“It is as I feared,” said Philothea; “the voice of that siren is luring you to destruction.”
Eudora answered, in an angry tone, “I love Aspasia ; and it offends me to hear her spoken of in this manner. If you are content to be a slave, like the other Grecian women, who bring water and grind corn for their masters, I have no objection. I have a spirit within me that demands a wider field of action, and I enjoy the freedom that reigns in Aspasia’s house. Alcibiades says he does not blame women for not liking to be shut up within four walls all their life-time, ashamed to show their faces like other mortals.”
Quietly, but sadly, Philothea replied: “Farewell, Eudora. May the powers that guide our destiny, preserve you from any real cause for shame. You are now living in Calypso’s island; and divine beings alone can save you from the power of her enchantments.”
Eudora made no response, and did not even raise her eyes, as her companion left the apartment.
As Philothea passed through the garden, she saw Mibra standing in the shadow of the vines, feeding a kid with some flowers she held in her hand, while Geta was fastening a crimson cord about its neck. A glad influence passed from this innocent group into the maiden’s heart, like the glance of a sunbeam over a dreary landscape.
“Is the kid yours, Mibra?” she asked, with an affectionate smile.
The happy little peasant raised her eyes with an arch expression, but instantly lowered them again, covered with blushes. It was a look that told all the secrets of her young heart more eloquently than language.
Philothea had drank freely from those abundant fountains of joy in the human soul, which remain hidden till love reveals their existence, as secret springs are said to be discovered by a magic wand. With affectionate sympathy she placed her hand gently on Mibra’s head, and said, “Be good—and the gods will ever provide friends for you.”
The humble lovers gazed after her with a blessing in their eyes; and in the consciousness of this, her meek spirit found a solace for the wounds Eudora had given.
CHAPTER VII.
O Zeus! why hast thou given us certain proof
To know adulterate gold, but stamped no mark,
Where it is needed most, on man’s base metal!
Ecripides
When Philothea returned to her grandfather’s apartment, she found the good old man with an open tablet before him, and the remainder of a rich cluster of grapes lying on a shell by his side.
“I have wanted you, my child,” said he. “Have you heard the news all Athens is talking of, that you sought your friend so early in the day? You are not wont to be so eager to carry tidings.”
“I have not heard the rumors whereof you speak,” replied Philothea. “What is it, my father?”
“Hipparete went from Aspasia’s house to her brother Callias, instead of the dwelling of her husband,” rejoined Anaxagoras: “By his advice she refused to return; and she yesterday appealed to the archons for a divorce from Alcibiades, on the plea of his notorious profligacy. Alcibiades, hearing of this, rushed into the assembly, with his usual boldness, seized his wife in his arms, carried her through the crowd, and locked her up in her own apartment. No man ventured to interfere with this lawful exercise of his authority. It is rumored that Hipparete particularly accused him of promising marriage to Electra the Corinthian, and Eudora, of the household of Phidias.”
For the first time in her life, Philothea turned away her face, to conceal its expression, while she inquired in a tremulous tone whether these facts had been told to Philæmon, the preceding evening.
“Some of the guests were speaking of it when he entered,” replied Anaxagoras; “but no one alluded to it in his presence. Perhaps he had heard the rumor, for he seemed sad and disquieted, and joined little in the conversation.”
Embarrassed by the questions which her grandfather was naturally disposed to ask, Philothea briefly confessed that a singular change had taken place in Eudora’s character, and begged permission to be silent on a subject so painful to her feelings. She felt strongly inclined to return immediately to her deluded friend; but the hopelessness induced by her recent conversation, combined with the necessity of superintending Mibra in some of her household occupations, occasioned a few hours’ delay.
As she attempted to cross the garden for that purpose, she saw Eudora enter hastily by the private gate, and pass to her own apartment. Philothea instantly followed her, and found that she had thrown herself on the couch, sobbing violently. She put her arms about her neck, and affectionately inquired the cause of her distress.
For a long time the poor girl resisted every soothing effort, and continued to weep bitterly. At last, in a voice stifled with sobs, she said, “I was indeed deceived; and you, Philothea, was my truest friend; as you have always been.”
The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon her hand, and asked whether it was Hipparete’s appeal to the archons that had so suddenly convinced her of the falsehood of Alcibiades.
“I have heard it all,” replied Eudora, with a deep blush; “and I have heard my name coupled with epithets never to be repeated to your pure ears. I was so infatuated that, after you left me this morning, I sought the counsels of Aspasia, to strengthen me in the course I had determined to pursue. As I approached her apartment, the voice of Alcibiades met my ear. I stopped and listened. I heard him exult in his triumph over Hipparete; I heard my name joined with Electra, the wanton Corinthian. I heard him boast how easily our affections had been won; I heard—”
She paused for a few moments, with a look of intense shame, and the tears fell fast upon her robe.
In gentle tones Philothea said, “These are precious tears, Eudora. They will prove like spring-showers, bringing forth fragrant blossoms.”
With sudden impulse the contrite maiden threw her arms around her neck, saying, in a subdued voice, “You must not be so kind to me—it will break my heart.”
By degrees the placid influence of her friend calmed her perturbed spirit. “Philothea, she said, “I promise with solemn earnestness to tell you every action of my life, and every thought of my soul; but never ask me to repeat all I heard at Aspasia’s dwelling. The words went through my heart like poisoned arrows.”
“Nay,” replied Philothea, smiling; “they have healed, not poisoned.”
Eudora sighed, as she added, “When I came away, in anger and in shame, I heard that false man singing in mockery:
“Count me on the summer trees
Every leaf that courts the breeze;
Count me on the foamy deep
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then when you have numbered these,
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love.”
“Philothea, how could you, who are so pure yourself, see so much clearer than I did the treachery of that bad man?”
The maiden replied, “Mortals, without the aid of experience, would always be aware of the presence of evil, if they sought to put away the love of it in their own hearts, and in silent obedience listened to the voice of their guiding spirit. Flowers feel the approach of storms, and birds need none to teach them the enmity of serpents. This knowledge is given to them as perpetually as the sunshine; and they receive it fully, because their little lives are all obedience and love.”
“Then, dearest Philothea, you may well know when evil approaches. By some mysterious power you have ever known my heart better than I myself have known it. I now perceive that you told me the truth when you said I was not blinded by love, but by foolish pride. If it were not so, my feelings could not so easily have turned to hatred. I have more than once tried to deceive you, but you will feel that I am not now speaking falsely. The interview you witnessed was the first and only one I ever granted to Alcibiades.”
Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion, and her joy that the real character of the graceful hypocrite had so soon been made manifest. Her though
ts turned towards Philæmon; but certain recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They were both silent for a few moments; and Eudora’s countenance was troubled. She looked up earnestly in her friend’s face, but instantly turned away her eyes, and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and timid voice, “Do you think Philæmon can ever love me again?”
Philothea felt painfully embarrassed; for when she recollected how deeply Philæmon was enamored of purity in women, she dared not answer in the language of hope.
While she yet hesitated, Dione came to say that her master required the attendance of Eudora alone in his apartment.
Phidias had always exacted implicit obedience from his household, and Eudora’s gratitude towards him had ever been mingled with fear. The consciousness of recent misconduct filled her with extreme dread. Her countenance became deadly pale, as she turned toward her friend, and said, “Oh, Philothea, go with me.”
The firm-hearted maiden took her arm gently within her own, and whispered, “Speak the truth, and trust in the Divine Powers.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Thus it is; I have made those
Averse to me whom nature formed my friends;
Those, who from me deserved no ill, to win
Thy grace, I gave just cause to be my foes;
And thou, most vile of men, thou hast betrayed me.
Euripides.
Phidias was alone, with a large unfinished drawing before him, on a waxen tablet. Various groups of statues were about the room; among which was conspicuous the beautiful workmanship of Myron, representing a kneeling Paris offering the golden apple to Aphrodite; and by a mode of flattery common with Athenian artists, the graceful youth bore the features of Alcibiades. Near this group was Hera and Pallas, from the hand of Phidias; characterized by a severe majesty of expression, as they looked toward Paris and his voluptuous goddess in quiet scorn.
Stern displeasure was visible in the countenance of the great sculptor. As the maidens entered, with their faces covered, he looked up, and said coldly, “I bade that daughter of unknown parents come into my presence unattended.”
Eudora keenly felt the reproach implied by the suppression of her name, which Phidias deemed she had dishonored; and the tremulous motion of her veil betrayed her agitation.
Philothea spoke in a mild, but firm voice: “Son of Charmides, by the friendship of my father, I conjure you do not require me to forsake Eudora in this hour of great distress.”
In a softened tone, Phidias replied: “The daughter of Alcimenes knows that for his sake, and for the sake of her own gentle nature, I can refuse her nothing.”
“I give thee thanks,” rejoined the maiden, “and relying on this assurance, I will venture to plead for this helpless orphan, whom the gods committed to thy charge. The counsels of Aspasia have led her into error; and is the son of Charmides blameless, for bringing one so young within the influence of that seductive woman?”
After a short pause, Phidias answered: “Philothea it is true that my pride in her gift of sweet sounds first brought her into the presence of that bad and dangerous man; it was contrary to Philæmon’s wishes, too; and in this I have erred. If that giddy damsel can tell me the meeting in the garden was not by her own consent, I will again restore her to my confidence. Eudora, can you with truth give me this assurance?”
Eudora made no reply; but she trembled so violently that she would have sunk, had she not leaned on the arm of her friend.
Philothea, pitying her distress, said, “Son of Charmides, I do not believe Eudora can truly give the answer you wish to receive; but remember in her favor that she does not seek to excuse herself by falsehood. Alcibiades has had no other interview than that one, of which the divine Phæbus sent a mesenger to warn me in my sleep. For that fault, the deluded maiden has already suffered a bitter portion of shame and grief.”
After a short silence, Phidias spoke: “Eudora, when I called you hither, it was with the determination of sending you to the temple of Castor and Polydeuces, there to be offered for sale to your paramour, who has already tried, in a secret way, to purchase you, by the negociation of powerful friends; but Philothea has not pleaded for you in vain. I will not punish your fault so severely as Alcibiades ventured to hope. You shall remain under my protection. But from henceforth you must never leave your own apartment, without my express permission, which will not soon be granted. I dare not trust your sudden repentance; and shall therefore order a mastiff to be chained to your door. Dione will bring you bread and water only. If you fail in obedience, the fate I first intended will assuredly be yours, without time given for expostulation. Now go to the room that opens into the garden; and there remain, till I send Dione to conduct you to your own apartment.”
Eudora was so completely humbled, that these harsh words aroused no feeling of offended pride. Her heart was too full for utterance; and her eyes so blinded with tears, that, as she turned to leave the apartment, she frequently stumbled over the scattered fragments of marble.
It was a day of severe trials for the poor maiden. They had remained but a short time waiting for Dione, when Philæmon entered, conducted by Phidias, who immediately left the apartment. Eudora instantly bowed her head upon the couch, and covered her face with her hands.
In a voice tremulous with emotion, the young man said, “Eudora, notwithstanding the bitter recollection of where I last saw you, I have earnestly wished to see you once more—to hear from your own lips whether the interview I witnessed in the garden was by your own appointment. Although many things in your late conduct have surprised and grieved me, I am slow to believe that you could have taken a step so unmaidenly; particularly at this time, when it has pleased the gods to load me with misfortunes. By the affection I once cherished, I entreat you to tell me whether that meeting was unexpected.”
He waited in vain for any other answer than audible sobs. After a slight pause, he continued: “Eudora, I wait for a reply more positive than silence. Let me hear from your own lips the words that must decide my destiny. Perchance it is the last favor I shall ever ask.”
The repentant maiden, without looking up, answered in broken accents, “Philæmon, I will not add deceit to other wrongs. I must speak the truth if my heart is broken. I did consent to that interview.”
The young man bowed his head in silent anguish against one of the pillars—his breast heaved, and his lips quivered. After a hard struggle with himself, he said, “Farewell, Eudora. I shall never again intrude upon your presence. Many will flatter you; but none will love as I have loved.”
With a faint shriek, Eudora sprung forward, and threw herself at his feet. She would have clasped his knees, but he involuntarily recoiled from her touch, and gathered the folds of his robe about him.
Then the arrow entered deeply into her heart. She rested her burning forehead against the marble pillar, and said, in tones of agonized entreaty, “I never met him but once.”
Philothea, who during this scene had wept like an infant, laid her hand beseechingly on his arm, and added, “Son of Chœriläus, remember that was the only interview.”
Philæmon shook his head mournfully, as he replied, “But I cannot forget that it was an appointed one.— We can never meet again.”
He turned hastily to leave the room; but lingered on the threshold, and looked back upon Eudora, with an expression of unutterable sadness.
Philothea perceived the countenance of her unhappy friend grow rigid beneath his gaze. She hastened to raise her from the ground whereon she knelt, and received her senseless in her arms.
CHAPTER IX.
Fare thee well, perfidious maid!
My soul,—its fondest hopes betrayed,
Betrayed, perfidious girl, by thee,—
Is now on wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceased to love me here.
Anacreon
Not long after the parting interview with Eudora, Philæmon, sad and solitary, slowly wended
his way from Athens. As he passed along the banks of the Illyssus, he paused for a moment, and stood with folded arms, before the chaste and beautiful little temple of Agrotera, the huntress with the unerring bow.
The temple was shaded by lofty plane trees, and thickly intertwined willows, among which transparent rivulets glided in quiet beauty; while the marble nymphs, with which the grove was adorned, looking modestly down upon the sparkling waters, as if awestricken by the presence of their sylvan goddess.
A wellknown voice said, “Enter, Philæmon. It is a beautiful retreat. The soft, verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like and sonorous sound. Enter, my son.”
“Thanks, Anaxagoras,” replied Philæmon, as he moved forward to give and receive the cordial salutation of his friend: “I have scarcely travelled far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is indeed refreshing.”
“Whither leads your path, my son?” inquired the good old man. “I perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you, like one who travels afar.”
“I seek Mount Hymettus, my father,” replied Philæmon: “There I shall stop tonight, to take my last look of Athens. Tomorrow, I join a company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles.”
“And would you have left Athens without my blessing?” inquired Anaxagoras.
“In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting,” rejoined Philæmon. Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever.”
The aged philosopher endeavored to speak, but his voice was tremulous with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philæmon’s, and said, “My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted.”
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