“The citizens of Lampsacus, hearing of your illness, requested me to ask what they should do in honor of your memory, when it pleased the gods to call you hence. What response do you give to this message?’ inquired the prince.
The philosopher answered, “Say to them that I desire all the children may have a holiday on the anniversary of my death.”
Chrysippus remained silent for a few moments; and then continued: “Anaxagoras, I perceive that you are strangely unlike other mortals; and I know not how you will receive the proposal I am about to make. Philothea has glided from the apartment, as if afraid to remain in my presence. That graceful maiden is too lovely for any destiny meaner than a royal marriage. As a kinsman, I have the best claim to her; and if it be your will, I will divorce my Phœnician Astarte, and make Philothea princess of Clazomenæ.”
“Thanks, son of Basileon,” replied the old man; “but I love the innocent orphan too well to bestow upon her the burthen and the dangers of royalty.”
“None could dispute your own right to exchange power and wealth for philosophy and poverty,” said Chrysippus; “but though you are the lawful guardian of this maiden, I deem it unjust to reject a splendid alliance without her knowledge.”
“Philothea gave her affections to Paralus even in the days of their childhood,” replied Anaxagoras; and she is of a nature too divine to place much value on the splendor that passes away.”
The prince seemed disturbed and chagrined by this imperturbable spirit of philosophy; and after a few brief remarks retreated to the portico.
Here he entered into conversation with Plato; and after some general discourse, spoke of his wishes with regard to Philothea. “Anaxagoras rejects the alliance,” said he, smiling; “but take my word for it, the maiden would not dismiss the matter thus lightly. I have never yet seen a woman who preferred philosophy to princes.”
“Kings are less fortunate than philosophers,” responded Plato; “I have known several women who preferred wisdom to gold. Could Chrysippus look into those divine eyes, and yet believe that Philothea’s soul would rejoice in the pomp of princes?”
The wealthy son of Basileon still remained incredulous of any exceptions to woman’s vanity; and finally obtained a promise from Plato that he would use his influence with his friend to have the matter left entirely to Philothea’s decision.
When the maiden was asked by her grandfather, whether she would be the wife of Paralus, smitten by the hand of disease, or princess of Clazomenæ, surrounded by more grandeur than Penelope could boast in her proudest days—her innocent countenance expressed surprise not unmingled with fear that the mind of Anaxagoras was wandering. But when assured that Chrysippus seriously proposed to divorce his wife and marry her, a feeling of humiliation came over her, that a man, ignorant of the qualities of her soul, should be thus captivated by her outward beauty, and regard it as a thing to be bought with gold. But the crimson tint soon subsided from her transparent cheek, and she quietly replied, “Tell the Prince of Clazomenæ that I have never learned to value riches; nor could I do so, without danger of being exiled far from my divine home.”
When these words were repeated to Chrysippus, he exclaimed impatiently, “Curse on the folly which philosophers dignify with the name of wisdom!”
After this, nothing could restore the courtesy he had previously assumed. He scarcely tasted the offered fruit and wine; bade a cold farewell, and soon rolled away in his splendid chariot, followed by his train of attendants.
This unexpected interview produced a singular excitement in the mind of Anaxagoras. All the occurrences of his youth passed vividly before him; and things forgotten for years were remembered like events of the past hour. Plato sat by his side till the evening twilight deepened, listening as he recounted scenes long since witnessed in Athens. When they entreated him to seek repose, he reluctantly assented, and said to his friend, with a gentle pressure of the hand, “Farewell, son of Aristo. Pray for me before you retire to your couch.”
Plato parted the silver hairs and imprinted a kiss on his forehead; then crowning himself with a garland, he knelt before an altar that stood in the apartment, and prayed aloud: “O thou, who art King of Heaven, life and death are in thy hand! Grant what is good for us, whether we ask it, or ask it not; and refuse that which would be hurtful, even when we ask it most earnestly.”
“That contains the spirit of all prayer,” said the old philosopher. “And now, Plato, go to thy rest; and I will go to mine. Very pleasant have thy words been to me. Even like the murmuring of fountains in a parched and sandy desert.”
When left alone with his grandchild and Mibra, the invalid still seemed unusually excited, and his eyes shone with unwonted brightness. Again he recurred to his early years, and talked fondly of his wife and children. He dwelt on the childhood of Philothea with peculiar pleasure. “Often, very often,” said he, “thy infant smiles and artless speech led my soul to divine things; when, without thee, the link would have been broken, and the communication lost.”
He held her hand affectionately in his, and often drew her toward him, that he might kiss her cheek. Late in the night sleep began to steal over him with gentle influence; and Philothea was afraid to move, lest she should disturb his slumbers.
Mibra reposed on a couch close by her side, ready to obey the slightest summons; the small earthen lamp that stood on the floor, shaded by an open tablet, burned dim; and the footsteps of Plato were faintly heard in the stillness of the night, as he softly paced to and fro in the open portico.
Philothea leaned her head upon the couch, and gradually yielded to the drowsy influence.
When she awoke, various objects in the apartment were indistinctly revealed by the dawning light. All was deeply quiet. She remained kneeling by her grandfather’s side, and her hand was still clasped in his; but it was chilled beneath his touch. She arose, gently placed his arm on the couch, and looked upon his face. A placid smile rested on his features; and she saw that his spirit had passed in peace.
She awoke Mibra, and desired that the household might be summoned. As they stood around the couch of that venerable man, Geta and Mibra wept bitterly; but Philothea calmly kissed his cold cheek; and Plato looked on him with serene affection, as he said, “So sleep the good.”
A lock of grey hair suspended on the door, and a large vase of water at the threshold, early announced to the villagers that the soul of Anaxagoras had passed from its earthly tenement. The boys came with garlands to decorate the funeral couch of the beloved old man; and no tribute of respect was wanting; for all that knew him blessed his memory.
He was buried, as he had desired, near the clepsydra in the little brook; a young almond tree was planted on his grave; and for years after, all the children commemorated the anniversary of his death, by a festival, called Anaxagoreia.
Pericles had sent two discreet matrons, and four more youthful attendants, to accompany Philothea to Athens, in case she consented to become the wife of Paralus. The morning after the decease of Anaxagoras, Plato sent a messenger to Lampsacus, desiring the presence of these women, accompanied by Euago and his household. As soon as the funeral rites were passed, he entreated Philothea to accept the offered protection of Euago, the friend of his youth, and connected by marriage with the house of Pericles. “I urge it the more earnestly,” said he, “because I think you have reason to fear the power and resentment of Chrysippus. Princes do not willingly relinquish a pursuit; and his train could easily seize you and your attendants, without resistance from these simple villagers.”
Aglaonice, wife of Euago, likewise urged the orphan, in the most affectionate manner, to return with them to Lampsacus, and there await the departure of the galley. Philothea acknowledged the propriety of removal, and felt deeply thankful for the protecting influence of her friends. The simple household furniture was given to Mibra; her own wardrobe, with many little things that had become dear to her, were deposited in the chariot of Euago; the weeping villagers had taken an affectionate
farewell; and sacrifices to the gods had been offered on the altar in front of the dwelling.
Still Philothea lingered and gazed on the beautiful scenes where she had passed so many tranquil hours. Tears mingled with her smiles, as she said, “O, how hard it is to believe the spirit of Anaxagoras will be as near me in Athens as it is here, where his bones lie buried!”
CHAPTER XIII.
One day, the muses twined the hands
Of infant love with flowery bands,
And gave the smiling captive boy
To be Celestial Beauty’s joy.
Anacreon
While Philothea remained at Lampsacus, awaiting the arrival of the galley, news came that Chrysippus, with a company of horsemen, had been to her former residence, under the pretext of paying funeral rites to his deceased relative. At the same time, several robes, mantles, and veils, were brought from Heliordora at Ephesus, with the request that they, as well as the silver tripod, should be considered, not as a dowry, but as gifts to be disposed of as she pleased. The priestess mentioned feeble health as a reason for not coming in person to bid the orphan farewell; and promised that sacrifices and prayers for her happiness should be duly offered at the shrine of radiant Phœbus.
Philothea smiled to remember how long she had lived in Ionia without attracting the notice of her princely relatives, until her name became connected with the illustrious house of Pericles; but she meekly returned thanks and friendly wishes, together with the writings of Simonides, beautifully copied by her own hand.
The day of departure at length arrived. All along the shore might be seen smoke rising from the altars of Poseidon, Æolus, Castor, and Polydeuces and the sea-green Sisters of the Deep. To the usual danger of winds and storms was added the fear of encountering hostile fleets; and every power that presided over the destinies of sailors was invoked by the anxious mariners. But their course seemed more like an excursion in a pleasure barge, than a voyage on the ocean. They rowed along beneath a calm and sunny sky, keeping close to the verdant shores, where, ever and anon, temples, altars, and statues, peeped forth amid groves of cypress and cedar; under the shadow of which many a festive train hailed the soft approach of spring with pipe, and song, and choral dance.
The tenth day saw the good ship Halcyone safely moored in the harbor of Phalerum, chosen in preference to the more crowded and diseased port of the Piræus. The galley having been perceived at a distance, Pericles and Clinias were waiting, with chariots, in readiness to convey Philothea and her attendants. The first inquiries of Pericles were concerning the health of Anaxagoras; and he seemed deeply affected, when informed that he would behold his face no more Philothea’s heart was touched by the tender solemnity of his manner when he bade her welcome to Athens. Plato anticipated the anxious question that trembled on her tongue; and a brief answer indicated that no important change had taken place in Paralus. Clinias kindly urged the claims of himself and wife to be considered the parents of the orphan; and they all accompanied her to his house, attended by boys burning incense, as a protection against the pestilential atmosphere of the marshy grounds.
When they alighted, Philothea timidly, but ear nestly, asked to see Paralus without delay. Their long-cherished affection, the full communion of soul they had enjoyed together, and the peculiar visitation which now rested on him, all combined to make her forgetful of ceremony.
Pericles went to seek his son, and found him reclining on the couch where he had left him. The invalid seemed to be in a state of deep abstraction, and offered no resistance as they led him to the chariot. When they entered the house of Clinias, he looked around with a painful expression of weariness, until they tenderly placed him on a couch. He was evidently disturbed by the presence of those about him, but unmindful of any familiar faces, until Philothea suddenly knelt by his side, and throwing back her veil, said, “Paralus! dear Paralus! Do you not know me?” Then his whole face kindled with an expression of joy, so intense that Pericles for a moment thought the faculties of his soul were completely restored.
But the first words he uttered showed a total unconsciousness of past events. “Oh, Philothea!” he exclaimed, “I have not heard your voice since last night, when you came to me and sung that beautiful welcome to the swallows, which all the little children like so well.”
On the preceding evening, Philothea, being urged by her maidens to sing, had actually warbled that little song; thinking all the while of the days of childhood, when she and Paralus used to sing it, to please their young companions. When she heard this mysterious allusion to the music, she looked at Plato with an expression of surprise; while Mibra and the other attendants seemed afraid in the presence of one thus visited by the gods.
With looks full of beaming affection, the invalid continued: “And now, Philothea, we will again walk to that pleasant place, where we went when you finished the song.”
In low and soothing tones, the maiden inquired, “Where did we go, Paralus?”
“Have you forgotten?” he replied. “We went hand in hand up a high mountain. A path wound round it in spiral flexures, ever ascending, and communicating with all above and all below. A stream of water, pure as crystal, flowed along the path, from the summit to the base. Where we stood to rest awhile, the skies were of transparent blue; but higher up, the light was purple, and the trees full of doves. We saw little children leading lambs to drink at the stream, and they raised their voices in glad shouts to see the bright waters go glancing and glittering down the sides of the mountain.”
He remained silent and motionless for several minutes; and then continued: “But this path is dreary. I do not like this wide marsh, and these ruined temples. Who spoke then and told me it was Athens? But now I see the groves of Academus. There is a green meadow in the midst, on which rests a broad belt of sunshine. Above it, are floating little children with wings; and they throw down garlands to little children without wings, who are looking upward with joyful faces. Oh, how beautiful they are! Come, Philothea, let us join them.”
The philosopher smiled, and inwardly hailed the words as an omen auspicious to his doctrines. All who listened were deeply impressed by language so mysterious.
The silence remained unbroken, until Paralus asked for music. A cithara being brought, Philothea played one of his favorite songs, accompanied by her voice. The well-remembered sounds seemed to fill him with joy beyond his power to express; and again his anxious parent cherished the hope that reason would be fully restored.
He put his hand affectionately on Philothea’s head, as he said, “Your presence evidently has a blessed influence; but oh, my daughter, what a sacrifice you are making—young and beautiful as you are!”
“Nay, Pericles,” she replied, “I deem it a privilege once more to hear the sound of his voice; though it speaks a strange, unearthly language.”
When they attempted to lead the invalid from the apartment, and Philothea, with a tremulous voice, said, “Farewell, Paralus,”—an expression of intense gloom came over his countenance, suddenly as a sunny field is obscured by passing clouds. “Not farewell to Eurydice!” he said: “It is sad music—sad music.”
The tender-hearted maiden was affected even to tears, and found it hard to submit to a temporary separation. But Pericles assured her that his son would probably soon fall asleep, and awake without any recollection of recent events. Before she retired to her couch, a messenger was sent to inform her that Paralus was in deep repose.
Clinias having removed from the unhealthy Piræum, in search of purer atmosphere, Philothea found him in the house once occupied by Phidias; and the hope that scenes of past happiness might prove salutary to the mind of Paralus, induced Pericles to prepare the former dwelling of Anaxagoras for his bridal home. The friends and relations of the invalid were extremely desirous to have Philothea’s soothing influence continually exerted upon him; and the disinterested maiden earnestly wished to devote every moment of her life to the restoration of his precious health. Under these circumstances, it was
deemed best that the marriage should take place immediately.
The mother of Paralus had died; and Aspasia, with cautious delicacy, declined being present at the ceremony, under the pretext of ill health; but Phœnarete, the wife of Clinias, gladly consented to act as mother of the orphan bride.
Propitiatory sacrifices were duly offered to Artemis, Hera, Pallas, Aphrodite, the Fates, and the Graces. On the appointed day, Philothea appeared in bridal garments, prepared by Phœnarate. The robe of fine Milesian texture, was saffron-colored, with a purple edge. Over this, was a short tunic of brilliant crimson, confined at the waist by an embroidered zone, fastened with a broad clasp of gold. Glossy braids of hair were intertwined with the folds of her rose-colored veil; and both bride and bridegroom were crowned with garlands of roses and myrtle. The chariot, in which they were seated, was followed by musicians, and a long train of friends and relatives. Arrived at the temple of Hera, the priest presented a branch which they held between them as a symbol of the ties about to unite them. Victims were sacrificed, and the omens declared not unpropitious. When the gall had been cast behind the altar, Clinias placed Philothea’s hand within the hand of Paralus; the bride dedicated a ringlet of her hair to Hera; the customary vows were pronounced by the priest; and the young couple were presented with golden cups of wine, from which they poured libations. The invalid was apparently happy; but so unconscious of the scene he was acting, that his father was obliged to raise his hand and pour forth the wine.
The ceremonies being finished, the priest reminded Philothea that when a good wife died, Persephone formed a procession of the best women to scatter flowers in her path, and lead her spirit to Elysium. As he spoke, two doves alighted on the altar; but one immediately rose, and floated above the other, with a tender cooing sound. Its mate looked upward for a moment; and then both of them rose high in the air, and disappeared. The spectators hailed this as an auspicious omen; but Philothea pondered it in her heart, and thought she perceived a deeper meaning than was visible to them.
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