There await me till I die; prepare
A mansion for me, as again with me
To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,
In the same cedar, by thy side composed:
For e'en in death I will not be disjoined.
EURIPIDES
It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in
Philothea's health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens,
still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the
death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a
strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a
painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was
something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than
the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew
thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining
its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most
affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely
strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.
A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, "Dearest Eudora, do
you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the assistance
of Areas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree
over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?"
"I remember it well," replied Eudora: "Dione told it to me when I was
quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning,
or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a
shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had
perished with it."
Philothea answered, "Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read
to me Hesiod's account of the Muses:
'Far round, the dusky earth
Rings with their hymning voices; and beneath
Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound
Ariseth, as they take their onward way
To their own father's presence.'
"I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy
hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those
'Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit
In harmony; whose only thought is song.'
"There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every
hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All
earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth
we _feel_, though we _know_ it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the
Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose
existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not
long remain."
Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Oh, dearest Philothea,
do not speak thus," she said. "I shall indeed be left alone in the
world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me when you
are gone?"
Her friend endeavoured to calm these agitated feelings, by every
soothing art her kindness could suggest.
"I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary
pain," she replied, affectionately: "but I ought not to conceal from you
that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall
not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find
my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those
for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it;
but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be
disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather's
manuscripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in
Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which
Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the
Dionysia, is returned to his father's house, let them be placed within
it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the ivory
lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful
Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his
departed brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of Clinias
and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from
Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to
Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for
you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my
faithful Milza I have given all the garments and household goods suited
to her condition. My grandfather's books have been divided, as he
requested, between Plato and Philæmon; the silver harp and the ivory
tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you,
dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value
least the ivory cup lined with silver, which Philæmon gave me when he
departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros
in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with Philæmon."
With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, "Oh, Philothea! in the days of my
pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I
lost Philæmon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I
should at this moment be his happy, honoured wife. The hope of his
forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I
hardly dare to cherish it."
Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, "Believe me, you will yet
be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to
admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these
words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of
another world: you will be united to Philæmon."
As she spoke, Milza, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed
aloud. The sound was at Eudora's right hand, and she received the
auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.
Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: "When we
were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to Philæmon, in which I spoke of you
as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it
directly into Persia."
The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied, "Nay, my
dearest friend--you know that I must appear contemptible in his eyes;
and I would not have insulted him with the offer of a heart, which he
has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful."
"Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty might be wounded,"
answered Philothea: "I wrote as I was moved; and I felt strong assurance
that my words would waken a response in Philæmon's heart. But there is
one subject, on which my mind is filled with foreboding. I hope you will
leave Athens as soon as it is safe to return to Elis."
"Do you then fear that I would again dance over a pit, because it was
artfully covered with garlands?" said Eudora. "Believe me, I have been
tried with too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a load of
shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous snares."
Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied: "You are good
and pure; but you have ever been like a loving and graceful vine, ready
to cling to its nearest support."
"'Tis you have made me so," rejoined Eudora, kissing her pale cheek: "To
you I have always applied for advice and instruction; and when you gave
it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the gods."
"Then so much the more need that I should caution the weakness I have
produced," responded Philothea. "Should Aspasia gain access to you, when
I am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness consists not in
the duties we perform, but in the distinction we acquire; that my hopes
of Elysium are all founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has
returned to the elements of which he was composed; that he nourishes the
plants, and forms some of the innumerable particles of the atmosphere.
I have seen him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him; and I
believe the same power that enabled me to see him when these poor eyes
were veiled in slumber, will restore him to my vision when they are
closed in eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a beautiful
but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen to her syren tongue, the
secret guiding voice will be heard no more. She will make evil appear
good, and good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight,
unable to perceive the real size and character of any object."
"Never," exclaimed Eudora. "Never could she induce me to believe you an
idle dreamer. Moreover, she will never again have opportunity to exert
influence over me. The conversation I heard between her and Alcibiades
is too well impressed upon my memory; and while that remains
unforgotten, I shall shun them both, as I would shun a pestilence."
Philothea answered: "I do indeed believe that no blandishments will now
make you a willing victim. But I have a secret dread of the character
and power of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes a
pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak of his childish obstinacy and
perseverance. He was one day playing at dice with other boys, when a
loaded wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered the driver to
stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded, he laid down before the
horses' feet, and told him to go on if he dared. The same character
remains with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph of his
own will. From his youth, he has been a popular idol; a circumstance
which has doubtless increased the requirements of his passions, without
diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Milza tells me he has
already inquired of her concerning your present residence and future
intentions. Obstacles will only increase his eagerness and multiply his
artifices.
"I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely connected with our
own, to supply the place of your distant guardian, while you remain in
Athens. In Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so fatally
under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so lightly of these matters, I
sometimes fear they might both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too
trivial for their interference. For these reasons I wish you to return
to Elis as soon as possible when I am gone."
Eudora's countenance kindled with indignation, as she listened to what
Milza had told. In broken and contrite tones, she answered; "Philothea,
whatever trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all. But
rest assured, whenever it pleases the gods to remove your counsel and
protection, I will not abide in Athens a single hour after it is
possible to leave with safety."
"I find consolation in that assurance," replied Philothea; "and I have
strong belief that a divine shield will guard you from impending evil.
And now I will go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be lulled
with music."
Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a succession of sweet
and plaintive tunes, familiar to their childhood. Her friend listened
with an expression of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the
motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful sleep.
After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly, and looking up with a
beaming glance, exclaimed, "I shall follow him soon!"
Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she had spoken in such
delighted accents.
Philothea answered: "I dreamed that I sat upon a bank of violets, with
Paralus by my side; and he wove a garland and placed it on my head.
Suddenly, golden sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each
other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as Paralus often
described, when his soul lived apart from the body, and only returned at
intervals, to bring strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell
him so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments that shone like
woven sunbeams. Then voices above us began to sing:
'Come hither, kindred spirits, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!'
"Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus distinctly. It sounded
like the voice of Paralus in his youth, when we used to sing together,
to please my grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered
brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each other in silent
love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow him."
The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for resignation to this
bereavement seemed too hard a lesson for her suffering heart.
For several weeks, there was no apparent change in Philothea's health or
spirits. The same sad serenity remained--perpetually exciting the
compassion it never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the
neighbourhood brought their simple offering of flowers, with which she
wove fresh garlands for the tomb of Paralus. When no longer able to
visit the sepulchre herself, she intrusted them to the youthful
Pericles, who reverently placed them on his brother's urn.
The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in the conversation of
his widowed daughter. Scarcely a day passed without an interview between
them, and renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.
He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his desolated heart now
bestowed a double portion of paternal love. They remained a long time,
in earnest discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in tears.
Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the portico, and gazed
after them, as long as she could see a fold of their garments. As she
turned to lean on Eudora's arm, she said, "It is the last time I shall
ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister's love for that dear
boy. His heart is young and innocent."
For a few hours after, she continued to talk with unusual animation, and
her eyes beamed with an expression of inspired earnestness. At her
request, Geta and Milza were called; and the faithful servants listened
with mournful gratitude to her parting words of advice and consolation.
At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of flowers, sent by the
youthful Pericles. She took them with a smile, and said, "How fragrant
is their breath, and how beautiful their colours! I have heard that the
Persians write their music in colours; and Paralus spoke the same
concerning music in the spirit-world. Perchance there was heavenly
melody written on this fair earth in the age of innocence; but mortals
have now forgotten its language." Perceiving Eudora's thoughtful
countenance, she said: "Is my gentle friend disturbed, lest infant
nymphs closed their brief existence when these stems were broken?"
"Nay;" replied Eudora: "My heart is sad; but not for the perished genii
of the flowers."
Philothea understood the import of her words; and pressing her hand
affectionately, said, "Your love has been as balm to my lonely heart;
and let that remembrance comfort you, when I go hence. Listen in
stillness to the whispered warnings of your attendant spirit, and he
will never leave you. I am weary; and would fain repose on your
affectionate bosom."
Eudora gently placed her head as she desired; and carefully supporting
the precious burden, she began to sing, in low and soothing tones.
After some time, the quiet and regular respiration of the breath
announced that the invalid had fallen into tranquil slumber. Milza came,
to ask if the lamps were wanted; but receiving a silent signal from
Eudora, she crept noiselessly away.
For more than an hour, there was perfect stillness, as the shades of
evening deepened. All at once, the room was filled with soft, clear
light! Eudora turned her head quickly, to discover whence it came; but
could perceive no apparent cause for the sudden radiance.
With an undefined feeling of awe, she looked in the countenance of her
friend. It was motionless as marble; but never had she seen anything so
beautiful, and so unearthly.
As she gazed, doubting whether this could indeed be death, there was a
sound of music in the air--distinct, yet blended, like the warbling of
birds in the spring-time.
It was the tune Paralus had learned from celestial harps; and even after
the last note floated away, Eudora seemed to hear the well-remembered
words:
Come hither, kindred spirit, come!
Hail to the mystic two in one!