The sun of the following day had long passed its meridian when Hermon
at last woke. The steward Gras, who had grown gray in the service of
Archias, was standing beside the couch.
There was nothing in the round, beardless face of this well-fed yet
active man that could have attracted the artist, yet the quiet tones of
his deep voice recalled to memory the clear, steadfast gaze of his gray
eyes, from which so often, in former days, inviolable fidelity, sound
sense, caution, and prudence had looked forth at him.
What the blind man heard from Gras surprised him--nay, at first seemed
impossible. To sleep until the afternoon was something unprecedented for
his wakeful temperament; but what was he to say to the tidings that
the commandant of Pelusium had arrived in his state galley early in
the morning and taken his wife, Daphne, and Chrysilla away with him to
Alexandria?
Yet it sounded credible enough when the Bithynian further informed him
that the ladies had left messages of remembrance for him, and said that
Archias’s ship, upon which he was, would be at his disposal for any
length of time he might desire. Gras was commissioned to attend him. The
Lady Thyone especially desired him to heed her counsel.
While the steward was communicating this startling news as calmly as
if everything was a matter of course, the events of the preceding night
came back to Hermon’s memory with perfect distinctness, and again the
fear assailed him that the rescued Demeter was the work of Myrtilus, and
not his own.
So the first question he addressed to Gras concerned the Tennis
goldsmith, and it was a keen disappointment to Hermon when he learned
that the earliest time he could expect to see him would be the following
day. The skilful artisan had been engaged for weeks upon the gold
ornaments on the new doors of the holy of holies in the Temple of Amon
at Tanis. Urgent business had called him home from the neighbouring
city just before the night of the attack; but yesterday evening he had
returned to Tanis, where his wife said he would have only two days’ work
to do.
This answer, however, by no means appeased Hermon’s impatience.
He commanded that a special messenger should be sent to summon the
goldsmith, and the Bithynian received the order with a slight shake of
his round head.
What new trouble had befallen the usually alert young artist that he
received this unexpected change in his situation as apathetically as
a horse which is led from one stall to another, and, instead of
questioning him, thought only of hastening his interview with the
goldsmith? If his mistress, who had left him full of anxiety from the
fear that her departure would deeply agitate the blind man, should learn
how indifferently he had received it! He, Gras, certainly would not
betray it. Eternal gods--these artists! He knew them. Their work was
dearer to their hearts than their own lives, love, or friendship.
During breakfast, of which the steward was obliged to remind him, Hermon
pondered over his fate; but how could he attain any degree of clearness
of vision until he secured accurate information concerning the statue
of Demeter? Like a dark cloud, which sweeps over the starry sky and
prevents the astronomer from seeing the planets which he desires to
observe, the fear that Proclus’s praise had been bestowed upon the work
of Myrtilus stood between him and every goal of his thought.
Only the fact that he still remained blind, and not even the faintest
glimmer of light pierced the surrounding darkness, while the sun
continued its course with glowing radiance, and that, blinded and
beggared, he must despise himself if he sought to win Daphne, was
certain. No reflection could alter it.
Again the peace of mind which he thought he had regained during
slumber was destroyed. Fear of the artisan’s statement even rendered it
impossible to pray to his mother with the affectionate devotion he had
felt the day before.
The goldsmith had directed the rescue of the Demeter, yet he would
scarcely have been able to distinguish it from the statue by Myrtilus;
for though, like his friend, he had often employed his skilful hands in
the arrangement of the gold plates at the commencement of the work, the
Egyptian had been summoned to Tennis before the statues had attained
recognisable form. He had not entered the studios for several months,
unless Bias had granted him admittance without informing his master.
This was quite possible, for the slave’s keen eyes certainly had not
failed to notice how little he and Myrtilus valued the opinion of the
honest, skilful, but extremely practical and unimaginative man, who
could not create independently even the smallest detail.
So it was impossible to determine at present whether Chello had seen
the finished statues or not, yet Hermon desired the former with actual
fervour, that he might have positive certainty.
While reflecting over these matters, the image of the lean Egyptian
goldsmith, with his narrow, brown, smooth-shaven face and skull,
prominent cheek bones, receding brow, projecting ears and, with all
its keenness, lustreless glance, rose before him as if he could see
his bodily presence. Not a single word unconnected with his trade,
the weather, or an accident, had ever reached the friends’ ears from
Chello’s thick lips, and this circumstance seemed to warrant Hermon in
the expectation of learning from him the pure, unadulterated truth.
Rarely had a messenger of love been awaited with such feverish suspense
as the slave whom Gras had despatched to Tanis to induce the goldsmith
to return home. He might come soon after nightfall, and Hermon used the
interval to ask the Bithynian the questions which he had long expected.
The replies afforded little additional information. He learned only that
Philippus had been summoned to Alexandria by the King, and that the Lady
Thyone and her husband had talked with the leech and assented to his
opinion that it would be better for Hermon to wait here until the burns
on his face were healed before returning to Alexandria.
For Daphne’s sake this decision had undoubtedly been welcome to the
matron, and it pleased him also; for he still felt so ill physically,
and so agitated mentally, that he shrank from meeting his numerous
acquaintances in the capital.
The goldsmith! the goldsmith! It depended upon his decision whether he
would return to Alexandria at all.
Soon after Hermon had learned from Gras that the stars had risen, he
was informed that he must wait patiently for his interview with the
Egyptian, as he had been summoned to the capital that very day by a
messenger from Proclus.
Then the steward had fresh cause to marvel at his charge, for this news
aroused the most vehement excitement.
In fact, it afforded the prospect of a series--perhaps a long one--of
the most torturing days and nights. And the dreaded hours actually
came--nay, the anguish of uncertainty had become almost unendurable,
when, on the seventh day, the Egyptian at last returned from Alexandria.
They had seemed like weeks to Hermon, had made his face thinner, and
mingled the first silver hairs in his black beard.
The calls of the cheerful notary and the daily visits of the leech, an
elderly man, who had depressed rather than cheered him by informing him
of many cases like his own which all proved incurable, had been his sole
diversion. True, the heads of the Greek residents of Tennis had also
sometimes sought him: the higher government officials, the lessees of
the oil monopoly and the royal bank, as well as Gorgias, who, next to
Archias the Alexandrian, owned the largest weaving establishments, but
the tales of daily incidents with which they entertained Hermon
wearied him. He listened with interest only to the story of Ledscha’s
disappearance, yet he perceived, from the very slight impression it made
upon him, how little he had really cared for the Biamite girl.
His inquiries about Gula called down upon him many well-meant jests. She
was with her parents; while Taus, Ledscha’s young sister, was staying
at the brick-kiln, where the former had reduced the unruly slaves to
submission.
Care had been taken to provide for his personal safety, for the attack
might perhaps yet prove to have been connected with the jealousy of the
Biamite husbands.
The commandant of Pelusium had therefore placed a small garrison of
heavily armed soldiers and archers in Tennis, for whom tents had been
pitched on the site of the burned white house.
Words of command and signals for changing the guards often reached
Hermon when he was on the deck of his ship, and visitors praised the
wise caution and prompt action of Alexander the Great’s old comrade.
The notary, a vivacious man of fifty, who had lived a long time in
Alexandria and, asserting that he grew dull and withered in little
Tennis, went to the capital as frequently as possible, had often called
upon the sculptor at first, and been disposed to discuss art and the
other subjects dear to Hermon’s heart, but on the third day he again
set off for his beloved Alexandria. When saying farewell, he had been
unusually merry, and asked Hermon to send him away with good wishes
and offer sacrifices for the success of his business, since he hoped to
bring a valuable gift on his return from the journey.
The blind artist was glad to have other visits for a short time, but he
preferred to be alone and devote his thoughts to his own affairs.
He now knew that his love was genuine. Daphne seemed the very
incarnation of desirable, artless, heart-refreshing womanliness, but his
memory could not dwell with her long; anxiety concerning Chello’s report
only too quickly interrupted it, as soon as he yielded to its charm.
He did not think at all of the future. What was he to appoint for a time
which the words of a third person might render unendurable?
When Gras at last ushered in the goldsmith, his heart throbbed so
violently that it was difficult for him to find the words needed for the
questions he desired to ask.
The Egyptian had really been summoned to Alexandria by Proclus, not on
account of the Demeter, but the clasp said to belong to Myrtilus, found
amid the ruins of the fallen house, and he had been able to identify it
with absolute positiveness as the sculptor’s property.
He had been referred from one office to another, until finally the
Tennis notary and Proclus opened the right doors to him.
Now the importance of his testimony appeared, since the will of the
wealthy young sculptor could not be opened until his death was proved,
and the clasp which had been found aided in doing so.
Hermon’s question whether he had heard any particulars about this will
was answered by the cold-hearted, dull-brained man in the negative.
He had done enough, he said, by expressing his opinion. He had gone to
Alexandria unwillingly, and would certainly have stayed in Tennis if he
could have foreseen what a number of tiresome examinations he would
be obliged to undergo. He had been burning with impatience to quit the
place, on account of the important work left behind in Tanis, and he
did not even know whether he would be reimbursed for his travelling
expenses.
During this preliminary conversation Hermon gained the composure he
needed.
He began by ascertaining whether Chello remembered the interior
arrangement of the burned white house, and it soon appeared that he
recollected it accurately.
Then the blind man requested him to tell how the rescue of the statue
had been managed, and the account of the extremely prosaic artisan
described so clearly and practically how, on entering the burning
building, he found Myrtilus’s studio already inaccessible, but the
statue of Demeter in Hermon’s still uninjured, that the trustworthiness
of his story could not be doubted.
One circumstance only appeared strange, yet it was easily explained.
Instead of standing on the pedestal, the Demeter was beside it, and even
the slow-witted goldsmith inferred from this fact that the robbers had
intended to steal it and placed it on the floor for that purpose, but
were prevented from accomplishing their design by the interference of
Hermon and the people from Tennis.
After the Egyptian, in reply to the artist’s inquiry concerning what
other works of art and implements he had seen in the studio, had
answered that nothing else could be distinguished on account of the
smoke, he congratulated the sculptor on his last work. People were
already making a great stir about the new Demeter. It had been discussed
not only in the workshop of his brother, who, like himself, followed
their father’s calling, but also in the offices, at the harbour, in the
barbers’ rooms and the cookshops, and he, too, must admit that, for a
Greek goddess, that always lacked genuine, earnest dignity, it really
was a pretty bit of work.
Lastly, the Egyptian asked to whom he should apply for payment for the
remainder of his labour.
The strip of gold, from which Hermon had ordered the diadem to be made,
had attracted his attention on the head of his Demeter, and compensation
for the work upon this ornament was still due.
Hermon, deeply agitated, asked, with glowing cheeks, whether Chello
really positively remembered having prepared for him the gold diadem
which he had seen in Alexandria, and the Egyptian eagerly assured him
that he had done so. Hitherto he had found the sculptors honest men, and
Hermon would not withhold the payment for his well-earned toil.
The artist strenuously denied such an intention; but when, in his desire
to have the most absolute assurance, he again asked questions about the
diadem, the Egyptian thought that the blind sculptor doubted the justice
of his demand, and wrathfully insisted upon his claim, until Gras
managed to whisper, undetected by Hermon, that he would have the money
ready for him.
This satisfied the angry man. He honestly believed that he had prepared
the gold for the ornament on the head of the Demeter in Alexandria; yet
the statue chiselled by Myrtilus had also been adorned with a diadem,
and Chello had wrought the strip of gold it required. Only it had
escaped his memory, because he had been paid for the work immediately
after its delivery.
Glad to obey his mistress’s orders to settle at once any debts which the
artist might have in Tennis, the steward followed the goldsmith while
Hermon, seizing the huge goblet which had just been filled with wine and
water for him drained it at one long draught. Then, with sigh of relief,
he restored it to its place, raised his hand and his blinded eyes
heavenward, and offered a brief, fervent thanksgiving to his mother’s
soul and the great Demeter, whom, he might now believe it himself, he
had honoured with a masterpiece which had extorted warm admiration even
from a connoisseur unfriendly his art.
When Gras returned, he said, with a grin of satisfaction, that the
goldsmith was like all the rest of his countrymen. The artists did not
owe him another drachm; the never-to-be-forgotten Myrtilus had paid for
the work ordered by Hermon also.
Then, for the first time since he had been led on board the ship, a gay
laugh rang fro the blind man’s lips, rising in deep, pure, joyous tones
from his relieved breast.
The faithful gray eyes of honest Gras glittered with tears at the
musical tones, and how ardently he wished for his beloved mistress
when the sculptor, not content with this, exclaimed as gleefully as in
happier days: “Hitherto I have had no real pleasure from my successful
work, old Gras, but it is awaking now! If my Myrtilus were still alive,
and these miserable eyes yet possessed the power of rejoicing in the
light and in beautiful human forms, by the dog! I would have the mixing
vessels filled, wreath after wreath brought, boon companions summoned,
and with flute-playing, songs, and fiery words, offer the Muses,
Demeter, and Dionysus their due meed of homage!”
Gras declared that this wish might easily be fulfilled. There was no
lack of wine or drinking cups on the vessel, the flute-players whom he
had heard in the Odeum at Tanis did not understand their business amiss,
flowers and wreaths could be obtained, and all who spoke Greek in Tennis
would accept his invitation.
But the Bithynian soon regretted this proposal, for it fell like a
hoar-frost upon the blind man’s happy mood. He curtly declined. He would
not play host where he was himself a guest, and pride forbade him to use
the property of others as though it were his own.
He could not regain his suddenly awakened pleasure in existence before
Gras warned him it was time to go to rest. Not until he was alone in the
quiet cabin did the sense of joy in his first great success overpower
him afresh.
He might well feel proud delight in the work which he had created, for
he had accomplished it without being unfaithful to the aims he had set
before him.
It had been taken from his own studio, and the skilful old artisan had
recognised his preliminary work upon the diadem which he, Hermon, had
afterward adorned with ornaments himself. But, alas! this first must at
the same time be his last great success, and he was condemned to live on
in darkness.
Although abundant recognition awaited him in Alexandria, his quickly
gained renown would soon be forgotten, and he would remain a beggared
blind man. But it was now allowable for him to think secretly of
possessing Daphne; perhaps she would wait for him and reject other
suitors until he learned in the capital whether he might not hope to
recover his lost sight. He was at least secure against external want;
the generous Archias would hardly withhold from him the prize he
had intended for the successful statue, although the second had been
destroyed. The great merchant would do everything for his fame-crowned
nephew, and he, Hermon, was conscious that had his uncle been in his
situation he would have divided his last obol with him. Refusal of
his assistance would have been an insult to his paternal friend and
guardian.
Lastly, he might hope that Archias would take him to the most skilful
leeches in Alexandria and, if they succeeded in restoring his lost power
of vision, then--then Yet it seemed so presumptuous to lull himself in
this hope that he forbade himself the pleasure of indulging it.
Amid these consoling reflections, Hermon fell asleep, and awoke fresher
and more cheerful than he had been for some time.
He had to spend two whole weeks more in Tennis, for the burns healed
slowly, and an anxious fear kept him away from Alexandria.
There the woman he loved would again meet him and, though he could
assure Thyone that Nemesis had turned her wheel away from him, he would
have been permitted to treat Daphne only with cool reserve, while every
fibre of his being urged him to confess his love and clasp her in his
arms.
Gras had already written twice to his master, telling him with what
gratifying patience Hermon was beginning to submit to his great
misfortune, when the notary Melampus returned from Alexandria with news
which produced the most delightful transformation in the blind artist’s
outer life.
More swiftly than his great corpulence usually permitted the jovial man
to move, he ascended to the deck, calling: “Great, greater, the greatest
of news I bring, as the heaviest but by no means the most dilatory of
messengers of good fortune from the city of cities. Prick up your ears,
my friend, and summon all your strength, for there are instances of the
fatal effect of especially lavish gifts from the blind and yet often
sure aim of the goddess of Fortune. The Demeter, in whom you proved so
marvellously that the art of a mortal is sufficient to create immortals,
is beginning to show her gratitude. She is helping to twine wreaths for
you in Alexandria.”
Here the vivacious man suddenly hesitated and, while wiping his plump
cheeks, perspiring brow, and smooth, fat double chin with his kerchief,
added in a tone of sincere regret: “That’s the way with me! In one thing
which really moves me, I always forget the other. The fault sticks to me
like my ears and nose. When my mother gave me two errands, I attended to
the first in the best possible way, but overlooked the second entirely,
and was paid for it with my father’s staff, yet even the blue wales made
no change in the fault. But for that I should still be in the city of
cities; but it robbed me of my best clients, and so I was transferred
to this dullest of holes. Even here it clings to me. My detestable
exultation just now proves it. Yet I know how dear to you was the dead
man who manifests his love even from the grave. But you will forgive me
the false note into which my weakness led me; it sprang from regard for
you, my young friend. To serve your cause, I forgot everything else.
Like my mother’s first errand, it was performed in the best possible
way. You will learn directly. By the lightnings of Father Zeus and the
owl of Athene, the news I bring is certainly great and beautiful; but
he who yearned to make you happy was snatched from you and, though his
noble legacy must inspire pleasure and gratitude, it will nevertheless
fill your poor eyes with sorrowful tears.”
Melampus turned, as he spoke, to the misshapen Egyptian slave who
performed the duties of a clerk, and took several rolls from the
drumshaped case that hung around his neck; but his prediction concerning
Hermon was speedily fulfilled, for the notary handed him the will of his
friend Myrtilus.
It made him the heir of his entire fortune and, however happy the
unexpected royal gift rendered the blind man, however cheering might
be the prospects it opened to him for the future and the desire of
his heart, sobs nevertheless interrupted the affectionate words which
commenced the document Melampus read aloud to him.
Doubtless the tears which Hermon dedicated to the most beloved of human
beings made his blinded eyes smart, but he could not restrain them,
and even long after the notary had left him, and the steward had
congratulated him on his good fortune, the deep emotion of his tender
heart again and again called forth a fresh flood of tears consecrated to
the memory of his friend.
The notary had already informed the grammateus of the disposition which
Myrtilus had made of his property in Hermon’s favour a few days before,
but, by the advice of the experienced Proclus, the contents of the will
had been withheld from the sculptor; the unfortunate man ought to be
spared any disappointment, and proof that Myrtilus was really among the
victims of the accident must first be obtained.
The clasp found in the ruins of the white house appeared to furnish
this, and the notary had put all other business aside and gone to
Alexandria to settle the matter.
The goldsmith Chello, who had fastened a new pin to the clasp, and could
swear that it had belonged to Myrtilus, had been summoned to the capital
as a witness, and, with the aid of the influential grammateus of
the Dionysian games and priest of Apollo, the zeal of Melampus had
accomplished in a short time the settlement of this difficult affair,
which otherwise might perhaps have consumed several months.
The violent death of Myrtilus had been admitted as proved by the
magistrate, who had been prepossessed in Hermon’s favour by his
masterpiece. Besides, no doubts could be raised concerning the validity
of a will attested by sixteen witnesses. The execution of this last
testament had been intrusted to Archias, as Myrtilus’s nearest relative,
and several other distinguished Alexandrians.
The amount of the fortune bequeathed had surprised even these wealthy
men, for under the prudent management of Archias the property inherited
by the modest young sculptor had trebled in value.
The poor blind artist had suddenly become a man who might be termed
“rich,” even in the great capital.
Again the steward shook his head; this vast, unexpected inheritance did
not seem to make half so deep an impression upon the eccentric blind
man as the news received a short time ago that his trivial debt to the
goldsmith Chello was already settled. But Hermon must have dearly loved
the friend to whom he owed this great change of fortune, and grief for
him had cast joy in his immense new wealth completely into the shade.
This conjecture was confirmed on the following morning, for the blind
man had himself led to the Greek necropolis to offer sacrifices to the
gods of the nether world and to think of his friend.
When, soon after noon, the lessee of the royal bank appeared on the ship
to offer him as many drachmae or talents as he might need for present
use, he asked for a considerable sum to purchase a larger death-offering
for his murdered friend. The next morning he went with the architect
of the province to the scene of the conflagration, and had him mark the
spot of ground on which he desired to erect to his Myrtilus a monument
to be made in Alexandria.
At sunset, leaning on the steward’s arm, he went to the Temple of
Nemesis, where he prayed and commissioned the priest to offer a costly
sacrifice to the goddess in his name.
On the return home, Hermon suddenly stood still and mentioned to Gras
the sum which he intended to bestow upon the blind in Tennis. He knew
now what it means to live bereft of light, and, he added in a low tone,
to be also poor and unable to earn his daily bread.
On the ship he asked the Bithynian whether his burned face had become
presentable again, and no longer made a repulsive impression.
This Gras could truthfully assure him. Then the artist’s features
brightened, and the Bithynian heard genuine cheerfulness ring in the
tones of his voice as he exclaimed: “Then, old Gras, we will set out for
Alexandria as soon as the ship is ready to sail. Back to life, to the
society of men of my own stamp, to reap the praise earned by my own
creations, and to the only divine maiden among mortals--to Daphne!”
“The day after to-morrow!” exclaimed the steward in joyous excitement;
and soon after the carrier dove was flying toward the house of Archias,
bearing the letter which stated the hour when his fame-crowned blind
nephew would enter the great harbour of Alexandria.
The evening of the next day but one the Proserpina was bearing Hermon
away from the city of weavers toward home.
As the evening breeze fanned his brow, his thoughts dwelt sadly on his
Myrtilus. Hitherto it had always seemed as if he was bound, and must
commit some atrocious deed to use the seething power condemned to
inaction. But as the galley left the Tanitic branch of the Nile behind,
and the blind man inhaled the cool air upon the calm sea, his heart
swelled, and for the first time he became fully aware that, though the
light of the sun would probably never shine for him again, and therefore
the joy of creating, the rapture of once more testing his fettered
strength, would probably be forever denied him, other stars might
perhaps illumine his path, and he was going, in a position of brilliant
independence, toward his native city, fame, and--eternal gods!--love.
Daphne had conquered, and he gave only a passing thought to Ledscha and
the hapless weaver Arachne.