Nothing delighted old Dido more than to dress the daughter of her
beloved mistress in all her best, for she had helped to bring her up;
but to-day it was a cruel task; tears dimmed her old eyes. It was not
till she had put the finishing touches to braiding the girl’s abundant
brown hair, pinned her peplos on the shoulders with brooches, and set
the girdle straight, that her face cleared, as she looked at the result.
Never had she seen her darling look so fair. Nothing, indeed, remained
of the child-like timidity and patient submissiveness which had touched
Dido only two days since, as she plaited Melissa’s hair. The maiden’s
brow was grave and thoughtful, the lips firmly set; but she seemed to
Dido to have grown, and to have gained something of her mother’s mature
dignity. She looked, the old woman told her, like the image of Pallas
Athene; adding, to make her smile, that if she wanted an owl, she,
Dido, could fill the part. Jesting had never been the old woman’s strong
point, and to-day it was less easy than ever; for, if the worst befell,
and she were sent in her old age to a strange house--and Argutis, no
doubt, to another--she would have to turn the handmill for the rest of
her days.
But it was a hard task which the motherless--and now fatherless--girl
had set herself, and she must try to cheer her darling. While she was
dressing her, she never ceased praying to all the gods and goddesses she
could think of to come to the maiden’s aid and move the souls of those
who could help her. And though she was, as a rule, ready to expect the
worst, this time she hoped for the best; for Seleukus’s wife must have a
heart of stone if she could close it to such innocence, such beauty, and
the pathetic glance of those large, imploring eyes.
When at length Melissa quitted the house, deeply veiled, with Argutis to
escort her, she took his arm; and he, wearing his master’s mantle, and
exempted long since from keeping his hair cropped, was so proud of this
that he walked with all the dignity of a freeman, and no one could have
guessed that he was a slave. Melissa’s face was completely hidden,
and she, like her companion, was safe from recognition. Argutis,
nevertheless, led her through the quietest and darkest lanes to the
Kanopic way. Both were silent, and looked straight before them. Melissa,
as she walked on, could not think with her usual calm. Like a suffering
man who goes to the physician’s house to die or be cured by the knife,
she felt that she was on her way to something terrible in itself,
to remedy, if possible, something still more dreadful. Her
father--Alexander, so reckless and so good-hearted--Philip, whom she
pitied--and her sick lover, came in turn before her fancy. But she could
not control her mind to dwell on either for long. Nor could she, as
usual, when she had any serious purpose in hand, put up a prayer to her
mother’s manes or the immortals; and all the while an inner voice made
itself heard, confidently promising her that Caesar, for whom she
had sacrificed, and who might be kinder and more merciful than others
fancied, would at once grant all she should ask. But she would not
listen; and when she nevertheless ventured to consider how she could
make her way into Caesar’s presence, a cold shiver ran down her back,
and again Philip’s last words sounded in her ears, “Death rather than
dishonor!”
Other thoughts and feelings filled the slave’s soul. He, who had always
watched over his master’s children with far more anxious care than
Heron himself, had not said a word to dissuade Melissa from her perilous
expedition. Her plan had, indeed, seemed to him the only one which
promised any success. He was a man of sixty years, and a shrewd fellow,
who might easily have found a better master than Heron had been; but
he gave not a thought to his own prospects--only to Melissa’s, whom
he loved as a child of his own. She had placed herself under his
protection, and he felt responsible for her fate. Thus he regarded it as
great good fortune that he could be of use in procuring her admission
to the house of Seleukus, for the door-keeper was a fellow-countryman
of his, whom Fate had brought hither from the banks of the Moselle. At
every festival, which secured a few hours’ liberty to all the slaves,
they had for years been boon companions, and Argutis knew that his
friend would do for him and his young mistress all that lay in his
power. It would, of course, be difficult to get an audience of the
mistress of a house where Caesar was a guest, but the door-keeper was
clever and ingenious, and would do anything short of the impossible.
So he walked with his head high and his heart full of pride, and it
confirmed his courage when one of Zminis’s men, whom they passed in
the brightly illuminated Kanopic street, and who had helped to secure
Philip, looked at him without recognizing him.
There was a great stir in this, the handsomest road through the city.
The people were waiting for Caesar; but stricter order was observed than
on the occasion of his arrival. The guard prohibited all traffic on the
southern side of the way, and only allowed the citizens to walk up and
down the footpath, shaded by trees, between the two roadways paved with
granite flags, and the arcades in front of the houses on either side.
The free inhabitants, unaccustomed to such restrictions, revenged
themselves by cutting witticisms at Caesar’s expense, “for clearing the
streets of Alexandria by his men-at-arms as he did those of Rome by the
executioner. He seemed to have forgotten, as he kept the two roads
open, that he only needed one, now that he had murdered his brother and
partner.”
Melissa and her companion were ordered to join the crowd on the footway;
but Argutis managed to convince a man on guard that they were two of the
mimes who were to perform before Caesar--the door-keeper at the house of
Seleukus would confirm the fact--and the official himself made way for
them into the vestibule of this splendid dwelling.
But Melissa was as little in the humor to admire all the lavish
magnificence which surrounded her as Alexander had been a few days
since. Still veiled, she modestly took a place among the choir who stood
on each side of the hall ready to welcome Caesar with singing and
music. Argutis stopped to speak with his friend. She dimly felt that the
whispering and giggling all about her was at her expense; and when an
elderly, man, the choir-master, asked her what she wanted, and desired
her to remove her veil, she obeyed at once, saying: “Pray let me stand
here, the Lady Berenike will send for me.”
“Very well,” replied the musician; and he silenced the singers, who were
hazarding various impertinent guesses as to the arrival of so pretty a
girl just when Caesar was expected.
As Melissa dropped her veil the splendor of the scene, lighted up by
numberless tapers and lamps, forced itself on her attention. She now
perceived that the porphyry columns of the great hall were wreathed with
flowers, and that garlands swung in graceful curves from the open roof;
while at the farther end, statues had been placed of Septimus Severus
and Julia Domna, Caracalla’s parents. On each side of these works of
art stood bowers of plants, in which gay-plumaged birds were fluttering
about, excited by the lights. But all these glories swam before her
eyes, and the first question which the artist’s daughter was wont to ask
herself, “is it really beautiful or no?” never occurred to her mind. She
did not even notice the smell of incense, until some fresh powder was
thrown on, and it became oppressive.
She was fully conscious only of two facts, when at last Argutis
returned: that she was the object of much curious examination and that
every one was wondering what detained Caesar so long.
At last, after she had waited many long minutes, the door-keeper
approached her with a young woman in a rich but simple dress, in whom
she recognized Johanna, the Christian waiting-maid of whom Alexander had
spoken. She did not speak, but beckoned her to come.
Breathing anxiously, and bending her head low, Melissa, following her
guide, reached a handsome impluvium, where a fountain played in the
midst of a bed of roses. Here the moon and starlight mingled with that
of lamps without number, and the ruddy glare of a blaze; for all round
the basin, from which the playing waters danced skyward, stood marble
genii, carrying in their hands or on their heads silver dishes, in which
the leaping flames consumed cedar chips and aromatic resins.
At the back of this court, where it was as light as day, at the top of
three steps, stood the statues of Alexander the Great and Caracalla.
They were of equal size; and the artist, who had wrought the second in
great haste out of the slightest materials, had been enjoined to make
Caesar as like as possible in every respect to the hero he most revered.
Thus they looked like brothers. The figures were lighted up by the fires
which burned on two altars of ivory and gold. Beautiful boys, dressed as
armed Erotes, fed the flames.
The whole effect was magical and bewildering; but, as she followed her
guide, Melissa only felt that she was in the midst of a new world, such
as she might perhaps have seen in a dream; till, as they passed the
fountain, the cool drops sprinkled her face.
Then she suddenly remembered what had brought her hither. In a
minute she must appear as a supplicant in the presence of Korinna’s
mother--perhaps even in that of Caesar himself--and the fate of all dear
to her depended on her demeanor. The sense of fulfilling a serious duty
was uppermost in her mind. She drew herself up, and replaced a stray
lock of hair; and her heart beat almost to bursting as she saw a number
of, men standing on the platform at the top of the steps, round a lady
who had just risen from her ivory seat. Giving her hand to a Roman
senator, distinguished by the purple edge to his toga, she descended the
steps, and advanced to meet Melissa.
This dignified matron, who was awaiting the ruler of the world and yet
could condescend to come forward to meet a humble artist’s daughter,
was taller by half a head than her illustrious companion; and the few
minutes during which Berenike was coming toward her were enough to fill
Melissa with thankfulness, confidence, and admiration. And even in that
short time, as she gazed at the magnificent dress of blue brocade shot
with gold and sparkling with precious stones which draped the lady’s
majestic figure, she thought how keen a pang it must cost the mother,
so lately bereft of her only child, to maintain a kindly, nay, a genial
aspect, in the midst of this display, toward Caesar and a troop of noisy
guests.
The sincerest pity for this woman, rich and preeminent as she was,
filled the soul of the girl, who herself was so much to be pitied. But
when the lady had come up to her, and asked, in her deep voice, what
was the danger that threatened her brother, Melissa, with unembarrassed
grace, and although it was the first time she had ever addressed a lady
of such high degree, answered simply, with a full sense of the business
in hand:
“My name is Melissa; I am the sister of Alexander the painter. I know
it is overbold to venture into your presence just now, when you have
so much else to think of; but I saw no other way of saving my brother’s
life, which is in peril.”
At this Berenike seemed surprised. She turned to her companion, who was
her sister’s husband, and the first Egyptian who had been admitted to
the Roman Senate, and said, in a tone of gentle reproach:
“Did not I say so, Coeranus? Nothing but the most urgent need would have
brought Alexander’s sister to speak with me at such an hour.”
And the senator, whose black eyes had rested with pleasure on Melissa’s
rare beauty, promptly replied, “And if she had come for the veriest
trifle she would be no less welcome to me.”
“Let me hear no more of such speeches,” Berenike exclaimed with some
annoyance.--“Now, my child, be quick. What about your brother?”
Melissa briefly and truthfully reported Alexander’s heedless crime and
the results to her father and Philip. She ended by beseeching the noble
lady with fervent pathos to intercede for her father and brothers.
Meanwhile the senator’s keen face had darkened, and the lady Berenike’s
large eyes, too, were downcast. She evidently found it hard to come to
a decision; and for the moment she was relieved of the necessity, for
runners came hurrying up, and the senator hastily desired Melissa to
stand aside.
He whispered to his sister-in-law:
“It will never do to spoil Caesar’s good-humor under your roof for the
sake of such people,” and Berenike had only time to reply, “I am not
afraid of him,” when the messenger explained to her that Caesar himself
was prevented from coming, but that his representatives, charged with
his apologies, were close at hand.
On this Coeranus exclaimed, with a sour smile: “Admit that I am a true
prophet! You have to put up with the same treatment that we senators
have often suffered under.”
But the matron scarcely heard him. She cast her eyes up to heaven with
sincere thanksgiving as she murmured with a sigh of relief, “For this
mercy the gods be praised!”
She unclasped her hands from her heaving bosom, and said to the steward
who had followed the messengers:
“Caesar will not be present. Inform your lord, but so that no one else
may hear. He must come here and receive the imperial representatives
with me. Then have my couch quietly removed and the banquet served at
once. O Coeranus, you can not imagine the misery I am thus spared!”
“Berenike!” said the senator, in a warning voice, and he laid his finger
on his lips. Then turning to the young supplicant, he said to her in a
tone of regret: “So your walk is for nothing, fair maid. If you are as
sensible as you are pretty, you will understand that it is too much to
ask any one to stand between the lion and the prey which has roused his
ire.”
The lady, however, did not heed the caution which her brother-in-law
intended to convey. As Melissa’s imploring eyes met her own, she said,
with clear decision:
“Wait here. We shall see who it is that Caesar sends. I know better than
my lord here what it is to see those dear to us in peril. How old are
you, child?”
“Eighteen,” replied Melissa.
“Eighteen?” repeated Berenike, as if the word were a pain to her, for
her daughter had been just of that age. Then she said, louder and with
encouraging kindness:
“All that lies in my power shall be done for you and yours.--And you,
Coeranus, must help me.”
“If I can,” he replied, “with all the zeal of my reverence for you and
my admiration for beauty. But here come the envoys. The elder, I see, is
our learned Philostratus, whose works are known to you; the younger is
Theocritus, the favorite of fortune of whom I was telling you. If the
charm of that face might but conquer the omnipotent youth--”
“Coeranus!” she exclaimed, with stern reproof; but she failed to hear
the senator’s excuses, for her husband, Seleukus, followed her down the
steps, and with a hasty sign to her, advanced to meet his guests.
Theocritus was spokesman, and notwithstanding the mourning toga which
wrapped him in fine folds, his gestures did not belie his origin as an
actor and dancer. When Seleukus presented him to his wife, Theocritus
assured her that when, but an hour since, his sovereign lord, who was
already dressed and wreathed for the banquet, had learned that the gods
had bereft of their only child the couple whose hospitality had promised
him such a delightful evening, he had been equally shocked and grieved.
Caesar was deeply distressed at the unfortunate circumstance that he
should have happened in his ignorance to intrude on the seclusion which
was the prerogative of grief. He begged to assure her and her husband of
the high favor of the ruler of the world. As for himself, Theocritus,
he would not fail to describe the splendor with which they had decorated
their princely residence in Caesar’s honor. His imperial master would be
touched, indeed, to hear that even the bereaved mother, who, like Niobe,
mourned for her offspring, had broken the stony spell which held her to
Sipylos, and had decked herself to receive the greatest of all earthly
guests as radiant as Juno at the golden table of the gods.
The lady succeeded in controlling herself and listening to the end of
these pompous phrases without interrupting the speaker. Every word which
flowed so glibly from his tongue fell on her ear as bitter mockery; and
he himself was so repugnant to her, that she felt it a release when,
after exchanging a few words with the master of the house, he begged
leave to retire, as important business called him away. And this,
indeed, was the truth. For no consideration would he have left this duty
to another, for it was to communicate to Titianus, who had offended him,
the intelligence that Caesar had deprived him of the office of prefect,
and intended to examine into certain complaints of his administration.
The second envoy, however, remained, though he refused Seleukus’s
invitation to fill his place at the banquet. He exchanged a few words
with the lady Berenike, and presently found himself taken aside by
the senator, and, after a short explanation, led up to Melissa,
whom Coeranus desired to appeal for help to Philostratus, the famous
philosopher, who enjoyed Caesar’s closest confidence.
Coeranus then obeyed a sign from Berenike, who wished to know whether
he would be answerable for introducing this rarely pretty girl, who had
placed herself under their protection--and whom she, for her part, meant
to protect--to a courtier of whom she knew nothing but that he was a
writer of taste.
The question seemed to amuse Coeranus, but, seeing that his
sister-in-law was very much in earnest, he dropped his flippant tone
and admitted that Philostratus, as a young man, had been one of the
last with whom he would trust a girl. His far-famed letters sufficiently
proved that the witty philosopher had been a devoted and successful
courtier of women. But that was all a thing of the past. He still, no
doubt, did homage to female beauty, but he led a regular life, and had
become one of the most ardent and earnest upholders of religion and
virtue. He was one of the learned circle which gathered round Julia
Domna, and it was by her desire that he had accompanied Caracalla, to
keep his mad passions in check when it might be possible.
The conversation between Melissa and the philosopher had meanwhile taken
an unexpected turn. At his very first address the reply had died on her
lips, for in Caesar’s representative she had recognized the Roman whom
she had seen in the Temple of Asklepios, and who had perhaps overheard
her there. Philostratus, too, seemed to remember the meeting; for his
shrewd face--a pleasing mixture of grave and gay--lighted up at once
with a subtle smile as he said:
“If I am not mistaken, I owe the same pleasure this evening to divine
Caesar as to great Asklepios this morning?”
At this, Melissa cast a meaning glance at Coeranus and the lady, and,
although surprise and alarm sealed her lips, her uplifted hands and
whole gesture sufficiently expressed her entreaty that he would not
betray her. He understood and obeyed. It pleased him to share a secret
with this fair child. He had, in fact, overheard her, and understood
with amazement that she was praying fervently for Caesar.
This stirred his curiosity to the highest pitch. So he said, in an
undertone:
“All that I saw and heard in the temple is our secret, sweet maid. But
what on earth can have prompted you to pray so urgently for Caesar? Has
he done you or yours any great benefit?”
Melissa shook her head, and Philostratus went on with increased
curiosity:
“Then are you one of those whose heart Eros can fire at the sight of an
image, or the mere aspect of a man?”
To this she answered hastily:
“What an idea! No, no. Certainly not.”
“No?” said her new friend, with greater surprise. “Then perhaps your
hopeful young soul expects that, being still but a youth, he may, by the
help of the gods, become, like Titus, a benefactor to the whole world?”
Melissa looked timidly at the matron, who was still talking with her
brother-in-law, and hastily replied:
“They all call him a murderer! But I know for certain that he suffers
fearful torments of mind and body; and one who knows many things told
me that there was not one among all the millions whom Caesar governs who
ever prays for him; and I was so sorry--I can not tell you--”
“And so,” interrupted the philosopher, “you thought it praiseworthy and
pleasing to the gods that you should be the first and only one to offer
sacrifice for him, in secret, and of your own free will? That was how it
came about? Well, child, you need not be ashamed of it.”
But then suddenly his face clouded, and he asked, in a grave and altered
voice:
“Are you a Christian?”
“No,” she replied, firmly. “We are Greeks. How could I have offered a
sacrifice of blood to Asklepios if I had believed in the crucified god?”
“Then,” said Philostratus, and his eyes flashed brightly, “I may
promise you, in the name of the gods, that your prayer and offering were
pleasing in their eyes. I myself, noble girl, owe you a rare pleasure.
But, tell me--how did you feel as you left the sanctuary?”
“Light-hearted, my lord, and content,” she answered, with a frank,
glad look in her fine eyes. “I could have sung as I went down the road,
though there were people about.”
“I should have liked to hear you,” he said, kindly, and he still
held her hand, which he had grasped with the amiable geniality that
characterized him, when they were joined by the senator and his
sister-in-law.
“Has she won your good offices?” asked Coeranus; and Philostratus
replied, quickly, “Anything that it lies in my power to do for her shall
certainly be done.”
Berenike bade them both to join her in her own rooms, for everything
that had to do with the banquet was odious to her; and as they went,
Melissa told her new friend her brother’s story. She ended it in the
quiet sitting-room of the mistress of the house, an artistic but not
splendid apartment, adorned only with the choicest works of early
Alexandrian art. Philostratus listened attentively, but, before she
could put her petition for help into words, he exclaimed:
“Then what we have to do is, to move Caesar to mercy, and that--Child,
you know not what you ask!”
They were interrupted by a message from Seleukus, desiring Coeranus to
join the other guests, and as soon as he had left them Berenike withdrew
to take off the splendor she hated. She promised to return immediately
and join their discussion, and Philostratus sat for a while lost in
thought. Then he turned to Melissa and asked her:
“Would you for their sakes be able to make up your mind to face bitter
humiliation, nay, perhaps imminent danger?”
“Anything! I would give my life for them!” replied the girl, with
spirit, and her eyes gleamed with such enthusiastic self-sacrifice that
his heart, though no longer young, warmed under their glow, and the
principle to which he had sternly adhered since he had been near the
imperial person, never to address a word to the sovereign but in reply,
was blown to the winds.
Holding her hand in his, with a keen look into her eyes, he went on:
“And if you were required to do a thing from which many a man even would
recoil--you would venture?”
And again the answer was a ready “Yes.” Philostratus released her hand,
and said:
“Then we will dare the worst. I will smooth the way for you, and
to-morrow--do not start--tomorrow you yourself, under my protection,
shall appeal to Caesar.”
The color faded from the girl’s cheeks, which had been flushed with
fresh hopes, and her counselor had just expressed his wish to talk the
matter over with the lady Berenike, when she came into the room. She was
now dressed in mourning, and her pale, beautiful face showed the traces
of the tears she had just shed. The dark shadows which, when they
surround a woman’s eyes, betray past storms of grief, as the halo round
the moon--the eye of night--gives warning of storms to come, were deeper
than ever; and when her sorrowful gaze fell on Melissa, the girl felt an
almost irresistible longing to throw herself into her arms and weep on
her motherly bosom.
Philostratus, too, was deeply touched by the appearance of this mother,
who possessed so much, but for whom everything dearest to a woman’s
heart had been destroyed by a cruel stroke of Fate. He was glad to be
able to tell her that he hoped to soften Caesar. Still, his plan was a
bold one; Caracalla had been deeply offended by the scornful tone of the
attacks on him, and Melissa’s brother was perhaps the only one of the
scoffers who had been taken. The crime of the Alexandrian wits could not
be left unpunished. For such a desperate case only desperate remedies
could avail; he therefore ventured to propose to conduct Melissa into
Caesar’s presence, that she might appeal to his clemency.
The matron started as though a scorpion had stung her. In great
agitation, she threw her arm round the girl as if to shelter her from
imminent danger, and Melissa, seeking help, laid her head on that kind
breast. Berenike was reminded, by the scent that rose up from the girl’s
hair, of the hours when her own child had thus fondly clung to her.
Her motherly heart had found a new object to love, and exclaiming,
“Impossible!” she clasped Melissa more closely.
But Philostratus begged to be heard. Any plea urged by a third person he
declared would only be the ruin of the rash mediator.
“Caracalla,” he went on, looking at Melissa, “is terrible in his
passions, no one can deny that; but of late severe suffering has made
him irritably sensitive, and he insists on the strictest virtue in all
who are about his person. He pays no heed to female beauty, and this
sweet child, at any rate, will find many protectors. He shall know that
the high-priest’s wife, one of the best of women, keeps an anxious eye
on Melissa’s fate; and I myself, his mother’s friend, shall be at hand.
His passion for revenge, on the other hand, is boundless--no one living
can control it; and not even the noble Julia can shield those who
provoke it from a cruel end. If you do not know it, child, I can tell
you that he had his brother Geta killed, though he took refuge in the
arms of the mother who bore them both. You must understand the worst;
and again I ask you, are you ready to risk all for those you love? Have
you the courage to venture into the lion’s den?”
Melissa clung more closely to the motherly woman, and her pale lips
answered faintly but firmly, “I am ready, and he will grant my prayer.”
“Child, child,” cried Berenike in horror, “you know not what lies before
you! You are dazzled by the happy confidence of inexperienced youth. I
know what life is. I can see you, in your heart’s blood, as red and pure
as the blood of a lamb! I see--Ah, child! you do not know death and its
terrible reality.”
“I know it!” Melissa broke in with feverish excitement. “My dearest--my
mother--I saw her die with these eyes. What did I not bury in her grave!
And yet hope still lived in my heart; and though Caracalla may be a
reckless murderer, he will do nothing to me, precisely because I am so
feeble. And, lady, what am I? Of what account is my life if I lose my
father, and my brothers, who are both on the high-road to greatness?”
“But you are betrothed,” Berenike eagerly put in. “And your lover, you
told me, is dear to you. What of him? He no doubt loves you, and, if you
come to harm, sorrow will mar his young life.”
At this Melissa clasped her hands over her face and sobbed aloud. “Show
me, then, any other way--any! I will face the worst. But there is
none; and if Diodoros were here he would not stop me; for what my heart
prompts me to do is right, is my duty. But he is lying sick and with a
clouded mind, and I can not ask him. O noble lady, kindness looks out of
your eyes; cease to rub salt into my wounds! The task before me is
hard enough already. But I would do it, and try to get speech with that
terrible man, even if I had no one to protect me.”
The lady had listened with varying feelings to this outpouring of the
young girl’s heart. Every instinct rebelled against the thought of
sacrificing this pure, sweet creature to the fury of the tyrant whose
wickedness was as unlimited as his power, and yet she saw no other
chance of saving the artist, whom she held in affectionate regard. Her
own noble heart understood the girl’s resolve to purchase the life of
those she loved, even with her blood; she, in the same place, would have
done the same thing; and she thought to herself that it would have made
her happy to see such a spirit in her own child. Her resistance melted
away, and almost involuntarily she exclaimed, “Well, do what you feel to
be right.”
Melissa flew into her arms again with a grateful sense of release from
a load, and Berenike did all she could to smooth the thorny way for her.
She discussed every point with Philostratus as thoroughly as though for
a child of her own; and, while the tumult came up from the banquet in
the men’s rooms, they settled that Berenike herself should conduct the
girl to the wife of the high-priest of Serapis, the brother of Seleukus,
and there await Melissa’s return. Philostratus named the hour and other
details, and then made further inquiries concerning the young artist
whose mocking spirit had brought so much trouble on his family.
On this the lady led him into an adjoining room, where the portrait of
her adored daughter was hanging. It was surrounded by a thick wreath
of violets, the dead girl’s favorite flower. The beautiful picture was
lighted up by two three-branched lamps on high stands; and Philostratus,
a connoisseur who had described many paintings with great taste and
vividness, gazed in absorbed silence at the lovely features, which
were represented with rare mastery and the inspired devotion of loving
admiration. At last he turned to the mother, exclaiming:
“Happy artist, to have such a subject! It is a work worthy of the early,
best period, and of a master of the time of Apelies. The daughter who
has been snatched from you, noble lady, was indeed matchless, and no
sorrow is too deep to do her justice. But the divinity who has taken her
knows also how to give; and this portrait has preserved for you a part
of what you loved. This picture, too, may influence Melissa’s fate; for
Caesar has a fine taste in art, and one of the wants of our time which
has helped to embitter him is the paralyzed state of the imitative arts.
It will be easier to win his favor for the painter who did this portrait
than for a man of noble birth. He needs such painters as this Alexander
for the Pinakothek in the splendid baths he has built at Rome. If you
would but lend me this treasure to-morrow--”
But she interrupted him with a decisive “Never!” and laid her hand on
the frame as if to protect it. Philostratus, however, was not to be put
off; he went on in a tone of the deepest disappointment: “This portrait
is yours, and no one can wonder at your refusal. We must, therefore,
consider how to attain our end without this important ally.” Berenike’s
gaze had lingered calmly on the sweet face while he spoke, looking more
and more deeply into the beautiful, expressive features. All was silent.
At last she slowly turned to Melissa, who stood gazing sadly at the
ground, and said in a low voice: “She resembled you in many ways. The
gods had formed her to shed joy and light around her. Where she could
wipe away a tear she always did so. Her portrait is speechless, and yet
it tells me to act as she herself would have acted. If this work can
indeed move Caracalla to clemency, then--You, Philostratus, really think
so?”
“Yes,” he replied, decisively. “There can be no better mediator for
Alexander than this work.” Berenike drew herself up, and said:
“Well, then, to-morrow morning early, I will send it to you at the
Serapeum. The portrait of the dead may perish if it may but save the
life of him who wrought it so lovingly.” She turned away her face as she
gave the philosopher her hand, and then hastily left the room.
Melissa flew after her and, with overflowing gratitude, besought the
sobbing lady not to weep.
“I know something that will bring you greater comfort than my brother’s
picture: I mean the living image of your Korinna--a young girl; she is
here in Alexandria.”
“Zeno’s daughter Agatha?” said Berenike; and when Melissa said yes,
it was she, the lady went on with a deep sigh: “Thanks for your kind
thought, my child; but she, too, is lost to me.”
And as she spoke she sank on a couch, saying, in a low voice, “I would
rather be alone.”
Melissa modestly withdrew into the adjoining room, and Philostratus, who
had been lost in the contemplation of the picture, took his leave.
He did not make use of the imperial chariot in waiting for him, but
returned to his lodgings on foot, in such good spirits, and so well
satisfied with himself, as he had not been before since leaving Rome.
When Berenike had rested in solitude for some little time she recalled
Melissa, and took as much care of her young guest as though she were her
lost darling, restored to her after a brief absence. First she allowed
the girl to send for Argutis; and when she had assured the faithful
slave that all promised well, she dismissed him with instructions to
await at home his young mistress’s orders, for that Melissa would for
the present find shelter under her roof.
When the Gaul had departed, she desired her waiting-woman, Johanna, to
fetch her brother. During her absence the lady explained to Melissa
that they both were Christians. They were freeborn, the children of a
freedman of Berenike’s house. Johannes had at an early age shown so
much intelligence that they had acceded to his wish to be educated as a
lawyer. He was now one of the most successful pleaders in the city;
but he always used his eloquence, which he had perfected not only at
Alexandria but also at Carthage, by preference in the service of accused
Christians. In his leisure hours he would visit the condemned in prison,
speak comfort to them, and give them presents out of the fine profits he
derived from his business among the wealthy. He was the very man to
go and see her father and brothers; he would revive their spirits, and
carry them her greeting.
When, presently, the Christian arrived he expressed himself as very
ready to undertake this commission. His sister was already busied in
packing wine and other comforts for the captives-more, no doubt, as
Johannes told Berenike, than the three men could possibly consume,
even if their imprisonment should be a long one. His smile showed how
confidently he counted on the lady’s liberality, and Melissa quickly
put her faith in the young Christian, who would have reminded her of
her brother Philip, but that his slight figure was more upright, and
his long hair quite smooth, without a wave or curl. His eyes, above all,
were unlike Philip’s; for they looked out on the world with a gaze as
mild as Philip’s were keen and inquiring.
Melissa gave him many messages for her father and brothers, and when the
lady Berenike begged him to take care that the portrait of her daughter
was safely carried to the Serapeum, where it was to contribute to
mollify Caesar in the painter’s favor, he praised her determination,
and modestly added: “For how long may we call our own any of these
perishable joys? A day, perhaps a year, at most a lustrum. But eternity
is long, and those who, for its sake, forget time and set all their
hopes on eternity--which is indeed time to the soul--soon cease to
bewail the loss of any transitory treasure, were it the noblest
and dearest. Oh, would that I could lead you to place your hopes on
eternity, best of women and most true-hearted mother! Eternity, which
not the wisest brain can conceive of!--I tell you, lady, for you are
a philosopher--that is the hardest and therefore the grandest idea for
human thought to compass. Fix your eye on that, and in its infinite
realm, which must be your future home, you will meet her again whom you
have lost--not her image returned to you, but herself.”
“Cease,” interrupted the matron, with impatient sharpness. “I know what
you are aiming at. But to conceive of eternity is the prerogative of the
immortals; our intellect is wrecked in the attempt. Our wings melt like
those of Ikarus, and we fall into the ocean--the ocean of madness, to
which I have often been near enough. You Christians fancy you know all
about eternity, and if you are right in that--But I will not reopen that
old discussion. Give me back my child for a year, a month, a day even,
as she was before murderous disease laid hands on her, and I will
make you a free gift of your cuckoo-cloud-land of eternity, and of the
remainder of my own life on earth into the bargain.”
The vehement woman trembled with renewed sorrow, as if shivering with
ague; but as soon as she had recovered her self-command enough to speak
calmly, she exclaimed to the lawyer:
“I do not really wish to vex you, Johannes. I esteem you, and you are
dear to me. But if you wish our friendship to continue, give up these
foolish attempts to teach tortoises to fly. Do all you can for the poor
prisoners; and if you--”
“By daybreak to-morrow I will be with them,” Johannes said, and he
hastily took leave.
As soon as they were alone Berenike observed “There he goes, quite
offended, as if I had done him a wrong. That is the way with all these
Christians. They think it their duty to force on others what they
themselves think right, and any one who turns a deaf ear to their
questionable truths they at once set down as narrow-minded, or as
hostile to what is good. Agatha, of whom you were just now speaking, and
Zeno her father, my husband’s brother, are Christians. I had hoped that
Korinna’s death would have brought the child back to us; I have longed
to see her, and have heard much that is sweet about her: but a common
sorrow, which so often brings divided hearts together, has only widened
the gulf between my husband and his brother. The fault is not on our
side. Nay, I was rejoiced when, a few hours after the worst was over, a
letter from Zeno informed me that he and his daughter would come to
see us the same evening. But the letter itself”--and her voice began
to quiver with indignation--“compelled us to beg him not to come. It is
scarcely credible--and I should do better not to pour fresh oil on my
wrath--but he bade us ‘rejoice’; three, four, five times he repeated the
cruel words. And he wrote in a pompous strain of the bliss and rapture
which awaited our lost child--and this to a mother whose heart had been
utterly broken but a few hours before by a fearful stroke of Fate! He
would meet the bereaved, grieving, lonely mourner with a smile on
his lips! Rejoice! This climax of cruelty or aberration has parted us
forever. Why, our black gardener, whose god is a tree-stump that bears
only the faintest likeness to humanity, melted into tears at the news;
and Zeno, our brother, the uncle of that broken dower, could be glad and
bid us rejoice! My husband thinks that hatred and the long-standing
feud prompted his pen. For my part, I believe it was only this Christian
frenzy which made him suggest that I should sink lower than the brutes,
who defend their young with their lives. Seleukus has long since
forgiven him for his conduct in withdrawing his share of the capital
from the business when he became a Christian, to squander it on the
baser sort; but this ‘Rejoice’ neither he nor I can forgive, though
things which pierce me to the heart often slide off him like water off
grease.”
Her black hair had come down as she delivered this vehement speech, and,
when she ceased, her flushed cheeks and the fiery glow of her eyes gave
the majestic woman in her dark robes an aspect which terrified Melissa.
She, too, thought this “Rejoice,” under such circumstances, unseemly and
insulting; but she kept her opinion to herself, partly out of modesty
and partly because she did not wish to encourage the estrangement
between this unhappy lady and the niece whose mere presence would have
been so great a comfort to her.
When Johanna returned to lead her to a bedroom, she gave a sigh of
relief; but the lady expressed a wish to keep Melissa near her, and in
a low voice desired the waiting-woman to prepare a bed for her in
the adjoining room, by the side of Korinna’s, which was never to be
disturbed. Then, still greatly excited, she invited Melissa into her
daughter’s pretty room.
There she showed her everything that Korinna had especially cared for.
Her bird hung in the same place; her lap-dog was sleeping in a basket,
on the cushion which Berenike had embroidered for her child. Melissa had
to admire the dead girl’s lute, and her first piece of weaving, and the
elegant loom of ebony and ivory in which she had woven it. And Berenike
repeated to the girl the verses which Korinna had composed, in imitation
of Catullus, on the death of a favorite bird. And although Melissa’s
eyes were almost closing with fatigue, she forced herself to attend to
it all, for she saw now how much her sympathy pleased her kind friend.
Meanwhile the voices of the men, who had done eating and were now
drinking, came louder and louder into the women’s apartments. When the
merriment of her guests rose to a higher pitch than usual, or something
amusing gave rise to a shout of laughter, Berenike shrank, and either
muttered some unintelligible threat or besought the forgiveness of her
daughter’s manes.
It seemed to be a relief to her to rush from one mood to the other; but
neither in her grief, nor when her motherly feeling led her to talk, nor
yet in her wrath, did she lose her perfect dignity. All Melissa saw and
heard moved her to pity or to horror. And meanwhile she was worn out
with anxiety for her family, and with increasing fatigue.
At last, however, she was released. A gay chorus of women’s voices and
flutes came up from the banqueting-hall. With a haughty mien and dilated
nostrils Berenike listened to the first few bars. That such a song
should be heard in her house of woe was too much; with her own hand she
closed the shutters over the window next her; then she bade her young
guest go to bed.
Oh, how glad was the overtired girl to stretch herself on the soft
couch! As usual, before going to sleep, she told her mother in the
spirit all the history of the day. Then she prayed to the manes of the
departed to lend her aid in the heavy task before her; but in the midst
of her prayer sleep overcame her, and her young bosom was already rising
and falling in regular breathing when she was roused by a visit from the
lady Berenike.
Melissa suddenly beheld her at the head of the bed, in a flowing white
night-dress, with her hair unpinned, and holding a silver lamp in
her hand; and the girl involuntarily put up her arms as if to protect
herself, for she fancied that the daemon of madness stared out of those
large black eyes. But the unhappy woman’s expression changed, and she
looked down kindly on Melissa. She quietly set the lamp on the table,
and then, as the cool nightbreeze blew in through the open window,
to which there was no shutter, she tenderly wrapped the white woolen
blanket round Melissa, and muttered to herself, “She liked it so.”
Then she knelt down by the side of the bed, pressed her lips on the brow
of the girl, now fully awake, and said:
“And you, too, are fair to look upon. He will grant your prayer!”
Then she asked Melissa about her lover, her father, her mother, and at
last she, unexpectedly, asked her in a whisper:
“Your brother Alexander, the painter--My daughter, though in death,
inspired his soul with love. Yes, Korinna was dear to him. Her image is
living in his soul. Am I right? Tell me the truth!”
On this Melissa confessed how deeply the painter had been impressed by
the dead girl’s beauty, and that he had given her his heart and soul
with a fervor of devotion of which she had never imagined him capable.
And the poor mother smiled as she heard it, and murmured, “I was sure of
it.”
But then she shook her head, sadly, and said “Fool that I am!”
At last she bade Melissa good-night, and went back to her own bedroom.
There Johanna was awaiting her, and while she was plaiting her
mistress’s hair the matron said, threateningly:
“If the wretch should not spare even her”--She was interrupted by loud
shouts of mirth from the banqueting-hall, and among the laughing voices
she fancied that she recognized her husband’s. She started up with a
vehement movement, and exclaimed, in angry excitement:
“Seleukus might have prevented such an outrage! Oh, I know that
sorrowing father’s heart! Fear, vanity, ambition, love of pleasure--”
“But consider,” Johanna broke in, “to cross Caesar’s wish is to forfeit
life!”
“Then he should have died!” replied the matron, with stern decision.