On the morning after the trial of the bow, Cambyses was seized by such
a violent attack of his old illness, that he was forced to keep his room
for two days and nights, ill in mind and body; at times raging like a
madman, at others weak and powerless as a little child.
On the third day he recovered consciousness and remembered the awful
charge he had laid on Prexaspes, and that it was only too possible he
might have executed it already. At this thought he trembled, as he
had never trembled in his life before. He sent at once for the envoy's
eldest son, who was one of the royal cup-bearers. The boy said his
father had left Memphis, without taking leave of his family. He then
sent for Darius, Zopyrus and Gyges, knowing how tenderly they loved
Bartja, and enquired after their friend. On hearing from them that he
was at Sais, he sent the three youths thither at once, charging them,
if they met Prexaspes on the way, to send him back to Memphis
without delay. This haste and the king's strange behavior were quite
incomprehensible to the young Achaemenidae; nevertheless they set out on
their journey with all speed, fearing that something must be wrong.
Cambyses, meanwhile, was miserably restless, inwardly cursed his habit
of drinking and tasted no wine the whole of that clay. Seeing his mother
in the palace-gardens, he avoided her; he durst not meet her eye.
The next eight days passed without any sign of Prexaspes' return; they
seemed to the king like a year. A hundred times he sent for the young
cup-bearer and asked if his father had returned; a hundred times he
received the same disappointing answer.
At sunset on the thirteenth day, Kassandane sent to beg a visit from
him. The king went at once, for now he longed to look on the face of his
mother; he fancied it might give him back his lost sleep.
After he had greeted her with a tenderness so rare from him, that it
astonished her, he asked for what reason she had desired his presence.
She answered, that Bartja's wife had arrived at Memphis under singular
circumstances and had said she wished to present a gift to Cambyses. He
gave Sappho an audience at once, and heard from her that Prexaspes had
brought her husband an order to start for Arabia, and herself a summons
to Memphis from the queen-mother. At these words the king turned very
pale, and his features were agitated with pain as he looked at his
brother's lovely young wife. She felt that something unusual was passing
in his mind, and such dreadful forebodings arose in her own, that she
could only offer him the gift in silence and with trembling hands.
"My husband sends you this," she said, pointing to the
ingeniously-wrought box, which contained the wax likeness of Nitetis.
Rhodopis had advised her to take this to the king in Bartja's name, as a
propitiatory offering.
Cambyses showed no curiosity as to the contents of the box, gave it in
charge to a eunuch, said a few words which seemed meant as thanks to his
sister-in law, and left the women's apartments without even so much as
enquiring after Atossa, whose existence he seemed to have forgotten.
He had come to his mother, believing that the visit would comfort and
calm his troubled mind, but Sappho's words had destroyed his last hope,
and with that his last possibility of rest or peace. By this time either
Prexaspes would already have committed the murder, or perhaps at that
very moment might be raising his dagger to plunge it into Bartja's
heart.
How could he ever meet his mother again after Bartja's death? how could
he answer her questions or those of that lovely Sappho, whose large,
anxious, appealing eyes had touched him so strangely?
A voice within told him, that his brother's murder would be branded as
a cowardly, unnatural, and unjust deed, and he shuddered at the thought.
It seemed fearful, unbearable, to be called an assassin. He had already
caused the death of many a man without the least compunction, but that
had been done either in fair fight, or openly before the world. He was
king, and what the king did was right. Had he killed Bartja with his own
hand, his conscience would not have reproached him; but to have had
him privately put out of the way, after he had given so many proofs
of possessing first-rate manly qualities, which deserved the highest
praise--this tortured him with a feeling of rage at his own want of
principle,-a feeling of shame and remorse which he had never known
before. He began to despise himself. The consciousness of having acted,
and wished to act justly, forsook him, and he began to fancy, that
every one who had been executed by his orders, had been, like Bartja,
an innocent victim of his fierce anger. These thoughts became so
intolerable, that he began to drink once more in the hope of drowning
them. But now the wine had precisely the opposite effect, and brought
such tormenting thoughts, that, worn out as he was already by epileptic
fits and his habit of drinking, both body and mind threatened to give
way to the agitation caused by the events of the last months. Burning
and shivering by turns, he was at last forced to lie down. While the
attendants were disrobing him, he remembered his brother's present,
had the box fetched and opened, and then desired to be left alone. The
Egyptian paintings on the outside of the box reminded him of Nitetis,
and then he asked himself what she would have said to his deed. Fever
had already begun, and his mind was wandering as he took the beautiful
wax bust out of the box. He stared in horror at the dull, immovable
eyes. The likeness was so perfect, and his judgment so weakened by wine
and fever, that he fancied himself the victim of some spell, and yet
could not turn his eyes from those dear features. Suddenly the eyes
seemed to move. He was seized with terror, and, in a kind of convulsion,
hurled what he thought had become a living head against the wall. The
hollow, brittle wax broke into a thousand fragments, and Cambyses sank
back on to his bed with a groan.
From that moment the fever increased. In his delirium the banished
Phanes appeared, singing a scornful Greek song and deriding him in
such infamous words, that his fists clenched with rage. Then he saw his
friend and adviser, Croesus, threatening him in the very same words of
warning, which he had used when Bartja had been sentenced to death
by his command on account of Nitetis: "Beware of shedding a brother's
blood; the smoke thereof will rise to heaven and become a cloud,
that must darken the days of the murderer, and at last cast down the
lightnings of heaven upon his head."
And in his delirious fancy this figure of speech became a reality. A
rain of blood streamed down upon him from dark clouds; his clothes and
hands were wet with the loathsome moisture. He went down to the Nile to
cleanse himself, and suddenly saw Nitetis coming towards him. She had
the same sweet smile with which Theodorus had modelled her. Enchanted
with this lovely vision, he fell down before her and took her hand, but
he had scarcely touched it, when drops of blood appeared at the tips of
her delicate fingers, and she turned away from him with every sign
of horror. He humbly implored her to forgive him and come back; she
remained inexorable. He grew angry, and threatened her, first with his
wrath, and then with awful punishments. At last, as she only answered
his threats by a low scornful laugh, he ventured to throw his dagger at
her. She crumbled at once into a thousand pieces, like the wax statue.
But the derisive laughter echoed on, and became louder. Many voices
joined in it, each trying to outbid the other. And the voices of Bartja
and Nitetis were the loudest,--their tone the most bitter. At last he
could bear these fearful sounds no longer and stopped his ears; this was
of no use, and he buried his head, first in the glowing desert-sand
and then in the icy cold Nile-water, until his senses forsook him. On
awaking, the actual state of things seemed incomprehensible to him. He
had gone to bed in the evening, and yet he now saw, by the direction of
the sun's rays which fell on his bed, that, instead of dawning as he had
expected, the day was growing dark. There could be no mistake; he heard
the chorus of priests singing farewell to the setting Mithras.
Then he heard a number of people moving behind a curtain, which had been
hung up at the head of his bed. He tried to turn in his bed, but could
not; he was too weak. At last, finding it impossible to discover whether
he was in real life or still in a dream, he called for his dressers
and the courtiers, who were accustomed to be present when he rose. They
appeared in a moment, and with them his mother, Prexaspes, a number of
the learned among the Magi, and some Egyptians who were unknown to him.
They told him, that he had been lying in a violent fever for weeks, and
had only escaped death by the special mercy of the gods, the skill
of the physicians, and the unwearied nursing of his mother. He looked
enquiringly first at Kassandane, then at Prexaspes, lost consciousness
again, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke the next morning
with renewed strength.
In four days he was strong enough to sit up and able to question
Prexaspes on the only subject, which occupied his thoughts.
In consideration of his master's weakness the envoy was beginning an
evasive reply, when a threatening movement of the king's gaunt, worn
hand, and a look which had by no means lost its old power of awing into
submission, brought him to the point at once, and in the hope of giving
the king a great pleasure and putting his mind completely at rest,
he began: "Rejoice, O King! the youth, who dared to desire the
disparagement of thy glory, is no more. This hand slew him and buried
his body at Baal-Zephon. The sand of the desert and the unfruitful waves
of the Red Sea were the only witnesses of the deed; and no creature
knows thereof beside thyself, O King, thy servant Prexaspes, and the
gulls and cormorants, that hover over his grave."
The king uttered a piercing shriek of rage, was seized by a fresh
shivering-fit, and sank back once more in raving delirium.
Long weeks passed, every day of which threatened its death. At last,
however, his strong constitution gained the day, but his mind had given
way, and remained disordered and weak up to his last hour.
When he was strong enough to leave the sick-room and to ride and shoot
once more, he abandoned himself more than ever to the pleasure of
drinking, and lost every remnant of self-control.
The delusion had fixed itself in his disordered mind, that Bartja was
not dead, but transformed into the bow of the King of Ethiopia, and
that the Feruer (soul) of his father Cyrus had commanded him to restore
Bartja to its original form, by subjugating the black nation.
This idea, which he confided to every one about him as a great secret,
pursued him day and night and gave him no rest, until he had started for
Ethiopia with an immense host. He was forced, however, to return without
having accomplished his object, after having miserably lost the greater
part of his army by heat and the scarcity of provisions. An historian,
who may almost be spoken of as contemporary, tells us that the wretched
soldiers, after having subsisted on herbs as long as they could, came
to deserts where there was no sign of vegetation, and in their despair
resorted to an expedient almost too fearful to describe. Lots were drawn
by every ten men, and he on whom the lot fell was killed and eaten by
the other nine.
[Herodotus visited Egypt some 60 years after the death of Cambyses,
454 B.C. He describes the Ethiopian campaign, III. 25.]
At last things went so far, that his subjects compelled this madman to
return, but only, with their slavish Asiatic feelings, to obey him all
the more blindly, when they found themselves once more in inhabited
regions.
On reaching Memphis with the wreck of his army, he found the Egyptians
in glorious apparel celebrating a festival. They had found a new Apis
and were rejoicing over the reappearance of their god, incarnate in the
sacred bull.
As Cambyses had heard at Thebes, that the army he had sent against
the oasis of Ammon in the Libyan desert, had perished miserably in a
Khamsin, or Simoom, and that his fleet, which was to conquer Carthage,
had refused to fight with a people of their own race, he fancied that
the Memphians must be celebrating a festival of joy at the news of his
misfortunes, sent for their principal men, and after reproaching them
with their conduct, asked why they had been gloomy and morose after
his victories, but joyous at hearing of his misfortunes. The Memphians
answered by explaining the real ground for their merry-making, and told
him, that the appearance of the sacred bull was always celebrated in
Egypt with the greatest rejoicings. Cambyses called them liars, and, as
such, sentenced them to death. He then sent for the priests; received,
however, exactly the same answer from them.
With the bitterest irony he asked to be allowed to make the acquaintance
of this new god, and commanded them to bring him. The bull Apis was
brought and the king told that he was the progeny of a virgin cow and
a moonbeam, that he must be black, with a white triangular spot on the
forehead, the likeness of an eagle on his back, and on his side the
crescent moon. There must be two kinds of hair on his tail, and on his
tongue an excrescence in the form of the sacred beetle Scarabaeus.
When Cambyses saw this deified creature he could discover nothing
remarkable in him, and was so enraged that he plunged his sword into its
side. As the blood streamed from the wound and the animal fell, he broke
out into a piercing laugh, and cried: "Ye fools! so your gods are flesh
and blood; they can be wounded. Such folly is worthy of you. But ye
shall find, that it is not so easy to make a fool of me. Ho, guards!
flog these priests soundly, and kill every one whom you find taking
part in this mad celebration." The command was obeyed and fearfully
exasperated the Egyptians.
[According to Herod. III. 29. Cambyses' sword slipped and ran into
the leg of the sacred bull. As the king died also of a wound in the
thigh, this just suits Herodotus, who always tries to put the
retribution that comes after presumptuous crime in the strongest
light; but it is very unlikely that the bull should have died of a
mere thigh wound.]
Apis died of his wound; the Memphians buried him secretly in the vaults
belonging to the sacred bulls, near the Serapeum, and, led by Psamtik,
attempted an insurrection against the Persians. This was very quickly
put down, however, and cost Psamtik his life,--a life the stains and
severities of which deserve to be forgiven, in consideration of his
unwearied, ceaseless efforts to deliver his people from a foreign yoke,
and his death in the cause of freedom.
Cambyses' madness had meanwhile taken fresh forms. After the failure of
his attempt to restore Bartja, (transformed as he fancied into a bow)
to his original shape, his irritability increased so frightfully that a
single word, or even a look, was sufficient to make him furious. Still
his true friend and counsellor, Croesus, never left him, though the king
had more than once given him over to the guards for execution. But the
guards knew their master; they took good care not to lay hands on
the old man, and felt sure of impunity, as the king would either have
forgotten his command, or repented of it by the next day, Once, however,
the miserable whip bearers paid a fearful penalty for their lenity.
Cambyses, while rejoicing that Croesus was saved, ordered his deliverers
to be executed for disobedience without mercy.
It would be repugnant to us to repeat all the tales of barbarous
cruelties, which are told of Cambyses at this insane period of his
life; but we cannot resist mentioning a few which seem to us especially
characteristic.
While sitting at table one day, already somewhat intoxicated, he asked
Prexaspes what the Persians thought of him. The envoy, who in hopes
of deadening his tormenting conscience by the performance of noble and
dangerous acts, let no opportunity pass of trying to exercise a good
influence over his sovereign, answered that they extolled him on every
point, but thought he was too much addicted to wine.
These words, though spoken half in jest, put the king into a violent
passion, and he almost shrieked: "So the Persians say, that the wine
has taken away my senses, do they? on the contrary, I'll show them that
they've lost their own." And as he spoke he bent his bow, took aim for a
moment at Prexaspes' eldest son, who, as cup-bearer, was standing at the
back of the hall waiting for and watching every look of his sovereign,
and shot him in the breast. He then gave orders that the boy's body
should be opened and examined. The arrow had pierced the centre of his
heart. This delighted the senseless tyrant, and he called out with a
laugh: "Now you see, Prexaspes, it's the Persians who have lost their
judgment, not I. Could any one have hit the mark better?"
Prexaspes stood there, pale and motionless, compelled to watch the
horrid scene, like Niobe when chained to Sipylus. His servile spirit
bowed before the ruler's power, instead of arming his right hand with
the dagger of revenge, and when the frantic king asked him the same
question a second time, he actually answered, pressing his hand on his
heart: "A god could not have hit the mark more exactly."
A few weeks after this, the king went to Sais, and there was shown the
rooms formerly occupied by his bride. This brought back all the old
painful recollections in full force, and at the same time his clouded
memory reminded him, though without any clearness of detail, that Amasis
had deceived both Nitetis and himself. He cursed the dead king and
furiously demanded to be taken to the temple of Neith, where his mummy
was laid. There he tore the embalmed body out of its sarcophagus, caused
it to be scourged, to be stabbed with pins, had the hair torn off and
maltreated it in every possible way. In conclusion, and contrary to the
ancient Persian religious law, which held the pollution of pure fire by
corpses to be a deadly sin, he caused Amasis' dead body to be burnt,
and condemned the mummy of his first wife, which lay in a sarcophagus at
Thebes, her native place, to the same fate.
On his return to Memphis, Cambyses did not shrink from personally
ill-treating his wife and sister, Atossa.
He had ordered a combat of wild beasts to take place, during which,
amongst other entertainments of the same kind, a dog was to fight with a
young lion. The lion had conquered his antagonist, when another dog, the
brother of the conquered one, broke away from his chain, attacked the
lion, and with the help of the wounded dog, vanquished him.
This scene delighted Cambyses, but Kassandane and Atossa, who had been
forced by the king's command to be present, began to weep aloud.
The tyrant was astonished, and on asking the reason for their tears,
received as answer from the impetuous Atossa, that the brave creature
who had risked its own life to save its brother, reminded her of Bartja.
She would not say by whom he had been murdered, but his murder had never
been avenged.
These words so roused the king's anger, and so goaded his conscience,
that in a fit of insane fury he struck the daring woman, and might
possibly have killed her, if his mother had not thrown herself into his
arms and exposed her own body to his mad blows.
Her voice and action checked his rage, for he had not lost reverence for
his mother; but her look of intense anger and contempt, which he
clearly saw and could not forget, begot a fresh delusion in his mind.
He believed from that moment, that the eyes of women had power to poison
him; he started and hid himself behind his companions whenever he saw
a woman, and at last commanded that all the female inhabitants of the
palace at Memphis, his mother not excepted, should be sent back to
Ecbatana. Araspes and Gyges were appointed to be their escort thither.
......................
The caravan of queens and princesses had arrived at Sais; they alighted
at the royal palace. Croesus had accompanied them thus far on their way
from Egypt.
Kassandane had altered very much during the last few years. Grief and
suffering had worn deep lines in her once beautiful face, though they
had had no power to bow her stately figure.
Atossa, on the contrary, was more beautiful than ever, notwithstanding
all she had suffered. The refractory and impetuous child, the daring
spirited girl, had developed into a dignified, animated and determined
woman. The serious side of life, and three sad years passed with her
ungovernable husband and brother, had been first-rate masters in the
school of patience, but they had not been able to alienate her heart
from her first love. Sappho's friendship had made up to her in some
measure for the loss of Darius.
The young Greek had become another creature, since the mysterious
departure of her husband. Her rosy color and her lovely smile were both
gone. But she was wonderfully beautiful, in spite of her paleness, her
downcast eyelashes and languid attitude. She looked like Ariadne waiting
for Theseus. Longing and expectation lay in every look, in the low tone
of her voice, in her measured walk. At the sound of approaching steps,
the opening of a door or the unexpected tones of a man's voice, she
would start, get up and listen, and then sink back into the old waiting,
longing attitude, disappointed but not hopeless. She began to dream
again, as she had been so fond of doing in her girlish days.
She was her old self only when playing with her child. Then the color
came back to her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, she seemed once more to live
in the present, and not only in the past or future.
Her child was everything to her. In that little one Bartja seemed to
be still alive, and she could love the child with all her heart and
strength, without taking one iota from her love to him. With this little
creature the gods had mercifully given her an aim in life and a link
with the lower world, the really precious part of which had seemed to
vanish with her vanished husband. Sometimes, as she looked into her
baby's blue eyes, so wonderfully like Bartja's, she thought: Why was
not she born a boy? He would have grown more like his father from day to
day, and at last, if such a thing indeed could ever be, a second Bartja
would have stood before me.
But such thoughts generally ended soon in her pressing the little one
closer than ever to her heart, and blaming herself for ingratitude and
folly.
One day Atossa put the same idea in words, exclaiming: "If Parmys were
only a boy! He would have grown up exactly like his father, and have
been a second Cyrus for Persia." Sappho smiled sadly at her friend, and
covered the little one with kisses, but Kassandane said: "Be thankful
to the gods, my child, for having given you a daughter. If Parmys were
a boy, he would be taken from you as soon as he had reached his sixth
year, to be brought up with the sons of the other Achaemenidae, but your
daughter will remain your own for many years."
Sappho trembled at the mere thought of parting from her child; she
pressed its little fair curly head close to her breast, and never found,
fault with her treasure again for being a girl.
Atossa's friendship was a great comfort to her poor wounded heart. With
her she could speak of Bartja as much and as often as she would, and was
always certain of a kind and sympathizing listener. Atossa had loved
her vanished brother very dearly. And even a stranger would have enjoyed
hearing Sappho tell of her past happiness. Her words rose into real
eloquence in speaking of those bright days; she seemed like an inspired
poetess. Then she would take her lyre, and with her clear, sweet,
plaintive voice sing the love-songs of the elder Sappho, in which all
her own deepest feelings were so truly expressed, and fancy herself
once more with her lover sitting under the sweet-scented acanthus in the
quiet night, and forget the sad reality of her present life. And when,
with a deep sigh, she laid aside the lyre and came back out of this
dream-kingdom, the tears were always to be seen in Kassandane's eyes,
though she did not understand the language in which Sappho had been
singing, and Atossa would bend down and kiss her forehead.
Thus three long years had passed, during which Sappho had seldom seen
her grandmother, for, as the mother of Parmys, she was by the king's
command, forbidden to leave the harem, unless permitted and accompanied
either by Kassandane or the eunuchs.
On the present occasion Croesus, who had always loved, and loved her
still, like a daughter, had sent for Rhodopis to Sais. He, as well as
Kassandane, understood her wish to take leave of this, her dearest
and most faithful friend, before setting out for Persia; besides which
Kassandane had a great wish to see one in whose praise she had heard so
much. When Sappho's tender and sad farewell was over therefore, Rhodopis
was summoned to the queen-mother.
A stranger, who saw these two women together, would have thought both
were queens; it was impossible to decide which of the two had most right
to the title.
Croesus, standing as he did in as close a relation to the one as to the
other, undertook the office of interpreter, and the ready intellect of
Rhodopis helped him to carry on an uninterrupted flow of conversation.
Rhodopis, by her own peculiar attractions, soon won the heart of
Kassandane, and the queen knew no better way of proving this than by
offering, in Persian fashion, to grant her some wish.
Rhodopis hesitated a moment; then raising her hands as if in prayer, she
cried: "Leave me my Sappho, the consolation and beauty of my old age."
Kassandane smiled sadly. "It is not in my power to grant that wish,"
she answered. "The laws of Persia command, that the children of the
Achaemenidae shall be brought up at the king's gate. I dare not allow
the little Parmys, Cyrus' only grandchild, to leave me, and, much as
Sappho loves you, you know she would not part from her child. Indeed,
she has become so dear to me now, and to my daughter, that though I well
understand your wish to have her, I could never allow Sappho to leave
us."
Seeing that Rhodopis' eyes were filling with tears, Kassandane went on:
"There is, however, a good way out of our perplexity. Leave Naukratis,
and come with us to Persia. There you can spend your last years with
us and with your granddaughter, and shall be provided with a royal
maintenance."
Rhodopis shook her head, hoary but still so beautiful, and answered in
a suppressed voice: "I thank you, noble queen, for this gracious
invitation, but I feel unable to accept it. Every fibre of my heart
is rooted in Greece, and I should be tearing my life out by leaving it
forever. I am so accustomed to constant activity, perfect freedom, and
a stirring exchange of thought, that I should languish and die in the
confinement of a harem. Croesus had already prepared me for the gracious
proposal you have just made, and I have had a long and difficult battle
to fight, before I could decide on resigning my dearest blessing for my
highest good. It is not easy, but it is glorious, it is more worthy of
the Greek name--to live a good and beautiful life, than a happy one--to
follow duty rather than pleasure. My heart will follow Sappho, but my
intellect and experience belong to the Greeks; and if you should ever
hear that the people of Hellas are ruled by themselves alone, by their
own gods, their own laws, the beautiful and the good, then you will know
that the work on which Rhodopis, in league with the noblest and best of
her countrymen, has staked her life, is accomplished. Be not angry
with the Greek woman, who confesses that she would rather die free as
a beggar than live in bondage as a queen, though envied by the whole
world."
Kassandane listened in amazement. She only understood part of what
Rhodopis had said, but felt that she had spoken well and nobly, and
at the conclusion gave her her hand to kiss. After a short pause,
Kassandane said: "Do what you think right, and remember, that as long as
I and my daughter live, your granddaughter will never want for true and
faithful love."
"Your noble countenance and the fame of your great virtue are warrant
enough for that." answered Rhodopis.
"And also," added the queen, "the duty which lies upon me to make good
the wrong, that has been done your Sappho."
She sighed painfully and went on: "The little Parmys shall be carefully
educated. She seems to have much natural talent, and can sing the songs
of her native country already after her mother. I shall do nothing to
check her love of music, though, in Persia the religious services are
the only occasions in which that art is studied by any but the lower
classes."
At these words Rhodopis' face glowed. "Will you permit me to speak
openly, O Queen?" she said. "Speak without fear," was Kassandane's
answer. "When you sighed so painfully just now in speaking of your dear
lost son, I thought: Perhaps that brave young hero might have been still
living, if the Persians had understood better how to educate their sons.
Bartja told me in what that education consisted. To shoot, throw the
spear, ride, hunt, speak the truth, and perhaps also to distinguish
between the healing and noxious properties of certain plants: that is
deemed a sufficient educational provision for a man's life. The Greek
boys are just as carefully kept to the practice of exercises for
hardening and bracing the body; for these exercises are the founders and
preservers of health, the physician is only its repairer and restorer.
If, however, by constant practice a Greek youth were to attain to the
strength of a bull, the truth of the Deity, and the wisdom of the most
learned Egyptian priest, we should still look down upon him were he
wanting in two things which only early example and music, combined with
these bodily exercises, can give: grace and symmetry. You smile because
you do not understand me, but I can prove to you that music, which, from
what Sappho tells me, is not without its moving power for your heart, is
as important an element in education as gymnastics, and, strange as it
may sound, has an equal share in effecting the perfection of both body
and mind. The man who devotes his attention exclusively to music will,
if he be of a violent disposition, lose his savage sternness at first;
he will become gentle and pliable as metal in the fire. But at last his
courage will disappear too; his passionate temper will have changed into
irritability, and he will be of little worth as a warrior, the calling
and character most desired in your country. If, on the other hand, he
confines himself to gymnastics only, he will, like Cambyses, excel in
manliness and strength; but his mind--here my comparison ceases--will
remain obtuse and blind, his perceptions will be confused, He will not
listen to reason, but will endeavor to carry everything by force, and,
lacking grace and proportion, his life will probably become a succession
of rude and violent deeds. On this account we conclude that music is
necessary not only for the mind, and gymnastics not only for the
body, but that both, working together, elevate and soften the mind and
strengthen the body--give manly grace, and graceful manliness."
[The fundamental ideas of this speech are drawn from
Plato's ideal "State."]
After a moment's pause Rhodopis went on: "The youth who has not received
such an education, whose roughness has never been checked even in
childhood, who has been allowed to vent his temper on every one,
receiving flattery in return and never hearing reproof; who has been
allowed to command before he has learnt to obey, and who has been
brought up in the belief that splendor, power and riches are the highest
good, can never possibly attain to the perfect manhood, which we beseech
the gods to grant our boys. And if this unfortunate being happens to
have been born with an impetuous disposition, ungovernable and eager
passions, these will be only nourished and increased by bodily exercise
unaccompanied by the softening influence of music, so that at last
a child, who possibly came into the world with good qualities,
will, merely through the defects in his education, degenerate into a
destructive animal, a sensual self-destroyer, and a mad and furious
tyrant."
Rhodopis had become animated with her subject. She ceased, saw tears
in the eyes of the queen, and felt that she had gone too far and had
wounded a mother's heart,--a heart full of noble feeling. She touched
her robe, kissed its border, and said softly: "Forgive me."
Kassandane looked her forgiveness, courteously saluted Rhodopis and
prepared to leave the room. On the threshold, however, she stopped
and said: "I am not angry. Your reproaches are just; but you too must
endeavor to forgive, for I can assure you that he who has murdered the
happiness of your child and of mine, though the most powerful, is of all
mortals the most to be pitied. Farewell! Should you ever stand in need
of ought, remember Cyrus' widow, and how she wished to teach you, that
the virtues the Persians desire most in their children are magnanimity
and liberality."
After saying this she left the apartment.
On the same day Rhodopis heard that Phanes was dead. He had retired to
Crotona in the neighborhood of Pythagoras and there passed his time in
reflection, dying with the tranquillity of a philosopher.
She was deeply affected at this news and said to Croesus: "Greece has
lost one of her ablest men, but there are many, who will grow up to be
his equals. The increasing power of Persia causes me no fear; indeed, I
believe that when the barbarous lust of conquest stretches out its hand
towards us, our many-headed Greece will rise as a giant with one head of
divine power, before which mere barbaric strength must bow as surely as
body before spirit."
Three days after this, Sappho said farewell for the last time to her
grandmother, and followed the queens to Persia. Notwithstanding the
events which afterwards took place, she continued to believe that Bartja
would return, and full of love, fidelity and tender remembrance, devoted
herself entirely to the education of her child and the care of her aged
mother-in-law, Kassandane.
Little Parmys became very beautiful, and learnt to love the memory
of her vanished father next to the gods of her native land, for her
mother's tales had brought him as vividly before her as if he had been
still alive and present with them.
Atossa's subsequent good fortune and happiness did not cool her
friendship. She always called Sappho her sister. The hanging-gardens
were the latter's residence in summer, and in her conversations there
with Kassandane and Atossa one name was often mentioned--the name of
her, who had been the innocent cause of events which had decided the
destinies of great kingdoms and noble lives--the Egyptian Princess.