The intense love of the beautiful thus acquired, far from making the common occupations of life distasteful, threw over them a sort of poetic interest, as a richly painted window casts its own glowing colors on mere boards and stones. The higher regions of her mind were never obscured by the clouds of daily care; but thence descended perpetual sunshine, to gild the vapor.
On this day, however, Philothea’s mind was less serene than usual. The unaccountable change in Eudora’s character perplexed and troubled her. When she parted from her to go into the Acropolis, she had left her as innocent and contented as a little child; and so proud and satisfied in Philæmon’s love, that she deemed herself the happiest of all happy beings: at the close of six short months, she found her transformed into a vain, restless, ambitious woman, wild for distinction, and impatient of restraint.
All this Philothea was disposed to pity and forgive; for she felt that frequent intercourse with Aspasia might have dazzled even a stronger mind, and changed a less susceptible heart. Her own diminished influence, she regarded as the inevitable result of her friend’s present views and feelings; and she only regretted it because it lessened her power of doing good where she was most desirous to be useful.
Several times, in the course of the day, her heart yearned toward the favorite of her childhood; and she was strongly impelled to go to her and confess all her anxieties. But Eudora came not, as she had ever been wont to do, in the intervals of household occupation; and this obvious neglect drove Philothea’s kind impulses back upon her heart.
Hylax, as he ran round the garden, barking and jumping at the birds in the air, instantly knew her voice, and came capering in, bounding up at her side, and licking her hand. The tears came to Philothea’s eyes, as she stooped to caress the affectionate animal: “Poor Hylax,” said she, “you have not changed.” She gathered some flowers, and twined them round the dog’s neck, thinking this simple artifice might bring a visit from her friend.
But the sun went down, and still she had not caught a glimpse of Eudora, even in the garden. Her affectionate anxiety was almost deepening into sadness, when Anaxagoras returned, accompanied by the Ethiopian boy.
“I bring an offering from the munificent Tithonus,” said the philosopher: “He came with my disciples to-day, and we have had much discourse together. Tomorrow he departs from Athens; and he bade me say that he hoped his farewell gift would not be unacceptable to her whose voice made even Pindar’s strains more majestic and divine.”
The boy uncovered an image he carried in his arms, and with low obeisance presented it to Philothea. It was a small statue of Urania, wrought in ivory and gold. The beautiful face was turned upward, as if regarding the heavens with quiet contemplation. A crown of golden planets encircled the head, and the scarf, enameled with deep and vivid azure, likewise glowed with stars.
Philothea smiled, as she glanced round the apartment, and said, “It is a humble shrine for a Muse so heavenly.”
“Honesty and innocence are fitter companions for the gods, than mere marble and gold,” replied the philosopher.
As a small indication of respect and gratitude, the maiden sent Tithonus a roll of papyrus, on which she had neatly copied Pindar’s Odes; and the boy, having received a few oboli for his trouble, returned charged with thanks and good wishes for his master.
Philothea, spontaneously yielding to the old habit of enjoying everything with her friend, took the statue in her arms and went directly to her room. Eudora was kind and cheerful, but strangely fluttered. She praised the beautiful image in the excessive terms of one who feels little, and is therefore afraid of not saying enough. Her mind was evidently disturbed with thoughts quite foreign to the subject of her conversation; but, making an effort at self-possession, she said, “I too have had a present: Artaphernes sent it because my voice reminded him of one he loved in his youth.” She unfolded a roll of perfumed papyrus, and displayed a Persian veil of gold and silver tissue. Philothea pronounced it fit for the toilette of a queen; but frankly confessed that it was too gorgeous to suit her taste.
At parting, she urged Eudora to share her apartment for the night. The maiden refused, under the pretext of illness; but when her friend offered to remain with her, she hastily replied that she should be much better alone.
As Philothea passed through the sheltered avenue, she saw Mibra apparently assisting Geta in cleansing some marbles; and thinking Phidias would be pleased with the statue, she asked Geta to convey it to his room. He replied, “My master has gone to visit a friend at Salamis, and will not return until morning.” The maiden was much surprised that her friend had made no allusion to this circumstance; but she forbore to return and ask an explanation.
Another subject attracted her attention, and occupied some share of her thoughts. She had observed that Geta and Mibra appeared much confused when she spoke to them. When she inquired what Geta had been saying, the pretty Arcadian, with an averted face, replied, “He called me to see a marble dog, barking as if he had life in him; only he did not make any noise.”
“Was that all Geta talked of?” said Philothea.
“He asked me if I liked white kids,” answered the blushing peasant.
“And what did you tell him?” inquired the maiden.
With a bashful mixture of simplicity and archness, the young damsel answered, “I told him I liked white kids very much.”
Philothea smiled, and asked no more questions. When she repeated this brief conversation to Anaxagoras, he heard it with affectionate interest in Mibra’s welfare, and promised to have a friendly talk with honest-hearted Geta.
The wakefulness and excitement of the preceding night had been quite at variance with the tranquil regularity of Philothea’s habits; and the slight repose, which she usually enjoyed in the afternoon, had been disturbed by her grandfather, who came to say that Paralus was with him, and wished to see her a few moments, before they went out to the Pyræum together. Being therefore unusually weary, both in body and mind, the maiden early retired to her couch; and with mingled thoughts of her lover and her friend, she soon fell into a profound sleep.
She dreamed of being with Paralus in an olive grove, over the deep verdure of which shining white blossoms were spread, like a silver veil. Her lover played upon his flute, while she leaned against a tree and listened. Soon, the air was filled with a multitude of doves, flocking from every side; and the flapping of their wings kept time to the music.
Then, suddenly, the scene changed to the garden of Phidias. The statues seemed to smile upon her, and the flowers looked up bright and cheerful, in an atmosphere more mild than the day, but warmer than the moon. Presently, one of the smiling statues became a living likeness of Eudora, and with delighted expression gazed earnestly on the ground. Philothea looked to see what excited her admiration—and lo! a large serpent, shining with green and gold, twisted itself among the flowers in manifold involutions; and wheresoever the beautiful viper glided, the blossoms became crisped and blackened, as if fire had passed over them. With a sudden spring the venomous creature coiled itself about Eudora’s form, and its poisoned tongue seemed just ready to glance into her heart; yet still the maiden laughed merrily, heedless of her danger.
Philothea awoke with a thrill of anguish; but thankful to realize that it was all a dream, she murmured a brief prayer, turned upon her couch, and soon yielded to the influence of extreme drowsiness.
In her sleep, she seemed to be working at her embroidery; and Hylax came and tugged at her robe, until she followed him into the garden. There Eudora stood smiling, and the glittering serpent was again dancing before her.
Disturbed by the recurrence of this unpleasant dream, the maiden remained awake for a considerable time, listening to the voices of her grandfather and his guests, which still came up with a murmuring sound from the room below. Gradually her senses were lulled into slumber; and again the same dream recurred to distress and waken her.
Unable longer to resist the strength of her impressions, Philot
hea arose, and descending a few of the steps which led to the lower part of the house, she looked into the garden, through one of the apertures that had been left in the wall for the admission of light. Behind a status of Erato, she was sure that she saw colored drapery floating in the moonlight. Moving on to the next aperture, she distinctly perceived Eudora standing by the statue; and instead of the graceful serpent, Alcibiades knelt before her. His attitude and gesture were impassioned; and though the expression of Eudora’s countenance could not be seen, she was evidently giving him no ungracious audience.
Philothea put her hand to her heart, which throbbed violently with painful emotion. Her first thought was to end this interview at all hazards; but she was of a timid nature; and when she had folded her robe and veil about her, her courage failed. Again she looked through the aperture, and saw that the arm of Alcibiades rested on the shoulder of her misguided friend.
Without taking time for a second thought, she sprang down the remaining steps, darted through the private avenue into the garden, and standing directly before the deluded girl, she exclaimed, in a tone of earnest expostulation, “Eudora!”
With a half-suppressed scream the maiden disappeared. Alcibiades, with characteristic boldness, seized Philothea’s robe, exclaiming, “What have we here? So help me Aphrodite! it is the lovely Canephora of the Gardens! Now Eros forsake me if I lose this chance to look on her heavenly face again.”
He attempted to raise the veil, which the terrified maiden grasped convulsively, as she tried to extricate herself from his hold.
At that instant, a stern voice sounded from the opposite wall; and Philothea, profiting by the sudden surprise into which Alcibiades was thrown, darted through the avenue, bolted the door, and in an instant after was within the sanctuary of her own chamber.
Here the tumult of mingled emotion subsided in a flood of tears. She mourned over the shameful infatuation of Eudora, and she acutely felt the degradation attached to her own accidental share in the scene. With these thoughts was mingled deep pity for the pure-minded and excellent Philæmon. She was sure that it was his voice she had heard from the wall; and she rightly conjectured that, after his prolonged interview with Anaxagoras, he had partly ascended the ladder leading to the housetop, and looked through the fluttering grape-leaves at the dwelling of his beloved.
The agitation of her mind prevented all thoughts of sleep. Again and again she looked out anxiously. All was hushed and motionless. The garden reposed in the moonbeams, like truths—which receive no warmth from the heart—seen only in the clear, cold light of reason. The plants were visible, but colorless; and the statues stood immovable in their silent, lifeless beauty.
CHAPTER VI.
Persuasive is the voice of Vice.
That spreads the insidious snare.
Eschylus
Early the next morning, painful as the task was, Philothea went to Eudora’s room; for she felt that if she ever hoped to save her, she must gain influence now.
The maiden had risen from her couch, and was leaning her head on her hand, in an attitude of deep thought. She raised her eyes as Philothea entered, and her face was instantly suffused with the crimson flush of shame. She made no reply to the usual salutations of the morning, but with evident agitation twisted and untwisted some shreds that had fallen from her embroidery.
For a moment her friend stood irresolute. She felt a strong impulse to put her arm around Eudora’s neck and conjure her, even for her own sake, to be frank and confiding; but the scene in the garden returned to her memory, and she recoiled from her beloved companion, as from something polluted.
Still ignorant how far the deluded girl was involved, she felt that the manner in which she deported herself toward her, might perhaps fix her destiny for good or evil. With a kind, but trembling voice, she said, “Eudora, will you tell me whether the interview I witnessed last night was an appointed one?”
Eudora persevered in silence, but her agitation obviously increased.
Her friend looked earnestly in her excited countenance for a moment, and then said, “Eudora, I do entreat you to tell me the whole truth in this matter.”
“I have not yet learned what right you have to inquire,” replied the misguided maiden.
Philothea’s eyes were filled with tears as she said, “Does the love we have felt for each other from our earliest childhood, give me no claim to your confidence? Had we ever a cake, or a bunch of grapes, of which one did not reserve for the other the largest and best portion? I well remember the day when you broke the little marble kid Phidias had given you. You fairly sobbed yourself to sleep in my lap, while I smoothed back the silky curls all wet with your tears, and sung my childish songs to please you. You came to me with all your infant troubles—and in our maturer years have we not shared all our thoughts? Oh, still trust to the affection that never deceived you. Believe me, dear Eudora, you would not wish to conceal your purposes and actions from your earliest and best friend, unless you had an inward consciousness of something wrong. Every human being has, like Socrates, an attendant spirit; and wise are they who obey its signals. If it does not always tell us what to do, it always cautions us what not to do. Have you not of late struggled against the warnings of this friendly spirit? Is it safe to contend with him, till his voice recedes, like music in the distance, and is heard no more?”
She looked earnestly in Eudora’s face for a moment, and perceiving that her feelings were somewhat softened, she added, “I will not again ask whether the meeting of last night was an appointed one; for you surely would repel the suspicion, if you could do so with truth. It is too evident that this insinuating man has fascinated you as he already has done hundreds of others; and for the sake of his transient flattery, you have thrown away Philæmon’s pure and constant love. Yet the passing notice of Alcibiades is a distinction you will share with half the maidens of Athens. When another new face attracts his fancy, you will be forgotten; but you cannot so easily forget your own folly. The friends you cast from you can never be regained; tranquility of mind will return no more; conscious innocence, which makes the human countenance a tablet for the gods to write upon, can never be restored. And for what will you lose all this? Think for a moment what is the destiny of those women, who, following the steps of Aspasia, seek happiness in the homage paid to triumphant beauty—youth wasted in restless excitement, and old age embittered by the consciousness of deserved contempt. For this, are you willing to relinquish the happiness that attends a quiet discharge of duty, and the cheerful intercourse of true affection?”
In a tone of offended pride, Eudora answered: “Philothea, if I were what you seem to believe me, your words would be appropriate; but I have never had any other thought than that of being the acknowledged wife of Alcibiades.”
“Has he then made you believe that he would divorce Hipparete?”
“Yes—he has solemnly sworn it. Such a transaction would have nothing remarkable in it. Each revolving moon sees similar events occur in Athens. The wife of Pericles had a destiny like that of her namesake; of whom the poets write that she was beloved for awhile by Olympian Zeus, and afterward changed into a quail. Pericles promised Aspasia that he would divorce Asteria and marry her; and he has kept his word. Hipparete is not so very beautiful or gifted, as to make it improbable that Alcibiades might follow his example.”
“It is a relief to my heart,” said Philothea, “to find that you have been deluded with hopes, which, however deceitful, render you comparatively innocent. But believe me, Eudora, Alcibiades will never divorce Hipparete. If he should do so, the law would compel him to return her magnificent dowry. Her connections have wealth and influence; and her brother Callias has promised that she shall be his heir. The paternal fortune of Alcibiades has all been expended, except his estate near Erchia; and this he knows full well is quite insufficient to support his luxury and pride.”
Eudora answered warmly, “If you knew Alcibiades, you would not suspect him of such sordid motives. He would thro
w money into the sea like dust, if it stood in the way of his affections.”
“I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness, when he wishes to purchase popularity by lavish expenditure,” replied Philothea. “But Alcibiades has found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy with drachmæ, what he can so easily obtain by flattery. Your own heart, I believe, is not really touched. Your imagination is dazzled with his splendid chariots of ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden armor which he loves to display at festivals; his richlycolored garments, fresh from the looms of Sardis, and redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are proud of his notice, because you see that other maidens are flattered by it; because his statue stands among the Olympionicæ, in the sacred groves of Zeus, and because all Athens rings with the praises of his beauty, his gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity.”
“I am not so weak as your words imply,” rejoined Eudora. “I believe that I love Alcibiades better than I ever loved Philæmon; and if the consent of Phidias can be obtained, I cannot see why you should object to our marriage.”
For a few moments Philothea remained in hopeless silence; then, in a tone of tender expostulation, she continued: “Eudora, I would the power were given me to open your eyes, before it is too late! If Hipparete be not beautiful, she certainly is not unpleasing; her connections have high rank and great wealth; she is virtuous and affectionate, and the mother of his children. If, with all these claims, she can be so lightly turned away for the sake of a lovelier face, what can you expect, when your beauty no longer has the charm of novelty? You, who have neither wealth nor powerful connections, to serve the purposes of that ambitious man? And think for yourself, Eudora, if Alcibiades means as he says, why does he seek stolen interviews at midnight, in the absence of Phidias?”
“It is because he knows that Phidias has an uncommon regard for Philæmon,” replied Eudora; “but he thinks he can, in time, persuade him to consult our wishes. I know, better than you possibly can, what reasons I have to trust the strength of his affection. Aspasia says she has never seen him so deeply in love as he is now.”
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