The Hand of Fate.
“Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly; from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.”
Tennyson.
Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months. The fate of Corinna
had lost none of its horror, but time had mollified the poignancy of the
tragedy. Zopyrus still served as secretary to Pasicles and in his spare
moments he wrote a series of essays entitled, “Memoirs of the Persian
Court,” which he intended to present to the great Aeschylus as an aid to
that poet in his poem the “Persæ” upon which he was working.
Considering himself to be unworthy because of his secret passion for the
daughter of Aeschylus, he had for some weeks delayed speaking to Eumetis
upon the subject of marriage, but one bright afternoon in March when the
bird-winds blew across Attica from the Mediterranean, he asked her to
join him in a stroll to the Acropolis. She gladly consented, and
together they sauntered along the winding street westward toward the
hill which rose in majesty before them, the pride of every loyal
Athenian.
“Let us rest on yonder moss-covered ledge,” suggested Eumetis as they
neared the eastern end of the Acropolis. “Later we can ascend.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Zopyrus hastily, recognizing the very place where he
had seen Corinna and the base creature who had accompanied her. “Let us
to the Theatre of Dionysus where we sat together and witnessed ‘The
Capture of Miletus.’ It was there you first—” but he could not conclude
the sentence and walked along by Eumetis’ side, his eyes downcast with
shame that his tongue had faltered just at the moment when he desired to
bring up the subject of their betrothal.
They entered the eastern gate of the theatre and before them rose the
stone seats, tier upon tier, dazzling white in the heat of the sun. They
were impressed by the awful silence which here reigned supreme. What a
vast difference between the theatre now and as it was on that day when
thousands of spectators had thronged its gates and had sat in gala
attire upon its benches! Then it had surged with human life; now the
only living things visible were occasional lizards darting in and out of
crevices.
Zopyrus and Eumetis without a word, but with a mutual impulse, sought
the section of seats at the head of which stood the statue of Aphrodite.
For some moments they sat in silence with eyes fixed upon the stage as
if before them they saw again enacted the great play of Phrynichus. But
her hand did not touch his arm as upon that former occasion. There
existed an inexplicable estrangement, and Zopyrus as he noticed her
pensive mood revealed in her pale features, was smitten with remorse
that he had neglected and undoubtedly wounded her.
“Eumetis,” he said softly, “do not think that I have been willfully
neglectful of you. Much has occurred to turn our minds from
our—our—happiness. Will you now once again set the date for our
wedding?”
There was no response from Eumetis. He seized her hands which lay
passively folded in her lap. They were cold. Her attitude was listless.
“Speak, Eumetis,” the youth implored with growing alarm. “Have I
offended you?”
At his words of entreaty the girl turned her face toward him and
smiled—but not as a maiden would smile at her lover, but as a mother
would gaze upon a beloved but willful son.
“You have not offended me, Zopyrus, and I sincerely hope that what I am
about to say will not hurt you. Do you believe, my friend, that I honor
you most highly?”
He nodded affirmatively and she continued, her thoughtful, sincere eyes
resting upon him contemplatively: “Then I will tell you why I have
seemed strange. I love Polygnotus who returns my affection, and but for
the fear of wounding you, a friend whom he holds most dear, would wed me
now at any time.”
The stage, the theatre, the Acropolis, and even the fleecy clouds
floating dreamily above, seemed to whirl about in a colorless eddy. Only
the eyes of Eumetis remained stationary. At one moment they seemed to be
accusing eyes, at another, reproachful, then pitying, but his last
impression of them was that they portrayed peace and happiness. His
conscience would not permit him to play the heroically sacrificing
lover, nor did he really experience any elation because of his freedom.
He simply clasped her hand and murmured: “I understand.” She looked at
him quickly with a questioning glance as they rose and turned their
faces homeward.
Before they reached the western limit of the Agora, the familiar figure
of Polygnotus suddenly turned from a side street and came toward them.
Zopyrus imagined that a fleeting expression of pain passed over the
artist’s kindly face at sight of them.
“Eumetis has something important to say to you,” said Zopyrus laying a
hand on his friend’s shoulder as the three met. “It is only good news,”
he added at the startled look of inquiry upon Polygnotus’ face.
“Then I shall be glad to hear it, but will you not join us on our
homeward way, Zopyrus?” asked the artist as Zopyrus turned to leave.
“Not for the present,” Zopyrus replied evasively. Then moved by a sudden
impulse he seized a hand of Polygnotus and of Eumetis in each of his. He
desired to invoke the blessing of the gods upon this couple whom he
loved so dearly, but so deeply was he affected that he was unable to
speak, and turned his back in the direction of the theatre, scarcely
realizing what he was doing.
Before reaching the Acropolis he turned northward, pursuing as direct a
course as possible along the winding, closely built streets, till at
last the dwellings became more interspersed with garden-plots, and
finally between two spreading acacias he spied the massive masonry of
the Dipylon Gate. He turned back for one last look at the Acropolis.
There it stood in its solitary grandeur, its ruined temples resembling a
circlet of irregular pearls. Although this was the fifth time that he
had passed through the great gate and along the Sacred Way, never until
now had he known that this road led to the girl he loved. Unmindful of
the scorching rays of the sun which beat down upon him, he pressed on
thinking only of the goal. When, however, he was overtaken by a farmer
in a cart who was returning to his farm near Eleusis after leaving his
produce at the Athenian market, he gladly accepted an offer to ride.
The sun was approaching the horizon a little to the left of the
travelers, and stretching into the distance were the fertile fields
which the driver designated as his own.
“Here is where I live, my friend, but I can drive you on to Eleusis if
you wish,” said the farmer.
“I would prefer to walk from here on,” replied Zopyrus hastily, “but I
am truly grateful to you for driving me this far on my journey.”
He bade the man a friendly farewell and with eyes alight with
anticipation, set forth to cover the remaining two miles which lay
between him and the abode of the girl he loved.
* * * * * * * *
In the garden that was divided from the Temple of Mysteries only by an
ivy-covered wall, reclined Persephone upon a cushion covered seat by the
fountain. She did not sleep, but lay fully conscious, with her hands
upon her bosom as it rose and fell regularly with her breathing. Her
whole frame was wrapped in languor. But her face was not as expressive
of peace as her body, for an occasional frown puckered her smooth brow
and she opened her eyes with a wistful expression only to close them
again as if to shut out the reality of her loneliness. Between two
cypress trees the white roof of the temple showed the first rosy tinge
that followed the passing of Phœbus Apollo—Persephone rose to a sitting
posture; a figure in white had passed the gate and was coming toward her
along the flower-bordered path. With a cry she sprang from her bench and
ran into the outstretched arms of her lover.
“What of Eumetis?” she asked, attempting to draw away from the arms that
encircled her.
“Eumetis has found happiness in the love of Polygnotus. It was
inevitable that the artist could be such a frequent visitor at the home
of Pasicles and not grow to love the sincere, unselfish, pure daughter
who lives there. Oh—Persephone, have I your forgiveness for the death of
your brother?” asked the young man with growing agitation.
The maiden’s face lit up with a divine radiance as she said: “My brother
Phales clad as I last saw him with helmet, cuirass and greaves, and
carrying his sword, quiver and shield, appeared to me in a dream and
told me not to hold you guilty of his death. He praised you highly,
Zopyrus—and then he said one more thing.”
“And what was that?” questioned her lover eagerly.
“He said, ‘There is but one God who controls and directs the universe.’
That is all he said. I would have asked him more, but he vanished.”
“Then the prayer to God saved Greece at Salamis, and incessant prayers
to the one God have given me you, Persephone!”
She raised her lips to his as they stood together before the statue of
Ceres, whose maternal countenance seemed to smile down benignly upon
them despite their words concerning the Deity.
There was one other witness to that kiss; a man of middle-age with thick
waving hair and beard of chestnut brown, who came forth from the house
and, unobserved, stood with arms outstretched toward the two as if
pronouncing a benediction.