He turned and left her, a pitiful drooping figure. Her posture remained the same for some moments after he had gone, and so preoccupied was she that she did not hear Asia re-enter the garden and seat herself beside her.
“My poor dear girl, that man is a brute,” remarked Asia indignantly. “At any rate you can rejoice that he will molest you no more. I could not help hearing some of the things he said, and I hope he and his Agariste will meet no delays in getting away from Athens. Why do you not laugh at your good fortune, foolish girl? One would think from your crestfallen appearance that you loved the man!”
Ladice looked up and smiled faintly through her tears as she said, “Asia, I believe I do!”
“You do love him! that beast that makes three-headed Cerberus look like a lamb!” cried Asia. “Ladice, you must be crazy! Grief over my poor father and the excitement of the past hour have unbalanced your mind. Come let me get you to bed, though there is yet another hour before set of sun.”
“No Asia, I could not rest,” said the grief-stricken girl. “Please leave me. The garden is so beautiful and I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”
Asia left her reluctantly making her promise to retire early.
Once more alone Ladice marvelled at the change that had come over her. From a cold, indifferent girl she had changed into a passionate, loving woman. The love must have come when she lay helpless in his arms, she reasoned, but it was not a vital thing till he spoke the words that stung her pride. How different was this love from that which she had felt for the Persian, Masistius! That had been like a clear and steady light; this was a fire that leaped wildly while it consumed. At times she smiled at the memory of his kisses, then clenched her hands as she thought of the unknown Agariste.
Darkness fell but she took no food, and worn out with weeping she dropped into a dreamless sleep. She awoke with a sense of depression. It was dawn and birds were twittering in their nests about her. It was apparent from the silence that the household was still wrapped in slumber. Gathering her shawl more closely about her she made her way cautiously through the house to the street. Along narrow lanes she threaded her way with unnatural rapidity. She ran between mud-colored walls that rose on either side, punctuated with doors out of which stared disheveled women. Piles of rotting garbage lay in her path and she was forced to dodge now this way, now that, to avoid the slinking forms of dogs that were seeking food among the piles of refuse. As she neared the vicinity of the harbor she met men and women who looked at her curiously. Then she realized what an aspect she presented; wild-eyed and with unkempt hair, but she cared naught for her appearance. She was obsessed with one idea; to present herself a willing companion to Cimon on his journey.
On the quay she approached a woman, apparently of the upper class, who with many others was gazing steadfastly out at sea, with the words, “When does the fleet said for Thrace?”
For answer the woman pointed to the distant horizon where a few indistinct blots were barely discernible.
“It sailed before sunrise,” said the woman. “I came to see it off because the great commander Cimon honored our family by taking my daughter Agariste with him as his bride.”
“Before he mounts the hill, I knowHe cometh quickly; from belowSweet gales, as from deep gardens, blowBefore him, striking on my brow.”Tennyson.
“Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly; from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.”
Tennyson.
Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months. The fate of Corinna had lost none of its horror, but time had mollified the poignancy of the tragedy. Zopyrus still served as secretary to Pasicles and in his spare moments he wrote a series of essays entitled, “Memoirs of the Persian Court,” which he intended to present to the great Aeschylus as an aid to that poet in his poem the “Persæ” upon which he was working.
Considering himself to be unworthy because of his secret passion for the daughter of Aeschylus, he had for some weeks delayed speaking to Eumetis upon the subject of marriage, but one bright afternoon in March when the bird-winds blew across Attica from the Mediterranean, he asked her to join him in a stroll to the Acropolis. She gladly consented, and together they sauntered along the winding street westward toward the hill which rose in majesty before them, the pride of every loyal Athenian.
“Let us rest on yonder moss-covered ledge,” suggested Eumetis as they neared the eastern end of the Acropolis. “Later we can ascend.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Zopyrus hastily, recognizing the very place where he had seen Corinna and the base creature who had accompanied her. “Let us to the Theatre of Dionysus where we sat together and witnessed ‘The Capture of Miletus.’ It was there you first—” but he could not conclude the sentence and walked along by Eumetis’ side, his eyes downcast with shame that his tongue had faltered just at the moment when he desired to bring up the subject of their betrothal.
They entered the eastern gate of the theatre and before them rose the stone seats, tier upon tier, dazzling white in the heat of the sun. They were impressed by the awful silence which here reigned supreme. What a vast difference between the theatre now and as it was on that day when thousands of spectators had thronged its gates and had sat in gala attire upon its benches! Then it had surged with human life; now the only living things visible were occasional lizards darting in and out of crevices.
Zopyrus and Eumetis without a word, but with a mutual impulse, sought the section of seats at the head of which stood the statue of Aphrodite. For some moments they sat in silence with eyes fixed upon the stage as if before them they saw again enacted the great play of Phrynichus. But her hand did not touch his arm as upon that former occasion. There existed an inexplicable estrangement, and Zopyrus as he noticed her pensive mood revealed in her pale features, was smitten with remorse that he had neglected and undoubtedly wounded her.
“Eumetis,” he said softly, “do not think that I have been willfully neglectful of you. Much has occurred to turn our minds from our—our—happiness. Will you now once again set the date for our wedding?”
There was no response from Eumetis. He seized her hands which lay passively folded in her lap. They were cold. Her attitude was listless.
“Speak, Eumetis,” the youth implored with growing alarm. “Have I offended you?”
At his words of entreaty the girl turned her face toward him and smiled—but not as a maiden would smile at her lover, but as a mother would gaze upon a beloved but willful son.
“You have not offended me, Zopyrus, and I sincerely hope that what I am about to say will not hurt you. Do you believe, my friend, that I honor you most highly?”
He nodded affirmatively and she continued, her thoughtful, sincere eyes resting upon him contemplatively: “Then I will tell you why I have seemed strange. I love Polygnotus who returns my affection, and but for the fear of wounding you, a friend whom he holds most dear, would wed me now at any time.”
The stage, the theatre, the Acropolis, and even the fleecy clouds floating dreamily above, seemed to whirl about in a colorless eddy. Only the eyes of Eumetis remained stationary. At one moment they seemed to be accusing eyes, at another, reproachful, then pitying, but his last impression of them was that they portrayed peace and happiness. His conscience would not permit him to play the heroically sacrificing lover, nor did he really experience any elation because of his freedom. He simply clasped her hand and murmured: “I understand.” She looked at him quickly with a questioning glance as they rose and turned their faces homeward.
Before they reached the western limit of the Agora, the familiar figure of Polygnotus suddenly turned from a side street and came toward them. Zopyrus imagined that a fleeting expression of pain passed over the artist’s kindly face at sight of them.
“Eumetis has something important to say to you,” said Zopyrus laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder as the three met. “It is only good news,” he added at the startled look of inquiry upon Polygnotus’ face.
“Then I shall be glad to hear it, but will you not join us on our homeward way, Zopyrus?” asked the artist as Zopyrus turned to leave.
“Not for the present,” Zopyrus replied evasively. Then moved by a sudden impulse he seized a hand of Polygnotus and of Eumetis in each of his. He desired to invoke the blessing of the gods upon this couple whom he loved so dearly, but so deeply was he affected that he was unable to speak, and turned his back in the direction of the theatre, scarcely realizing what he was doing.
Before reaching the Acropolis he turned northward, pursuing as direct a course as possible along the winding, closely built streets, till at last the dwellings became more interspersed with garden-plots, and finally between two spreading acacias he spied the massive masonry of the Dipylon Gate. He turned back for one last look at the Acropolis. There it stood in its solitary grandeur, its ruined temples resembling a circlet of irregular pearls. Although this was the fifth time that he had passed through the great gate and along the Sacred Way, never until now had he known that this road led to the girl he loved. Unmindful of the scorching rays of the sun which beat down upon him, he pressed on thinking only of the goal. When, however, he was overtaken by a farmer in a cart who was returning to his farm near Eleusis after leaving his produce at the Athenian market, he gladly accepted an offer to ride.
The sun was approaching the horizon a little to the left of the travelers, and stretching into the distance were the fertile fields which the driver designated as his own.
“Here is where I live, my friend, but I can drive you on to Eleusis if you wish,” said the farmer.
“I would prefer to walk from here on,” replied Zopyrus hastily, “but I am truly grateful to you for driving me this far on my journey.”
He bade the man a friendly farewell and with eyes alight with anticipation, set forth to cover the remaining two miles which lay between him and the abode of the girl he loved.
* * * * * * * *
In the garden that was divided from the Temple of Mysteries only by an ivy-covered wall, reclined Persephone upon a cushion covered seat by the fountain. She did not sleep, but lay fully conscious, with her hands upon her bosom as it rose and fell regularly with her breathing. Her whole frame was wrapped in languor. But her face was not as expressive of peace as her body, for an occasional frown puckered her smooth brow and she opened her eyes with a wistful expression only to close them again as if to shut out the reality of her loneliness. Between two cypress trees the white roof of the temple showed the first rosy tinge that followed the passing of Phœbus Apollo—Persephone rose to a sitting posture; a figure in white had passed the gate and was coming toward her along the flower-bordered path. With a cry she sprang from her bench and ran into the outstretched arms of her lover.
“What of Eumetis?” she asked, attempting to draw away from the arms that encircled her.
“Eumetis has found happiness in the love of Polygnotus. It was inevitable that the artist could be such a frequent visitor at the home of Pasicles and not grow to love the sincere, unselfish, pure daughter who lives there. Oh—Persephone, have I your forgiveness for the death of your brother?” asked the young man with growing agitation.
The maiden’s face lit up with a divine radiance as she said: “My brother Phales clad as I last saw him with helmet, cuirass and greaves, and carrying his sword, quiver and shield, appeared to me in a dream and told me not to hold you guilty of his death. He praised you highly, Zopyrus—and then he said one more thing.”
“And what was that?” questioned her lover eagerly.
“He said, ‘There is but one God who controls and directs the universe.’ That is all he said. I would have asked him more, but he vanished.”
“Then the prayer to God saved Greece at Salamis, and incessant prayers to the one God have given me you, Persephone!”
She raised her lips to his as they stood together before the statue of Ceres, whose maternal countenance seemed to smile down benignly upon them despite their words concerning the Deity.
There was one other witness to that kiss; a man of middle-age with thick waving hair and beard of chestnut brown, who came forth from the house and, unobserved, stood with arms outstretched toward the two as if pronouncing a benediction.
“How terrible is time! his solemn years,The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears,In silent horror roll! the gorgeous throne,The pillared arch, the monumental stone,Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,Where Wisdom taught, and Valor woke to strife,And Art’s creations breathed their mimic life,And the young poet when the stars shone highDrank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,Naught now remains but Nature’s placid scene,Heaven’s deathless blue and earth’s eternal green.”Winthrop Mackworth Præd.
“How terrible is time! his solemn years,
The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears,
In silent horror roll! the gorgeous throne,
The pillared arch, the monumental stone,
Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,
Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,
Where Wisdom taught, and Valor woke to strife,
And Art’s creations breathed their mimic life,
And the young poet when the stars shone high
Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,
Naught now remains but Nature’s placid scene,
Heaven’s deathless blue and earth’s eternal green.”
Winthrop Mackworth Præd.
To Themistocles in Magnesia, greetings from Zopyrus at Gela in Sicily:—
After a silence of many years I write you again of affairs of state and even of many personal things which I know will be of interest to you. I want to assure you, my friend that I have never doubted your true loyalty to Athens, and I write you freely knowing that Greece is dearer to you than Persia. Your memory is and always will be in the hearts of the majority, for who can forget the glories of Salamis and the hero to whom we owe that victory!
Would that you could once more behold Athens—our Athens—and yet not as she was in the years that you, my dear friend, walked her streets, stood in her buzzing mart, or ascended her divine hill. The crystalline air, the song of the nightingale in the olive groves, the shaggy peak of Hymettus, the blue of the bay, and the familiar rose-tinted rock of the Acropolis—these the Persian has been unable to destroy.
Your once hated rival Aristides is dead. I know that though bitter enmity once filled your heart, you will regret to hear that he died so poor that he was buried at the public expense. After his death Cimon became undisputed leader, and greatly has Athens been benefitted by the rule of this brilliant man whom we knew well as a youth. But alas, for the brevity of popular favor! But a few years ago he was ostracized by the most talked of man in all Athens today, Pericles, son of Xanthippus. On the eve of the battle of Tanagra, Cimon left his place of banishment and fought bravely with the Athenians against the Spartans. This so pleased Pericles that he proposed a measure recalling Cimon from exile and it was passed by the assembly. Cimon has succeeded in putting down many revolts, and you know of his great victory over the Persians in Asia. From the proceeds from the spoils of this battle he had planned to build a temple to Athena, but this work is being carried on by Pericles. It is plain that Cimon, however sincerely he had the welfare of his city at heart, was too fond of personal praise and worship. He failed in his attempt to unite Athens and Sparta. Pericles stands for the independence of Athens and for pure democracy.
During the Thasian Revolt about ten years ago, Mimnermus distinguished himself by bravery, but he confided to us that he did not relish the task of overseeing the Thacians tear down their walls at the command of the Athenians, for his brother-in-law, Polygnotus, was a native of Thasos. Mimnermus is now at Aegina helping to suppress a similar revolt.
And now I will tell you of Polygnotus. He and other artists adorned the interior of the Painted Porch with mural pictures of great beauty representing scenes from the myths and from recent history. Polygnotus married Eumetis, the daughter of Pasicles, and to this union were born three daughters, Corinna, Cleodice and Neobule. Pasicles resides with his daughter and her husband, but his wife, Cleodice, whose health failed rapidly after the death of her daughter, Corinna, died within a few years after that tragic event.
I know it will interest you to hear of Ladice and Lysimachus, both of whom spoke of you affectionately whenever we met while in Athens. Their son, Aristides, in whom they feel the usual pride common to parents of an only child, gives promise of exceptional ability along the lines of his grandfather, and if I may say so, his foster-grandparent.
Yesterday I stood at a newly made grave on the banks of a river which pours its waters into the African Sea. In the distance to the north stretched the wheat-bearing land of Gela. Before I could give my thoughts wholly to the honored dead, I gazed with pride and happiness upon the family with which I have been blessed. My eldest son Phales, stood by my side, stalwart of body and thoughtful of mind, not unlike his grandfather, Aeschylus. Persephone, our eldest daughter is very like her mother was at her age, so it is needless to mention here the pride I feel in her. My second son Masistius, at times reminds me of my father, Artaphernes, but the loving guidance of his mother has softened the severity that was his grandfather’s. The youngest child, a daughter, Protomache, stood upon this occasion with tears in her usually laughing eyes. She clung tightly to the hand of her mother whose eyes rested lovingly upon each member of the little group in turn.
Then in low tones and with head bent in a reverent attitude, Persephone my dear wife, read this epitaph which was engraved upon the tomb:
“This tomb the dust of Aeschylus doth hide—Euphorion’s son and fruitful Gela’s pride;How famed his valor Marathon may tell,And long-haired Medes, who knew it all too well.”
“This tomb the dust of Aeschylus doth hide—
Euphorion’s son and fruitful Gela’s pride;
How famed his valor Marathon may tell,
And long-haired Medes, who knew it all too well.”
As the last word trembled into a silence that seemed to permeate Nature all about us, a few lines that had been composed by Aeschylus on the subject of death, came to my mind, and I could not but repeat them upon this occasion:
“Smitten by Him, from towering hopes degraded,Mortals lie low and still;Tireless and effortless works forth its willThe arm divine!God from His holy seat, in calm of unarmed power,Brings forth the deed at its appointed hour!”
“Smitten by Him, from towering hopes degraded,
Mortals lie low and still;
Tireless and effortless works forth its will
The arm divine!
God from His holy seat, in calm of unarmed power,
Brings forth the deed at its appointed hour!”
The End.
[1]This was an older Parthenon which existed before the one erected at the time of Pericles.[2]Market-place.[3]Each two guests were furnished with a small three-legged table on which the food was served already cut up.[4]One who mixes the wine and presides at the symposium.[5]Better known by his Roman name, Pluto.[6]The modern city of Patras.
[1]This was an older Parthenon which existed before the one erected at the time of Pericles.
[2]Market-place.
[3]Each two guests were furnished with a small three-legged table on which the food was served already cut up.
[4]One who mixes the wine and presides at the symposium.
[5]Better known by his Roman name, Pluto.
[6]The modern city of Patras.