It was on board a great merchant galley with three banks of oars,
laden with soft Asian carpets and amphoræ of olive-oil, on the voyage
between Seleucia, the port of Antioch, and Italy.
Sailing and rowing amongst the islands of the Archipelago, the vessel
was now making for Crete, where she was to take on board a cargo of
wool, and disembark some ecclesiastics, bound for a Cretan monastery.
Old men, seated on the fore-deck, were passing the days in pious
gossip, prayer, or in their monkish avocation of weaving baskets from
slips of palm-leaf. In the stern, under a light violet awning, other
passengers were installed, with whom the monks, considering them
Pagans, were anxious to have nothing to do. These were Anatolius,
Ammianus Marcellinus, and Arsinoë.
The evening was calm. The rowers--slaves from Alexandria--heaved and
lowered their long oars to the beat of an ancient chant. The sun was
sinking amid ruddy clouds. Anatolius was gazing at the waves, thinking
over the poet's phrase, _the many-laughtered sea_.
After the hustling, the heat and dust of the streets of Antioch, after
the smoke of torches, and the fiery breath of the rabble, he was
lulling his mind with the thought: "Thou of the many laughters, take
me and cleanse my soul!"
Isles of Calypso, Amorgos, Astypalæa, Thera, arose like visions, now
lifting themselves from the sea, now melting away, as if, all round
the vessel, the Oceanides were still leading their eternal dance. In
those waters Anatolius felt himself far back in the days of the
Odyssey.
His companions did not disturb his meditations, for each was absorbed
in work. Ammianus Marcellinus was putting in order his memoirs of the
Persian campaign and the life of the Emperor Julian; and in the
evenings he used to read the remarkable work of the Christian master,
Clement of Alexandria, entitled, _Stromata: The Patchwork Quilt_.
Arsinoë was making models in wax for a large marble statue. It was the
figure of some Olympian deity, the face of which wore an expression of
super human sadness. Anatolius wished, but hesitated, to ask her
whether it represented Dionysus or Christ.
The artist had long ago abandoned the robes of a nun. Pious folk had
turned from her with horror, and called her the recreant; but her
name, and the recollection of generous gifts formerly made to
Christian monasteries, safeguarded her from persecution. Of her great
fortune but a small portion remained, just enough to secure
independence; and on the shores of the Gulf of Naples, not far from
Baiæ, she still owned a small estate, and the same villa in which
Myrrha had passed her last days. Thither Arsinoë, Anatolius, and
Marcellinus had agreed to retire after the stormy troubles of recent
years, to pass their lives in peace as servants of the Muses.
The former nun now wore the same robes as before her consecration. The
noble and simple lines of the peplum restored her resemblance to some
ancient Athenian vestal. But the stuff was sober in colour, and her
splendid hair thickly veiled. A wisdom almost austere lay in those
deep unsmiling eyes. Only the white arms of the artist, bare to the
shoulder, relieved the sombre hues of her robe. She toiled
impatiently, almost feverishly, moulding the soft wax; and her pale
hands impressed Anatolius with a sense of extraordinary power.
That evening the galley was coasting an islet of which none knew the
name. Far off, it looked like an arid rock. In order to avoid
dangerous reefs the trireme had to pass close in to shore. Under the
steep cliff the sea-water lay so clear that sand and weed at the
bottom could be clearly distinguished. Beyond the grim rocks could be
seen green pastures, and sheep feeding round a plane-tree.
Anatolius saw, seated at the foot of the tree, a lad and a young girl,
probably children of poor shepherds. Behind them, among cypresses, was
a small rough figure of Pan playing the flute. Anatolius turned
towards Arsinoë to point out this remote and peaceful nook of a lost
Hellas; but the words died on his lips. Wholly rapt, and with a look
of strange gaiety, the artist was intent on her creation, the waxen
statuette, with its face of haunting sadness, and proud Olympian
attitude.
Anatolius felt her mood like a rebuff. He asked Arsinoë in a harsh
unsteady voice, pointing at the model--
"Why are you making that? What does the thing stand for?"