home at Philae: Supper a little work of art, a feast for the eye as well as the appetite! Pulcheria seems to understand all that as well as my poor dead sister did. And then, when I want to rise, such a kind, pretty little hand to help one up! I have long hated this dwelling. Lime and dust fall from the ceiling in my bedroom, and here there are wide gaps in the flooring-I stumbled over one yesterday—and our niggardly landlords, the officials, say that if we want anything repaired we may do it ourselves, that they have no money left for such things. Now, under that worthy old man’s roof everything was in the best order.” The philosopher chuckled aloud and rubbed his hands as he went on: “Supposing we kick over the traces for once, Philip. Supposing we were to carry out our friend’s dying wish? Merciful Isis! It would certainly be a good action, and I have not many to boast of. But cautiously—what do you say? We can always throw it up at a month’s notice.”
Then he grew grave again, shook his head, and said meditatively: “No, no; such plans only disturb one’s peace of mind. A pleasant vision! But scarcely feasible.”