increased a hundred-fold. Whichever choice he made would involve
the unhappiness of others. Under the weight of the alternatives even
the memory of Glycerium lost for a time any tender association. He
climbed over the remoter parts of the island, gazing absently out
to sea and idly plucking the grasses among the rocks where he sat.
He came to the spot where he had first seen Glycerium and stood for
a time, quiet as the stones about him, asking himself whether the
associations in life are based upon an accidental encounter or upon a
profound and inner necessity. When he returned to the farm his mother
and sister felt the desolation that invested him and moved about
with hushed steps. The very slaves went about their tasks on tiptoe
and finally withdrew in silence and in alarmed interrogation. During
the evening meal Pamphilus sat by the door with closed eyes. His
brother, returning, stepped over his feet with awed circumspection
(he too had made the watch only a few months before, but in pomp,
with twelve other youths on the occasion of their enrollment in
the League) and held himself at a distance, rendered uncomfortable
by so much seriousness in a good athlete. Of her own accord Argo
brought Pamphilus a bowl of water which he drank, smiling the while
intimately into her grave eyes; she returned to her place at the
table with great dignity and with secret excitement, as though she
had done something conspicuous. When Simo finally told her and her
brother to go to bed she slipped up to her father and laid her lips
against his ear: “What is it, father?” she whispered. “No, tell
me, what is the matter?” He took her hands and played with them a
moment; he raised his eyebrows wisely and told her to go to bed and
sleep well. From her bed in the darkness she noted the movements of
the family: that her mother took a cloak and went out into the garden
by the cliff, and that later her father did the same. With wide eyes
and cautious lifted ear she followed this unaccustomed nocturnal
roaming. She was filled with loving excitement; she kissed her doll
many times with violence and wept. She became aware that her younger
brother was venturing on hands and knees towards the moonlight in
the court: she too ventured out and they stared at one another, but
Pamphilus suddenly loomed up from the shadows and waved them back to
their beds.
Pamphilus wandered about the outer court. Again the moon was at the
full, throwing a milky blue mist over the tiers of olive trees that
climbed the hill across the road and casting black shadows among the
farm buildings. Its serenity contrasted strangely with the mysterious
excitement it awakened among the human beings it fell upon. Pamphilus
had seen his parents go into the garden, but he saw them now without
emotion, without pity. He returned to the house and lay down upon his
bed. Never had he been possessed by mood further from illumination.
Lying on his face he traced outlines upon the floor with his finger.
The shells gleamed on the path as Simo walked up and down; from
time to time he cast a furtive glance at his wife. She was sitting
on a bench of chipped and stained marble that had been his mother’s
favorite seat. It had been placed there generations before, under
a fig arbor blown down long since on a night of legendary storm.
It stood at the very end of the garden where a cliff broke down
to the sea, and from it one could hear forever the long spreading
whispers of the ebbing and the rising waves below. From that seat
his mother had directed the bringing up of five children, had dried
their tears and listened with nodding head to the absurd procession
of their shifting enthusiasms. “Viewed from a distance,” Simo said
to himself, “life is harmonious and beautiful. No doubt the years
when my mother smiled to us from that bench were as full of crossed
wills and exasperations as today, but how beautiful they seem in
memory! The dead are wrapped in love; in illusion, perhaps. They
go underground and slowly this tender light begins to fall upon
them. But the present remains: this succession of small domestic
vexations. I have lived such a life for sixty years and I am still
upset by its ephemeral decisions. And I am still asking myself which
is the real life: the present with its discontent, or the retrospect
with its emotion?” He looked again guardedly at Sostrata, who sat
fingering the folds of her cloak and expressing in every line of her
position her unfriendliness and her rebellion. “The fault is in me,”
he continued. “If I were wiser, I could do this thing. As the head
of the family I should be firmer. I should say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ clearly
and let Pamphilus bring in his little girl. I should weed out all
these hesitations. Even now she is waiting for me to make up her mind
for her; if I spoke distinctly, even against her will, she would
adjust herself without great effort. The house would find a way of
accepting the new member and things would run on smoothly enough.” He
was thinking of going towards her with smiling affection, suggesting
that at sixty they had earned the right to remain tranquil though
the house fell; but he foresaw that her pride would not accommodate
itself to any such resignation, and he continued up and down the
garden.
Indeed Sostrata did not wish Simo to speak to her. Her mind was
filled with one long obstinate exclamation at the stupidity of men.
Only a woman’s mind could foresee all the harm that would result from
such a marriage as the one now being weighed. It was the women of
the island that had measured all danger that came with the arrival
of the Alexandrian woman; and now she, the first matron of Brynos,
was being ordered to receive into her home the last offscouring of
that dispersed colony. She had anticipated all her life the rich
satisfactions of being a mother-in-law and a grandmother, though what
she anticipated was a daughter-in-law of straw. A Greek HOME, she
knew, was the only breakwater against the tide of oriental manners,
of financial fluctuation, and of political chaos. The highest point
towards which any existence could aspire was to be a member of an
island family, living and dying on one farm, respected, cautious, and
secretly wealthy; of a family stretching into the past as far as the
mossy funerary urns could record, and into the future as far as the
imagination could reach, that is to one’s grandchildren. Society was
similarity. These things she repeated to herself, and under the waves
of her indignation and self-pity--though the greater part of the time
she stood in awe of her husband and her son--all her gracious traits
disappeared, her beautiful eyes became harsh that for three days had
been bright with the angry tears of her inner monologue.
When after a long stretch of time Simo paused in his walk and
approached her with deferential hesitation, she arose abruptly and
walked past him into the house, breathing hard and trembling with
excitement.
At last Pamphilus arose and throwing his fleece-lined cloak over
his shoulder slowly and musingly walked through the little garden
in the court and passed through the outer gates of the farm. He was
strangely light-headed from hunger and dejection. He paused for a
moment to gaze at the rising hillside before him and its silvered
olive trees. To his eyes they seemed to be pulsating in even waves
of intensity, as though the whole earth and sky were on fire and
burning with a pale slow silver flame, the whole earth and sky,
unconsumed yet incessantly feeding the countless tongues of flame.
He was gazing at this serene conflagration when he became aware of
two dim figures in a pool of profound shadow at his right, leaning
against the pillar of the gate. Glycerium was pressing her cheek
against the stone and breathing her prayer towards the house within
and beside her Mysis, distraught and helpless, stood urging her
mistress to return home and to leave the ominous vapors of the night
and the jealous chill of the moon.
When Glycerium saw that Pamphilus was standing in the road and that
he had recognized her, she drew back into Mysis’s arms overcome with
shame; but slowly collecting herself she stretched forward a hand to
him and fixed her great eyes imploringly on his face.
Mysis whispered to her: “We must go home, my bird, my treasure.”
“Pamphilus,” said Glycerium, “help me!”
His heart contracted within him as he realized the extremity of
suffering that had led her thus far. He laid his finger gravely
across his lips. He did not smile, but approaching her he looked down
into her face with earnest reassurance and beckoned her to accompany
Mysis toward the town.
Glycerium pushed back the scarf from her forehead and fell upon one
knee before him, babbling incoherently: “I love you. I love you,
Pamphilus. You promised me that you loved me. What am I to do? What
is to become of me?”
Pamphilus looked at Mysis and again drew his finger across his mouth.
“Hush, my darling,” she said. “You see he has taken the vow and
cannot speak to us. And we must not speak to him. Look, he wants you
to start home with me.” She put her arm about the girl’s waist and
they began to move slowly toward the road.
“He promised me that he loved me,” muttered Glycerium, unable to see
for her tears, but permitting herself to be led forward. After a few
steps, however, she turned and, pushing Mysis aside, said: “No, no! I
wish to see him again.” She pressed her scarf against her mouth for a
moment and gazed at him, her whole soul in her eyes: “Pamphilus, do
not marry me, if it is not right. But do not leave me alone. Do not
leave me so long alone. Remember Chrysis. Remember the day you found
me being stoned by the boys. No, no, do not marry me, if your father
and your mother do not wish it, but let me know that ... that I am
still loved by you.”
At last he nodded and smiled and waved to her slowly.
“He is nodding his head, Mysis!” cried Glycerium.
“Yes, my treasure.”
“Look, Mysis, he is smiling at me. Can you see? Look very hard,
Mysis.”
“See, now he is waving to you. Wave to him again.”
Glycerium waved eagerly, like a child, until Pamphilus was out
of sight. It was a long walk home over uneven stones. Glycerium
talked excitedly of the smile, trying to estimate the exact shade
of intention and affection that lay in his waving to her and in the
nod of his head. They discussed the significance of his taking the
vow and they talked in general of the custom of taking the vow and
recalled all the occasions they could remember of this usage and the
results of each occasion. “All will be well, Mysis,” she repeated
feverishly. “You will see, believe me, all will be well.” But finally
they fell silent, and in the silence their fears returned and an
overwhelming weariness. As they reached the door of their house,
Glycerium paused with tight-drawn lower lip and with fear in her
eyes: “There is nothing to hope for,” she said. “The gods are angry
because I thought for a time that I was happy and that the world was
easy to live in. At that time I did not understand anything about
life and I said cruel things to Chrysis, because I thought the world
was easy to live in. And the gods are right. Oh, if I could speak to
her for only one moment and could tell her that now I understand her
goodness, her goodness. But Chrysis is dead!” She turned to Mysis,
but at these words Mysis had withdrawn from her and, beating upon
her forehead with the knuckles of her two hands, had fallen upon the
threshold of the house.
* * * * *
Pamphilus continued in the opposite direction. He wandered about the
upland pastures as he had done all day, and climbed to the highest
point on the island to gaze upon the moon and the sea. He tried to
lift his mind out of the narrow situation of his problem by thinking
of things not before him. He thought of the ships that under that
magical flowing light were making their way from port to port, each
one casting aside at its prow two glistening murmurous waves. It was
the hour when the helmsman in the security of the course falls into a
reverie, remembers his childhood or reckons up his savings. Pamphilus
thought of the thousands of homes over all Greece where sleeping or
waking souls were forever turning over the dim assignment of life.
“Lift every roof,” as Chrysis used to say, “and you will find seven
puzzled hearts.” He thought of Chrysis and her urn, and remembered
her strange command to him that he praise all life, even the dark.
And as he thought of her his depression, like a cloud, drifted
away from him and he was filled with a tremulous happiness. He too
praised the whole texture of life, for he saw how strangely life’s
richest gift flowered from frustration and cruelty and separation.
Chrysis living and Chrysis dying in pain; the thoughtful glance
that his father so often let rest upon him and the weary expression
on his father’s face when he thought himself unobserved; the shy
mystery of Glycerium. It seemed to him that the whole world did not
consist of rocks and trees and water nor were human beings garments
and flesh, but all burned, like the hillside of olive trees, with
the perpetual flames of love,--a sad love that was half hope, often
rebuked and waiting to be reassured of its truth. But why then a
love so defeated, as though it were waiting for a voice to come from
the skies, declaring that therein lay the secret of the world? The
moonlight is intermittent and veiled, and it was under such a light
that they lived; but his heart suddenly declared to him that a sun
would rise and before that sun the timidity and the hesitation would
disappear. And as he strode forward this truth became clearer and
clearer to him and he laughed because he had been so long blind to
what was so obvious. He strode forward, his arms raised to the sky in
joyous gratitude, and as he went he cried: “I praise all living, the
bright and the dark.”
The exhilaration gave place finally to a tranquil fatigue. As he
entered the shadowy temple he saw the priest sleeping before the
altar he tended. The priest opened his eyes a moment and above the
curve of his arm he watched the young man spread his cloak upon the
marble pavement and lie down upon it and fall asleep.
* * * * *
Simo was awakened a little before dawn by the sounds of shrill voices
and of unaccustomed movement in the outer courtyard. On approaching
he discovered that a clamorous old woman had entered the gates and
that a number of his slaves were trying in vain to quiet her and to
drive her back into the road. He recognized Mysis. With a gesture he
commanded the men to release her. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“I must see Pamphilus.”
“He is not here.”
“I cannot go away until I have seen him,” she replied, her voice
rising in feverish insistence. “A life depends upon it. I do not care
what happens to me, but Pamphilus must know what they have done to
us.”
Simo said quietly: “I shall have you whipped; I shall have you shut
up in a room for three days, if you continue to make this noise.
Pamphilus will be able to listen to you later in the morning.”
Mysis was silent a moment, then she raised her eyes and said
sombrely: “Later in the morning will be too late, and all will be
lost. I beg of you to let me see him now. He would wish it. He would
not forgive you for turning me away now.”
“Come, tell me what is the matter and I will help you.”
“No, it is you who have done this harm and now he alone can save us.”
Simo sent the slaves back to their quarters. Then he turned to her
again: “In what way have I harmed you?”
“You do not wish to help us,” she said. “The Leno’s boat has arrived
at the island and my mistress Glycerium and all the household of
Chrysis have been sold to him as slaves. We were awakened in the
middle of the night by the herald of the village and told to gather
our clothes together and to go down to the harbor. Glycerium is not
well now; she must not be driven so. I myself escaped through the
rows of a vineyard and have come to find Pamphilus. It was you who
have done this, for it was the Fathers of the Island who ordered that
we should be sold as slaves to pay our debts.”
This was true. He remembered having listened without interest to a
discussion of the matter, assuming that it would be carried out with
sufficient warning and delay to admit of Glycerium’s being separated
from the rest of the destitute company. The Leno’s boat visited
Brynos so seldom that it seemed to the Fathers of the Island that
they might yet be under the necessity of providing for the household
through many months while awaiting the arrival of this purchaser.
Suddenly a light dawned upon Mysis: “He is at the temple! How could I
have forgotten that he was under the vow of silence, and that he must
be there!” And turning she started to enter the road.
“You must not go to him at the temple,” said Simo sharply. “I shall
come down to the harbor with you now and buy your mistress from the
Leno.”
He returned to the house for his cloak, then walked into the town
with Mysis hurrying at his heels. Dawn was breaking as he descended
the winding stairs to the square. Against the streaked sky he saw the
mast of the Leno’s boat. The Leno was not only a dealer in slaves;
he was a wandering bazaar and sold foreign foods and trinkets and
cloths. If an island were large enough he came ashore and conducted
a fair and a circus. And now in the first cold light of morning Simo
could see on the raised portion of the deck a brightly colored booth,
a chained bear, an ape, two parrots, and other samples of the Leno’s
stock in trade, including the household of Chrysis. Philocles had
remained on shore and for two hours had been standing at the parapet
uttering short broken cries towards his companions. Being a Greek
citizen he could not be sold into slavery and was to be transported
later to Andros.
Simo descended the steps of the landing with Mysis and was rowed out
to the boat. While he concluded his transaction with the black and
smiling Leno Mysis sank upon her knees before Glycerium, telling her
of this good fortune. But Glycerium derived no joy from the news.
She sat between Apraxine and the Ethiopian girl, amid the bundles of
their clothes, and for weariness she could scarcely raise her eyes or
move her lips. “No,” she said, “I shall stay here with you. I do not
wish to go anywhere.”
Simo approached them. “My child,” he said to Glycerium, “you are to
come with me now.”
“Yes, my beloved,” Mysis repeated into her ear, “you must go with
him. All will be well. He is taking you ashore to Pamphilus.”
Still Glycerium remained with bent head. “I do not wish to move. I do
not wish to go anywhere,” she said.
“I am the father of Pamphilus. You must come with me and good care
will be taken of you.”
At last and with great difficulty she arose. Mysis supported her to
the side of the boat and there taking her farewell she whispered to
her: “Goodbye, my dear love. Now may the gods bring you happiness.
I shall never see you again, but I pray you to remember me, for I
have loved you well. And wherever we are, let us remember our dear
Chrysis.”
The two women embraced one another in silence, Glycerium with closed
eyes. At last she said: “I would that I were dead, Mysis. I would
that I were long dead with Chrysis, my dear sister.”
“You are to come with us too,” said Simo to Mysis, who having known
even greater surprises obediently followed him. The little group was
rowed in silence to the shore. The Leno’s oarsmen struck the water,
his bright colored sails were raised, and his merchandise left the
harbor for other fortunes.
The sun had already risen when Pamphilus returned with swift and
happy steps to his home. There he discovered Glycerium sleeping
peacefully under his mother’s care. There was not a sound to be heard
on the farm, for his mother, already invested with the dignity of her
new duties as guardian and nurse to the outcast girl, had ordered a
perfect quiet. Argo was sitting before the gate, her eyes wide with
wonder and pleasure at the arrival of this new friend. Simo had gone
to the warehouse and when he returned, for all his happiness, he
moved about with lowered eyes, driven by the constraint in his nature
to act as though nothing had happened.
In the two days that followed, all their thoughts were centred
about the room where the girl lay and all their hearts were renewed
under the fragile claims that Glycerium’s beauty and shyness made
upon them. Simo seemed, after Pamphilus, to have best understood
her reticence and to have been understood by her; a friendship
beyond speech had grown up between them. This flowering of goodness,
however, was not to be put to the trial of routine perseverance, nor
to know the alternations of self-reproach and renewed courage; for on
the noon of the third day Glycerium’s pains began and by sunset both
mother and child were dead.
That night after many months of drought it began to rain. Slowly at
first and steadily, the rain began to fall over all Greece. Great
curtains of rain hung above the plains; in the mountains it fell
as snow, and on the sea it printed its countless ephemeral coins
upon the water. The greater part of the inhabitants were asleep,
but the relief of the long-expected rain entered into the mood of
their sleeping minds. It fell upon the urns standing side by side
in the shadow, and the wakeful and the sick and the dying heard the
first great drops fall upon the roofs above their heads. Pamphilus
lay awake, face downward, his chin upon the back of his hand. He
heard the first great drops fall upon the roof over his head and
he knew that his father and mother, not far from him, heard them
too. He had been repeating to himself Chrysis’s lesson and adding
to it his Glycerium’s last faltering words: “Do not be sorry; do
not be afraid,” and he had been remembering how with the faintest
movement of her eyes to one side, she had indicated her child and
said: “Wherever we are, we are yours.” He had been asking himself
in astonishment wherein had lain his joy and his triumph of the few
nights before: how could he have once been so sure of the beauty of
existence? And some words of Chrysis returned to him. He recalled
how she had touched the hand of a young guest who had returned
from an absence, having lost his sister, and how she had said to
him in a low voice, so as not to embarrass those others present
who had never known a loss: “You were happy with her once; do not
doubt that the conviction at the heart of your happiness was as
real as the conviction at the heart of your sorrow.” Pamphilus knew
that out of these fragments he must assemble during the succeeding
nights sufficient strength, not only for himself, but for these
others,--these others who so bewilderingly now turned to him and
whose glances tried to read from his face what news there was from
the last resources of courage and hope, to live on, to live by. But
in confusion and with flagging courage he repeated: “I praise all
living, the bright and the dark.”
On the sea the helmsman suffered the downpour, and on the high
pastures the shepherd turned and drew his cloak closer about him.
In the hills the long-dried stream-beds began to fill again and the
noise of water falling from level to level, warring with the stones
in the way, filled the gorges. But behind the thick beds of clouds
the moon soared radiantly bright, shining upon Italy and its smoking
mountains. And in the East the stars shone tranquilly down upon the
land that was soon to be called Holy and that even then was preparing
its precious burden.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences
within the text and consultation of external sources. Some hyphens
in words have been silently added when a predominant preference was
found in the original book. Except for those changes noted below, all
misspellings and inconsistent spellings have been retained.
Page 60: “Phraedus: It would” replaced by “Phaedrus: It would”.
Page 159: “grown up betwen” replaced by “grown up between”.
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.