Elenko soon found that there was no pausing upon the path to which she
had committed herself. As the sole medium of communication between
Prometheus and the religious public, her time was half spent in
instructing Prometheus in the creed in which he was supposed to have
instructed her, and half in framing the edifying sentences which passed
for the interpretation of discourses for the most part far more
interesting to herself than if they had been what they professed to be.
The rapt and impassioned attention which she was observed to bestow on
his utterances on such occasions all but gained her the reputation of a
saint, and was accepted as a sufficient set-off against the unhallowed
affection which she could not help manifesting for the memory of her
father. The judicious reluctance of the Caucasian ecclesiastics to
inquire over-anxiously into the creeds and customs of the primitive
Church was a great help to her; and another difficulty was removed by
the Bishop, who, having no idea of encouraging a rival thaumaturgist,
took an early opportunity of signifying that it was rather in the line
of Desmotes (for by this name the new saint passed) to be the subject
than the instrument of miracles, and that, at all events, no more were
to be looked for from him at his time of life. The warmth with which
Elenko espoused this view raised her greatly in his good opinion, and
he was always ready to come to her aid when she became entangled in
chronological or historical difficulties, or seasoned her versions of
Desmotes’ speeches with reminiscences of Plato or Marcus Aurelius, or
when her invention failed altogether. On such occasions, if objectors
grew troublesome, the Bishop would thunder, “Brethren, I smell a
heresy!” and no more was said. One minor trouble both to Prometheus and
Elenko was the affection they were naturally expected to manifest
towards the carcase of the wretched eagle, which many identified with
the eagle of the Evangelist John. Prometheus was of a forgiving
disposition, but Elenko wished nothing more ardently than that the
whole aquiline race might have but one neck, and that she might wring
it. It somewhat comforted her to observe that the eagle’s plumage was
growing thin, while the eagle’s custodian was growing fat.
But she had worse troubles to endure than any that eagles could
occasion. The youth of those who resorted to her and Prometheus
attracted remark from the graver members of the community. Young ladies
found the precepts of the handsome and dignified saint indispensable to
their spiritual health; young men were charmed with their purity as
they came filtered through the lips of Elenko. Is man more conceited
than woman, or more confiding? Elenko should certainly have been at
ease; no temptress, however enterprising, could well be spreading her
nets for an Antony three hundred years old. Prometheus, on the
contrary, might have found cause for jealousy in many a noble youth’s
unconcealed admiration of Elenko. Yet he seemed magnificently
unconscious of any cause for apprehension, while Elenko’s heart swelled
till it was like to burst. She had the further satisfaction of knowing
herself the best hated woman in Caucasia, between the enmity of those
of whose admirers she had made an involuntary conquest, and of those
who found her standing between them and Prometheus. Her monopoly of
Greek, she felt sure, was her only security. Two constant attendants at
Prometheus’s receptions particularly alarmed her, the Princess Miriam,
niece of the Bishop, a handsome widow accustomed to have things as she
wished them; and a tall veiled woman who seemed unknown to all, but
whose unseen eyes, she instinctively knew, were never averted from the
unconscious Prometheus.
It was therefore with some trepidation that she received a summons to
the private apartment of the Princess Miriam.
“Dear friend,” the Princess began, “thou knowest the singular affection
which I have invariably entertained for thee.”
“Right well do I know it,” responded Elenko. (“The thirty-first lie
to-day,” she added wearily to herself.)
“It is this affection, dear friend,” continued the Princess, “which
induces me on the present occasion to transgress the limits of
conventional propriety, and make a communication distressing to thee,
but infinitely more so to myself.”
Elenko implored the Princess to make no such sacrifice in the cause of
friendship, but the great lady was resolute.
“People say,” she continued—
“What say they?”
“That thy relation to Desmotes is indiscreet. That it is equivocal.
That it is offensive. That it is sacrilegious. That, in a word, it is
improper.”
Elenko defended herself with as much energy as her candour would allow.
“Dear friend,” said the Princess, “thou dost not imagine that I have
part or lot in these odious imputations? Even could I deem them true,
should I not think charitably of thee, but yesterday a heathen, and
educated in impiety by a foul sorcerer? My poor lamb! But tongues must
be stopped, and I have now to advise thee how this may be
accomplished.”
“Say on.”
“People will always talk so long as thou art the sole medium of
communication with the holy man. Some deem him less ignorant of our
speech than he seems, but concerning this I inquire not: for, in
society, what seems, is. Enough that thy colloquies expose thee to
scandal. There is but one remedy. Thou must yield thy place to another.
It is meet that thou forthwith instruct in that barbarous dialect some
matron of unblemished repute and devout aspirations; no mere ignorant
devotee, however, but a woman of the world, whose prudence and
experience may preserve the holy man from the pitfalls set for him by
the unprincipled. Manifestly she must be a married person, else nought
were gained, yet must she not be chargeable with forsaking her duties
towards her husband and children. It follows that she must be a widow.
It were also well that she should be of kin to some influential
personage, to whose counsel she might have recourse in times of
difficulty, and whose authority might protect her against the
slanderous and evil disposed. I have not been able to meet any one
endowed with all these qualifications, excepting myself. I therefore
propose to thee that thou shouldst instruct me in the speech of
Desmotes, and when I am qualified to take thy place my uncle shall
elevate thee to the dignity of Abbess, or bestow thee upon some young
clergyman of extraordinary desert.”
Elenko intimated, perhaps with more warmth than necessary, her aversion
to both propositions, and the extreme improbability of the Princess
ever acquiring any knowledge of Greek by her instrumentality.
“If this is the case,” said the Princess, with perfect calmness, “I
must have recourse to my other method, which is infallible.”
Elenko inquired what it might be.
“I shall represent to my uncle, what indeed he very well knows, that a
saint is, properly speaking, of no value till he is dead. Not until his
decease are his relics available, or pilgrimages to his shrine
feasible. It is solely in anticipation of this event that my uncle is
keeping Desmotes at all; and the sooner it comes to pass, the sooner
will my revered relative come by his own. Only think of the capital
locked up in the new church, now so nearly completed, on the spot where
they picked up the eagle! How shall it be dedicated to Desmotes in
Desmotes’ lifetime? Were it not a most blissful and appropriate
coincidence if the day of the consecration were that of the saint’s
migration to a better world? I shall submit this view of the case to my
uncle: he is accustomed to hear reason from me, of whom, between
ourselves, he is not a little afraid. Thou mayest rely upon it that
about the time of the consecration Desmotes will ascend to heaven;
while thou, it is gravely to be feared, wilt proceed in the opposite
direction. Would’st thou avert this unpleasantness, think well of my
first proposal. I give thee credit for loving Desmotes, and suppose,
therefore, that thou wilt make some sacrifice for his sake. I am a
Kettle, thou art a Pot. Take heed how thou knockest against me!”
Elenko sped back to bear tidings of the threatened collision to
Prometheus. As she approached his chamber she heard with astonishment
two voices in eager conversation, and discovered with still greater
amazement that their dialogue was carried on in Greek. The second
speaker, moreover, was evidently a female. A jealous pang shot through
Elenko’s breast; she looked cautiously in, and discerned the same
mysterious veiled woman whose demeanour had already been an enigma to
her. But the veil was thrown back, and the countenance went far to
allay Elenko’s disquiet. It bore indeed traces of past beauty, but was
altogether that of one who had known better days; worn and faded, weary
and repining. Elenko’s jealousy vanished, though her surprise
redoubled, when she heard Prometheus address the stranger as “Sister.”
“A pretty brother I have got,” rejoined the lady, in high sharp tones:
“to leave me in want! Never once to inquire after me!”
“Nay, sister, or sister-in-law,” responded Prometheus, “if it comes to
that, where were you while I was on Caucasus? The Oceanides ministered
to me, Hermes came now and then, even Hercules left a card; but I never
saw Pandora.”
“How could I compromise Epimetheus, Prometheus?” demanded Pandora.
“Besides, my attendant Hope was always telling me that all would come
right, without any meddling of mine.”
“Let her tell you so now,” retorted Prometheus.
“Tell me now! Do you pretend not to know that the hussey forsook
Olympus ten years ago, and has turned Christian?”
“I am sure I am very sorry to hear it. Somehow, she never forsook _me_.
I can’t imagine how you Gods get on without her.”
“Get on! We are getting off. Except Eros and Plutus, who seem as usual,
and the old Fates, who go on spinning as if nothing had happened, none
of us expects to last for another ten years. The sacrifices have
dwindled down to nothing. Zeus has put down his eagle. Hera has eaten
her peacocks. Apollo’s lyre is never heard—pawned, no doubt. Bacchus
drinks water, and Venus—well, you can imagine how she gets on without
him and Ceres. And here you are, sleek and comfortable, and never
troubling yourself about your family. But you had better, or I swear I
will tell Zeus; and we shall see whether these Christians will keep you
with your ante-chamber full of starving gods. Take a day to think of
what I have been saying!”
And away she flounced, not noticing Elenko. Long and earnestly did the
pair discuss the perils that menaced them, and at the end of their
deliberations Elenko sought the Bishop, and briefly imparted the
Princess Miriam’s ultimatum.
“It is painful to a spiritual man,” replied the prelate, “to be
accessory to a murder. It is also repugnant to his feelings to deny a
beloved niece anything on which she has set her heart. To avoid such
grievous dilemma, I judge it well that ye both ascend to heaven without
further ceremony.”
That night the ascent of Prometheus and Elenko was witnessed by divers
credible persons. The new church was consecrated shortly afterwards. It
was amply stored with relics from the wardrobe of Prometheus and what
remained of the eagle. The damsels of the capital regained their
admirers, and those who had become enamoured of Prometheus mostly
transferred their affections to the Bishop. Everybody was satisfied
except the Princess Miriam, who never ceased to deplore her indulgence
in giving Elenko the chance of first speech with her uncle.
“If I had been five minutes beforehand with the minx!” she said.