Much I dislike the beamless mind,
Whose earthly vision, unrefined,
Nature has never formed to see
The beauties of simplicity!
Simplicity, the flower of Heaven,
To souls elect by nature given."
ANACREON.
As the maidens entered their apartment, Eudora rather abruptly dismissed
Dione, the aged nurse, who had been waiting their arrival. Her favourite
dog was sleeping on the couch; and she gave the little creature a hasty
box on the ear, which made him spring suddenly to the floor, and look up
in her face, as if astonished at such ungentle treatment.
Philothea stooped down and caressed the animal, with a slightly
reproachful glance at her friend.
"He was sleeping on my mantle," said the petulant damsel.
"His soft, white fur could not have harmed it," rejoined her companion;
"and you know that Hylax himself, as well as the mantle, was a gift from
Philæmon."
Eudora carelesssly tossed the mantle over her embroidery frame, from
which it trailed along the dusty floor. Philothea looked earnestly in
her face, unable to comprehend such wayward conduct. "It is evident you
do not want my company to-night," she said; "I will therefore return to
my own apartment."
The peevish maiden slowly untied her sandal, without making any reply.
Philothea's voice trembled slightly, as she added, "Good night, Eudora,
To-morrow I hope you will tell me how I have offended you."
"Stay! Stay!" exclaimed the capricious damsel; and she laid her hand
coaxingly on her friend's arm. Philothea smiled a ready forgiveness.
"I know I am very petulant to-night," said Eudora; "but I do not believe
you yourself could listen to Hipparete without being vexed. She is so
stupid, and so haughty. I don't think she spoke ten words to-night
without having a grasshopper for one of them. She is so proud of her
pure Athenian blood! Do you know she has resolved to employ a skilful
artificer from Corinth, to make her an ivory box just like the one
Tithonus gave Aspasia; but she took care to inform me that it should be
inlaid with golden grasshoppers, instead of stars. A wise and witty
device, is't not? to put grasshoppers in the paws of transformed
Calisto, and fasten them in the belt of Orion. The sky will be so purely
Athenian, that Hipparete herself might condescend to be a
constellation."
The talkative maiden laughed at her own conceit; and even her more
serious companion could not refrain from a smile, as with untiring
volubility she continued: "Then she told me that she herself embroidered
her grasshopper robe, and bade me admire the excellence of the pattern.
She said Plato could not possibly have mistaken the wreath intended for
her; knowing, as he did, that her father and mother were both descended
from the most ancient families in Athens; and she repeated a list of
ancestors with names all ending in _ippus_ and _ippides_. When, in
answer to her question, I acknowledged that the ornament in her hair
was beautiful, she told me she would gladly give me one like it, if it
were proper for me to wear it. I do so detest the sight of that Athenian
emblem! I would walk to the fields of Acharnae, on purpose to crush a
grasshopper."
"You put yourself in a singular passion for such a harmless insect,"
replied Philothea, smiling. "I hope there are none of them within
hearing. You know the poets say they rose from the ashes of men, who,
when the Muses first had existence, pined away for the love of song; and
that after death they go to Parnassus, and inform the most ancient
Calliope, the heavenly Urania, and the amorous Erato, concerning the
conversation of their votaries. If they are truly the children of song,
they will indeed forget their own resentments; but your conversation
would be so unlikely to make a favourable impression on the tuneful
sisters, that it may be well for you the insects are now sleeping."
"If the tattling tribe were all awake and listening," replied Eudora, "I
would freely give them leave to report all I say against Astronomy, or
Poetry, or Music. If this be the test, I am willing to be tried with
Hipparete at the court of the Muses. If she were less stupid, I think I
could tolerate her pride. But I thought she would never have done with a
long story about a wine-stain that nearly spoiled her new dove-coloured
robe; the finest from the looms of Ecbatana; the pattern not to be
matched in all Greece; and Aspasia half wild to obtain one like it. She
did not fail to inform me that the slave who had spilled the wine, was
tied to the olive-tree in the garden, and whipped six days in
succession. I never saw her in my life that she did not remind me of
being a slave."
"Dearest Eudora," said Philothea, "how can you make yourself so unhappy
on this subject? Has not Phidias, from the first hour he bought you,
allowed you all the privileges of a daughter?"
"Yes," replied Eudora; "but the very circumstance that I was bought with
his money embitters it all. I do not thank him that I have been taught
all which becomes an Athenian maiden; for I can never be an Athenian.
The spirit and the gifts of freedom ill assort with the condition of a
slave. I wish he had left me to tend goats and bear burdens, as other
slaves do; to be beaten as they are beaten; starved as they are starved;
and die as they die. I should not then have known my degradation. I
would have made friends with the birds and the flowers, and never had a
heart-wound from a proud Athenian fool."
Philothea laid her hand gently on her friend's arm, and gazing on her
excited countenance, she said, "Eudora, some evil demon vexes you
strangely to-night. Did I not know the whole tenor of your blameless
life, I should fear you were not at peace with your own conscience."
Eudora blushed deeply, and busily caressed the dog with her foot.
In a mild, clear voice, Philothea continued: "What _now_ prevents you
from making friendship with the birds and the flowers! And why do you
cherish a pride so easily wounded? Yes, it is pride, Eudora. It is
useless disguise to call it by another name. The haughtiness of others
can never make us angry, if we ourselves are humble. Besides, it is
very possible that you are unjust to Hipparete. She might very naturally
have spoken of her slave's carelessness, without meaning to remind you
of bondage."
"She _did_ mean it," replied Eudora, with angry emphasis. "She is always
describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am
excluded from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud heart
humbled."
"Nay, Eudora," said Philothea, turning mournfully away: "Your feelings
are strangely embittered; the calm light of reason is totally obscured
by the wild torch-dance of your passions. Methinks hatred itself need
wish Hipparete no worse fate than to be the wife of so bold and bad a
man as Alcibiades."
"Oh, Philothea! I wonder you can call him bold," rejoined Eudora. "He
looks steadily at no one; his eyelashes ever rest on his face, like
those of a modest maiden."
"Aye, Eudora--but it is not the expression of a sinless heart, timidly
retiring within the shrine of its own purity; it is the shrinking of a
conscience that has something to conceal. Little as we know about the
evils of the world, we have heard enough of Alcibiades, to be aware that
Hipparete has much need to seek the protection of her patron goddess."
"She had better worship in the temple of Helen, at Therapne," answered
Eudora, sharply: "The journey might not prove altogether hopeless; for
that temple is said to confer beauty on the ugliest woman that ever
entered it." As the peevish damsel said this, she gave a proud glance
at her own lovely person, in the mirror, before which a lamp was
burning.
Philothea had often seen her friend in petulant moods; but she had never
before known her to evince so much bitterness, or so long resist the
soothing influence of kindness. Unwilling to contend with passions she
could not subdue, and would not flatter, she remained for some moments
in serious silence.
The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's quick feelings; and
she said, in an humble tone, "I know I am doing wrong, Philothea, but I
cannot help it."
Her friend calmly replied, "If you believe you cannot help it, you
deceive yourself; and if you do not believe it, you had better not have
said it."
"Now you are angry with me," exclaimed the sensitive maiden; and she
burst into tears.
Philothea passed her arm affectionately round her waist, saying, "I am
not angry with you, Eudora; but while I love you, I cannot and ought not
to love the bad feelings you cherish. Believe me, my dear friend, the
insults of others can never make us wretched, or resentful, if all is
right within our own hearts. The viper that stings us is always
nourished within us. Moreover, I believe, dearest Eudora, that half your
wrongs are in your own imagination. I too am a foreigner; but I have
been very happy within the walls of Athens."
"Because you have never been a slave," retorted her companion; "and you
have shared privileges that strangers are seldom allowed to share. You
have been one of the Canephoræ; you have walked in the grand
procession of the Panathenæa: and your statue in pure Pentelic marble,
upholds the canopy over the sacred olive-tree. I know that your skilful
fingers, and your surpassing beauty have deserved these honours; but you
must pardon me, if I do not like the proud Athenians quite so well as
you do."
"I gratefully acknowledge the part I have been allowed to take in the
sacred service of Pallas," replied the maiden; "but I owe it neither to
my beauty, nor my skill in embroidery. It was a tribute to that wise and
good old man, my grandfather."
"And I," said Eudora, in a tone of deep melancholy, "have neither
grandfather, parent, or brother to care for me."
"Who could have proved a better protector than Phidias has been?"
inquired her gentle friend.
"Philothea, I cannot forget that I am his slave. What I said just now in
anger, I repeat in sober sadness; it would be better for me to have a
slave's mind with a slave's destiny."
"I have no doubt," replied Philothea, "that Phidias continues to be your
master merely that he may retain lawful power to protect you, until you
are the wife of Philæmon."
"Some slaves have been publicly registered as adopted children," said
Eudora.
"But in order to do that," rejoined her friend, "it is necessary to
swear to their parentage; and yours is unknown. If it were not for this
circumstance, I believe Phidias would be most willing to adopt you."
"No, Philothea--Phidias would do no such thing. He is good and kind. I
know that I have spoken of him as I ought not to have spoken. But he is
a proud man. He would not adopt a nameless orphan, found with a poor
goatherd of Phelle. Had I descended from any of the princes conquered by
Grecian valour, or were I even remotely allied with any of the
illustrious men that Athens has ostracised, then indeed I might be the
adopted daughter of Phidias," After a short pause, she added, "If he
enfranchised me without adoption, I think I should have no difficulty in
finding a protector;" and again the maiden gave a triumphant glance at
her mirror.
"I am aware that your marriage with Philæmon has only awaited the
termination of these unfortunate law-suits," replied Philothea: "Though
he is not rich, it cannot be very long before he is able to take you
under his protection; and as soon as he has the power, he will have the
disposition."
"Will he, indeed!" exclaimed Eudora; and she trotted her little foot
impatiently.
"You are altogether mysterious to-night," said Philothea: "Has any
disagreement arisen between you and Philæmon, during my absence?"
"He is proud, and jealous; and wishes me to be influenced by every whim
of his," answered the offended beauty.
"The fetters of love are a flowery bondage," rejoined Philothea:
"Blossoms do not more easily unfold themselves to the sunshine, than
woman obeys the object of her affections. Don't you remember the little
boy we found piping so sweetly, under the great plane-tree by the
fountain of Callirhöe? When my grandfather asked him where he learned to
play so well, he answered; with a look of wondering simplicity, that it
'piped itself.' Methinks this would be the reply of a loving woman, to
one who inquired how her heart had learned submission. But what has
Philæmon required, that you consider so unreasonable?"
"He dislikes to have me visit Aspasia; and was angry because I danced
with Alcibiades."
"And did you tell him that you went to Aspasia's house, in conformity
with the express directions of Phidias?" inquired Philothea.
"Why don't you say of my _master_?" interrupted Eudora, contemptuously.
Without noticing the peevishness of this remark, her friend continued:
"Are you quite sure that you have not been more frequently than you
would have been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience to the
will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philæmon is offended at your
dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly a practice, so boldly at variance
with the customs of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly."
"It is enough to be one man's slave," replied Eudora. "I will dance with
whom I please. Alcibiades is the handsomest, and the most graceful, and
the most agreeable man in Athens--at least every body says so. I don't
know why I should offend him to please Philæmon."
"I thought there was a very satisfactory reason," observed Philothea,
quietly: "Alcibiades is the husband of Hipparete, and you are the
promised wife of Philæmon. I would not have believed the person who
told me that Eudora seriously called Alcibiades the handsomest and most
agreeable man in Athens."
"The sculptors think him pre-eminently beautiful," answered Eudora; "or
they would not so often copy his statue in the sacred images of Hermes.
Socrates applied Anacreon's eloquent praise of Bathyllus to him, and
said he saw in his lips 'Persuasion sleeping upon roses.'"
"That must have been in the days of youthful innocence," replied
Philothea: "Surely his countenance has now nothing divine in its
expression; though I grant the colouring rich, and the features regular.
He reminds me of the Alexandrian coin; outwardly pleasing to the eye but
inwardly made of base metal. Urania alone confers the beauty-giving
zone. The temple of Aphrodite in the Piræus is a fitting place for the
portrait of Alcibiades; and no doubt he is well pleased that the people
go there in throngs to see him represented leaning on the shoulder of
the shameless Nemea."
"If Aristophon chose to paint him side by side with the beautiful Nemea,
it is no fault of his," said Eudora.
"The artist would not have dared so to represent Plato, or Philæmon, or
Paralus," rejoined Philothea; "nor would Alcibiades allow his picture
thus to minister to the corruption of the Athenians, if he had any
perception of what is really beautiful. I confess, Eudora, it pained me
to see you listen to his idle flattery. He worships every handsome
woman, who will allow herself to be polluted by his incense. Like
Anacreon, his heart is a nest for wanton loves. He is never without a
brood of them--some trying their wings, some in the egg, and some just
breaking the shell."
With slight resentment in her manner, Eudora answered: "Anacreon is the
most beautiful of poets; and I think you speak too harshly of the son of
Clinias."
"I am sorry for you, if you can perceive the beautiful where the pure is
wanting," rejoined Philothea; "You have changed, since my residence in
the Acropolis. The cherub Innocence, that was once the ever-present
deity in your soul, has already retired deeper within the shrine, and
veils his face in presence of the vain thoughts you have introduced
there. I fear Aspasia has made you believe that a passion for
distinction is but another name for love of the good, the true, and the
beautiful. Eudora, if this false man has flattered you, believe me, he
is always ready to bestow the same upon others. He has told me that I
was the loveliest of earthly objects; no doubt he has told you the same;
but both cannot be true."
"You!" exclaimed her companion: "Where could he find opportunity to
address such language to you?"
"Where a better man would have had better thoughts," replied Philothea:
"It was during the sacred festival of the Panathenæa. A short time
before midnight, it was my duty to receive the sacred basket from the
hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the cave, beneath the Temple
of Urania, in the gardens. Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended
me, carrying a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I held the torch
while she took up the other sacred basket, which was there in readiness
to be conveyed to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the
gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple, so clear and
strong, that I could distinctly see the sacred doves, among the
multitude of fragrant roses--some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others
fluttering from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles,
frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the centre of the gardens,
stood Myron's statue of the heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her
temple by a garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression of
the human soul, when it dwells in love and peace. In this holy
atmosphere we paused for a moment in silent reverence. A smiling band of
infant hours came clustering round my memory, and softly folded
themselves about my heart. I thought of those early days, when, hand in
hand with Paralus, I walked forth in the spring-time, welcoming the
swallows to our shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees. We
did not then know that bees and young hearts need none to take thought
for their joy, but best gather their own sweet nourishment in sunlight
and freedom. I remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to my
care. When we dressed the little creature in wreaths, we mourned that
flowers would not _grow_ in garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts
to see them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered
rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus took one of them in his
hand; and when we had admired its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and
returned it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring of a
heart brimful of love for all things pure and simple. Paralus ever lived
in affectionate communion with the birds and the flowers. Firm in
principle, but gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in
whose bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so motherly and
safe, where she might brood over her young hopes in quiet joy."
The maiden's heart had unconsciously followed her own innocent
recollections, like the dove led by a garland; and for a few moments she
remained silent in thoughtful tenderness.
Eudora's changeful and perturbed spirit had been soothed by the serene
influence of her friend; and she too was silent for awhile. But the
giddy images that had of late been reeling their wild dance through her
brain, soon came back in glittering fantasy.
"Philothea!" she exclaimed, abruptly, "you have not told me where you
met Alcibiades?"
The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant startled from sweet dreams
by some rude noise. Recovering from her surprise, she smiled, and said,
"Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected and unwelcome
presence in the sacred gardens. I told you that we stood by that quiet
lake in meek reverence; worshipping,--not the marble image before
us,--but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through the universe,
breathing the invisible through visible forms, in such mysterious
harmony. Suddenly Eucoline touched my arm with a quick and timid motion.
I turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us. Our veils, which
had been thrown back while we looked at the statue, were instantly
dropped, and we hastily retraced our steps. The stranger followed us,
until we passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight of the
Propylæa. He then knelt, and attempting to hold me by the robe, poured
forth the wildest protestations of love. I called aloud for protection;
and my voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in and out of
the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the festival. The young man
suddenly disappeared; but he was one of the equestrians that shared in
the solemnities of the night, and I again saw him as I took my place in
the procession. I had then never seen Alcibiades; but when I met him
to-night, I immediately recognized the stranger who spoke so rudely in
the olive-grove."
"You must forgive me," said Eudora, "if I am not much disposed to blame
mortal man for wishing to look upon your face a second time. Even Plato
does homage to woman's beauty."
"True, Eudora; but there is reverence mingled with his homage. The very
atmosphere around Alcibiades seemed unholy. I never before met such a
glance; and the gods grant I may never meet such another. I should not
have mentioned the occurrence, even to you, had I not wished to warn you
how lightly this volatile Athenian can make love."
"I heard something of this before," rejoined Eudora; "but I did not know
the particulars."
"How could you have heard of it?" inquired Philothea, with an accent of
strong surprise.
"Alcibiades had a more eager curiosity than yourself," replied Eudora.
"He soon ascertained the name of the lovely Canephoræ that he saw in
the Gardens of Urania; and he has never ceased importuning Aspasia,
until you were persuaded to visit her house."
The face, neck, and arms of the modest maiden were flushed with
indignant crimson. "Was it for this purpose," she said, "that I was
induced to yield my own sense of propriety to the solicitations of
Pericles? It is ever thus, when we disobey the gods, to please mortals.
How could I believe that any motive so harmless as idle curiosity
induced that seductive and dangerous woman to urge me into her
unhallowed presence?"
"I marvelled at your courage in talking to her as you did," said Eudora.
"Something within impelled me," replied Philothea, reverently;--"I did
not speak from myself."
Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you
tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars
sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to
have me inquire?"
The maiden replied: "As I sat at my grandfather's feet, near the statue
of Phoebus in the portico, at early dawn, I heard music, of soft and
various sounds, floating in the air; and I thought perchance it was the
farewell hymn of the stars, or the harps of the Pleiades, mourning for
their lost sister.--I had never spoken of it; but to-night I forgot the
presence of all save Plato, when I heard him discourse so eloquently of
music."
"And were you as unhappy as you expected to be during this visit?"
inquired her friend.
"Some portions of the evening I enjoyed exceedingly," replied Philothea.
"I could have listened to Plato and Tithonus, until I grew old in their
presence. Their souls seem to move in glowing moonlight, as if
surrounded by bright beings from a better world."
Eudora looked thoughtfully in her friend's face. "It is strange," she
said, "how closely you associate all earthly objects with things divine.
I have heard Anaxagoras say that when you were a little child, you
chased the fleeting sunshine through the fields, and called it the
glittering wings of Phoebus Apollo, as he flew over the verdant earth.
And still, dearest Philothea, your heart speaks the same language.
Wherever you look, you see the shining of god-like wings. Just so you
talked of the moonlight, the other evening. To Hipparete, that solemn
radiance would have suggested no thought except that lamp-light was more
favourable to the complexion; and Hermippus would merely have rejoiced
in it, because it saved him the expense of an attendant and a torch, as
he reeled home from his midnight revels. I seldom think of sacred
subjects, except when I am listening to you; but they then seem so
bright, so golden, so divine, that I marvel they ever appear to me like
cold, dim shadows."
"The flowers of the field are unlike, but each has a beauty of its own;
and thus it is with human souls," replied Philothea.
For a brief space there was silence. But Eudora, true to the restless
vivacity of her character, soon seized her lyre, and carelessly touching
the strings, she hummed one of Sappho's ardent songs:
"More happy than the gods is he,
Who soft reclining sits by thee;
His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles,
His eyes thy sweetly dimpled smiles.
This, this, alas! alarmed my breast,
And robbed me of my golden rest."
Philothea interrupted her, by saying, "I should much rather hear
something from the pure and tender-hearted Simonides."
But the giddy damsel, instead of heeding her request, abruptly
exclaimed, "Did you observe the sandals of Artaphernes sparkle as he
walked? How richly Tithonus was dressed! Was it not a magnificent
costume?"
Philothea, smiling at her childish prattle, replied, "It was gorgeous,
and well fancied; but I preferred Plato's simple robe, distinguished
only by the fineness of its materials, and the tasteful adjustment of
its folds."
"I never saw a philosopher that dressed so well as Plato," said Eudora.
"It is because he loves the beautiful, even in its minutest forms,"
rejoined Philothea; "in that respect he is unlike the great master he
reverences so highly."
"Yes--men say it is a rare thing to meet either Socrates or his robe
lately returned from the bath," observed Eudora; "yet, in those three
beautiful statues, which Pericles has caused to be placed in the
Propylæa, the philosopher has carved admirable drapery. He has clothed
the Graces, though the Graces never clothed him. I wonder Aristophanes
never thought of that jest. Notwithstanding his willingness to please
the populace with the coarse wit current in the Agoras, I think it
gratifies his equestrian pride to sneer at those who are too frugal to
buy coloured robes, and fill the air with delicious perfumes as they
pass. I know you seldom like the comic writers. What did you think of
Hermippus?"
"His countenance and his voice troubled me, like the presence of
evil," answered Philothea. "I rejoiced that my grandfather withdrew with
us, as soon as the goblet of the Good Genius passed round, and before he
began to dance the indecent cordax."
"He has a sarcastic, suspicious glance, that might sour the ripest
grapes in Chios," rejoined Eudora. "The comic writers are over-jealous of
Aspasia's preference to the tragic poets; and I suppose she permitted
this visit to bribe his enmity; as ghosts are said to pacify Cerberus
with a cake. But hark! I hear Geta unlocking the outer gate. Phidias has
returned; and he likes to have no lamp burn later than his own. We must
quickly prepare for rest; though I am as wakeful as the bird of Pallas."
She began to unclasp her girdle, as she spoke, and something dropped
upon the floor.
Philothea was stooping to unlace her sandal, and she immediately picked
it up.
It was a beautiful cameo of Alcibiades, with the quiver and bow of Eros.
Eudora took it with a deep blush, saying, "Aspasia gave it to me."
Her friend looked very earnestly in her face for a moment, and sighed as
she turned away. It was the first time she had ever doubted Eudora's
truth.