Myris: Alexandria, A.D. 340

When I heard the terrible news, that Myris was dead, I went to his house, although I avoid going to the houses of Christians, especially during times of mourning or festivity. I stood in the corridor. I didn't want to go further inside because I noticed that the relatives of the deceased looked at me with obvious surprise and displeasure. They had him in a large room and from the corner where I stood I could catch a glimpse of it: all precious carpets, and vessels in silver and gold. I stood and wept in a corner of the corridor. And I thought how our parties and excursions wouldn't be worthwhile now without Myris; and I thought how I'd no longer see him at our wonderfully indecent night-long sessions enjoying himself, laughing, and reciting verses with his perfect feel for Greek rhythm; and I thought how I'd lost forever his beauty, lost forever the young man I'd worshipped so passionately. Some old women close to me were talking with lowered voices about the last day he lived: the name of Christ constantly on his lips, his hand holding a cross. Then four Christian priests came into the room, and said prayers fervently, and orisons to Jesus, or to Mary (I'm not very familiar with their religion). We'd known of course that Myris was a Christian, known it from the very start, when he first joined our group the year before last. But he lived exactly as we did: more devoted to pleasure than all of us, he scattered his money lavishly on amusements. Not caring what anyone thought of him, he threw himself eagerly into night-time scuffles when our group happened to clash with some rival group in the street. He never spoke about his religion. And once we even told him that we'd take him with us to the Serapeion. But -I remember now- he didn't seem to like this joke of ours. And yes, now I recall two other incidents. When we made libations to Poseidon, he drew himself back from our circle and looked elsewhere. And when one of us in his fervour said: 'May all of us be favoured and protected by the great, the sublime Apollo'- Myris, unheard by the others, whispered: 'Not counting me.' The Christian priests were praying loudly for the young man's soul. I noticed with how much diligence, how much intense concern for the forms of their religion, they were preparing everything for the Christian funeral. And suddenly an odd sensation took hold of me: indefinably I felt as if Myris were going from me; I felt that he, a Christian, was united with his own people and that I was becoming a stranger, a total stranger. I even felt a doubt come over me: that I'd been deceived by my passion and has always been a stranger to him. I rushed out of their horrible house, rushed away before my memory of Myris could be captured, could be perverted by their Christianity.