“Did Phidias express no anxiety concerning your unprotected situation?” inquired Philothea.
“It was his wish that I should marry Pandænus,” answered Eudora; “but he urged the subject no farther, when he found that I regarded the marriage with aversion. On his death-bed he charged his nephew to protect and cherish me as a sister. He left me under the guardianship of Proclus, with strict injunctions that I should have perfect freedom in the choice of a husband. He felt no anxiety concerning my maintenance; for the Eleons had promised that all persons connected with him should be liberally provided at the public expense; and I was universally considered as the adopted daughter of Phidias.”
“And what did Pandænus say to the wishes of his uncle,” asked Philothea.
Eudora blushed slightly as she answered, “He tried to convince me that we should all be happier, if I would consent to the arrangement. I could not believe this; and Pandænus was too proud to repeat his solicitations to a reluctant listener. I seldom see him; but when there is opportunity to do me service, he is very kind.”
Her friend looked earnestly upon her, as if seeking to read her heart; and inquired, “Has no other one gained your affections? I had some fears that I should find you married.”
“And why did you fear?” said Eudora: “Other friends would consider it a joyful occasion.”
“But I feared, because I have ever cherished the hope that you would be the wife of Philæmon,” rejoined her companion.
The sensitive maiden sighed deeply, and turned away her head, as she said, with a tremulous voice, “I have little doubt that Philæmon has taken a Persian wife, before this time.”
Philothea nade no reply; but searched for the epistle she had received at Corinth, and placed it in the hands of her friend. Eudora started, when she saw the wellknown writing of Philæmon. But when she read the sentence wherein he expressed affectionate solicitude for her welfare, she threw her arms convulsively about Philothea’s neck, exclaiming, “Oh, my beloved friend, what a blessed messenger you have ever been to this poor heart!”
For some moments, her agitation was extreme; but that gentle influence, which had so often soothed her, gradually calmed her perturbed feelings; and they talked freely of the possibility of regaining Philæmon’s love.
As Eudora stood leaning on her shoulder, Philothea, struck with the contrast in their figures, said: “When you were in Athens, we called you the Zephyr; and surely you are thinner now than you were then. I fear your health suffers from the anxiety of your mind. “See!” continued she, turning towards the mirror—“See what a contrast there is between us!”
“There should be a contrast,” rejoined Eudora, smiling: “The pillars of agoras are always of lighter and less majestic proportions than the pillars of temples.”
As she spoke, Geta lifted the curtain, and Philothea instantly obeyed the signal. For a few moments after her departure, Eudora heard the low murmuring of voices, and then the sound of a cithara, whose tones she well remembered. The tune was familiar to her in happier days, and she listened to it with tears.
Her meditations were suddenly disturbed by little Zoila, who came in with a jump and a bound, to show a robe full of flowers she had gathered for the beautiful Athenian lady. When she perceived that tears had fallen on the blossoms, she suddenly changed her merry tones, and with artless affection inquired, “What makes Dora cry?”
“I wept for the husband of that beautiful Athenian lady, because he is very ill,” replied the maiden.
“See the flowers!” exclaimed Zoila. “It looks as if the dew was on it; but the tears will not make it grow again—will they?”
Eudora involuntarily shuddered at the omen conveyed in her childish words; but gave permission to carry her offering to the Athenian lady, if she would promise to step very softly, and speak in whispers.
Philothea received the flowers thankfully, and placed them in vases near her husband’s couch; for she still fondly hoped to win back the wandering soul by the presence of things peaceful, pure and beautiful. She caressed the innocent little one, and tried to induce her to remain a few minutes; but the child seemed uneasy, as if in the presence of something that inspired fear. She returned to Eudora with a very thoughtful countenance; and though she often gathered flowers for “the tall infant,” as she called Paralus, she could never after be persuaded to enter his apartment.
CHAPTER XV.
They in me breathed a voice Divine; that I might know, with listening ears,
Things past and future; and enjoined me pruise
The race of blessed ones, that live for aye.
Heston
“Philothea to Philæmon, greeting:
The body of Anaxagoras has gone to the Place of Sleep. If it were not so, his hand would have written in reply to thy kind epistle. I was with him when he died, but knew not the hour he departed, for he sunk to rest like an infant.
We lived in peaceful poverty in Ionia; sometimes straightened for the means whereby this poor existence is preserved, but ever cheerful in spirit.
I drank daily from the ivory cup thou didst leave for me, with thy farewell to Athens; and the last lines traced by my grandfather’s hand still remain on the tablet thou didst give him. They are preserved for thee, to be sent into Persia, if thou dost not return to Greece, as I hope thou wilt.
I am now the wife of Paralus; and Pericles has brought us into the neighborhood of Olympia, seeking medical aid for my husband, not yet recovered from the effects of the plague. Pure and blameless, Paralus has ever been—with a mind richly endowed by the gods; and all this thou well knowest. Yet he is as one that dies while he lives; though not altogether as one unbeloved by divine beings. Wonderful are the accounts he brings of that far-off world where his spirit wanders. Sometimes I listen with fear, till all philosophy seems dim, and I shrink from the mystery of our being. When they do not disturb him with earthly medicines, he is quiet and happy. Waking, he speaks of things clothed in heavenly splendor; and in his sleep, he smiles like a child whose dreams are pleasant. I think this blessing comes from the Divine, by reason of the innocence of his life.
We abide at the house of Proclus, a kind, truth-telling man, whose wife, Melissa, is at once diligent and quiet—a rare combination of goodly virtues. These worthy people have been guardians of Eudora, since the death of Phidias; and with much affection, they speak of her gentleness, patience, and modest retirement. Melissa told me Aspasia had urgently invited her to Athens, but she refused, without even asking the advice of her guardian. Thou knowest her great gifts would have been worshipped by the Athenians, and that Eudora herself could not be ignorant of this.
Sometimes a stream is polluted in the fountain, and its waters are tainted through all its wanderings; and sometimes the traveller throws into a pure rivulet some unclean thing, which floats awhile, and is then rejected from its bosom. Eudora is the pure rivulet. A foreign stain floated on the surface; but never mingled with its waters.
Phidias wished her to marry his nephew; and Pandænus would fain have persuaded her to consent; but they forebore to urge it, when they saw it gave her pain. She is deeply thankful to her benefactor for allowing her a degree of freedom so seldom granted to Grecian maidens.
The Eleans, proud of their magnificent statue of Olympian Zeus, have paid extraordinary honors to the memory of the great sculptor, and provided amply for every member of his household. Eudora is industrious from choice, and gives liberally to the poor; particularly to orphans, who, like herself, have been brought into bondage by the violence of wicked men, or the chances of war. For some time past, she has felt all alone in the world;—a condition that marvellously helps to bring us into meekness and tenderness of spirit. When she read what thou didst write of her in thy epistle, she fell upon my neck and wept.
I return to thee the four minæ. He to whose necessities thou wouldst have kindly administered, hath gone where gold and silver availeth not. Many believe that they who die sleep forever; but this they could not
, if they had listened to words I have heard from Paralus.
Son of Chærilaüs, farewell. May blessings be around thee, wheresoever thou goest, and no evil shadow cross thy threshold.
Written in Elis, this thirteenth day of the increasing moon, in the month Hecatombæon, and the close of the eighty-seventh Olympiad.”
Without naming her intention to Eudora, Philothea laid aside the scroll she had prepared, resolved to place it in the hands of Pericles, to be entrusted to the care of some Persian present at the games, which were to commence on the morrow.
Before the hour of noon, Hylax gave notice of approaching strangers, who proved to be Pericles and Plato, attended by Tithonus. The young wife received them courteously, though a sudden sensation of dread ran through her veins with icy coldness. It was agreed that none but herself, Pericles, and Plato, should be present with Tithonus; and that profound silence should be observed. Preparation was made by offering solemn sacrifices to Phœbus, Hermes, Hecate, and Persephone; and Philothea inwardly prayed to that Divine Principle, revealed to her only by the monitions of his spirit in the stillness of her will.
Tithonus stood behind the invalid, and remained perfectly quiet for many minutes. He then gently touched the back part of his head with a small wand, and leaning over him, whispered in his ear. An unpleasant change immediately passed over the countenance of Paralus; he endeavored to place his hand on his head, and a cold shivering seized him. Philothea shuddered, and Pericles grew pale, as they watched these symptoms; but the silence remained unbroken. A second and a third time the Ethiopian touched him with his wand, and spoke in whispers. The expression of pain deepened; insomuch that his friends could not look upon his without anguish of heart. Finally his limbs straightened, and became perfectly rigid and motionless.
Tithonus, perceiving the terror he had excited, said soothingly, “Oh, Athenians be not afraid. I have never seen the soul withdrawn without a struggle with the body. Believe me, it will return. The words I whispered, were those I once heard from the lips of Plato: ‘The human soul is guided by two horses. One white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is black, heavy and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’
“The second time, I whispered, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And the third time I said, ‘Behold the winged separates from that which hath no wings.’ When life returns, Paralus will have remembrance of these words.”
“Oh, restore him! Restore him!” exclaimed Philothea, in tones of agonized entreaty.
Tithonus answered with respectful tenderness, and again stood in profound silence several minutes, before he raised the wand. At the first touch, a feeble shivering gave indication of returning life. As it was repeated a second and a third time, with a brief interval between each movement, the countenance of the sufferer grew more dark and troubled, until it became fearful to look upon. But the heavy shadow gradually passed away, and a dreamy smile returned, like a gleam of sunshine after storms. The moment Philothea perceived an expression familiar to her heart, she knelt by the couch, seized the hand of Paralus, and bathed it with her tears.
When the first gush of emotion had subsided, she said, in a soft, low voice, “Where have you been, dear Paralus?” The invalid answered: “A thick vapor enveloped me, as with a dark cloud; and a stunning noise pained my head with its violence. A voice said to me, ‘The human soul is guided by two horses. One white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’ Then the darkness began to clear away. But there was strange confusion. All things seemed rapidly to interchange their colors and their forms—the sound of a storm was in mine ears— the elements and the stars seemed to crowd upon me —and my breath was taken away. Then I heard a voice, saying, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And I looked and saw the chariot and horses, of which the voice had spoken. The beautiful white horse gazed upward, and tossed his mane, and spread his wings impatiently; but the black horse slept upon the ground. The voice again said, ‘Behold the winged separates from that which hath no wings!’ And suddenly the chariot ascended, and I saw the white horse on light fleecy clouds, in a far blue sky. Then I heard a pleasing, silent sound—as if dew-drops made music as they fell. I breathed freely, and my form seemed to expand itself with buoyant life. All at once, I was floating in the air, above a quiet lake, where reposed seven beautiful islands, full of the sound of harps; and Philothea slept at my side, with a garland on her head. I asked, ‘Is this the divine home, whence I departed into the body?’ And a voice above my head answered ‘It is the divine home. Man never leaves it. He ceases to perceive.’ Afterward, I looked downward, and saw my dead body lying on a couch. Then again there came strange confusion—and a painful clashing of sounds—and all things rushing together. But Philothea took my hand, and spoke to me in gentle tones, and the discord ceased.”
Plato had listened with intense interest. He stood apart with Tithonus, and they spoke together in low tones, for several minutes before they left the apartment. The philosopher was too deeply impressed to return to the festivities of Olympia. He hired an apartment at the dwelling of a poor shepherd, and during the following day remained in complete seclusion, without partaking of food.
While Paralus revealed his vision, his father’s soul was filled with reverence and fear, and he breathed with a continual consciousness of supernatural presence . When his feelings became somewhat composed, he leaned over the couch, and spoke a few affectionate words to his son; but the invalid turned away his head, as if disturbed by the presence of a stranger. The spirit of the strong man was moved, and he trembled like a leaf shaken by the wind. Unable to endure this disappointment of his excited hopes, he turned away hastily, and sought to conceal his grief in solitude.
During the whole of the ensuing day, Paralus continued in a deep sleep. This was followed by silent cheerfulness, which, flowing as it did from a hidden source, had something solemn and impressive in its character. It was sad, yet pleasant, to see his look of utter desolation whenever he lost sight of Philothea; and the sudden gleam of joy that illumined his whole face the moment she re-appeared.
The young wife sat by his side hour after hour with patient love; often cheering him with her soft, rich voice, or playing upon the lyre he had fashioned for her in happier days. She found a sweet reward in the assurance given by all his friends, that her presence had a healing power they had elsewhere sought in vain. She endeavored to pour balm into the wounded heart of Pericles, and could she have seen him willing to wait the event with perfect resignation, her contentment would have been not unmingled with joy.
She wept in secret when she heard him express a wish to have Paralus carried to the games, to try the effect of a sudden excitement; for there seemed to her something of cruelty in thus disturbing the tranquillity of one so gentle and so helpless. But the idea had been suggested by a learned physician of Chios, and Pericles seemed reluctant to return to Athens without trying this experiment also. Philothea found it more difficult to consent to the required sacrifice, because the laws of the country made it impossible to accompany her beloved husband to Olympia; but she suppressed her feelings; and the painfulness of the struggle was never fully confessed, even to Eudora.
While the invalid slept, he was carefully conveyed in a litter, and placed in the vicinity of the Hippodrome. He awoke in the midst of a gorgeous spectacle. Long lines of splendid chariots were ranged on either side of the barrier; the horses proudly pawed the ground, and neighed impatiently; the bright sun glanced on glittering armor; and the shouts of the charioteers were heard high above the busy hum of that vast multitude.
Paralus instantly closed his eyes, as if dazzled by the glare; and an expression of painful bewilderment rested on his countenance.
In the midst of the barrier stood an altar, on the top which was a brazen eagle. When the lists were in readiness, the ma
jestic bird arose and spread its wings, with a whirring noise, as a signal for the racers to begin. Then was heard the clattering of hoofs, and the rushing of wheels, as when armies meet in battle. A young Messenian was, for a time, foremost in the race; but his horse took fright at the altar of Taraxippus—his chariot was overthrown—and Alcibiades gained the prize. The vanquished youth uttered a loud and piercing shriek, as the horses passed over him; and Paralus fell senseless in his father’s arms.
It was never known whether this effect was produced by the presence of a multitude, by shrill and discordant sounds, or by returning recollection, too powerful for his enfeebled frame. He was tenderly carried from the crowd, and restoratives having been applied, in vain, the melancholy burden was slowly and carefully conveyed to her who so anxiously awaited his arrival.
During his absence, Philothea had earnestly prayed for the preservation of a life so precious to her; and as the time of return drew near, she walked in the fields, accompanied by Eudora and Mibra, eager to catch the first glimpse of his father’s chariot.
She read sad tidings in the gloomy countenance of Pericles, before she beheld the lifeless form of her husband.
Cautiously and tenderly as the truth was revealed to her, she became dizzy and pale, with the suddenness of the shock. Pericles endeavored to soothe her with all the sympathy of parental love, mingled with deep feelings of contrition, that his restless anxiety had thus brought ruin into her paradise of peace: and Plato spoke gentle words of consolation; reminding her that every soul, which philosophized sincerely and loved beautiful forms, was restored to the full vigor of its wings, and soared to the blest condition from which it fell.
They laid Paralus upon a couch, with the belief that he slept to wake no more. But as Philothea bent over him, she perceived a faint pulsation of the heart. Her pale features were flushed with joy, as she exclaimed, “He lives! He will speak to me again! Oh, I could die in peace, if I might once more hear his voice, as I heard it in former years.”
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