Without a word of explanation, Hermon dragged his guide along in
breathless haste. No one stopped them.
The atrium, usually swarming with guards, servants, and officials until
a far later hour, was completely deserted when the blind man hurried
through it with his friend.
The door leading into the outer air stood open, but Hermon, leaning on
the scholar’s arm, had scarcely crossed the threshold and entered the
little courtyard encircled with ornamental plants, which separated this
portion of the palace from the street, when both were surrounded by a
band of armed Macedonian soldiers, whose commander exclaimed: “In the
name of the King! Not a sound, if you value your lives!”
Incensed, and believing that there was some mistake, Hermon announced
himself as a sculptor and Crates as a member of the Museum, but this
statement did not produce the slightest effect upon the warrior; nay,
when the friends answered the officer’s inquiry whether they were coming
from Proclus’s banquet in the affirmative; he curtly commanded them to
be put in chains.
To offer resistance would have been madness, for even Hermon perceived,
by the loud clanking of weapons around them, the greatly superior power
of the enemy, and they were acting by the orders of the King. “To the
prison near the place of execution!” cried the officer; and now not only
the mythograph, but Hermon also was startled--this dungeon opened only
to those sentenced to death.
Was he to be led to the executioner’s block? A cold shudder ran through
his frame; but the next moment he threw back his waving locks, and his
chest heaved with a long breath.
What pleasure had life to offer him, the blind man, who was already dead
to his art? Ought he not to greet this sudden end as a boon from the
immortals?
Did it not spare him a humiliation as great and painful as could be
imagined?
He had already taken care that the false renown should not follow him
to the grave, and Myrtilus should have his just due, and he would do
whatever else lay in his power to further this object. Wherever the
beloved dead might be, he desired to go there also. Whatever might await
him, he desired no better fate. If he had passed into annihilation, he,
Hermon, wished to follow him thither, and annihilation certainly meant
redemption from pain and misery. But if he were destined to meet his
Myrtilus and his mother in the world beyond the grave, what had he not
to tell them, how sure he was of finding a joyful reception there from
both! The power which delivered him over to death just at that moment
was not Nemesis--no, it was a kindly deity.
Only his heart grew heavy at the thought of leaving Daphne to the
tireless wooer Philotas or some other--everything else from which it is
usually hard to part seemed like a burden that we gladly cast aside.
“Forward!” he called blithely and boldly to the officer; while Crates,
with loud lamentations, was protesting his innocence to the warrior who
was putting fetters upon him.
A chain was just being clasped around Hermon’s wrists also when he
suddenly started. His keen ear could not deceive him, and yet a demon
must be mocking him, for the voice that had called his name was the
girl’s of whom, in the presence of welcome death, he had thought with
longing regret.
Yet it was no illusion that deceived him. Again he heard the beloved
voice, and this time it addressed not only him, but with the utmost
haste the commander of the soldiers.
Sometimes with touching entreaty, sometimes with imperious command, she
protested, after giving him her name, that this matter could be nothing
but an unfortunate mistake. Lastly, with earnest warmth, she besought
him, before taking the prisoners away, to permit her to speak to the
commanding general, Philippus, her father’s guest, who, she was certain,
was in the palace. The blood of these innocent men would be on his head
if he did not listen to her representations.
“Daphne!” cried Hermon in grateful agitation; but she would not listen
to him, and followed the soldier whom the captain detailed to guide her
into the palace.
After a few moments, which the blind artist used to inspire the
despairing scholar with courage, the girl returned, and she did not come
alone. The gray-haired comrade of Alexander accompanied her, and after
a few minutes both prisoners were released from their fetters. Philippus
hastily refused their thanks and, after addressing a few words to the
officer, he changed his tone, and his deep voice sounded paternally
cordial as he exclaimed to Daphne: “Fifteen minutes more, you dear,
foolhardy girl, and it would have been too late. To-morrow you shall
confess to me who treacherously directed you to this dangerous path.”
Lastly, he turned to the prisoners to explain that they would be
conducted to the adjacent barracks of the Diadochi, and spend the night
there.
Early the next morning they should be examined, and, if they could
clear themselves from the suspicion of belonging to the ranks of the
conspirators, released.
Daphne again pleaded for the liberation of the prisoners, but Philippus
silenced her with the grave exclamation, “The order of the King!”
The old commander offered no objection to her wish to accompany
Hermon to prison. Daphne now slipped her arm through her cousin’s, and
commanded the steward Gras, who had brought her here, to follow them.
The goal of the nocturnal walk, which was close at hand, was reached
at the end of a few minutes, and the prisoners were delivered to the
commander of the Diadochi. This kindly disposed officer had served under
Hermon’s father, and when the names of the prisoners were given, and the
officer reported to him that General Philippus recommended them to his
care as innocent men, he had a special room opened for the sculptor and
his fair guide, and ordered Crates to enter another.
He could permit the beautiful daughter of the honoured Archias to remain
with Hermon for half an hour, then he must beg her to allow herself to
be escorted to her home, as the barracks were closed at that time.
As soon as the captive artist was alone with the woman he loved, he
clasped her hand, pouring forth incoherent words of the most ardent
gratitude, and when he felt her warmly return the pressure, he could not
restrain the desire to clasp her to his heart. For the first time his
lips met hers, he confessed his love, and that he had just regarded
death as a deliverer; but his life was now gaining new charm through her
affection.
Then Daphne herself threw her arms around his neck with fervent
devotion.
The love that resistlessly drew his heart to her was returned with equal
strength and ardour. In spite of his deep mental distress, he could
have shouted aloud in his delight and gratitude. He might now have been
permitted to bind forever to his life the woman who had just rescued
him from the greatest danger, but the confession he must make to his
fellow-artists in the palaestra the following morning still sealed his
lips. Yet in this hour he felt that he was united to her, and ought not
to conceal what awaited him; so, obeying a strong impulse, he exclaimed:
“You know that I love you! Words can not express the strength of my
devotion, but for that very reason I must do what duty commands before I
ask the question, ‘Will you join your fate to mine?’”
“I love you and have loved you always!” Daphne exclaimed tenderly. “What
more is needed?”
But Hermon, with drooping head, murmured: “To-morrow I shall no longer
be what I am now. Wait until I have done what duty enjoins; when that is
accomplished, you shall ask yourself what worth the blind artist still
possesses who bartered spurious fame for mockery and disgrace in order
not to become a hypocrite.”
Then Daphne raised her face to his, asking, “So the Demeter is the work
of Myrtilus?”
“Certainly,” he answered firmly. “It is the work of Myrtilus.”
“Oh, my poor, deceived love!” cried Daphne, strongly agitated, in a tone
of the deepest sorrow. “What a terrible ordeal again awaits you! It
must indeed distress me--and yet Do not misunderstand me! It seems
nevertheless as if I ought to rejoice, for you and your art have not
spoken to me even a single moment from this much-lauded work.”
“And therefore,” he interrupted with passionate delight, “therefore
alone you withheld the enthusiastic praise with which the others
intoxicated me? And I, fool, blinded also in mind, could be vexed with
you for it! But only wait, wait! Soon-to-morrow even--there will be
no one in Alexandria who can accuse me of deserting my own honest
aspiration, and, if the gods will only restore my sight and the ability
to use my hands as a sculptor, then, girl, then--”
Here he was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.
The time allowed had expired.
Hermon again warmly embraced Daphne, saying: “Then go! Nothing can cloud
what these brief moments have bestowed. I must remain blind; but you
have restored the lost sight to my poor darkened soul. To-morrow I shall
stand in the palaestra before my comrades, and explain to them what a
malicious accident deceived me, and with me this whole great city. Many
will not believe me, and even your father will perhaps consider it a
disgrace to give his arm to his scorned, calumniated nephew to guide
him home. Bring this before your mind, and everything else that you must
accept with it, if you consent, when the time arrives, to become mine.
Conceal and palliate nothing! But should the Lady Thyone speak of the
Eumenides who pursued me, tell her that they had probably again extended
their arms toward me, but when I return to-morrow from the palaestra I
shall be freed from the terrible beings.”
Lastly, he asked to be told quickly how she had happened to come to the
palace at the right time at so late an hour, and Daphne informed him
as briefly and modestly as if the hazardous venture which, in strong
opposition to her retiring, womanly nature, she had undertaken, was a
mere matter of course.
When Thyone in her presence heard from Gras that Hermon intended to go
to Proclus’s banquet, she started up in horror, exclaiming, “Then the
unfortunate man is lost!”
Her husband, who had long trusted even the gravest secrets to his
discreet old wife, had informed her of the terrible office the King had
confided to him. All the male guests of Proclus were to be executed; the
women--the Queen at their head--would be sent into exile.
Then Daphne, on her knees, besought the matron to tell her what
threatened Hermon, and succeeded in persuading her to speak.
The terrified girl, accompanied by Gras, went first to her lover’s house
and, when she did not find him there, hastened to the King’s palace.
If Hermon could have seen her with her fluttering hair, dishevelled by
the night breeze, and checks blanched by excitement and terror, if he
had been told how she struggled with Thyone, who tried to detain her and
lock her up before she left her father’s house, he would have perceived
with still prouder joy, had that been possible, what he possessed in the
devoted love of this true woman.
Grateful and moved by joyous hopes, he informed Daphne of the words of
the oracle, which had imprinted themselves upon his memory.
She, too, quickly retained them, and murmured softly:
“Noise and dazzling radiance are hostile to the purer light, Morning and
day will rise quietly from the starving sand.”
What could the verse mean except that the blind man would regain the
power to behold the light of clay amid the sands of the silent desert?
Perhaps it would be well for him to leave Alexandria now, and she
described how much benefit she had received while hunting from the
silence of the wilderness, when she had left the noise of the city
behind her. But before she had quite finished, the knocking at the door
was repeated.
The lovers took leave of each other with one last kiss, and the final
words of the departing girl echoed consolingly in the blind man’s heart,
“The more they take from you, the more closely I will cling to you.”
Hermon spent the latter portion of the night rejoicing in the
consciousness of a great happiness, yet also troubled by the difficult
task which he could not escape.
When the market place was filling, gray-haired Philippus visited him.
He desired before the examination, for which every preparation had been
made, to understand personally the relation of his dead comrade’s son to
the defeated conspiracy, and he soon perceived that Hermon’s presence at
the banquet was due solely to an unlucky accident or in consequence of
the Queen’s desire to win him over to her plot.
Yet he was forced to advise the blind sculptor to leave Alexandria. The
suspicion that he had been associated with the conspirators was the more
difficult to refute, because his Uncle Archias had imprudently allowed
himself to be persuaded by Proclus and Arsinoe to lend the Queen large
sums, which had undoubtedly been used to promote her abominable plans.
Philippus also informed him that he had just come from Archias, whom he
had earnestly urged to fly as quickly as possible from the persecution
which was inevitable; for, secure as Hermon’s uncle felt in his
innocence, the receipts for the large sums loaned by him, which had just
been found in Proclus’s possession, would bear witness against him. Envy
and ill will would also have a share in this affair, and the usually
benevolent King knew no mercy where crime against his own person was
concerned. So Archias intended to leave the city on one of his own ships
that very day. Daphne, of course, would accompany him.
The prisoner listened in surprise and anxiety.
His uncle driven from his secure possessions to distant lands! Daphne
taken from him, he knew not whither nor for how long a time, after he
had just been assured of her great love! He himself on the way to expose
himself to the malice and mockery of the whole city!
His heart contracted painfully, and his solicitude about his uncle’s
fate increased when Philippus informed him that the conspirators had
been arrested at the banquet and, headed by Amyntas, the Rhodian,
Chrysippus, and Proclus, had perished by the executioner’s sword at
sunrise.
The Queen, Althea, and the other ladies were already on the way to
Coptos, in Upper Egypt, whither the King had exiled them.
Ptolemy had intrusted the execution of this severe punishment to
Alexander’s former comrade as the most trustworthy and discreet of his
subjects, but rejected, with angry curtness, Philippus’s attempt to
uphold the innocence of his friend Archias.
The old man’s conversation with Hermon was interrupted by the
functionaries who subjected him and Crates to the examination. It lasted
a long time, and referred to every incident in the artist’s life since
his return to Alexandria. The result was favourable, and the prisoner
was dismissed from confinement with the learned companion of his fate.
When, accompanied by Philippus, Hermon reached his house, it was so
late that the artists’ festival in honour of the sculptor Euphranor,
who entered his seventieth year of life that day, must have already
commenced.
On the way the blind man told the general what a severe trial awaited
him, and the latter approved his course and, on bidding him farewell,
with sincere emotion urged Hermon to take courage.
After hastily strengthening himself with a few mouthfuls of food and a
draught of wine, his slave Patran, who understood writing, wished to put
on the full laurel wreath; but Hermon was seized with a painful sense of
dissatisfaction, and angrily waved it back.
Without a single green leaf on his head, he walked, leaning on the
Egyptian’s arm, into the palaestra, which was diagonally opposite to his
house.
Doubtless he longed to hasten at once to Daphne, but he felt that he
could not take leave of her until he had first cast off, as his heart
and mind dictated, the terrible burden which oppressed his soul.
Besides, he knew that the object of his love would not part from him
without granting him one last word.
On the way his heart throbbed almost to bursting.
Even Daphne’s image, and what threatened her father, and her with him,
receded far into the background. He could think only of his design, and
how he was to execute it.
Yet ought he not to have the laurel wreath put on, in order, after
removing it, to bestow it on the genius of Myrtilus?
Yet no!
Did he still possess the right to award this noble branch to any one? He
was appearing before his companions only to give truth its just due. It
was repulsive to endow this explanation of an unfortunate error with a
captivating aspect by any theatrical adornment. To be honest, even for
the porter, was a simple requirement of duty, and no praiseworthy merit.
The guide forced a path for him through carriages, litters, and whole
throngs of slaves and common people, who had assembled before the
neighbouring palaestra.
The doorkeepers admitted the blind man, who was well known here, without
delay; but he called to the slave: “Quick, Patran, and not among the
spectators--in the centre of the arena!”
The Egyptian obeyed, and his master crossed the wide space, strewn with
sand, and approached the stage which had been erected for the festal
performances.
Even had his eyes retained the power of sight, his blood was coursing
so wildly through his veins that he might perhaps have been unable to
distinguish the statues around him and the thousands of spectators, who,
crowded closely together, richly garlanded, their cheeks glowing with
enthusiasm, surrounded the arena.
“Hermon!” shouted his friend Soteles in joyful surprise in the midst of
this painful walk. “Hermon!” resounded here, there, and everywhere
as, leaning on his friend’s arm, he stepped upon the stage, and the
acclamations grew louder and louder as Soteles fulfilled the sculptor’s
request and led him to the front of the platform.
Obeying a sign from the director of the festival, the chorus, which had
just sung a hymn to the Muses, was silent.
Now the sculptor began to speak, and noisy applause thundered around him
as he concluded the well-chosen words of homage with which he offered
cordial congratulations to the estimable Euphranor, to whom the festival
was given; but the shouts soon ceased, for the audience had heard
his modest entreaty to be permitted to say a few words, concerning a
personal matter, to those who were his professional colleagues, as well
as to the others who had honoured him with their interest and, only too
loudly, with undeserved applause. The more closely what he had to say
concerned himself, the briefer he would make his story.
And, in fact, he did not long claim the attention of his hearers.
Clearly and curtly he stated how it had been possible to mistake
Mrytilus’s work for his, how the Tennis goldsmith had dispelled his
first suspicion, and how vainly he had besought the priests of Demeter
to be permitted to feel his statue. Then, without entering into details,
he informed them that, through an accident, he had now reached the firm
conviction that he had long worn wreaths which belonged to another. But,
though the latter could not rise from the grave, he still owed it to
truth, to whose service he had dedicated his art from the beginning,
and to the simple honesty, dear alike to the peasant and the artist, to
divest himself of the fame to which he was not entitled. Even while he
believed himself to be the creator of the Demeter, he had been seriously
troubled by the praise of so many critics, because it had exposed him to
the suspicion of having become faithless to his art and his nature. In
the name of the dead, he thanked his dear comrades for the enthusiastic
appreciation his masterpiece had found. Honour to Myrtilus and his
art, but he trusted this noble festal assemblage would pardon the
unintentional deception, and aid his prayer for recovery. If it should
be granted he hoped to show that Hermon had not been wholly unworthy to
adorn himself for a short time with the wreaths of Myrtilus.
When he closed, deep silence reigned for a brief interval, and one man
looked at another irresolutely until the hero of the day, gray-haired
Euphranor, rose and, leaning on the arm of his favourite pupil, walked
through the centre of the arena to the stage, mounted it, embraced
Hermon with paternal warmth, and made him happy by the words: “The
deception that has fallen to your lot, my poor young friend, is a
lamentable one; but honour to every one who honestly means to uphold
the truth. We will beseech the immortals with prayers and sacrifices
to restore sight to your artist eyes. If I am permitted, my dear young
comrade, to see you continue to create, it will be a source of joy to me
and all of us; yet the Muses, even though unasked, lead into the eternal
realm of beauty the elect who consecrates his art to truth with the
right earnestness.”
The embrace with which the venerable hero of the festival seemed to
absolve Hermon was greeted with loud applause; but the kind words which
Euphranor, in the weak voice of age, had addressed to the blind man had
been unintelligible to the large circle of guests.
When he again descended to the arena new plaudits rose; but soon hisses
and other signs of disapproval blended with them, which increased in
strength and number when a well known critic, who had written a learned
treatise concerning the relation of the Demeter to Hermon’s earlier
works, expressed his annoyance in a loud whistle. The dissatisfied and
disappointed spectators now vied with one another to silence those who
were cheering by a hideous uproar while the latter expressed more
and more loud the sincere esteem with which they were inspired by the
confession of the artist who, though cruelly prevented from winning
fresh fame, cast aside the wreath which a dead man had, as were,
proffered from his tomb.
Probably every man thought that, in the same situation, he would have
done the same yet not only justice--nay, compassion--dictated showing
the blind artist that they believed in and would sustain him. The
ill-disposed insisted that Hermon had only done what duty commanded
the meanest man, and the fact that he had deceived all Alexandria still
remained. Not a few joined this party, for larger possession excite envy
perhaps even more frequently than greater fame.
Soon the approving and opposing voices mingled in an actual conflict.
But before the famous sculptor Chares, the great and venerable artist
Nicias, and several younger friends of Hermon quelled this unpleasant
disturbance of the beautiful festival, the blind man, leaning on the arm
of his fellow-artist Soteles, had left the palaestra.
At the exit he, parted from his friend, who had been made happy by the
ability to absolve his more distinguished leader from the reproach of
having become faithless to their common purpose, and who intended to
intercede further in his behalf in the palaestra.
Hermon no longer needed him; for, besides his slave Patran, he found
the steward Gras, who, by his master’s order, guided the blind man to
Archias’s closed harmamaxa, which was waiting outside the building.