After the grammateus had retired, Daphne insisted upon leaving Tennis
the next day.
The desire to see Hermon’s masterpiece drew her back to Alexandria even
more strongly than the knowledge of being missed by her father.
Only the separation from Thyone rendered the departure difficult, for
the motherless girl had found in her something for which she had long
yearned, and most sorely missed in her companion Chrysilla, who from
expediency approved of everything she did or said.
The matron, too, had become warmly attached to Daphne, and would gladly
have done all that lay in her power to lighten Hermon’s sad fate, yet
she persisted in her determination to return speedily to her old husband
in Pelusium.
But she did not fully realize how difficult this departure would be
for her until the blind man, after a long silence, asked whether it was
night, if the stars were in the sky, and if she really intended to leave
him.
Then burning sympathy filled her compassionate soul, and she could no
longer restrain her tears. Daphne, too, covered her face, and imposed
the strongest restraint upon herself that she might not sob aloud.
So it seemed a boon to both when Hermon expressed the desire to spend
part of the night on deck.
This desire contained a summons to action, and to be able to bestir
themselves in useful service appeared like a favour to Thyone and
Daphne.
Without calling upon a slave, a female servant, or even Chrysilla for
the smallest office, the two prepared a couch on deck for the blind man,
and, leaning on the girl’s stronger arm, he went up into the open air.
There he stretched both arms heavenward, inhaled deep breaths of the
cool night breeze, and thirstily emptied the goblet of wine which Daphne
mixed and gave him with her own hand.
Then, with a sigh of relief, he said: “Everything has not grown black
yet. A delightful feeling of pleasure takes possession even of the blind
man when the open air refreshes him and the wine warms his blood in the
sunshine of your kindness.”
“And much better things are still in prospect,” Daphne assured him.
“Just think what rapture it will be when you are permitted to see the
light again after so long a period of darkness!”
“When--” repeated Hermon, his head drooping as he spoke.
“It must, it must be so!” rang with confident assurance from Thyone’s
lips.
“And then,” added Daphne, gazing sometimes upward to the firmament
strewn with shining stars, sometimes across the broad, rippling expanse
of the water, in which the reflection of the heavenly bodies shimmered
in glittering, silvery radiance, “yes, Hermon, who would not be glad to
exchange with you then? You may shake your head, but I would take your
place quickly and with joyous courage. There is a proof of the existence
of the gods, which so exactly suits the hour when you will again see,
enjoy, admire what this dreary darkness now hides from you. It was a
philosopher who used it; I no longer know which one. How often I have
thought of it since this cruel misfortune befell you! And now--”
“Go on,” Hermon interrupted with a smile of superiority. “You are
thinking of Aristotle’s man who grew up in a dark cave. The conditions
which must precede the devout astonishment of the liberated youth when
he first emerged into the light and the verdant world would certainly
exist in me.”
“Oh, not in that way,” pleaded the wounded girl; and Thyone exclaimed:
“What is the story of the man you mention? We don’t talk about Aristotle
and such subjects in Pelusium.”
“Perhaps they are only too much discussed in Alexandria,” said the
blind artist. “The Stagirite, as you have just heard, seeks to prove the
existence of the gods by the man of whom I spoke.”
“No, he does prove it,” protested Daphne. “Just listen, Mother Thyone. A
little boy grows up from earliest childhood into a youth in a dark cave.
Then suddenly its doors are opened to him. For the first time he sees
the sun, moon, and stars, flowers and trees, perhaps even a beautiful
human face. But at the moment when all these things rush upon him like
so many incomprehensible marvels, must he not ask himself who created
all this magnificence? And the answer which comes to him--”
“There is only one,” cried the matron; “the omnipotent gods. Do you
shrug your shoulders at that, son of the pious Erigone? Why, of course!
The child who still feels the blows probably rebels against his earthly
father. But if I see aright, the resentment will not last when you, like
the man, go out of the cave and your darkness also passes away. Then the
power from which you turned defiantly will force itself upon you, and
you will raise your hands in grateful prayer to the rescuing divinity.
As to us women, we need not be drawn out of a cave to recognise it.
A mother who reared three stalwart sons--I will say nothing of the
daughters--can not live without them. Why are they so necessary to her?
Because we love our children twice as much as ourselves, and the danger
which threatens them alarms the poor mother’s heart thrice as much as
her own. Then it needs the helping powers. Even though they often refuse
their aid, we may still be grateful for the expectation of relief. I
have poured forth many prayers for the three, I assure you, and after
doing so with my whole soul, then, my son, no matter how wildly the
storm had raged within my breast, calmness returned, and Hope again
took her place at the helm. In the school of the denier of the gods, you
forgot the immortals above and depended on yourself alone. Now you need
a guide, or even two or three of them, in order to find the way. If your
mother were still alive, you would run back to her to hide your face in
her lap. But she is dead, and if I were as proud as you, before clasping
the sustaining hand of another mortal I would first try whether one
would not be voluntarily extended from among the Olympians. If I were
you, I would begin with Demeter, whom you honoured by so marvellous a
work.”
Hermon waved his hand as if brushing away a troublesome fly, exclaiming
impatiently: “The gods, always the gods! I know by my own mother,
Thyone, what you women are, though I was only seven years old when I was
bereft of her by the same powers that you call good and wise, and who
have also robbed me of my eyesight, my friend, and all else that was
dear. I thank you for your kind intention, and you, too, Daphne, for
recalling the beautiful allegory. How often we have argued over its
meaning! If we continued the discussion, perhaps it might pleasantly
shorten the next few hours, which I dread as I do my whole future
existence, but I should be obliged in the outset to yield the victory to
you. The great Herophilus is right when he transfers the seat of thought
from the heart to the head. What a wild tumult is raging here behind my
brow, and how one voice drowns another! The medley baffles description.
I could more easily count with my blind eyes the cells in a honeycomb
than refute with my bewildered brain even one shrewd objection. It seems
to me that we need our eyes to understand things. We certainly do to
taste. Whatever I eat and drink--langustae and melons, light Mareotic
wine and the dark liquor of Byblus my tongue can scarcely distinguish
it. The leech assures me that this will pass away, but until the chaos
within merges into endurable order there is nothing better for me than
solitude and rest, rest, rest.”
“We will not deny them to you,” replied Thyone, glancing significantly
at Daphne. “Proclus’s enthusiastic judgment was sincerely meant. Begin
by rejoicing over it in the inmost depths of your heart, and vividly
imagining what a wealth of exquisite joys will be yours through your
last masterpiece.”
“Willingly, if I can,” replied the blind man, gratefully extending his
hand. “If I could only escape the doubt whether the most cruel tyrant
could devise anything baser than to rob the artist, the very person to
whom it is everything, of his sight.”
“Yes, it is terrible,” Daphne assented. “Yet it seems to me that a
richer compensation for the lost gift is at the disposal of you artists
than of us other mortals, for you understand how to look with the eyes
of the soul. With them you retain what you have seen, and illumine it
with a special radiance. Homer was blind, and for that very reason, I
think, the world and life became clear and transfigured for him though a
veil concealed both from his physical vision.”
“The poet!” Hermon exclaimed. “He draws from his own soul what sight,
and sight alone, brings to us sculptors. And, besides, his spirit
remained free from the horrible darkness that assailed mine. Joy itself,
Daphne, has lost its illuminating power within. What, girl, what is to
become of the heart in which even hope was destroyed?”
“Defend it manfully and keep up your courage,” she answered softly;
but he pressed her hand firmly, and, in order not to betray how
self-compassion was melting his own soul, burst forth impetuously: “Say
rather: Crush the wish whose fulfilment is self-humiliation! I will go
back to Alexandria. Even the blind and crippled can find ways to earn
their bread there. Now grant me rest, and leave me alone!”
Thyone drew the girl away with her into the ship’s cabin.
A short time after, the steward Gras went to Hermon to entreat him to
yield to Thyone’s entreaties and leave the deck.
The leech had directed the sufferer to protect himself from draughts
and dampness, and the cool night mists were rising more and more densely
from the water.
Hermon doubtless felt them, but the thought of returning to the close
cabin was unendurable. He fancied that his torturing thoughts would
stifle him in the gloom where even fresh air was denied him.
He allowed the careful Bithynian to throw a coverlet over him and draw
the hood of his cloak over his head, but his entreaties and warnings
were futile.
The steward’s watchful nursing reminded Hermon of his own solicitude
for his friend and of his faithful slave Bias, both of whom he had lost.
Then he remembered the eulogy of the grammateus, and it brought up the
question whether Myrtilus would have agreed with him. Like Proclus, his
keen-sighted and honest friend had called Daphne the best model for the
kindly goddess. He, too, had given to his statue the features of the
daughter of Archias, and admitted that he had been less successful. But
the figure! Perhaps he, Hermon, in his perpetual dissatisfaction with
himself had condemned his own work too severely, but that it lacked the
proper harmony had escaped neither Myrtilus nor himself. Now he recalled
the whole creation to his remembrance, and its weaknesses forced
themselves upon him so strongly and objectionably that the extravagant
praise of the stern critic awakened fresh doubts in his mind.
Yet a man like the grammateus, who on the morrow or the day following it
would be obliged to repeat his opinion before the King and the judges,
certainly would not have allowed himself to be carried away by mere
compassion to so great a falsification of his judgment.
Or was he himself sharing the experience of many a fellow-artist? How
often the creator deceived himself concerning the value of his own work!
He had expected the greatest success from his Polyphemus hurling the
rock at Odysseus escaping in the boat, and a gigantic smith had posed
for a model. Yet the judges had condemned it in the severest manner as
a work far exceeding the bounds of moderation, and arousing positive
dislike. The clay figure had not been executed in stone or metal, and
crumbled away. The opposite would probably now happen with the Demeter.
Her bending attitude had seemed to him daring, nay, hazardous; but the
acute critic Proclus had perceived that it was in accord with one of
Daphne’s habits, and therefore numbered it among the excellences of the
statue.
If the judges who awarded the prize agreed with the verdict of the
grammateus, he must accustom himself to value his own work higher,
perhaps even above that of Myrtilus.
But was this possible?
He saw his friend’s Demeter as though it was standing before him, and
again he recognised in it the noblest masterpiece its maker had ever
created. What praise this marvellous work would have deserved if his own
really merited such high encomiums!
Suddenly an idea came to him, which at first he rejected as
inconceivable; but it would not allow itself to be thrust aside, and its
consideration made his breath fail.
What if his own Demeter had been destroyed and Myrtilus’s statue saved?
If the latter was falsely believed to be his work, then Proclus’s
judgment was explained--then--then---
Seized by a torturing anguish, he groaned aloud, and the steward Gras
inquired what he wanted.
Hermon hastily grasped the Bithynian’s arm, and asked what he knew about
the rescue of his statue.
The answer was by no means satisfying. Gras had only heard that, after
being found uninjured in his studio, it had been dragged with great
exertion into the open air. The goldsmith Chello had directed the work.
Hermon remembered all this himself, yet, with an imperious curtness in
marked contrast to his usual pleasant manner to this worthy servant, he
hoarsely commanded him to bring Chello to him early the next morning,
and then again relapsed into his solitary meditations.
If the terrible conjecture which had just entered his mind should be
confirmed, no course remained save to extinguish the only new light
which now illumined the darkness of his night, or to become a cheat.
Yet his resolution was instantly formed. If the goldsmith corroborated
his fear, he would publicly attribute the rescued work to the man who
created it. And he persisted in this intention, indignantly silencing
the secret voice which strove to shake it. It temptingly urged that
Myrtilus, so rich in successes, needed no new garland. His lost sight
would permit him, Hermon, from reaping fresh laurels, and his friend
would so gladly bestow this one upon him. But he angrily closed his
ears to these enticements, and felt it a humiliation that they dared to
approach him.
With proud self-reliance he threw back his head, saying to himself that,
though Myrtilus should permit him ten times over to deck him self with
his feathers, he would reject them. He would remain himself, and was
conscious of possessing powers which perhaps surpassed his friend’s.
He was as well qualified to create a genuine work of art as the best
sculptor, only hitherto the Muse had denied him success in awakening
pleasure, and blindness would put an end to creating anything of his
own.
The more vividly he recalled to memory his own work and his friend’s,
the more probable appeared his disquieting supposition.
He also saw Myrtilus’s figure before him, and in imagination heard his
friend again promise that, with the Arachne, he would wrest the prize
even from him.
During the terrible events of the last hours he had thought but seldom
and briefly of the weaver, whom it had seemed a rare piece of good
fortune to be permitted to represent. Now the remembrance of her took
possession of his soul with fresh power.
The image of Arachne illumined by the lamplight, which Althea had showed
him, appeared like worthless jugglery, and he soon drove it back into
the darkness which surrounded him. Ledscha’s figure, however, rose
before him all the more radiantly. The desire to possess her had flown
to the four winds; but he thought he had never before beheld anything
more peculiar, more powerful, or better worth modelling than the
Biamite girl as he saw her in the Temple of Nemesis, with uplifted hand,
invoking the vengeance of the goddess upon him, and there--he discovered
it now--Daphne was not at all mistaken. Images never presented
themselves as distinctly to those who could see as to the blind man
in his darkness. If he was ever permitted to receive his sight, what a
statue of the avenging goddess he could create from this greatest event
in the history of his vision!
After this work--of that he was sure--he would no longer need the
borrowed fame which, moreover, he rejected with honest indignation.