VENUS URANIA.
To rose-red sky, from rose-red sea,
At rose-red dawn she came,
A fiery rose of earth to be,
And light the dark with flame;
Then earth and sky triumphantly
Rang loud with men’s acclaim.
A rose art thou, O goddess fair,
And bloom as men aspire,—
Red rose to those whom passions snare,
White rose to chaste desire;
Yet red rose wanes with pale despair,
And white rose burns as fire.
After all that he had come through, Maurice found no difficulty in
inducing sleep to come to his pillow. The room he occupied was one of
those built by Justinian when he renovated this antique fane, and the
walls, floor, and ceiling were of that fine-grained red sandstone of
which the staircase was built. The pavement was bare, save for Turkish
rugs scattered here and there, which lack of carpeting made the
apartment wonderfully cool and pleasant, but the walls were draped with
a heavy kind of woollen tapestry similar to those in the court, saving
that the color was a pale gray, and the embroideries terra-cotta color
to match the floor. A wide window, shaded by Indian beadworked blinds,
looked out on to a pleasant prospect of forest which clothed the side of
the mountain, and the cool wind, heavy with aromatic scents, stole into
the room. It was also furnished in a somewhat antique fashion, though
here and there an anachronism betrayed the nineteenth century, but the
couch whereon Maurice rested was purely Greek in design, and lying on
this in his white robe, with a purple coverlet flung carelessly over his
feet, he might have been taken for some dweller in ancient Athens. True,
the mustache on his lip savored somewhat of the barbarian, but in all
other respects the comparison was close enough, for if his features were
not quite so classic in outline as those of Caliphronas, they were
sufficiently so to pass muster in the carrying out of such fancy.
Lying there with his eyes half closed, the young Englishman in a drowsy
fashion felt the balmy odors permeating the warm air, and saw as in a
dream the antique room, the pleasant prospect beyond, which was but
mistily seen through the veiling beadwork blind. He was puzzled over the
kind reception accorded to him by this strange Justinian, who he had
been led to believe was a kind of modern freebooter. No swarthy,
fantastically-dressed, savage marauder was this island king, but a
gracious, courteous gentleman, arrayed in the white robe of Socrates,
with a winning smile on his face, and polite words on his lips. Crispin
seemed to mistrust him indeed, but even Crispin seemed somewhat
astonished at the suavity of his greeting, and now appeared inclined to
recant his former dislike of the old man. Maurice longed to have a
confidential chat with Crispin, and find out his feelings on the
subject, as it was evident that, far from inclining to Caliphronas,
their host seemed more disposed to side with them.
Again, Maurice found it difficult to account for the old man’s sudden
liking for himself, for the satisfaction with which he had received the
information that his daughter’s face had lured the young Englishman to
his island retreat, and for many other things.
“Mystery, mystery, nothing but mystery!” said Maurice to himself, as he
closed his aching eyes. “I cannot make these folks out; but, at all
events, King Justinian does not seem to disapprove of my passion, and is
inclined to give Crispin the information he desires, so I trust all will
go well. Sooner or later I will solve all these problems which are now
so tantalizing; but, come what may, one good thing is in store for me. I
shall see Helena to-night!”
A wave of sleep seemed to roll over his weary brain, now relaxed from
the terrible tension of the previous night, and he gradually sank into a
deep slumber, with the name of his unseen goddess still on his lips.
Then he dreamed strange dreams of romance, filled with the serenity of
Hellenic calm, which floated magically through his brain, and made his
slumber delightful with forms of exquisite beauty. He was standing with
Helena in the temple of Athena, and together they touched the knees of
the undying goddess; but the face of Helena was veiled, and he could see
but vaguely the perfect features which had hitherto been so clear in his
dreams. Again, they were wandering like lovers beneath the serene Attic
sky, beside the bright, gushing Ilissus, and he strove to kiss her, the
kiss of betrothal, but she faded away as did the cloud-Juno in the arms
of Ixion, and a voice blown by some faint winds cried, “Love, but win.”
Then he was on board a galley, putting off from the green shore towards
the purple mists of sea, and Helena was lying in his arms, while the
Greek Caliphronas strove fiercely to snatch her from him. Arrows rattled
on the shields of his men, the watch-fires blazed on the high mountain
tops, and the air was hot with the flame of battle. In his dream he saw
the phantom of himself lay down the cloudy Helena, and dash on the
phantom Greek with a mighty sword. A strident cry, a flash as of flame
dividing the night, then the phantom Caliphronas vanished, and the
galley was sailing, sailing far into the purple night, while, clasped in
each other’s arms, Helena and himself murmured the songs of love, until
they melted ghost-like into the misty splendor of the sinking sun.
When he awoke, it was quite dark, and, springing from his couch, he
hastily took his watch to the window, and found it was nearly eight
o’clock, so his sleep had lasted over six hours. Feeling greatly
refreshed by this rest, he bathed his face and hands in cold water, with
the intention of going outside into the delicious night air. That the
moon was up he could see by the doubtful glimmer of her pale light, but,
the shadow of the house being in front of her, she could not be seen in
her full splendor.
Wondering where he would find Crispin, and whether that gentleman was
yet awake, Maurice stole quietly from his room, and, drawing aside the
curtains, looked out into the middle court, where he saw a sight which
chained him to the earth. Not Paris sitting in judgment on Mount Ida saw
such a vision of loveliness as now appeared to the enraptured eyes of
Roylands. The picture—ah, that was but a pale reflection of this rich,
ripe, glowing beauty! Venus, the goddess of love herself, yet with a
touch of the chaste purity of Artemis—not Venus Pandemos, with flushed
face and wanton glance, but Venus Urania, chaste, cold, pure, and serene
as the moon-huntress herself.
The moon, hanging like a great silver sphere in the darkly blue sky,
shone serenely through the hypæthral opening of the court, and in her
pale light the ranges of white columns glimmered like faint ghosts in
the doubtful gloom.
Like a silver rod the fountain’s jet shot up to meet her kiss, and the
splashed waters of the pool trembled restlessly with faint flashes
within the marble marge. The cold, sweet odors of the flowers made the
night air drowsy with their perfumes, and a distant nightingale began to
trill deliciously in the still beauty of the evening. But the onlooker
saw not the moon, the fountain, or the solemn range of pillars; he had
no ears for the liquid notes of the unseen bird; for his eyes were fixed
in an enamoured gaze on a tall, beautiful woman, who stood with upturned
face gazing at the sky.
In that tremulous light she looked more than mortal in her spiritual
loveliness—some goddess of ancient Hellas once more visiting the
dear-loved islands of the Ægean—perchance Aphrodite herself, haunting
the fane of her husband Hephaistos. To add to the plausibility of this
fantastic idea, this girl was draped in the long white chiton of antique
times, and her golden hair, dressed after the fashion of the Venus of
Cnidos, was bound with triple bands of silver, while her slender arms,
bare to the shoulder, were devoid of any ornament. So fair, so pure, so
ethereal she appeared, that Maurice might well be pardoned for deeming
her some pale sweet spirit of classic times, haunting the scenes of her
former life, and listening, as she had done in the past, to the golden
notes of the divine nightingale, thrilling to ecstasy the heart of the
dusk.
For a few minutes Maurice stood spellbound in the contemplation of this
lovely incarnation of Venus Urania, then inadvertently made a movement
which made the girl start from her rapt attitude, and look in his
direction. Being thus discovered, he came forward to meet the awakened
divinity, looking himself, in his sweeping robe, like some young
disciple of Plato or Parmenides. To his surprise and delight, this
beautiful woman, with a smile on her exquisite face, came forward to
meet him half-way with outstretched hands.
“You are Mr. Roylands,” she said in English, with a delicate sweetness
in her voice that seemed to shame the notes of the nightingale, at
least, Maurice thought so; but then, in his amazement, he was scarcely
capable of cool reflection.
“Yes, I am Maurice Roylands,” he replied, taking both her outstretched
hands within his own; “and you are Helena.”
“I am Helena,” she repeated gravely, drawing him a little to the left,
so that the moonlight fell on his face. “You can have no idea how
anxious I was to see you, Mr. Roylands. I do so love to see one of my
countrymen.”
“Are you English?”
“Yes,” said Helena proudly, dropping his hands, much to his regret; “my
father is English, so I am also, although my mother was a Greek. Still,
I have spoken your language all my life, and have been brought up like
an English girl, so I must be English.”
She spoke in a tone of such conviction that Maurice began to laugh, in
which merriment she joined freely.
“My father would not tell me anything about you,” she resumed gayly;
“and as you are the first Englishman that has come to Melnos, I was
anxious to see what you were like.”
“I hope your anxiety has been repaid,” observed Maurice, with a smile.
“Oh, indeed it has. You are very good-looking, especially when you
smile.”
Roylands was rather taken aback by this naïveté, and, being unaccustomed
to such direct compliments, blushed like a girl, much to the amusement
of Helena, who stood looking at him with clear, truthful eyes.
“Do you not like me saying that?” she observed innocently. “Andros
always likes to be told he’s good-looking.”
“Well, I am not so conceited as Andros—at least, I trust I am not,”
answered Maurice, quite touched by her rustic innocence; “but, you know,
ladies in England do not speak so—so—very plainly.”
“Do they not? Why, do they tell their friends they are ugly?”
Maurice roared in spite of her presence, upon which she looked at him
rather reproachfully.
“It is too bad of you to laugh at me, Mr. Roylands,” she said pettishly;
“you can’t expect me to be like an English lady after living all my life
at Melnos.”
“You are much more charming than any English lady I know.”
A charming smile dimpled the corners of her mouth.
“Really! Ah, I see it is the custom for the gentlemen to pay compliments
to the ladies, not the other way about. I must not tell you you are
good-looking, but it is quite proper for you to say I am charming.”
“Well—that is—really, you know, I hardly know what to say,” said
Maurice, finding himself somewhat in a dilemma. “The fact is, neither
English men nor women pay each other compliments at all—at least, it’s
not supposed to be good form.”
“What is good form?” asked Helena innocently.
“I must undertake your education, Miss Justinian.”
“I am not Miss Justinian. You must call me Helena.”
“Oh, is that so? then you must know, Helena, I am not Mr. Roylands—you
must call me Maurice.”
“Maurice! Maurice! Ah, that is much nicer to say than Mr. Roylands. Yes,
I will call you Maurice. I like Maurice,” she continued reflectively;
“yes, I like Maurice.”
“I am very glad you like me,” he said artfully.
“Oh, I mean the name,” replied Helena, laughing at what she thought was
his mistake. “But tell me, Maurice, do you now feel quite well?”
“Yes, thank you. The sleep of this afternoon has quite cured my fatigues
of last night.”
“Oh, it must have been terrible!” said Helena, with a shudder; “papa
told me all about it. I was so glad when Andros told us of your safety.”
“My safety, or that of Crispin?”
“I was glad for both your sakes, and indeed I am very fond of Crispin.
You know, we are just like brother and sister.”
“Are you? Well, will we be brother and sister?”
“Oh yes,” she answered, frankly putting her hand into his; “I will be
very glad to have another brother.”
Maurice felt a trifle disappointed at this calm acquiescence in his
audacious proposal, but, finding her little hand within his own, clasped
it warmly; whereupon she suddenly seemed to feel a touch of maiden
modesty, and withdrew her hand, blushing shyly. Certainly she was the
most ingenuous, delightful woman in the world, and Maurice was quite
fascinated by this timid audacity, which was so different from the
artificial modesty of many girls he had met. She was Undine without a
soul, she did not know the meaning of life in any way whatsoever, yet,
like some gentle wild thing, she started back with an instinct of
caution when his touch thrilled her virgin soul with a deeper feeling
than friendship. Both of them felt tongue-tied and awkward, Helena at
the strange, unexpected feeling which made her heart beat and her cheek
burn, Maurice with regret for having even unconsciously permitted his
touch to convey anything further than the brotherly friendship of a man
for a pure young woman.
Fortunately for them both, Crispin, alert and cheery, entered the court
with Justinian, and they came towards the couple with careless
unconsciousness. Justinian, indeed, did cast a rapid glance at the
flushed faces of the pair, which betrayed their late emotion, but, far
from being angry, an imperceptible smile passed over his lips, as if he
were quite satisfied that this should be so.
“Helena!” said Crispin, coming forward and kissing her hand; “I am so
delighted to see you again! You are more lovely than ever.”
“Maurice says English gentlemen do not pay ladies compliments.”
“Don’t they?” answered Crispin humorously. “My dear Maurice, that storm
last night must have destroyed your memory. So you two have met?”
“Quite unexpectedly,” declared Maurice hastily. “I came to look for you,
Crispin, and, glancing into this court, I saw Helena, so we have been
talking ever since.”
“And Maurice has been telling me about England,” said Helena, clapping
her hands together with a burst of girlish laughter, delicious as the
carol of a thrush.
“Maurice! Helena!” repeated Justinian, smiling. “Really, you young
people are getting on very well together.”
“Your daughter had some difficulty in saying Roylands,” said Maurice
apologetically.
“And you do not know Helena’s other name, eh?”
“What is her other name, sir? If you don’t like me to call her Helena,
shall I say Miss”—
“You can say Helena,” answered Justinian shortly; “she has no other
name.”
“No; we are simple people here,” observed Crispin mischievously, “and
dispense with such cumbersomeness as two names;—Justinian, Helena,
Crispin, Andros; so you, Roylands, will drop your harsh English surname,
and be henceforth known as Maurice.”
“I am quite content to be so as long as Helena speaks the name!”
“Another compliment!” laughed Crispin gayly; “I thought, according to
you, gentlemen never paid ladies compliments?”
“This is the exception to prove the rule.”
“Helena,” said her father suddenly, “where is Andros?”
“I do not know. He was here an hour ago, and said he would be back to
supper.”
“It is supper-time now,” said Justinian, moving towards the side
entrance. “You must be hungry, gentlemen. I trust you feel quite
recovered?”
“Speaking for myself, I do,” answered Maurice brightly; “that sleep has
quite set me up. And Crispin”—
“Subscribes to all you have said, and feels as hungry as a hunter.”
“Hark! there is Andros,” observed Helena, placing one white finger on
her lips, in which attitude she looked like some exquisite statue of
Silence; “do you hear him singing?”
“The rose is shedding its crimson leaves,
Sadly they fall at the caress of Zephyrus;
And I, O beloved, shed tears in plenty,
Feeling thy kiss on my mouth;
For I must lose thee—ah, I must lose thee!
Another richer than I desires to wed thee,
Therefore do I shed tears, as the rose sheds her crimson petals.”
“An omen!” breathed Justinian under his breath, as the Greek drew aside
the curtain of the main entrance; “he will not marry Helena!”
Against the dark draperies veiling the archway the slender figure of the
handsome Greek stood out in bold relief. He also had assumed a robe of
white, and, with his clear-cut features and graceful pose, looked the
incarnation of that delicate Greek adolescence whereof Pindar sings in
his Olympian Odes. As he caught sight of Maurice standing near Helena,
he frowned perceptibly, and advanced hastily, as if to come between
them, but, meeting the keen, significant look of Justinian, he faltered
in his hasty step, and broke into a charming smile.
“Are you waiting for me?” he said cheerfully, as they all went to have
supper. “I have been down in the valley speaking to your sailors.”
“Are they all right?” asked Crispin anxiously, for carelessly gay though
he seemed to be, he was terribly disturbed at the loss of so many lives
in the storm.
“Oh, they are quite happy. All your subjects, Justinian, are making
heroes of them, especially the women, much to the dismay of the men of
Melnos.”
“I hope they won’t be getting into trouble,” said Justinian, with a
frown. “I want no quarrels here.”
“Then you had better go and see about them to-morrow, for if this
hero-worship goes on, trouble there certainly will be.”
“And doubtless you would be very glad to see such trouble,” thought
Justinian to himself, as he eyed Caliphronas with a doubtful face. “I
must lose no time in putting things to rights. Trouble at this juncture
would play into your hands, my friend.”
There was a very merry party that night, as even Caliphronas seemed to
forget all his jealous feelings with regard to Maurice, and lay himself
out to be entertaining. The stern face of Justinian relaxed, and Helena,
full of girlish glee, was evidently quite charmed with this handsome
Englishman who had arrived so unexpectedly in Melnos. As for Crispin, he
was very happy, for he now began to hope that Justinian would tell him
all he wanted to know, and thus sweep away all obstacles to his union
with Eunice. In fact, one and all laid aside their secret cares and
plans to indulge in light-hearted merriment at the simple meal. Simple
it was in every way, and yet infinitely charming, consisting as it did
of goat’s flesh, white bread, golden honey, fresh cheese; and for drink,
that strong resinous Greek wine, which Maurice found so rich for his
palate, that he was fain to follow the temperate example of Caliphronas,
and mingle it with water.
After supper they all went out into the court, and with the exception of
Caliphronas, began to smoke Turkish tobacco provided by Justinian, who
was rather proud of his Latakia, while Helena, seating herself on the
marge of the fountain, joined gayly in the trifling conversation in
which all indulged out of sheer light-heartedness.
At the end of the court a charcoal fire burned in a kind of tripod, and,
perfumes being cast thereon, a thick white smoke ascended like incense
to the clear sky. Near this stood Caliphronas, and the red light
streaming on his statuesque face, his white garb, made him a very
striking figure. The other gentlemen were seated decorously in chairs,
and the moon streaming down on their snowy robes, on the exquisite
upturned face of Helena, produced an effect quite antipathetical to
their excessively modern conversation. Pale moon, glittering stars,
solemn court, soaring incense;—they should have been a company of
philosophers talking of the destiny of the soul, of the sacred
festivals, and unseen deities; but, by the law of contrast, they talked
nothing but frivolity, and laughed at their own light badinage; Helena’s
girlish laugh ringing clear above the deep tones of the men.
“I was wrong,” said Maurice to himself, as he watched this perfect
girlish picture; “she is not Venus, but Nausicaa, and I am a modern
Ulysses at the court of Alcinous.”
“Are you worshipping at the altar of Vulcan, Caliphronas?” called out
Crispin to the Greek, who stood almost veiled in the clouds of incense.
“No,” said Caliphronas, walking forward in his stately fashion; “I have
no love for the swarthy god of the Cyclops. For me, Venus!”
“Pandemos!”
“Or Urania, I care not which, provided the goddess is herself,” replied
the Greek coolly. “Ah, we all worship those old pagan gods, who were but
the incarnation of our own desires. You, Crispin, bow to Apollo; Mr.
Maurice, you adore the Muse of Sculpture, of whose name I am ignorant;
and Justinian loves the supreme Zeus, who gives power and dominion.”
“And I?” asked Helena gayly; “whom do I worship, Andros?”
“The inviolate Artemis!”
“There’s a good deal of truth in what you say,” observed Justinian
serenely; “but I should have thought your deity was Hermes.”
The remark was so pointed that Caliphronas winced, but at once smiled
gayly and replied in the same vein,—
“Venus and Hermes—Love and Trickery! Well, doubtless the one helps the
other.”
“Such aid is not always effectual,” said Justinian significantly,
whereat the Greek shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
“Well, for my part,” observed Helena reflectively, “I do not worship
Artemis so much as I do Demeter. There is something grand about the
earth goddess who causes the earth to break into the glory of flowers.”
“I think she must have been here,” said Maurice, looking round at the
profusion of flowers.
“Ah, these are all my treasures, Maurice. I adore flowers, and there is
not a nook in Melnos where I have not hunted for blossoms. Yes, even up
to the verge of the snows, where grow tiny saxifragas. Wait till you see
our harvest—our vintage—then you will see Mother Demeter in her glory.”
“Do you celebrate those festivals?”
“Yes,” said Justinian quickly; “I keep up all the old Greek customs,
though, of course, I adapt them to the needs of my people. The
Bacchanalia of Melnos do not include the debauchery of Athens, nor are
the Anthesphoria anything more than innocent flower festivals.”
“In honor of Proserpina,” exclaimed Helena gayly. “Crispin, do you
remember the Flower Hymn to Demeter you wrote long ago?”
“Yes, very well; but I’m afraid my poems were very bad in those days.
Can you remember it?”
“Of course; but not in Greek, in English, I translated it myself.”
“Sing it, Helena,” said her father, and his request was eagerly seconded
by the whole company, especially by Maurice, who was anxious to hear a
voice which he was sure would outvie the nightingale.
Helena clasped her hands round her knees, and, lifting up her face to
the stars, began to sing in a clear, sweet voice, which, though entirely
untrained, had a trill in it like the liquid notes of a bird.
I.
“Wild roses red as dawn
When nymphs awaken,
Frail lilies white and wan
As love forsaken.
With primrose pale and daffodil,
Forget-me-nots from hidden rill,
And blossoms shaken
By wintry breezes thin and chill,
From orchards on the distant hill,
With flowerets richer, rarer still,
From thy breast taken,—
II.
“Brave marigolds who in the fields
Outstay the swallow,
Sunflowers whose burning shields
Do eye Apollo,
With pansies dark as honeyed wine,
And reeds beloved by Pan divine
For pipings hollow;
Wild olive, laurel, scented pine,
All these I offer at thy shrine,
If thou wilt smile on me and mine,
And blessings follow.”
When her sweet voice died away, an emulous nightingale began to sing as
if in rivalry, and Helena burst out into girlish laughter.
“Do you like my translation, Crispin?”
“It is charming—much better than the words.”
“No, indeed!” said Maurice, who was enchanted with the song and the
singer; “as Wordsworth would say, it is a very pretty piece of
paganism.”
“Oh, that faint praise is worse than blame.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Justinian, rising from his seat, “I am going to
retire to rest, as I cannot do without my sleep. Old age is not like
youth, you know. Helena!”
“I am going, father,” she cried, springing to her feet. “Good-night,
Andros—Crispin! good-night, Maurice!”
“‘Good-night, and sweet dreams be thine,’” murmured Maurice from some
poet.
Their departure was a sign of breaking up, for Caliphronas, not feeling
inclined for a conversation with two men he disliked so much, went off
immediately; and after they had finished a last pipe, Maurice and
Crispin sought their repose.
“Well,” said Crispin, as they parted, “what do you think of Helena?”
“Think of her!” echoed Maurice in an indescribable tone. “That she is
simply perfection, far above what you told me. If your poetry is not
better than your description, Crispin, it must be poor stuff.”
“You are bewitched, Maurice. Beware the spells of Circe.”
“Circe! No! she is no malignant enchantress, but a beautiful girlish
angel.”
“Nausicaa!” said Crispin gayly, and went off to bed.