EËTÍON AND NIKANDER
Nikander and Eëtíon went out hand in hand as was the custom of Greek men
who loved each other.
“Dear youth, what can I say to you?” spoke Nikander. “You have returned
to me my two children, my son and now my daughter.”
“I love your daughter. I love your daughter,” spoke out Eëtíon
passionately. “Now you know it. I want her for my wife.”
“Would you could have her,” was Nikander’s answer.
“But can I not?” questioned the unreasonable youth.
“My dear boy, you know she is priestess. I wish Apollo had killed me
before I made her priestess.”
Eëtíon clenched his hands. “She shall not go back to the Pythia House.
She is too splendid, too free-minded.”
“She shall certainly never go upon the tripod,” responded Nikander. “I
will promise you that.”
Eëtíon paced the room in bitter distress. “How could you make her
priestess?” he said, forgetting all kindness. “How could you take away
her last chance for action and noble living? You don’t deserve to be
Theria’s father.”
“Indeed I do not,” was Nikander’s sorrowful rejoinder. He laid quieting
hands upon the youth.
“We are in dark days, Eëtíon. Perhaps not one of us will be alive
to-morrow. Let us not grieve over what may not in any case come to pass.”
“The hope would be so much,” said Eëtíon with sudden tears. Eëtíon’s
fortunate beauty made each emotion of his appealing, whether bowing the
head in grief or lifting it with sudden smile. Nikander loved him for his
grief and, forgetting his own bitter share in it, set about earnestly to
calm him.
“My dear boy,” he said, “in the coming battle you will forget this love
for a maid. It will be unimportant in the light of great deeds. Men love
other men with such devotion and companioning but hardly a maid.”
“But this is Theria,” said Eëtíon childishly.
“Yes,” mused the father proudly. “It is Theria.”
“Do you know,” went on Eëtíon in a low voice, “I thought she was a
goddess the first time I saw her. I really did. It was in the Precinct of
Athena. I was weeping aloud with misery because my work of four years was
brought to naught and I was pushed back into slavery, for I had been long
in bondage. And Theria came leaping down the hill in the morning light.
She spoke to me. (Oh, such wonderful kindness to which I had long been a
stranger.) Then afterward, O Nikander, she saved me. Braving all sorts of
punishment, she saved me. Could a man have done more than that? Is it any
wonder that I love her?”
Nikander felt it his duty to dissuade the youth from a love so
hopeless—but he suddenly had no word to say. That love seemed so sweet
and right and pure. He was proud that this daughter of his had called it
forth.
The youth went on:
“We of Argos are worshippers of Hera. There is a saying among us
that the ‘Souls who follow Hera desire a love of royal quality.’ Hera
cherishes the lawful union of man and woman.”
Nikander’s head bowed lower. He had forgotten this further obstacle
that Eëtíon was a metic. The union was impossible. From every side,
impossible. With grieving face Nikander turned and left Eëtíon where he
stood.