The Home of Aeschylus.
“Gone, and the light gone with her,
And left me in shadow here!”
Tennyson.
The god Hymen did not have charge of the ceremonies at the home of
Pasicles: the goddess Mors officiated in his stead! Corinna was laid
away in her eternal rest, and the house and garden that had often echoed
the sound of her gay laughter were silent! Even the boy Mimnermus,
tip-toed about in awful solitude, gravely impressed by this, his first
experience with death.
Polygnotus was a daily visitor, whose calm dignity combined with his
kindly sympathy, made him an ever welcome one. For Zopyrus he felt a
genuine love which had but recently developed from his former fellowship
and friendly regard. One an artist, the other a poet by natural
inclination, they understood each other upon the ground of their common
adoration for all that was beautiful and true and good whether
represented by picture or by word.
One day, several weeks after the tragic occurrences at Naxos, Zopyrus
happened to come upon the letter which his beloved friend, Aeschylus,
had written him from Sicily, and it reminded him of the poet’s request
that he visit his young son at Eleusis, so without further delay he set
out mounted upon a richly caparisoned steed, lent him for the occasion
by Cimon. As he passed through the Dipylon Gate he became aware for the
first time that heavy storm clouds were rapidly gathering ahead of him,
but having arrived thus far on his journey, he did not wish to return.
The broad road that always stretched peacefully into the distance a
winding silver band, was now hazy with whirling eddies of dust; and the
usually tranquil branches of the olive trees on either side were bending
and swaying under the force which Boreas exerted upon them.
The storm with all it fury did not burst upon him till he had passed the
fountain of Kallichoros at which place he might have secured shelter.
With his eyes on distant Eleusis he pressed on toward his goal gradually
becoming unmindful of his soaking garments, and of the fact that a
numbness was taking possession of his faculties.
Aeschylus had once described his home to Zopyrus as being the first
abode west of the great temple, and Zopyrus gasped with delight as the
classical outlines of a home typical of the upper-class citizen of
Attica burst upon his sight. A high wall enclosing a garden space lay
between the temple precinct and the home of the poet. As he entered the
gate, a life-sized statue of the goddess Demeter, bearing in her arm a
sheaf of corn stood at the edge of the garden to his right, and near by
in marble stood the cheerful fun-loving figure of the faithful Iambe,
who sought to alleviate her mistress’ sorrow. But that which caught his
eye and held it was a fountain in the center of which was a most
artistic composition representing the rape of Persephone. The faces
chiselled in the cold marble were so like the faces of Ephialtes and
Persephone that Zopyrus stood spellbound, unmindful of the fact that a
slave was approaching him and bidding him enter, saying that his horse
would be placed at once in the stable.
Zopyrus approached the door and found himself gazing into the half
curious, half laughing face of a lad of sixteen, who said while he
gripped Zopyrus’ arm heartily: “I know who you are, for father told me
you were coming. But pray why did you choose such a day as this in which
to pay a call?”
“I take it that you are Euphorion, the son of my most esteemed friend. I
did not expect the storm to break so soon, or I should not have
undertaken the trip.”
Euphorion surveyed his guest’s wet garments with disfavor.
“You must get into dry clothes,” he said. “You are shuddering now with
the cold. Lycambes,” he called to a servant, “take this man to my
father’s room and give him dry clothing.”
Zopyrus emerged from the upper chamber dry but not comfortable, for his
head felt as though a fire burned in his brain, while his hands and feet
were numb. Euphorion had disappeared and in his stead a young girl in
white sat on the edge of the marble basin of a fountain, industriously
engaged in a work of embroidery. She looked up as Zopyrus entered and
the latter as his eyes rested on her, thought he must be suffering
delirium, for it seemed he beheld Persephone!
Zopyrus moistened his lips and he cleared his throat so that his voice
would be audible.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked scarcely above a
whisper.
The girl laughed coyly and toyed for a moment with her piece of
fancy-work while Zopyrus advanced toward her a step. Then she raised her
blue eyes in whose depths Zopyrus read the same love-message that he had
at Salamis and at the Mysteries.
“I am exactly who I appear to be,” she said. “I am Persephone of
Eleusis. This is my home and—”
Zopyrus, eyes bright with the unnatural luster of a fever, echoed her
words as she finished: “Aeschylus is my father.”
She threw back her head and tossed her curls and before she realized
what was about to happen, Zopyrus held her in his arms, kissing her
again and again the while he murmured: “I love you Persephone, but I am
a Persian and must return to the encampment at Phalerum. Salamis is
saved—listen to the Hymn to Dionysus! Can you find your way in safety to
your people?—Hear the chant—”
Persephone felt his hold upon her relax, and though she tried to keep
him from falling, he slipped from her grasp and sank unconscious to the
floor.
“Euphorion! Euphorion!” screamed the terrified girl. “He is ill! Call
Lycambes and together you must carry him to father’s chamber and there
make him comfortable till I can summon a physician.”
His exposure to the storm, and the shock of finding Persephone and
learning her identity, had proved too much for Zopyrus in his state of
mental depression and low ebb of vitality due to the Naxian tragedy. For
days he lay upon the couch of Aeschylus alternating between chills and
raging fever. In his delirium he raved, and his listeners wondered at
the names of Persephone and Eumetis heard interchangeably to fall from
his lips. Pasicles, Cleodice and Eumetis were frequent visitors till the
crisis was past and Zopyrus was a convalescent.
Upon one occasion a few days before Zopyrus expected to be able to
undertake the journey back to Athens, he and Persephone were seated in
the garden. The statues of Ceres and Iambe stood in their accustomed
places, but the Hades and Persephone had disappeared. Zopyrus asked no
question for he felt that Persephone was fully justified in her dislike
for that particular work of art, beautiful though it was.
“Tell me,” he said as they gazed across the ivy-covered wall to where
the sun’s rays illumined the top of the temple, “is your name really
Persephone, or are you so called because of your part in the Mysteries?”
“My parents named me Persephone, hoping even at my birth that some day I
would play the part of Persephone in the temple. I have fulfilled their
hopes in that respect.”
“You are adorable in the part, little Persephone, and some time a real
Pluto will come and carry you off to his realm. If I—that
is—sometime—Oh, Persephone, I have no right to say it, but I adore you,
and if you will consent to marry me, I will arrange other matters that
might interfere.”
“I believe I know the ‘other matters,’ Zopyrus,” said the girl, not
daring to meet his gaze. “Eumetis loves you, and there has been some
understanding between you. Go to her—but, oh my dear, my dear, how can I
stand it—yet I have said it. Go and keep your vows to her. She will make
you a good wife.”
“‘A good wife,’” groaned Zopyrus in mental agony. “I don’t want ‘a good
wife.’ I want the woman whom I love heart and soul!”
He rose and though weak and unsteady of step he advanced toward her with
outstretched arms, but she evaded his touch.
“Think Zopyrus,” she entreated. “Can you not recall your advances of
love to Eumetis? They were promises, and must not be broken!”
He stood with head bent upon his breast and hands clenched till the
nails pierced his palms. When he looked up his passion-distorted
features were calm and his voice was steady.
“You are right. My first duty is the happiness of the pure girl who lost
her sister through my neglect. And you Persephone,” his voice and
features again showed deep agitation, “do not know that you lost a
brother, not through my neglect, but by my intention. Your brother fell
at Thermopylæ pierced by my sword! The first time I ever saw you I knew
that you were his sister.”
“Phales!” cried the poor girl, raising tear-dimmed eyes to heaven, “my
twin brother! Why did your spirit not warn me that this man who dared
think of me in love was your murderer!”
“Not murderer,” cried Zopyrus in deep anguish. “Do not say that! I did
it in the heat of battle and in self-defense. I am no murderer and my
conscience does not reproach me for what happened at Thermopylæ.
Listen—Persephone!” But he stood in the garden alone.