Dionysus and Ariadne.
“... Far in the east
The Aegean twinkles, and its thousand isles
Hover in mist, and round the dun horizon
Are many floating visions, clouds, or peaks,
Tinted with rose!”
James Gates Percival.
The second day of the full moon arrived. All necessary preparations had
been made for the marriage ceremony of Eumetis and Zopyrus which would
take place on the following day.
Corinna approached her mother as the latter stood near the altar of
Zeus, in conversation with the prospective bride and bridegroom.
“Mother,” said the girl. “I have just learned that my dear friend Gorgo
is ill and wishes me to go immediately and spend the night with her. I
will be back for the wedding tomorrow.”
Cleodice’s eyes shone with maternal approval as she surveyed the eager,
youthful face so like her own.
“What will Polygnotus say?” asked Eumetis.
“Oh he will recover from the effects of one evening spent outside of my
presence,” replied her sister indifferently.
Zopyrus stood silently by. He had been grievously disappointed and
shocked at Corinna’s duplicity, and had hoped that before the fateful
day arrived she would repent of her former decision and abandon the
proposed trip to Naxos with the stranger. However her present
conversation with Cleodice assured him that she hung tenaciously to her
original purpose.
“By all means spend the night with your sick friend, Corinna,” said a
voice from the entryway, and turning the four beheld the young artist
who had heard the conversation unobserved by the others.
Zopyrus greeted Polygnotus heartily. He thought at first to apprise him
secretly of Corinna’s proposed trip to Naxos, but upon second thought he
decided that there might be a better way of preventing the girl from
committing such a folly without grieving her lover. The deep sincere
eyes of the artist rested a moment in loving regard upon the face of
Corinna who flushed deeply, turning demurely away. Her mother and sister
each placed an arm lovingly about her, and the three women left the
atrium.
When they were gone Polygnotus turned enthusiastically to Zopyrus and
said: “I have good news! Cimon has just been made commander of the
fleet, and is contemplating visiting Sparta with Alcmæon in behalf of
the alleged confederacy.”
“Your news is pleasing to my ear, and I rejoice with you and Cimon—but,”
Zopyrus glanced about and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will you not
speak well to Cimon of Themistocles and ask him to do his utmost to put
down this charge of Medism against the statesman?”
“I will do what I can,” replied Polygnotus. “Cimon is more a warrior
than a statesman. His methods are direct and bold, often sadly lacking
in diplomacy. He believes that when a man has served his purpose in life
and is no longer useful to the community in which he dwells and may even
become a detriment to those whom he once served, he should be cast aside
as one would shed a worn garment when its season of beauty and service
is past. Cimon and others like him also believe that when maturity of
age is passed and the power of decision begins to wane, the very burden
of long experience perplexes the mind and engenders doubt and fear
instead of confidence. Will you come with me this evening to the home of
Cimon to congratulate him upon his success and to speak a good word for
Themistocles? But I had forgotten—tomorrow you will wed, and possibly
you have arrangements to make in regard to the ceremonies. Corinna and I
are to follow your example before long, but Cleodice does not wish to
lose two daughters at once, and Eumetis is the older.”
“I am delighted to hear that your marriage will take place soon. I must
be going now as I have a duty to fulfill,” said Zopyrus as he turned to
go.
* * * * * * * *
Not long after this conversation a chance observer might have seen a
young man of aristocratic bearing, crisp blond curls and noble face,
walking with elastic strides toward Piræus. He was clad in the short
dress of a laborer, called an _exomis_, and upon his head was a
narrow-brimmed, close-fitting cap. As he neared the harbor he proceeded
cautiously, desirous of observing all that was taking place without
being seen. To his consternation he saw that three boats with their
occupants had already been launched upon the sea. Vexed with himself for
having arrived so late he scanned the people who remained upon the shore
waiting to be assigned to other boats. It was almost unbelievable but it
was true! The sun unmistakably revealed a head of auburn hair and close
to it the bullet-head and thick florid neck of a young man. Zopyrus, for
it was he who clad in the woolen _exomis_ instead of his customary linen
_chiton_, watched the two closely, pulled the brim of his cap well over
his eyes and approached the waiting youths and maidens. Several he
recognized as the sons and daughters of prominent Athenians. Another
filled boat was leaving, the rowers diligently plying the oars. It was
apparent that Corinna and the heavy-set youth would be of the number to
fill the next boat. Disguising his walk, Zopyrus made his way quickly to
the waiting skiff and approached one of the oarsmen.
“Ten drachmas for you if you will let me take your place at the oars,”
he said in a low tone.
The fellow looked amazed, prepared to turn his back upon Zopyrus, then
suddenly thought better of the offer. He put forth his hand and when to
his surprise the coins fell into his upturned palm, he sprang free of
his seat and ran to the shore leaving his place at the oars free to the
generous stranger.
Zopyrus took the vacant place and had not long to wait before the young
people filled the waiting boat. In unison with his fellow oarsmen,
Zopyrus assailed the task briskly, and soon the graceful little skiff
was well out into the harbor. The first boat was a mere speck near the
horizon to the south as the one in which Corinna was a passenger,
emerged from the entrance of the harbor. Zopyrus was grateful for the
opportunity for strenuous physical exercise. It took his mind off of his
own sorrow. He realized presently that he was listening unconsciously to
the conversation of two men.
“What did you say were the names of the seven boats that left for
Naxos?” asked one.
“They are named for seven goddesses or nymphs,” replied the other,
“Doris, Leucothea, Metis, Aegle, Amphitrite, Doto and Persephone. This
one is the ‘Persephone.’”
Zopyrus let his oars drift when he heard the last statement. Was the
vision or name of Persephone to haunt him throughout life? When he was
on land the leaves on the trees seemed to whisper “Persephone,” and now
on the water, the boat in which he sat bore her name, and the ripples
that washed its sides murmured the beloved accents.
The afternoon wore on, the sun’s rays became more slanting and the boats
glided across the water like silent spirits. At length night descended
upon the water—but no, it was growing brighter. Where but a few moments
before the hills of distant Paros had slept on the edge of the darkness,
now curve on curve was silhouetted against the silvery light of the
moon, and the ripple of the oars on the water made a sheet of
phosphorescence in its shadowy depths.
When Paros was passed, from across the water there floated on the gentle
breeze the Dionysian hymn, sung by the occupants of the four preceding
boats. Those in the “Persephone” joined in the chant, and Zopyrus heard
Corinna’s pure, soft tones mingling strangely with the harsh notes of
her companion.
As the prow touched the bank Zopyrus sprang from his seat eager to set
foot on land, but he was checked by the glances of indignant
remonstrance cast upon him not only by his fellow oarsmen, but by the
others as well. He turned his face quickly into the shadow fearing to be
recognized by some of the youths and maidens of Athens, but his fears
proved groundless. After the boat had been emptied of the Bacchanalians,
Zopyrus quietly stepped ashore, sauntering leisurely till beyond the
range of vision of the oarsmen, who if they intended observing the rites
of Bacchus, preferred to bide their time. Once out of their sight and
hearing, Zopyrus quickened his pace, keeping well protected by the
bushes and tree-trunks that lined the path, till he paused in awe as
there appeared in a clearing to the left before him, the white Ionic
columns and chaste lines of the Temple to Dionysus. Alas that its
spotless purity was defiled by the wild orgies within! Its portals were
thronged with gay devotees, and the sound of laughter and singing
blended with the tones of flute and barbiton.
By now, indifferent to his plebeian dress, Zopyrus traversed the
moon-lit sward to the temple and mingled with the light-hearted
revelers. Groups of celebrants raised their voices in jubilant song, but
here and there detached couples, their faces stamped with passion and
lust, made horrible the scene. Now and then a _hetera_ with appealing
glance passed close to where Zopyrus stood like a statue, too horrified
too move. The muscles of his mouth were drawn and his face was haggard.
He suffered complete inertia till the sight of a girl who reminded him
of Corinna aroused him from his lethargic state and he set out to find
her before it was too late, for he knew that she had been ignorant of
the nature of the revelries.
He pressed on down the length of the _cella_, scrutinizing the face of
every maiden, but he did not see Corinna. As he neared the throne of
Dionysus, the sound of triumphant acclamations, poured from the throats
of a hundred devotees and Bacchantes who stood about the throne, fell
upon his ears. He pushed his way nearer to the front, receiving many
rebuffs and scornful glances because of his mean attire.
“What is the excitement?” he asked of a young man.
“You can see for yourself,” was the surly reply. “Dionysus has turned to
flesh and blood and shares the throne with Ariadne!”
Zopyrus forced his way onward till he could see the throne. He stood a
moment as if petrified, then with a few swift strides he was alone
before the royal seat, gazing with death-white countenance at Dionysus
and Ariadne.