THE HIGH, PERILOUS SEAT
When Theria awoke next morning she did not at first remember where she
was. For the first time in her life she opened her eyes upon a room not
her own. Then she noted over in the corner a woman dressed in the yellow
robe of the temple. As Theria turned her awakened face the woman solemnly
advanced, holding aloft two golden vessels. She offered one, a cup of
water. Theria knew that this water was from the sacred spring Cassotis,
which bubbled forth near the temple.
Apollo, himself, had troubled that spring. That was the reason it
bubbled. His touch was upon it still. Theria drank in fear while the
priestess murmured, “Apollon, Apollon.”
Would the ecstasy fall at once? It sometimes did fall upon the Pythia
after this single draught.
Silence followed while the priestess searched Theria’s face. Theria
paled, knowing well what she searched for. Then the priestess presented
the second vessel, in which were leaves of laurel.
These Theria was required to chew. How bitter they tasted, intensely
so in her hungry state. She rose from her couch, swayed as she stood.
Without a word the priestess caught her and nodded her head in
satisfaction. It was the beginning of what the priests wished for. How
strangely Theria’s fingers tingled and, as she stepped, how heavy were
her feet. She tried not to be terrified, but she was a healthy young
thing. She dreaded the supernatural.
The old priestess dressed her.
“You must make sacrifice at the altar now,” she said.
She led Theria out of the house and into the glory of an amethystine
morning. They came out upon the lofty temple platform and the whole
Precinct lay below, little pillared temples bathing their feet in the low
level rays of light, brazen statues, golden tripods flashing like struck
cymbals in the dawn. The white Sacred Way was drawn clear as with the
swift finger of the god up zig-zag through his own treasuries.
A trumpet sounded. It cut the pure air, a flashing shaft of sound; then
echoed, echoed from cliff to cliff into utter clarity and sweetness—a
note from Elysium.
Theria stretched forth her hands in enthusiasm of love. Every vestige of
her dizziness disappeared.
“But this way is the altar,” corrected the dame, and led her to it.
Here Theria performed long rites, offerings of barley and wine, long
silent prayers. Then she was led back into her room.
“Do not move from here,” said the priestess. “Be silent. Try to think
of—nothing.” So she left her.
Never would Theria forget that day, the interminable hours, the slow
change of the slant sunlight in the court, the trying to pray, succeeding
at last with upsoaring faith, sleeping; the awakening to realize that it
was still only morning. Then again the waiting, waiting.
The third and last morning Theria was so weak that she longed to cry,
longed as she never supposed she could long for Baltè to come to her.
Baltè surely could make her well.
To-day, as yesterday, she must preserve through all the hours the holy
silence.
Again came the old priestess and dressed her. Then a procession of
priestesses led Theria down to the Castalian spring where they gave her
the sacred, purifying bath.
The shock of the cold water restored her. She realized with a start that
now, if ever, she must seize the will of the god. She began to struggle
with petitions. When she entered her room again it seemed to reel round
and round her head. Surely this meant that Apollo was approaching
nearer—nearer. The face of the god with solemn eyes and wide-flung hair
became suddenly so vivid before her that she could not tell whether it
was an image in her mind or the real presence of the god. Her home, her
father, Eëtíon were all infinitely far away. Numbly she realized that she
was passing into the ecstatic state.
Once again it was morning—the morning of the oracle. Theria’s mind awoke
crystal clear, drenched through and through with hope. She smiled so
happily at the old priestess when she came in that the dame bent and
kissed her. Then, since this was against custom, the woman was quite
shocked at what she had done.
Now the hour of the oracle was come. Dreamily Theria was conscious of
being led into the temple. Knew that her hair was hanging loose, the
sacred veil and crown upon her head. Ah, the dear, dear temple! There
were the splendid golden eagles, the navel stone, first of Delphi’s
treasures, Pindar’s chair which she had kissed. And over yonder the
Athenian consultants waiting with awed faces. Oh, the god would help
them. She was sure, now, sure!
Suddenly the priestesses kindled to exceeding brightness the eternal
flame on the altar; put into it many branches of dry laurel. The cella
was filled with smoke, especially the space behind the altar where within
temporary screens the priestesses waved the half-extinguished laurel
branches.
The priests pushed Theria into this enclosure. How sweet was the smell of
the smoke. So smelled the little altar at home, the—— Oh, it was choking
her!
She started forth from the screen. They pushed her back again. She began
to struggle and to gasp—they held her—oh, fatal consequence! Their
roughness made her angry. Weak as she was she fought them back. It was
almost unknown that the Pythia should have such strength at this stage of
the ritual.
At last they brought her forth, her eyes streaming, her nose also, her
lungs burning as with fire. Down the rough-hewn steps they led her into
the dim holy of holies. Bed rock was the floor and in its midst the
narrow opening of a cave. Over the blackness of this abyss stood, solemn,
tall, and terrible, the brazen tripod. From the blackness below would
rise the breath of the god.
In awe-stricken silence the priests and Athenian consultants, again
lifting on high their branches of supplication, filed into the small dank
place. They filled it quite and ranged themselves with religious care.
Theria saw everything: the golden statue of Apollo, the special laurel
tree in its tub; and there was her father looking as she had never seen
him, his face set, white as chalk. She must not fail him—all the life of
her dear Hellas hung upon her now.
Great Apollon! Akeretos, the priest-president, was lifting her up to the
high seat of the tripod!
Now she must shake the laurel tree. For in the laurel was the life of the
god. Yes, she was shaking it. The consultants stood waiting, waiting.
Suddenly she had a queer sort of panic. She had been expecting
forgetfulness so intensely for so many hours. Now instead of
forgetfulness everything became horribly clear—all memories, all
thoughts, home, Eëtíon, nonsense rhymes which Baltè used to sing her.
Great Paian! she must not laugh.... That would be sacrilege.
And oh, they were waiting, they were shifting their feet. The Athenians
stole glances at each other. Their eyes were despair. How her father was
gazing at her! Oh, if she could only pray! A moment more and they would
take her down from the tripod.
She had failed!
Flashingly a temptation crossed Theria, a temptation as old as magic—as
old as priestcraft or the first mumbling worship of primitive man.
She would _make_ the oracle. Make it herself! Better that than for Athens
to go unanswered.
The god! He might strike her with his arrows. Nay, he would instantly
destroy her.... Better that than let Athens go unanswered!
She stiffened straight as a reed on her tripod and flung her hands on
high, cupping the palms as if to receive a gift. Never had the Athenians
seen anything more beautiful. Athena, their own virgin goddess, might in
some divine appearing be of this likeness.
And her voice, the intense, meaningful voice of the singer:
“Apollon, Apollon!
Apollon emos.
Ah idou, idou!
Ships, ships—see—see!”
Oh, how fatally clear she remembered all her father’s words. All that he
had told her of the Athenian policy.
“Sails, galleys of the glancing sails. To Salamis,
Ye Athenians. Fight at Salamis.
Oh, more ships. Strange, strange ships—locked in the land.
Down—down—down!”
She was keen as a hawk. She saw her father start with horror. He was
remembering his inadvertent talk with her. She must not be too exact, she
must not let him suspect what she was doing. She began to mumble. Baltè’s
nonsense rhymes would do while she was gathering thought. Her message
must not be too hopeful. Now she had it!
She broke forth into hexameter verse. Once in a long while the Pythia did
this and it was considered more exact. The priests could not remake it.
“Pallas cannot prevail to appease great Zeus in Olympos,
Though she with words very many, and wiles close-woven entreat him.
But I will tell thee this truth: and clinch it with steel adamantine:
That when all else shall be taken—all that the boundary of Cecrops
holdeth within,
_A bulwark of wood_—this Zeus will grant to Athena the goddess,
Sole to remain, a defense to you and your children.
“Salamis, thou the divine!
Thou shalt cause the sons of women to perish.”
She began to sway, holding her hands still above her, repeating,
“Salamis, thou the divine.” Then mumbling at nothing.
Surely now the god would strike her. This greatest of all sins upon her——
He must strike her.
She crouched, as if avoiding a blow.
Then she achieved her one Pythian act: She really fainted quite away.