Philothea had listened so earnestly, that for a moment all other thoughts were expelled from her mind. She threw back her veil, and with her whole soul beaming from her face, she exclaimed, "O Plato, I onceheardthe music of the stars! Ibycus"—--
The ardent gaze of Alcibiades restored her to painful consciousness; and, blushing deeply, she replaced her veil. Aspasia smiled; but Plato, with gentle reverence, asked, "What would Philothea say of the divine Ibycus?"
The timid maiden gave no reply; and the tears of innocent shame were seen falling fast upon her trembling arm.
With that ready skill, which ever knows how to adapt itself to the circumstances of the moment, Aspasia gave a signal to her attendants, and at once the mingled melody of voices and instruments burst upon the ear. It was one of the enchanting strains of Olympus the Mysian; and every heart yielded to its influence. A female slave noiselessly brought Aspasia's silver harp, and placed before her guests citharas and lyres, of ivory inlaid with gold. One by one, new voices and instruments joined in the song; and when the music ceased, there was a pause of deep and silent joy.
"Shame to the feast, where the praises of Harmodius are not sung," said Pericles, smiling, as he looked toward Eudora. With rapid fingers the maiden touched her lyre, and sung the patriotic song of Callistratus:
"I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as brave Harmodius did,And as Aristogeiton his avenging weapon hid;When they slew the haughty tyrant and regained our liberty,And, breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free."Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not surely dead,But to some secluded sanctuary far away art fled;With the swift-footed Achilleus, unmolested there to rest,And to rove with Diomedes through the islands of the blest."I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as Aristogeiton did,And as the brave Harmodius his avenging weapon hid;When on Athenæ's festival they aimed the glorious blow,And calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low."Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages still shall brighten,Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton;Because your country's champions ye nobly dared to be,And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free."
"I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as brave Harmodius did,And as Aristogeiton his avenging weapon hid;When they slew the haughty tyrant and regained our liberty,And, breaking down oppression, made the men of Athens free.
"Thou art not, loved Harmodius, thou art not surely dead,But to some secluded sanctuary far away art fled;With the swift-footed Achilleus, unmolested there to rest,And to rove with Diomedes through the islands of the blest.
"I'll wreathe my sword with myrtle, as Aristogeiton did,And as the brave Harmodius his avenging weapon hid;When on Athenæ's festival they aimed the glorious blow,And calling on fair freedom, laid the proud Hipparchus low.
"Thy fame, beloved Harmodius, through ages still shall brighten,Nor ever shall thy glory fade, beloved Aristogeiton;Because your country's champions ye nobly dared to be,And striking down the tyrant, made the men of Athens free."
The exhilarating notes stirred every Grecian heart. Some waved their garlands in triumph, while others joined in the music, and kept time with branches of myrtle.
"By Phœbus! a glorious song and divinely sung," exclaimed Alcibiades: "But the lovely minstrel brings danger to our hearts in those sweet sounds, as Harmodius concealed his sword among myrtle leaves."
Hipparete blushed, and with a quick and nervous motion touched her cithara. With a nod and a smile, Aspasia said, "Continue the music, I pray you." The tune being left to her own choice, the young matron sang Anacreon's Ode to the Grasshopper. Her voice was not unpleasing; but it contrasted disadvantageously with the rich intonations of Eudora; and if the truth must be told, that dark-haired damsel was quite too conscious of the fact.
Tithonus expressed an earnest desire to hear one of Pindar's odes; and Philothea, urged by Aspasia, began with a quivering hand to accompany herself on the harp. Her voice was at first weak and trembling; and Plato, to relieve her timidity, joined in the music, which soon gushed forth, clear, deep, and melodious:
"Hail, celestial Poesy!Fair enchantress of mankind!Veiled in whose sweet majestyFables please the human mind.But, as year rolls after year,These fictitious charms decline;Then, O man, with holy fear,Write and speak of things divine.Of the heavenly natures sayNought unseemly, or profane—Hearts that worship and obey,Are preserved from guilty stain."
"Hail, celestial Poesy!Fair enchantress of mankind!Veiled in whose sweet majestyFables please the human mind.But, as year rolls after year,These fictitious charms decline;Then, O man, with holy fear,Write and speak of things divine.Of the heavenly natures sayNought unseemly, or profane—Hearts that worship and obey,Are preserved from guilty stain."
Oppressed with the grandeur of the music, and willing to evade the tacit reproach conveyed in the words, Aspasia touched her lyre, and, with mournful tenderness, sung Danæ's Hymn to her Sleeping Infant. Then, suddenly changing to a gayer measure, she sang, with remarkable sweetness and flexibility of voice:
"While our rosy fillets shedBlushes o'er each fervid head,With many a cup, and many a smile,The festal moments we beguile.And while the harp impassioned flingsTuneful rapture from the strings,Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,Through the dance luxuriant swims,Waving in her snowy hand,The leafy Dionysian wand,Which, as the tripping wanton flies,Shakes its tresses to her sighs.
"While our rosy fillets shedBlushes o'er each fervid head,With many a cup, and many a smile,The festal moments we beguile.And while the harp impassioned flingsTuneful rapture from the strings,Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,Through the dance luxuriant swims,Waving in her snowy hand,The leafy Dionysian wand,Which, as the tripping wanton flies,Shakes its tresses to her sighs.
At these words, a troop of graceful maidens, representing the Zephyrs and the Hours, glided in and out, between the marble columns, pelting each other with roses, as they flew through the mazes of the dance.
Presently, the music, more slow and measured in its cadence, announced the dance of Ariadne guiding her lover from the Labyrinth. In obedience to a signal from Aspasia, Eudora sprang forward to hold the silken cord, and Alcibiades darted forward to perform the part of Theseus. Slowly, but gracefully as birds balancing themselves on the air, the maidens went through the difficult involutions of the dance. They smiled on each other, as they passed and repassed; and though Eudora's veil concealed the expression of her features, Philothea observed, with an undefined feeling of apprehension, that she showed no tokens of displeasure at the brief whispers and frequent glances of Alcibiades.
At last, Pericles bade the attendants bring forth the goblet of the Good Genius. A large golden bowl, around which a silver grape-vine twined its luxuriant clusters, was immediately placed before him, filled with the rich juices of the Chian grape. Then Plato, as king of the feast, exclaimed, "The cup of the Good Genius is filled. Pledge him in unmixed wine."
The massive goblet passed among all the guests; some taking a deep draught, and others scarcely moistening their lips with the wine. When the ceremony was finished, Pericles said, "Now, if it pleases Hermippus, we should like to see him in the comic dance, for which he is so celebrated."
Philothea looked earnestly at her grandfather. He instantly understood her wishes, and bade farewell to Aspasia; urging the plea that his child was unused to late hours, and too timid to be in the streets of Athens without his protection. Phidias requested that Eudora might accompany them; and Hipparete likewise asked leave to depart. Aspasia bestowed gifts on her visiters, according to the munificent custom of the country. To Hipparete she gave a bracelet of pearls; to Philothea, a lyre of ivory and gold; and to Eudora, a broad clasp for her mantle, on which the car of Aphrodite, drawn by swans, was painted in enamel, by Polygnotus, the inventor of the art.
Alcibiades chose to remain at his wine; but slaves with torches were in readiness at the gates, and Hipparete lived in the Ceramicus, within sight of Aspasia's dwelling.
A rapid walk soon restored the maidens to their own peaceful homes. Philothea, with the consent of Anaxagoras, went to share the apartment of her friend; which, separated only by a small garden, was almost within hearing of her own.
Much I dislike the beamless mind,Whose earthly vision, unrefined,Nature has never formed to seeThe beauties of simplicity!Simplicity, the flower of Heaven,To souls elect by nature given."ANACREON.
Much I dislike the beamless mind,Whose earthly vision, unrefined,Nature has never formed to seeThe beauties of simplicity!Simplicity, the flower of Heaven,To souls elect by nature given."
ANACREON.
As the maidens entered their apartment, Eudora rather abruptly dismissed Dione, the aged nurse, who had been waiting their arrival. Her favourite dog was sleeping on the couch; and she gave the little creature a hasty box on the ear, which made him spring suddenly to the floor, and look up in her face, as if astonished at such ungentle treatment.
Philothea stooped down and caressed the animal, with a slightly reproachful glance at her friend.
"He was sleeping on my mantle," said the petulant damsel.
"His soft, white fur could not have harmed it," rejoined her companion; "and you know that Hylax himself, as well as the mantle, was a gift from Philæmon."
Eudora carelesssly tossed the mantle over her embroidery frame, from which it trailed along the dusty floor. Philothea looked earnestly in her face, unable to comprehend such wayward conduct. "It is evident you do not want my company to-night," she said; "I will therefore return to my own apartment."
The peevish maiden slowly untied her sandal, without making any reply. Philothea's voice trembled slightly, as she added, "Good night, Eudora, To-morrow I hope you will tell me how I have offended you."
"Stay! Stay!" exclaimed the capricious damsel; and she laid her hand coaxingly on her friend's arm. Philothea smiled a ready forgiveness.
"I know I am very petulant to-night," said Eudora; "but I do not believe you yourself could listen to Hipparete without being vexed. She is so stupid, and so haughty. I don't think she spoke ten words to-night without having a grasshopper for one of them. She is so proud of her pure Athenian blood! Do you know she has resolved to employ a skilful artificer from Corinth, to make her an ivory box just like the one Tithonus gave Aspasia; but she took care to inform me that it should be inlaid with golden grasshoppers, instead of stars. A wise and witty device, is't not? to put grasshoppers in the paws of transformed Calisto, and fasten them in the belt of Orion. The sky will be so purely Athenian, that Hipparete herself might condescend to be a constellation."
The talkative maiden laughed at her own conceit; and even her more serious companion could not refrain from a smile, as with untiring volubility she continued: "Then she told me that she herself embroidered her grasshopper robe, and bade me admire the excellence of the pattern. She said Plato could not possibly have mistaken the wreath intended for her; knowing, as he did, that her father and mother were both descended from the most ancient families in Athens; and she repeated a list of ancestors with names all ending inippusandippides. When, in answer to her question, I acknowledged that the ornament in her hair was beautiful, she told me she would gladly give me one like it, if it were proper for me to wear it. I do so detest the sight of that Athenian emblem! I would walk to the fields of Acharnae, on purpose to crush a grasshopper."
"You put yourself in a singular passion for such a harmless insect," replied Philothea, smiling. "I hope there are none of them within hearing. You know the poets say they rose from the ashes of men, who, when the Muses first had existence, pined away for the love of song; and that after death they go to Parnassus, and inform the most ancient Calliope, the heavenly Urania, and the amorous Erato, concerning the conversation of their votaries. If they are truly the children of song, they will indeed forget their own resentments; but your conversation would be so unlikely to make a favourable impression on the tuneful sisters, that it may be well for you the insects are now sleeping."
"If the tattling tribe were all awake and listening," replied Eudora, "I would freely give them leave to report all I say against Astronomy, or Poetry, or Music. If this be the test, I am willing to be tried with Hipparete at the court of the Muses. If she were less stupid, I think I could tolerate her pride. But I thought she would never have done with a long story about a wine-stain that nearly spoiled her new dove-coloured robe; the finest from the looms of Ecbatana; the pattern not to be matched in all Greece; and Aspasia half wild to obtain one like it. She did not fail to inform me that the slave who had spilled the wine, was tied to the olive-tree in the garden, and whipped six days in succession. I never saw her in my life that she did not remind me of being a slave."
"Dearest Eudora," said Philothea, "how can you make yourself so unhappy on this subject? Has not Phidias, from the first hour he bought you, allowed you all the privileges of a daughter?"
"Yes," replied Eudora; "but the very circumstance that I was bought with his money embitters it all. I do not thank him that I have been taught all which becomes an Athenian maiden; for I can never be an Athenian. The spirit and the gifts of freedom ill assort with the condition of a slave. I wish he had left me to tend goats and bear burdens, as other slaves do; to be beaten as they are beaten; starved as they are starved; and die as they die. I should not then have known my degradation. I would have made friends with the birds and the flowers, and never had a heart-wound from a proud Athenian fool."
Philothea laid her hand gently on her friend's arm, and gazing on her excited countenance, she said, "Eudora, some evil demon vexes you strangely to-night. Did I not know the whole tenor of your blameless life, I should fear you were not at peace with your own conscience."
Eudora blushed deeply, and busily caressed the dog with her foot.
In a mild, clear voice, Philothea continued: "Whatnowprevents you from making friendship with the birds and the flowers! And why do you cherish a pride so easily wounded? Yes, it is pride, Eudora. It is useless disguise to call it by another name. The haughtiness of others can never make us angry, if we ourselves are humble. Besides, it is very possible that you are unjust to Hipparete. She might very naturally have spoken of her slave's carelessness, without meaning to remind you of bondage."
"Shedidmean it," replied Eudora, with angry emphasis. "She is always describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am excluded from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud heart humbled."
"Nay, Eudora," said Philothea, turning mournfully away: "Your feelings are strangely embittered; the calm light of reason is totally obscured by the wild torch-dance of your passions. Methinks hatred itself need wish Hipparete no worse fate than to be the wife of so bold and bad a man as Alcibiades."
"Oh, Philothea! I wonder you can call him bold," rejoined Eudora. "He looks steadily at no one; his eyelashes ever rest on his face, like those of a modest maiden."
"Aye, Eudora—but it is not the expression of a sinless heart, timidly retiring within the shrine of its own purity; it is the shrinking of a conscience that has something to conceal. Little as we know about the evils of the world, we have heard enough of Alcibiades, to be aware that Hipparete has much need to seek the protection of her patron goddess."
"She had better worship in the temple of Helen, at Therapne," answered Eudora, sharply: "The journey might not prove altogether hopeless; for that temple is said to confer beauty on the ugliest woman that ever entered it." As the peevish damsel said this, she gave a proud glance at her own lovely person, in the mirror, before which a lamp was burning.
Philothea had often seen her friend in petulant moods; but she had never before known her to evince so much bitterness, or so long resist the soothing influence of kindness. Unwilling to contend with passions she could not subdue, and would not flatter, she remained for some moments in serious silence.
The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's quick feelings; and she said, in an humble tone, "I know I am doing wrong, Philothea, but I cannot help it."
Her friend calmly replied, "If you believe you cannot help it, you deceive yourself; and if you do not believe it, you had better not have said it."
"Now you are angry with me," exclaimed the sensitive maiden; and she burst into tears.
Philothea passed her arm affectionately round her waist, saying, "I am not angry with you, Eudora; but while I love you, I cannot and ought not to love the bad feelings you cherish. Believe me, my dear friend, the insults of others can never make us wretched, or resentful, if all is right within our own hearts. The viper that stings us is always nourished within us. Moreover, I believe, dearest Eudora, that half your wrongs are in your own imagination. I too am a foreigner; but I have been very happy within the walls of Athens."
"Because you have never been a slave," retorted her companion; "and you have shared privileges that strangers are seldom allowed to share. You have been one of the Canephoræ; you have walked in the grand procession of the Panathenæa: and your statue in pure Pentelic marble, upholds the canopy over the sacred olive-tree. I know that your skilful fingers, and your surpassing beauty have deserved these honours; but you must pardon me, if I do not like the proud Athenians quite so well as you do."
"I gratefully acknowledge the part I have been allowed to take in the sacred service of Pallas," replied the maiden; "but I owe it neither to my beauty, nor my skill in embroidery. It was a tribute to that wise and good old man, my grandfather."
"And I," said Eudora, in a tone of deep melancholy, "have neither grandfather, parent, or brother to care for me."
"Who could have proved a better protector than Phidias has been?" inquired her gentle friend.
"Philothea, I cannot forget that I am his slave. What I said just now in anger, I repeat in sober sadness; it would be better for me to have a slave's mind with a slave's destiny."
"I have no doubt," replied Philothea, "that Phidias continues to be your master merely that he may retain lawful power to protect you, until you are the wife of Philæmon."
"Some slaves have been publicly registered as adopted children," said Eudora.
"But in order to do that," rejoined her friend, "it is necessary to swear to their parentage; and yours is unknown. If it were not for this circumstance, I believe Phidias would be most willing to adopt you."
"No, Philothea—Phidias would do no such thing. He is good and kind. I know that I have spoken of him as I ought not to have spoken. But he is a proud man. He would not adopt a nameless orphan, found with a poor goatherd of Phelle. Had I descended from any of the princes conquered by Grecian valour, or were I even remotely allied with any of the illustrious men that Athens has ostracised, then indeed I might be the adopted daughter of Phidias," After a short pause, she added, "If he enfranchised me without adoption, I think I should have no difficulty in finding a protector;" and again the maiden gave a triumphant glance at her mirror.
"I am aware that your marriage with Philæmon has only awaited the termination of these unfortunate law-suits," replied Philothea: "Though he is not rich, it cannot be very long before he is able to take you under his protection; and as soon as he has the power, he will have the disposition."
"Will he, indeed!" exclaimed Eudora; and she trotted her little foot impatiently.
"You are altogether mysterious to-night," said Philothea: "Has any disagreement arisen between you and Philæmon, during my absence?"
"He is proud, and jealous; and wishes me to be influenced by every whim of his," answered the offended beauty.
"The fetters of love are a flowery bondage," rejoined Philothea: "Blossoms do not more easily unfold themselves to the sunshine, than woman obeys the object of her affections. Don't you remember the little boy we found piping so sweetly, under the great plane-tree by the fountain of Callirhöe? When my grandfather asked him where he learned to play so well, he answered; with a look of wondering simplicity, that it 'piped itself.' Methinks this would be the reply of a loving woman, to one who inquired how her heart had learned submission. But what has Philæmon required, that you consider so unreasonable?"
"He dislikes to have me visit Aspasia; and was angry because I danced with Alcibiades."
"And did you tell him that you went to Aspasia's house, in conformity with the express directions of Phidias?" inquired Philothea.
"Why don't you say of mymaster?" interrupted Eudora, contemptuously.
Without noticing the peevishness of this remark, her friend continued: "Are you quite sure that you have not been more frequently than you would have been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience to the will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philæmon is offended at your dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly a practice, so boldly at variance with the customs of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly."
"It is enough to be one man's slave," replied Eudora. "I will dance with whom I please. Alcibiades is the handsomest, and the most graceful, and the most agreeable man in Athens—at least every body says so. I don't know why I should offend him to please Philæmon."
"I thought there was a very satisfactory reason," observed Philothea, quietly: "Alcibiades is the husband of Hipparete, and you are the promised wife of Philæmon. I would not have believed the person who told me that Eudora seriously called Alcibiades the handsomest and most agreeable man in Athens."
"The sculptors think him pre-eminently beautiful," answered Eudora; "or they would not so often copy his statue in the sacred images of Hermes. Socrates applied Anacreon's eloquent praise of Bathyllus to him, and said he saw in his lips 'Persuasion sleeping upon roses.'"
"That must have been in the days of youthful innocence," replied Philothea: "Surely his countenance has now nothing divine in its expression; though I grant the colouring rich, and the features regular. He reminds me of the Alexandrian coin; outwardly pleasing to the eye but inwardly made of base metal. Urania alone confers the beauty-giving zone. The temple of Aphrodite in the Piræus is a fitting place for the portrait of Alcibiades; and no doubt he is well pleased that the people go there in throngs to see him represented leaning on the shoulder of the shameless Nemea."
"If Aristophon chose to paint him side by side with the beautiful Nemea, it is no fault of his," said Eudora.
"The artist would not have dared so to represent Plato, or Philæmon, or Paralus," rejoined Philothea; "nor would Alcibiades allow his picture thus to minister to the corruption of the Athenians, if he had any perception of what is really beautiful. I confess, Eudora, it pained me to see you listen to his idle flattery. He worships every handsome woman, who will allow herself to be polluted by his incense. Like Anacreon, his heart is a nest for wanton loves. He is never without a brood of them—some trying their wings, some in the egg, and some just breaking the shell."
With slight resentment in her manner, Eudora answered: "Anacreon is the most beautiful of poets; and I think you speak too harshly of the son of Clinias."
"I am sorry for you, if you can perceive the beautiful where the pure is wanting," rejoined Philothea; "You have changed, since my residence in the Acropolis. The cherub Innocence, that was once the ever-present deity in your soul, has already retired deeper within the shrine, and veils his face in presence of the vain thoughts you have introduced there. I fear Aspasia has made you believe that a passion for distinction is but another name for love of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Eudora, if this false man has flattered you, believe me, he is always ready to bestow the same upon others. He has told me that I was the loveliest of earthly objects; no doubt he has told you the same; but both cannot be true."
"You!" exclaimed her companion: "Where could he find opportunity to address such language to you?"
"Where a better man would have had better thoughts," replied Philothea: "It was during the sacred festival of the Panathenæa. A short time before midnight, it was my duty to receive the sacred basket from the hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the cave, beneath the Temple of Urania, in the gardens. Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended me, carrying a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I held the torch while she took up the other sacred basket, which was there in readiness to be conveyed to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple, so clear and strong, that I could distinctly see the sacred doves, among the multitude of fragrant roses—some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others fluttering from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles, frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the centre of the gardens, stood Myron's statue of the heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her temple by a garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression of the human soul, when it dwells in love and peace. In this holy atmosphere we paused for a moment in silent reverence. A smiling band of infant hours came clustering round my memory, and softly folded themselves about my heart. I thought of those early days, when, hand in hand with Paralus, I walked forth in the spring-time, welcoming the swallows to our shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees. We did not then know that bees and young hearts need none to take thought for their joy, but best gather their own sweet nourishment in sunlight and freedom. I remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to my care. When we dressed the little creature in wreaths, we mourned that flowers would notgrowin garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts to see them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus took one of them in his hand; and when we had admired its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and returned it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring of a heart brimful of love for all things pure and simple. Paralus ever lived in affectionate communion with the birds and the flowers. Firm in principle, but gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in whose bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so motherly and safe, where she might brood over her young hopes in quiet joy."
The maiden's heart had unconsciously followed her own innocent recollections, like the dove led by a garland; and for a few moments she remained silent in thoughtful tenderness.
Eudora's changeful and perturbed spirit had been soothed by the serene influence of her friend; and she too was silent for awhile. But the giddy images that had of late been reeling their wild dance through her brain, soon came back in glittering fantasy.
"Philothea!" she exclaimed, abruptly, "you have not told me where you met Alcibiades?"
The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant startled from sweet dreams by some rude noise. Recovering from her surprise, she smiled, and said, "Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected and unwelcome presence in the sacred gardens. I told you that we stood by that quiet lake in meek reverence; worshipping,—not the marble image before us,—but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through the universe, breathing the invisible through visible forms, in such mysterious harmony. Suddenly Eucoline touched my arm with a quick and timid motion. I turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us. Our veils, which had been thrown back while we looked at the statue, were instantly dropped, and we hastily retraced our steps. The stranger followed us, until we passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight of the Propylæa. He then knelt, and attempting to hold me by the robe, poured forth the wildest protestations of love. I called aloud for protection; and my voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in and out of the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the festival. The young man suddenly disappeared; but he was one of the equestrians that shared in the solemnities of the night, and I again saw him as I took my place in the procession. I had then never seen Alcibiades; but when I met him to-night, I immediately recognized the stranger who spoke so rudely in the olive-grove."
"You must forgive me," said Eudora, "if I am not much disposed to blame mortal man for wishing to look upon your face a second time. Even Plato does homage to woman's beauty."
"True, Eudora; but there is reverence mingled with his homage. The very atmosphere around Alcibiades seemed unholy. I never before met such a glance; and the gods grant I may never meet such another. I should not have mentioned the occurrence, even to you, had I not wished to warn you how lightly this volatile Athenian can make love."
"I heard something of this before," rejoined Eudora; "but I did not know the particulars."
"How could you have heard of it?" inquired Philothea, with an accent of strong surprise.
"Alcibiades had a more eager curiosity than yourself," replied Eudora. "He soon ascertained the name of the lovely Canephoræ that he saw in the Gardens of Urania; and he has never ceased importuning Aspasia, until you were persuaded to visit her house."
The face, neck, and arms of the modest maiden were flushed with indignant crimson. "Was it for this purpose," she said, "that I was induced to yield my own sense of propriety to the solicitations of Pericles? It is ever thus, when we disobey the gods, to please mortals. How could I believe that any motive so harmless as idle curiosity induced that seductive and dangerous woman to urge me into her unhallowed presence?"
"I marvelled at your courage in talking to her as you did," said Eudora.
"Something within impelled me," replied Philothea, reverently;—"I did not speak from myself."
Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to have me inquire?"
The maiden replied: "As I sat at my grandfather's feet, near the statue of Phœbus in the portico, at early dawn, I heard music, of soft and various sounds, floating in the air; and I thought perchance it was the farewell hymn of the stars, or the harps of the Pleiades, mourning for their lost sister.—I had never spoken of it; but to-night I forgot the presence of all save Plato, when I heard him discourse so eloquently of music."
"And were you as unhappy as you expected to be during this visit?" inquired her friend.
"Some portions of the evening I enjoyed exceedingly," replied Philothea. "I could have listened to Plato and Tithonus, until I grew old in their presence. Their souls seem to move in glowing moonlight, as if surrounded by bright beings from a better world."
Eudora looked thoughtfully in her friend's face. "It is strange," she said, "how closely you associate all earthly objects with things divine. I have heard Anaxagoras say that when you were a little child, you chased the fleeting sunshine through the fields, and called it the glittering wings of Phœbus Apollo, as he flew over the verdant earth. And still, dearest Philothea, your heart speaks the same language. Wherever you look, you see the shining of god-like wings. Just so you talked of the moonlight, the other evening. To Hipparete, that solemn radiance would have suggested no thought except that lamp-light was more favourable to the complexion; and Hermippus would merely have rejoiced in it, because it saved him the expense of an attendant and a torch, as he reeled home from his midnight revels. I seldom think of sacred subjects, except when I am listening to you; but they then seem so bright, so golden, so divine, that I marvel they ever appear to me like cold, dim shadows."
"The flowers of the field are unlike, but each has a beauty of its own; and thus it is with human souls," replied Philothea.
For a brief space there was silence. But Eudora, true to the restless vivacity of her character, soon seized her lyre, and carelessly touching the strings, she hummed one of Sappho's ardent songs:
"More happy than the gods is he,Who soft reclining sits by thee;His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles.This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,And robbed me of my golden rest."
"More happy than the gods is he,Who soft reclining sits by thee;His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles.This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,And robbed me of my golden rest."
Philothea interrupted her, by saying, "I should much rather hear something from the pure and tender-hearted Simonides."
But the giddy damsel, instead of heeding her request, abruptly exclaimed, "Did you observe the sandals of Artaphernes sparkle as he walked? How richly Tithonus was dressed! Was it not a magnificent costume?"
Philothea, smiling at her childish prattle, replied, "It was gorgeous, and well fancied; but I preferred Plato's simple robe, distinguished only by the fineness of its materials, and the tasteful adjustment of its folds."
"I never saw a philosopher that dressed so well as Plato," said Eudora.
"It is because he loves the beautiful, even in its minutest forms," rejoined Philothea; "in that respect he is unlike the great master he reverences so highly."
"Yes—men say it is a rare thing to meet either Socrates or his robe lately returned from the bath," observed Eudora; "yet, in those three beautiful statues, which Pericles has caused to be placed in the Propylæa, the philosopher has carved admirable drapery. He has clothed the Graces, though the Graces never clothed him. I wonder Aristophanes never thought of that jest. Notwithstanding his willingness to please the populace with the coarse wit current in the Agoras, I think it gratifies his equestrian pride to sneer at those who are too frugal to buy coloured robes, and fill the air with delicious perfumes as they pass. I know you seldom like the comic writers. What did you think of Hermippus?"
"His countenance and his voice troubled me, like the presence of evil," answered Philothea. "I rejoiced that my grandfather withdrew with us, as soon as the goblet of the Good Genius passed round, and before he began to dance the indecent cordax."
"He has a sarcastic, suspicious glance, that might sour the ripest grapes in Chios," rejoined Eudora. "The comic writers are over-jealous of Aspasia's preference to the tragic poets; and I suppose she permitted this visit to bribe his enmity; as ghosts are said to pacify Cerberus with a cake. But hark! I hear Geta unlocking the outer gate. Phidias has returned; and he likes to have no lamp burn later than his own. We must quickly prepare for rest; though I am as wakeful as the bird of Pallas."
She began to unclasp her girdle, as she spoke, and something dropped upon the floor.
Philothea was stooping to unlace her sandal, and she immediately picked it up.
It was a beautiful cameo of Alcibiades, with the quiver and bow of Eros.
Eudora took it with a deep blush, saying, "Aspasia gave it to me."
Her friend looked very earnestly in her face for a moment, and sighed as she turned away. It was the first time she had ever doubted Eudora's truth.
"Two several gatesTransmit those airy phantoms. One of horn,And of sawn ivory one. Such dreams as passThe gate of ivory, prove empty sounds;While others, through the polished horn effused,Whose eye soe'er they visit, never fail."HOMER.
"Two several gatesTransmit those airy phantoms. One of horn,And of sawn ivory one. Such dreams as passThe gate of ivory, prove empty sounds;While others, through the polished horn effused,Whose eye soe'er they visit, never fail."
HOMER.
The dwellings of Anaxagoras and Phidias were separated by a garden entirely sheltered from public observation. On three sides it was protected by the buildings, so as to form a hollow square; the remainder was screened by a high stone wall. This garden was adorned with statues and urns, among which bloomed many choice shrubs and flowers. The entire side of Anaxagoras' house was covered with a luxuriant grape-vine, which stretched itself out on the roof, as if enjoying the sunshine. The women's apartments communicated by a private avenue, which enabled the friends to see each other as conveniently as if they had formed one household.
The morning after the conversation we have mentioned, Philothea rose early, and returned to her own dwelling. As she passed through the avenue, she looked into the garden, and smiled to see, suspended by a small cord thrown over the wall, a garland, fastened with a delicately-carved arrow, bearing the inscription—"To Eudora, the most beautiful, most beloved."
Glad to assist in the work of reconciliation, she separated the wreath from the string, and carried it to her for whom it was intended. "Behold the offering of Philæmon!" she exclaimed, joyfully: "Dearest Eudora, beware how you estrange so true a heart."
The handsome maiden received her flowers with evident delight, not unmingled with confusion; for she suspected that they came from a greater flatterer than Philæmon.
Philothea returned to her usual avocations, with anxiety somewhat lessened by this trifling incident.
Living in almost complete seclusion, the simple-hearted maiden was quite unconscious that the new customs, introduced by Aspasia, had rendered industry and frugality mere vulgar virtues, But the restraint of public opinion was unnecessary to keep her within the privacy of domestic life; for it was her own chosen home. She loved to prepare her grandfather's frugal repast of bread and grapes, and wild honey; to take care of his garments; to copy his manuscripts; and to direct the operations of Milza, a little Arcadian peasant girl, who was her only attendant. These duties, performed with cheerful alacrity, gave a fresh charm to the music and embroidery with which she employed her leisure hours.
Anaxagoras was extremely attached to his lovely grandchild; and her great intellectual gifts, accompanied as they were by uncommon purity of character, had procured from him and his friends a degree of respect not usually bestowed upon women of that period. She was a most welcome auditor to the philosophers, poets, and artists, who were ever fond of gathering round the good old man; and when it was either necessary or proper to remain in her own apartment, there was the treasured wisdom of Thales, Pythagoras, Hesiod, Homer, Simonides, Ibycus, and Pindar. More than one of these precious volumes were transcribed entirely by her own hand.
In the midst of such communion, her spirit drank freely from the fountains of sublime knowledge; which, "like the purest waters of the earth, can be obtained only by digging deep,—but when they are found, they rise up to meet us."
The intense love of the beautiful, thus acquired, far from making the common occupations of life distasteful, threw over them a sort of poetic interest, as a richly painted window casts its own glowing colours on mere boards and stones. The higher regions of her mind were never obscured by the clouds of daily care; but thence descended perpetual sunshine, to gild the vapour.
On this day, however, Philothea's mind was less serene than usual. The unaccountable change in Eudora's character perplexed and troubled her. When she parted from her to go into the Acropolis, she had left her as innocent and contented as a little child; and so proud and satisfied in Philæmon's love, that she deemed herself the happiest of all happy beings: at the close of six short months, she found her transformed into a vain, restless, ambitious woman, wild for distinction, and impatient of restraint.
All this Philothea was disposed to pity and forgive; for she felt that frequent intercourse with Aspasia might have dazzled even a stronger mind, and changed a less susceptible heart. Her own diminished influence, she regarded as the inevitable result of her friend's present views and feelings; and she only regretted it because it lessened her power of doing good where she was most desirous to be useful.
Several times, in the course of the day, her heart yearned toward the favourite of her childhood; and she was strongly impelled to go to her and confess all her anxieties. But Eudora came not, as she had ever been wont to do, in the intervals of household occupation; and this obvious neglect drove Philothea's kind impulses back upon her heart.
Hylax, as he ran round the garden, barking and jumping at the birds in the air, instantly knew her voice, and came capering in, bounding up at her side, and licking her hand. The tears came to Philothea's eyes, as she stooped to caress the affectionate animal: "Poor Hylax," said she, "youhave not changed." She gathered some flowers, and twined them round the dog's neck, thinking this simple artifice might bring a visit from her friend.
But the sun went down, and still she had not caught a glimpse of Eudora, even in the garden. Her affectionate anxiety was almost deepening into sadness, when Anaxagoras returned, accompanied by the Ethiopian boy.
"I bring an offering from the munificent Tithonus," said the philosopher: "He came with my disciples to-day, and we have had much discourse together. To-morrow he departs from Athens; and he bade me say that he hoped his farewell gift would not be unacceptable to her whose voice made even Pindar's strains more majestic and divine."
The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms, and with low obeisance presented it to Philothea. It was a small statue of Urania, wrought in ivory and gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if regarding the heavens with quiet contemplation. A crown of golden planets encircled the head, and the scarf, enamelled with deep and vivid azure, likewise glowed with stars.
Philothea smiled, as she glanced round the apartment, and said, "It is a humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly."
"Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for the gods, than mere marble and gold," replied the philosopher.
As a small indication of respect and gratitude, the maiden sent Tithonus a roll of papyrus, on which she had neatly copied Pindar's Odes; and the boy, haying received a few oboli for his trouble, returned charged with thanks and good wishes for his master.
Philothea, spontaneously yielding to the old habit of enjoying everything with her friend, took the statue in her arms, and went directly to her room. Eudora was kind and cheerful, but strangely fluttered. She praised the beautiful image in the excessive terms of one who feels little, and is therefore afraid of not saying enough. Her mind was evidently disturbed with thoughts quite foreign to the subject of her conversation; but, making an effort at self-possession, she said, "I too have had a present: Artaphernes sent it because my voice reminded him of one he loved in his youth." She unfolded a roll of perfumed papyrus, and displayed a Persian veil of gold and silver tissue. Philothea pronounced it fit for the toilette of a queen; but frankly confessed that it was too gorgeous to suit her taste.
At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment for the night. The maiden refused, under the pretext of illness; but when her friend offered to remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be much better alone.
As Philothea passed through the sheltered avenue, she saw Milza apparently assisting Geta in cleansing some marbles; and thinking Phidias would be pleased with the statue, she asked Geta to convey it to his room. He replied, "My master has gone to visit a friend at Salamis, and will not return until morning." The maiden was much surprised that her friend had made no allusion to this circumstance; but she forbore to return and ask an explanation.
Another subject attracted her attention and occupied some share of her thoughts. She had observed that Geta and Milza appeared much confused when she spoke to them. When she inquired what Geta had been saying, the pretty Arcadian, with an averted face, replied, "He called me to see a marble dog, barking as if he had life in him; only he did not make any noise."
"Was that all Geta talked of?" said Philothea.
"He asked me if I liked white kids," answered the blushing peasant.
"And what did you tell him?" inquired the maiden.
With a bashful mixture of simplicity and archness, the young damsel answered, "I told him I liked white kids very much."
Philothea smiled, and asked no more questions. When she repeated this brief conversation to Anaxagoras, he heard it with affectionate interest in Milza's welfare, and promised to have a friendly talk with honest-hearted Geta.
The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding night had been quite at variance with the tranquil regularity of Philothea's habits; and the slight repose, which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that Paralus was with him, and wished to see her a few moments, before they went out to the Piræus together. Being therefore unusually weary, both in body and mind, the maiden early retired to her couch; and with mingled thoughts of her lover and her friend, she soon fell into a profound sleep.
She dreamed of being with Paralus in an olive grove, over the deep verdure of which shining white blossoms were spread, like a silver veil. Her lover played upon his flute, while she leaned against a tree and listened. Soon, the air was filled with a multitude of doves, flocking from every side; and the flapping of their wings kept time to the music.
Then, suddenly, the scene changed to the garden of Phidias. The statues seemed to smile upon her, and the flowers looked up bright and cheerful, in an atmosphere more mild than the day, but warmer than the moon. Presently, one of the smiling statues became a living likeness of Eudora, and with delighted expression gazed earnestly on the ground. Philothea looked to see what excited her admiration—and lo! a large serpent, shining with green and gold, twisted itself among the flowers in manifold involutions; and wheresoever the beautiful viper glided, the blossoms became crisped and blackened, as if fire had passed over them. With a sudden spring the venomous creature coiled itself about Eudora's form, and its poisoned tongue seemed just ready to glance into her heart; yet still the maiden laughed merrily, heedless of her danger.
Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful to realize that it was all a dream, she murmured a brief prayer, turned upon her couch, and soon yielded to the influence of extreme drowsiness.
In her sleep, she seemed to be working at her embroidery; and Hylax came and tugged at her robe, until she followed him into the garden. There Eudora stood smiling, and the glittering serpent was again dancing before her.
Disturbed by the recurrence of this unpleasant dream, the maiden remained awake for a considerable time, listening to the voices of her grandfather and his guests, which still came up with a murmuring sound from the room below. Gradually her senses were lulled into slumber; and again the same dream recurred to distress and waken her.
Unable longer to resist the strength of her impressions, Philothea arose, and descending a few of the steps, which led to the lower part of the house, she looked into the garden, through one of the apertures that had been left in the wall for the admission of light. Behind a statue of Erato, she was sure that she saw coloured drapery floating in the moonlight. Moving on to the next aperture, she distinctly perceived Eudora standing by the statue; and instead of the graceful serpent, Alcibiades knelt before her. His attitude and gesture were impassioned; and though the expression of Eudora's countenance could not be seen, she was evidently giving him no ungracious audience.
Philothea put her hand to her heart, which throbbed violently with painful emotion. Her first thought was to end this interview at all hazards; but she was of a timid nature; and when she had folded her robe and veil about her, her courage failed. Again she looked through the aperture and saw that the arm of Alcibiades rested on the shoulder of her misguided friend.
Without taking time for a second thought, she sprang down the remaining steps, darted through the private avenue into the garden, and standing directly before the deluded girl, she exclaimed, in a tone of earnest expostulation, "Eudora!"
With a half-suppressed scream, the maiden disappeared. Alcibiades, with characteristic boldness, seized Philothea's robe, exclaiming, "What have we here? So help me Aphrodite! it is the lovely Canephora of the gardens! Now Eros forsake me if I lose this chance to look on her heavenly face again."
He attempted to raise the veil, which the terrified maiden grasped convulsively, as she tried to extricate herself from his hold.
At that instant, a stern voice sounded from the opposite wall; and Philothea, profiting by the sudden surprise into which Alcibiades was thrown, darted through the avenue, bolted the door, and in an instant after was within the sanctuary of her own chamber.
Here the tumult of mingled emotion subsided in a flood of tears. She mourned over the shameful infatuation of Eudora, and she acutely felt the degradation attached to her own accidental share in the scene. With these thoughts was mingled deep pity for the pure-minded and excellent Philæmon. She was sure that it was his voice she had heard from the wall; and she rightly conjectured that, after his prolonged interview with Anaxagoras, he had partly ascended the ladder leading to the house-top, and looked through the fluttering grape-leaves at the dwelling of his beloved.
The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of sleep. Again and again she looked out anxiously. All was hushed and motionless. The garden reposed in the moonbeams, like truths, which receive no warmth from the heart—seen only in the clear, cold light of reason. The plants were visible, but colourless; and the statues stood immovable in their silent, lifeless beauty.
Persuasive is the voice of Vice,That spreads the insidious snare.ÆSCHYLUS.
Persuasive is the voice of Vice,That spreads the insidious snare.
ÆSCHYLUS.