Philothea

by Lydia Maria Child

  The conversation was interrupted by the merry shouts of children; and presently a troop of boys and girls appeared, leading two lambs decked with garlands. They were twin lambs of a ewe that had died; and they had been trained to suck from a pipe placed in a vessel of milk. This day for the first time, the young ram had placed his budding horns under the throat of his sister lamb, and pushed away her head, that he might take possession of the pipe himself. The children were greatly delighted with this exploit, and hastened to exhibit it before their old friend Anaxagoras, who always entered into their sports with a cheerful heart. Philothea replenished the vessel of milk; and the gambols of the young lambs, with the joyful laughter of the children, diffused a universal spirit of gladness. One little girl filled the hands of the old philosopher with tender leaves, that the beautifu animals might come and eat; while another climbed his knees, and put her little fingers on his venerable head, saying, “Your hair is as white as the lamb’s; will Philothea spin it, father?”

  The maiden, who had been gazing at the little group with looks full of tenderness, timidly raised her eyes to Plato, and said, “Son of Aristo, these have not wandered so far from their divine home as we have!”

  The philosopher had before observed the peculiar radiance of Philothea’s expression, when she raised her downcast eyes; but it never before appeared to him so much like light suddenly revealed from the inner shrine of a temple.

  With a feeling approaching to worship, he replied, “Maiden, your own spirit has always remained near its early glories.”

  When the glad troop of children departed, Plato followed them to see their father’s flocks, and play quoits with the larger boys. Anaxagoras looked after him with a pleased expression, as he said, “He will delight their minds, as he has elevated ours. Assuredly, his soul is like the Homeric chain of gold, one end of which rests on earth, and the other terminates in Heaven.”

  Mibra was daily employed in fields not far distant, to tend a neighbor’s goats, and Philothea, wishing to impart the welcome tidings, took up the shell with which she was accustomed to summon her to her evening labors. She was about to apply the shell to her lips, when she perceived the young Arcadian standing in the vine-covered arbor, with Geta; who had seized her by each cheek, and was kissing her after the fashion of the Grecian peasantry. With a smile and a blush, the maiden turned away hastily, lest the humble lovers should perceive they were discovered.

  The frugal supper waited long on the table before Plato returned. As he entered, Anaxagoras pointed to the board, which rested on rude sticks cut from the trees, and said, “Son of Aristo, all I have to offer you are dried grapes, bread, wild honey, and water from the brook.”

  “More I should not taste if I were at the table of Alcibiades,” replied the philosopher of Athens. “When I see men bestow much thought on eating and drinking, I marvel that they will labor so diligently in building their own prisons. Here, at least, we can restore the Age of Innocence, when no life was taken to gratify the appetite of man, and the altars of the gods were unstained with blood.”

  Philothea, contrary to the usual custom of Grecian women, remained with her grandfather and his guest during their simple repast, and soon after retired to her own apartment.

  When they were alone, Plato informed his aged friend that his visit to Lampsacus was at the request of Pericles. Hippocrates had expressed a hope that the presence of Philothea might, at least in some degree, restore the health of Paralus; and the heart-stricken father had sent to entreat her consent to a union with his son.

  “Philothea would not leave me, even if I urged it with tears,” replied Anaxagoras; “and I am forbidden to return to Athens.”

  “Pericles has provided an asylum for you, on the borders of Attica,” answered Plato; “and the young people would soon join you, after their marriage. He did not suppose that his former proud opposition to their loves would be forgotten; but he said hearts like yours would forgive it all, the more readily because he was now a man deprived of power, and his son suffering under a visitation of the gods. Alcibiades laughed aloud when he heard of this proposition; and said his uncle would never think of making it to any but a maiden who sees the zephyrs run and hears the stars sing. He spoke truth in his profane merriment. Pericles knows that she who obediently listens to the inward voice will be most likely to seek the happiness of others, forgetful of her own wrongs.”

  “I do not believe the tender-hearted maiden ever cherished resentment against any living thing,” replied Anaxagoras. “She often reminds me of Hesiod’s description of Leto:

  ‘Placid to men and to immortal gods;

  Mild from the first beginning of her days;

  Gentlest of all in Heaven.’

  She has indeed been a precious gift to my old age. Simple and loving as she is, there are times when her looks and words fill me with awe, as if I stood in the presence of divinity.”

  “It is a most lovely union when the Muses and the Charities inhabit the same temple,” said Plato. “I think she learned of you to be a constant worshipper of the innocent and graceful nymphs, who preside over kind and gentle actions. But tell me, Anaxagoras, if this marriage is declined, who will protect the daughter of Alcimenes when you are gone?”

  The philosopher replied, “I have a sister Heliodora, the youngest of my father’s flock, who is Priestess of the Sun, at Ephesus. Of all my family, she has least despised me for preferring philosophy to gold; and report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked and obtained from her a promise to protect Philothea when I am gone; but I will tell my child the wishes of Pericles, and leave her to the guidance of her own heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will be to him, as she has been to me a blessing like the sunshine.”

  CHAPTER XII.

  Adieu, thou sun, and fields of golden light;

  For the last time I drink thy radiance bright,

  And sink to sleep.

  Aristophanes

  The galley that brought Plato from Athens was sent on a secret political mission, and was not expected to revisit Lampsacus until the return of another moon. Anaxagoras, always mindful of the happiness of those around him, proposed that the constancy of faithful Geta should be rewarded by an union with Mibra. The tidings were hailed with joy; not only by the young couple, but by all the villagers. The superstition of the little damsel did indeed suggest numerous obstacles. The sixteenth of the month must on no account be chosen; one day was unlucky for a wedding, because as she returned from the fields an old woman busy at the distaff had directly crossed her path; and another was equally so, because she had seen a weasel, without remembering to throw three stones as it passed. But at last there came a day against which no objections could be raised. The sky was cloudless, and the moon at its full; both deemed propitious omens. A white kid had been sacrificed to Artemis, and baskets of fruit and poppies been duly placed upon her altar. The long white veil woven by Mibra and laid by for this occasion, was taken out to be bleached in the sunshine and dew. Philothea presented a zone, embroidered by her own skillful hands; Anaxagoras bestowed a pair of sandals laced with crimson; and Geta purchased a bridal robe of flaming colors.

  Plato promised to supply the feast with almonds and figs. The peasant, whose goats Mibra had tended, sent six large vases of milk, borne by boys crowned with garlands. And the matrons of the village, with whom the kind little Arcadian had ever been a favorite, presented a huge cake, carried aloft on a bed of flowers, by twelve girls clothed in white. The humble residence of the old philosopher was almost covered with the abundant blossoms brought by joyful children. The door posts were crowned with garlands annointed with oil, and bound with fillets of wool. The bride and bridegroom were carried in procession, on a litter made of the boughs of trees, plentifully adorned with garlands and flags of various colors; preceded by young men playing on reeds and flutes, and followed by maidens bearing a pestle and sieve. The priest performed the customary sacrifices at the altar of Hera; the omens were propitious; liba
tions were poured; and Mibra returned to her happy home, the wife of her faithful Geta. Feasting continued till late in the evening, and the voice of music was not hushed until past the hour of midnight.

  The old philosopher joined in the festivities, and in the cheerfulness of his heart exerted himself beyond his strength. Each succeeding day found him more feeble; and Philothea soon perceived that the staff on which she had leaned from her childhood was about to be removed forever. On the twelfth day after Mibra’s wedding, he asked to be led into the open portico, that he might enjoy the genial warmth. He gazed on the bright landscape, as if it had been the countenance of a friend. Then looking upward, with a placid smile, he said to Plato, “You tell me that Truth acts upon the soul like the Sun upon the eye, when it turneth to him. Would that I could be as easily and certainly placed in the light of truth, as I have been in this blessed sunshine! But in vain I seek to comprehend the mystery of my being. All my thoughts on this subject are dim and shadowy, as the ghosts seen by Odysseus on the Stygian shore.”

  Plato answered: “Thus it must ever be, while the outward world lies so near us, and the images of things crowd perpetually on the mind. An obolus held close to the eye may prevent our seeing the moon and the stars; and thus does the everpresent earth exclude the glories of Heaven. But in the midst of uncertainty and fears, one feeling alone remains; and that is hope, strong as belief, that virtue can never die. In pity to the cravings of the soul, something will surely be given in future time more bright and fixed than the glimmering truths preserved in poetic fable; even as radiant stars a rose from the ashes of Orion’s daughters, to shine in the heavens an eternal crown.”

  The old man replied, “I have, as you well know, been afraid to indulge in your speculations concerning the soul, lest I should spend my life in unsatisfied attempts to embrace beautiful shadows.”

  “To me likewise they have sometimes appeared doctrines too high and solemn to be taught,” rejoined Plato: “Often when I have attempted to clothe them in language, the airy forms have glided from me, mocking me with their distant beauty. We are told of Tantalus surrounded by water that flows away when he attempts to taste it, and with delicious fruits above his head, carried off by a sudden wind whenever he tries to seize them. It was his crime that, being admitted to the assemblies of Olympus, he brought away the nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and gave them unto mortals. Sometimes, when I have been led to discourse of ideal beauty, with those who perceive only the images of things, the remembrance of that unhappy son of Zeus has awed me into silence.”

  While they were yet speaking, the noise of approaching wheels was heard, and presently a splendid chariot, with four white horses, stopped before the humble dwelling.

  A stranger, in purple robes, descended from the chariot, followed by servants carrying a seat of ivory inlaid with silver, a tuft of peacock feathers to brush away the insects, and a golden box filled with perfumes. It was Chrysippus, prince of Clazomenæ, the nephew of Anaxagoras. He had neglected and despised the old man in his poverty, but had now come to congratulate him on the rumor of Philothea’s approaching marriage with the son of Pericles. The aged philosopher received him with friendly greeting, and made him known to Plato. Chrysippus gave a glance at the rude furniture of the portico, and gathered his perfumed robes carefully about him.

  “Son of Basileon, it is the dwelling of cleanliness, though it be the abode of poverty,” said the old man, in a tone of mild reproof.

  Geta had officiously brought a wooden bench for the high-born guest; but he waited till his attendants had opened the ivory seat, and covered it with crimson cloth, before he seated himself, and replied: “Truly, I had not expected to find the son of Hegesibulus in so mean a habitation. No man would conjecture that you were the descendant of princes.”

  With a quiet smile, the old man answered, “Princes have not wished to proclaim kindred with Anaxagoras; and why should he desire to perpetuate the remembrance of what they have forgotten?”

  Chrysippus looked toward Plato, and with some degree of embarrassment sought to excuse himself, by saying, “My father often told me that it was your own choice to withdraw from your family; and if they have not since offered to share their wealth with you, it is because you have ever been improvident of your estates.”

  “What! Do you not take charge of them?” inquired Anaxagoras. “I gave my estates to your father, from the conviction that he would take better care of them than I could do; and in this I deemed myself most provident.”

  “But you went to Athens, and took no care for your country,” rejoined the prince.

  The venerable philosopher pointed to the heavens, that smiled serenely above them, and said, “Nay young man, my greatest care has ever been for my country.”

  In a more respectful tone, Chrysippus rejoined: “Anaxagoras, all men speak of your wisdom; but does this fame so far satisfy you, that you never regret you sacrificed riches to philosophy?”

  “I am satisfied with the pursuit of wisdom, not with the fame of it,” replied the sage. “In my youth I greatly preferred wisdom to gold; and as I approach the Stygian shore, gold has less and less value in my eyes. Charon will charge my disembodied spirit but a single obolus for crossing his dark ferry. Living mortals only need a golden bough to enter the regions of the dead.”

  The prince seemed thoughtful for a moment, as he gazed on the benevolent countenance of his aged relative.

  “If it be as you have said, Anaxagoras is indeed happier than princes,” he replied. “But I came to speak of the daughter of Alcimenes. I have heard that she is beautiful, and the destined wife of Paralus of Athens.”

  “It is even so,” said the philosopher; “and it would gladden my heart, if I might be permitted to see her placed under the protection of Pericles, before I die.”

  “Has a sufficient dowry been provided?” inquired Chrysippus. “No one of our kindred must enter the family of Pericles as a slave.”

  A slight color mantled in the old man’s cheeks, as he answered, “I have friends in Athens, who will not see my precious child suffer shame for want of a few drachmæ.”

  “I have brought with me a gift, which I deemed in some degree suited-to the dignity of our ancestors,” rejoined the prince; “and I indulged the hope of giving it into the hands of the maiden.”

  As he spoke, he made a signal to his attendants, who straightway brought from the chariot a silver tripod lined with gold, and a bag containing a hundred golden staters. At the same moment, Mibra entered, and in a low voice informed Anaxagoras that Philothea deemed this prolonged interview with the stranger dangerous to his feeble health; and begged that he would suffer himself to be placed on the couch. The invalid replied by a message desiring her presence. As she entered, he said to her, “Philothea behold your kinsman Chrysippus, son of Basileon.”

  The illustrious guest was received with the same modest and friendly greeting that would have been bestowed on the son of a worthy peasant. The prince felt slightly offended that his splendid dress and magnificent equipage produced so little effect on the family of the philosopher; but as the fame of Philothea’s beauty had largely mingled with other inducements to make the visit, he endeavored to conceal his pride, and as he offered the rich gifts, said in a respectful tone, “Daughter of Alcimenes, the tripod is from Heliodora, Priestess at Ephesus. The golden coin is from my own coffers. Accept them for a dowry; and allow me to claim one privilege in return. As I cannot be at the marriage feast, to share the pleasures of other kinsmen, permit the son of Basileon to see you now one moment without your veil.”

  He waved his hand for his attendants to withdraw; but the maiden hesitated, until Anaxagoras said mildly, “Chrysippus is of your father’s kindred; and it is discreet that his request be granted.”

  Philothea timidly removed her veil, and a modest blush suffused her lovely countenance, as she said, “Thanks, Prince of Clazomenæ, for these munificent gifts. May the gods long preserve you a blessing to your family and people.”r />
  “The gifts are all unworthy of her who receives them,” replied Chrysippus, gazing so intently that the maiden, with rosy confusion, replaced her veil.

  Anaxagoras invited his royal guest to share a philosopher’s repast, to which he promised should be added a goblet of wine, lately sent from Lampsacus. The prince courteously accepted his invitation; and the kind old man, wearied with the exertions he had made, was borne to his couch in an inner apartment. When Plato had assisted Philothea and Mibra in arranging his pillows, and folding the robe about his feet, he returned to the portico. Philothea supposed the stranger was about to follow him; and without raising her head, as she bent over her grandfather’s couch, she said: “He is feeble, and needs repose. In the days of his strength he would not have thus left you to the courtesy of our Athenian guest.”

  “Would to the gods that I had sought him sooner!” rejoined Chrysippus. “While I have gathered foreign jewels, I have been ignorant of the gems in my own family.”

  Then stooping down, he took Anaxagoras by the hand, and said affectionately, “Have you nothing to ask of your brother’s son?”

  “Nothing but your prayers for us, and a gentle government for your people,” answered the old man. “I thank you for your kindness to this precious orphan. For myself, I am fast going where I shall need less than ever the gifts of princes.”

  “Would you not like to be buried with regal honor, in your native Clazomenæ?” inquired the prince.

  The philosopher again pointed upward as he replied, “Nay. The road to heaven would be no shorter from Clazomenæ.”

  “And what monument would you have reared to mark the spot where Anaxagoras sleeps?” said Chrysippus.

  “I wish to be buried after the ancient manner, with the least possible trouble and expense,” rejoined the invalid. “The money you would expend for a monument may be given to some captive sighing in bondage. Let an almond tree be planted near my grave, that the boys may love to come there, as to a pleasant home.”