"Two several gates
Transmit those airy phantoms. One of horn,
And of sawn ivory one. Such dreams as pass
The gate of ivory, prove empty sounds;
While others, through the polished horn effused,
Whose eye soe'er they visit, never fail."
HOMER.
The dwellings of Anaxagoras and Phidias were separated by a garden
entirely sheltered from public observation. On three sides it was
protected by the buildings, so as to form a hollow square; the remainder
was screened by a high stone wall. This garden was adorned with statues
and urns, among which bloomed many choice shrubs and flowers. The entire
side of Anaxagoras' house was covered with a luxuriant grape-vine, which
stretched itself out on the roof, as if enjoying the sunshine. The
women's apartments communicated by a private avenue, which enabled the
friends to see each other as conveniently as if they had formed one
household.
The morning after the conversation we have mentioned, Philothea rose
early, and returned to her own dwelling. As she passed through the
avenue, she looked into the garden, and smiled to see, suspended by a
small cord thrown over the wall, a garland, fastened with a
delicately-carved arrow, bearing the inscription--"To Eudora, the most
beautiful, most beloved."
Glad to assist in the work of reconciliation, she separated the wreath
from the string, and carried it to her for whom it was intended.
"Behold the offering of Philæmon!" she exclaimed, joyfully: "Dearest
Eudora, beware how you estrange so true a heart."
The handsome maiden received her flowers with evident delight, not
unmingled with confusion; for she suspected that they came from a
greater flatterer than Philæmon.
Philothea returned to her usual avocations, with anxiety somewhat
lessened by this trifling incident.
Living in almost complete seclusion, the simple-hearted maiden was
quite unconscious that the new customs, introduced by Aspasia, had
rendered industry and frugality mere vulgar virtues, But the restraint
of public opinion was unnecessary to keep her within the privacy of
domestic life; for it was her own chosen home. She loved to prepare her
grandfather's frugal repast of bread and grapes, and wild honey; to take
care of his garments; to copy his manuscripts; and to direct the
operations of Milza, a little Arcadian peasant girl, who was her only
attendant. These duties, performed with cheerful alacrity, gave a fresh
charm to the music and embroidery with which she employed her leisure
hours.
Anaxagoras was extremely attached to his lovely grandchild; and her
great intellectual gifts, accompanied as they were by uncommon purity of
character, had procured from him and his friends a degree of respect not
usually bestowed upon women of that period. She was a most welcome
auditor to the philosophers, poets, and artists, who were ever fond of
gathering round the good old man; and when it was either necessary or
proper to remain in her own apartment, there was the treasured wisdom of
Thales, Pythagoras, Hesiod, Homer, Simonides, Ibycus, and Pindar. More
than one of these precious volumes were transcribed entirely by her own
hand.
In the midst of such communion, her spirit drank freely from the
fountains of sublime knowledge; which, "like the purest waters of the
earth, can be obtained only by digging deep,--but when they are found,
they rise up to meet us."
The intense love of the beautiful, thus acquired, far from making the
common occupations of life distasteful, threw over them a sort of poetic
interest, as a richly painted window casts its own glowing colours on
mere boards and stones. The higher regions of her mind were never
obscured by the clouds of daily care; but thence descended perpetual
sunshine, to gild the vapour.
On this day, however, Philothea's mind was less serene than usual. The
unaccountable change in Eudora's character perplexed and troubled her.
When she parted from her to go into the Acropolis, she had left her as
innocent and contented as a little child; and so proud and satisfied in
Philæmon's love, that she deemed herself the happiest of all happy
beings: at the close of six short months, she found her transformed into
a vain, restless, ambitious woman, wild for distinction, and impatient
of restraint.
All this Philothea was disposed to pity and forgive; for she felt that
frequent intercourse with Aspasia might have dazzled even a stronger
mind, and changed a less susceptible heart. Her own diminished
influence, she regarded as the inevitable result of her friend's present
views and feelings; and she only regretted it because it lessened her
power of doing good where she was most desirous to be useful.
Several times, in the course of the day, her heart yearned toward the
favourite of her childhood; and she was strongly impelled to go to her
and confess all her anxieties. But Eudora came not, as she had ever been
wont to do, in the intervals of household occupation; and this obvious
neglect drove Philothea's kind impulses back upon her heart.
Hylax, as he ran round the garden, barking and jumping at the birds in
the air, instantly knew her voice, and came capering in, bounding up at
her side, and licking her hand. The tears came to Philothea's eyes, as
she stooped to caress the affectionate animal: "Poor Hylax," said she,
"_you_ have not changed." She gathered some flowers, and twined them
round the dog's neck, thinking this simple artifice might bring a visit
from her friend.
But the sun went down, and still she had not caught a glimpse of Eudora,
even in the garden. Her affectionate anxiety was almost deepening into
sadness, when Anaxagoras returned, accompanied by the Ethiopian boy.
"I bring an offering from the munificent Tithonus," said the
philosopher: "He came with my disciples to-day, and we have had much
discourse together. To-morrow he departs from Athens; and he bade me say
that he hoped his farewell gift would not be unacceptable to her whose
voice made even Pindar's strains more majestic and divine."
The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms, and with low
obeisance presented it to Philothea. It was a small statue of Urania,
wrought in ivory and gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if
regarding the heavens with quiet contemplation. A crown of golden
planets encircled the head, and the scarf, enamelled with deep and vivid
azure, likewise glowed with stars.
Philothea smiled, as she glanced round the apartment, and said, "It is a
humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly."
"Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for the gods, than mere
marble and gold," replied the philosopher.
As a small indication of respect and gratitude, the maiden sent Tithonus
a roll of papyrus, on which she had neatly copied Pindar's Odes; and the
boy, haying received a few oboli for his trouble, returned charged with
thanks and good wishes for his master.
Philothea, spontaneously yielding to the old habit of enjoying
everything with her friend, took the statue in her arms, and went
directly to her room. Eudora was kind and cheerful, but strangely
fluttered. She praised the beautiful image in the excessive terms of one
who feels little, and is therefore afraid of not saying enough. Her mind
was evidently disturbed with thoughts quite foreign to the subject of
her conversation; but, making an effort at self-possession, she said, "I
too have had a present: Artaphernes sent it because my voice reminded
him of one he loved in his youth." She unfolded a roll of perfumed
papyrus, and displayed a Persian veil of gold and silver tissue.
Philothea pronounced it fit for the toilette of a queen; but frankly
confessed that it was too gorgeous to suit her taste.
At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment for the night. The
maiden refused, under the pretext of illness; but when her friend
offered to remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be much
better alone.
As Philothea passed through the sheltered avenue, she saw Milza
apparently assisting Geta in cleansing some marbles; and thinking
Phidias would be pleased with the statue, she asked Geta to convey it to
his room. He replied, "My master has gone to visit a friend at Salamis,
and will not return until morning." The maiden was much surprised that
her friend had made no allusion to this circumstance; but she forbore to
return and ask an explanation.
Another subject attracted her attention and occupied some share of her
thoughts. She had observed that Geta and Milza appeared much confused
when she spoke to them. When she inquired what Geta had been saying, the
pretty Arcadian, with an averted face, replied, "He called me to see a
marble dog, barking as if he had life in him; only he did not make any
noise."
"Was that all Geta talked of?" said Philothea.
"He asked me if I liked white kids," answered the blushing peasant.
"And what did you tell him?" inquired the maiden.
With a bashful mixture of simplicity and archness, the young damsel
answered, "I told him I liked white kids very much."
Philothea smiled, and asked no more questions. When she repeated this
brief conversation to Anaxagoras, he heard it with affectionate interest
in Milza's welfare, and promised to have a friendly talk with
honest-hearted Geta.
The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding night had been quite at
variance with the tranquil regularity of Philothea's habits; and the
slight repose, which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been
disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that Paralus was with him,
and wished to see her a few moments, before they went out to the Piræus
together. Being therefore unusually weary, both in body and mind, the
maiden early retired to her couch; and with mingled thoughts of her
lover and her friend, she soon fell into a profound sleep.
She dreamed of being with Paralus in an olive grove, over the deep
verdure of which shining white blossoms were spread, like a silver veil.
Her lover played upon his flute, while she leaned against a tree and
listened. Soon, the air was filled with a multitude of doves, flocking
from every side; and the flapping of their wings kept time to the music.
Then, suddenly, the scene changed to the garden of Phidias. The statues
seemed to smile upon her, and the flowers looked up bright and cheerful,
in an atmosphere more mild than the day, but warmer than the moon.
Presently, one of the smiling statues became a living likeness of
Eudora, and with delighted expression gazed earnestly on the ground.
Philothea looked to see what excited her admiration--and lo! a large
serpent, shining with green and gold, twisted itself among the flowers
in manifold involutions; and wheresoever the beautiful viper glided,
the blossoms became crisped and blackened, as if fire had passed over
them. With a sudden spring the venomous creature coiled itself about
Eudora's form, and its poisoned tongue seemed just ready to glance into
her heart; yet still the maiden laughed merrily, heedless of her danger.
Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful to realize that
it was all a dream, she murmured a brief prayer, turned upon her couch,
and soon yielded to the influence of extreme drowsiness.
In her sleep, she seemed to be working at her embroidery; and Hylax came
and tugged at her robe, until she followed him into the garden. There
Eudora stood smiling, and the glittering serpent was again dancing
before her.
Disturbed by the recurrence of this unpleasant dream, the maiden
remained awake for a considerable time, listening to the voices of her
grandfather and his guests, which still came up with a murmuring sound
from the room below. Gradually her senses were lulled into slumber; and
again the same dream recurred to distress and waken her.
Unable longer to resist the strength of her impressions, Philothea
arose, and descending a few of the steps, which led to the lower part of
the house, she looked into the garden, through one of the apertures that
had been left in the wall for the admission of light. Behind a statue of
Erato, she was sure that she saw coloured drapery floating in the
moonlight. Moving on to the next aperture, she distinctly perceived
Eudora standing by the statue; and instead of the graceful serpent,
Alcibiades knelt before her. His attitude and gesture were impassioned;
and though the expression of Eudora's countenance could not be seen,
she was evidently giving him no ungracious audience.
Philothea put her hand to her heart, which throbbed violently with
painful emotion. Her first thought was to end this interview at all
hazards; but she was of a timid nature; and when she had folded her robe
and veil about her, her courage failed. Again she looked through the
aperture and saw that the arm of Alcibiades rested on the shoulder of
her misguided friend.
Without taking time for a second thought, she sprang down the remaining
steps, darted through the private avenue into the garden, and standing
directly before the deluded girl, she exclaimed, in a tone of earnest
expostulation, "Eudora!"
With a half-suppressed scream, the maiden disappeared. Alcibiades, with
characteristic boldness, seized Philothea's robe, exclaiming, "What have
we here? So help me Aphrodite! it is the lovely Canephora of the
gardens! Now Eros forsake me if I lose this chance to look on her
heavenly face again."
He attempted to raise the veil, which the terrified maiden grasped
convulsively, as she tried to extricate herself from his hold.
At that instant, a stern voice sounded from the opposite wall; and
Philothea, profiting by the sudden surprise into which Alcibiades was
thrown, darted through the avenue, bolted the door, and in an instant
after was within the sanctuary of her own chamber.
Here the tumult of mingled emotion subsided in a flood of tears. She
mourned over the shameful infatuation of Eudora, and she acutely felt
the degradation attached to her own accidental share in the scene. With
these thoughts was mingled deep pity for the pure-minded and excellent
Philæmon. She was sure that it was his voice she had heard from the
wall; and she rightly conjectured that, after his prolonged interview
with Anaxagoras, he had partly ascended the ladder leading to the
house-top, and looked through the fluttering grape-leaves at the
dwelling of his beloved.
The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of sleep. Again and
again she looked out anxiously. All was hushed and motionless. The
garden reposed in the moonbeams, like truths, which receive no warmth
from the heart--seen only in the clear, cold light of reason. The plants
were visible, but colourless; and the statues stood immovable in their
silent, lifeless beauty.