Philothea

by Lydia Maria Child

  “Speusippus, his sister’s son, was such a careless, indecent, and boisterous youth, that his parents could not control him. They sent him to his uncle Plato, who received him in a friendly manner, and forbore to reproach him. Only in his own example he was always modest and placid. This so excited the admiration of Speusippus, that a love of philosophy was kindled within him. Some of his relatives blamed Plato, because he did not chastise the impertinent youth; but he replied, “There is no reproof so severe as to show him, by the manner of my own life, the contrast between virtue and baseness.’—That is the Plato I want you to show me, when we are in Athens.”

  Proclus, perceiving a universal smile, modestly added, by way of explanation: “My son means him whom men call the divine Plato. He greatly desires to see that philosopher, of whom it is said Socrates dreamed, when he first received him as his pupil. In his dream he saw a swan without wings, that came and sat upon his bosom; and soon after, its wings grew, and it flew high up in the air, with melodious notes, alluring all who heard it.”

  Pericles laid his hand on the philosopher’s shoulder, and smiling, answered, “My unbelieving friend, this is the teacher of Academus; this is the divine Plato; this is the soaring swan, whose melodious notes allure all that hear him.”

  Proclus was covered with confusion, but still seemed half incredulous. “What would Melissa say,” exclaimed he, “if she knew that her frolicsome little plaything, Zoila, had been rude enough to throw flowers at the divine Plato.”

  “Nay, my friend,” replied the disciple of Socrates —what better could a philosopher desire, than to be pelted with roses by childhood?”

  Eudora looked up with an arch expression; and Philothea smiled as she said, “This is a new version of unknown Phœbus tending the flocks of Admetus.”

  Pterilaüs seemed utterly confounded by a discovery so unexpected. It was long before he regained his usual freedom; and from time to time he was observed to fix a scrutinizing gaze on the countenance of Plato, as if seeking to read the mystery of his hidden greatness.

  As the travellers approached Athens, they were met by a numerous procession of magistrates, citizens, and young men bearing garlands, which they heaped on the urn in such profusion that it resembled a pyramid of flowers. They passed the chariots with their arms and ensigns of office all reversed; then turned and followed to the abode of Pericles, singing dirges as they went, and filling the air with the melancholy music of the Mysian flute.

  The amiable character of the deceased, his genius, the peculiar circumstances attending his death, and the accumulated afflictions of his illustrious parent, all combined to render it an impressive scene. Even the gay selfishness of Alcibiades was subdued into reverence, as he carefully took the urn from the chariot, and gave it to attendants who placed it beside the household altar.

  Early the next morning, a procession again formed to convey the ashes of Paralus to the sepulchre of his fathers; called, in the beautiful language of the Greeks, a Place of Sleep.

  When the urn was again brought forth, Philothea’s long golden hair covered it, like a mantle of sunbeams. During his life-time, these shining tresses had been peculiarly dear to him; and in token of her love, she placed them on his grave. Her white robe was changed for coarse black garments; and instead of flowery wreaths, a long black veil covered the beautiful head, from which its richest ornament had just been severed. She had rejoiced for his happy spirit, and now she mourned her own widowed lot.

  At the sepulchre, Pericles pronounced a funeral oration on the most gifted, and best-beloved of his children. In the evening, kindred and friends met at his house to partake a feast prepared for the occasion; and every guest had something to relate concerning the genius and the virtues of him who slept.

  A similar feast was prepared in the apartments of the women, where Philothea remained silent and composed; a circumstance that excited no small degree of wonder and remark, among those who measured affection by the vehemence of grief.

  As soon as all ceremonies were completed she obtained leave to return to her early home, endeared by many happy scenes; and there, in the stillness of her own heart, she held communion with the dear departed.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  There await me till I die; prepare

  A mansion for me, as again with me

  To dwell; for in thy tomb will I be laid,

  In the same cedar, by thy side composed:

  For e’en in death I will not be disjoined.

  Euripides

  It soon became evident that a great change had taken place in Philothea’s health. Some attributed it to the atmosphere of Athens, still infected with the plague; others supposed it had its origin in the death of Paralus. The widowed one, far from cherishing her grief, made a strong effort to be cheerful; but her gentle smile, like moonlight in a painting, retained its sweetness when the life was gone. There was something in this perfect stillness of resignation more affecting than the utmost agony of sorrow. She complained of no illness, but grew thinner and thinner, like a cloud gradually floating away, and retaining its transparent beauty to the last. Eudora lavished the most affectionate attentions upon her friend, conscious that she was merely strewing flowers in her pathway to the tomb.

  A few weeks after their return to Athens, she said, “Dearest Eudora, do you remember the story of the nymph Erato, who implored the assistance of Arcas, when the swelling torrent threatened to carry away the tree over which she presided, and on whose preservation her life depended?”

  “I remember it well,” replied Eudora: “Dione told it to me when I was quite a child; and I could never after see a tree torn by the lightning, or carried away by the flood, or felled by the woodman, without a shrinking and shivering feeling, lest some gentle, fair-haired Dryad had perished with it.”

  Philothea answered, “Thus was I affected, when my grandfather first read to me Hesiod’s account of the Muses:

  ‘Far round, the dusky earth

  Brings with their hymning voices; and beneath

  Their many-rustling feet a pleasant sound

  Ariseth, as they take their onward way

  To their own father’s presence.’

  “I never after could hear the quivering of summer leaves, or the busy hum of insects, without thinking it was the echoed voices of those

  ‘Thrice three sacred maids, whose minds are knit

  In harmony; whose only thought is song.’

  “There is a deep and hidden reason why the heart loves to invest every hill, and stream, and tree, with a mysterious principle of life. All earthly forms are but the clothing of some divine ideal; and this truth we feel, though we know it not. But when I spoke of Arcus and the Wood Nymph, I was thinking that Paralus had been the tree, on whose existence my own depended; and that now he was removed, I should not long remain.”

  Eudora burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Oh, dearest Philothea, do not speak thus,” she said. “I shall indeed be left alone in the world. Who will guide me, who will protect me, who will love me, when you are gone?”

  Her friend endeavored to calm these agitated feelings, by every soothing art her kindness could suggest.

  “I would rather suffer much in silence, than to give you unnecessary pain,” she replied, affectionately: “but I ought not to conceal from you that I am about to follow my beloved husband. In a short time, I shall not have sufficient strength to impart all I have to say. You will find my clothing and jewels done up in parcels, bearing the names of those for whom they are intended. My dowry returns to Chrysippus, who gave it; but Pericles has kindly given permission that everything else should be disposed of according to my own wishes. Several of my grandfather’s manuscripts, and a copy of Herodotus, which I transcribed while I was in Ionia, are my farewell gifts to him. When the silver tripod, which Paralus gained as a prize for the best tragedy exhibited during the Dionysia, is returned to his father’s house, let them be placed within it. The statue of Persephone, (that ominous bridal gift,) and the
ivory lyre bestowed by Aspasia, are placed in his trust for the youthful Pericles; together with all the books and garments that belonged to his departed brother. In token of gratitude for the parental care of Clinias and his wife, I have bestowed on them the rich tripod received from Heliodora. In addition to the trifling memorials I have already sent to Melissa, and her artless little Zoila, you will find others prepared for you to deliver, when restored to your peaceful home in Elis. To my faithful Mibra I have given all the garments and household goods suited to her condition. My grandfather’s books have been divided, as he requested, between Plato and Philæmon; the silver harp and the ivory tablet are likewise designed for them. Everything else belongs to you, dearest Eudora. Among many tokens of my affection, you will not value least the ivory cup lined with silver, which Philæmon gave me when he departed from Athens. The clasp, representing the Naiades binding Eros in garlands, will, I trust, be worn at your marriage with Philæmon.”

  With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, “Oh, Philothea! in the days of my pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I lost Philæmon’s love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I should at this moment be his happy, honored wife. The hope of his forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I hardly dare to cherish it.”

  Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, “Believe me, you will yet be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of another world: you will be united to Philæmon.”

  As she spoke, Mibra, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed aloud. The sound was at Eudora’s right hand, and she received the auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.

  Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: “When we were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to Philæmon, in which I spoke of you as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it directly into Persia.”

  The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied “Nay, my dearest friend—you know that I must appear contemptible in his eyes; and I would not have insulted him with the offer of a heart which he has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful.”

  “Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty might be wounded,” answered Philothea: “I wrote as I was moved; and I felt strong assurance that my words would waken a response in Philæmon’s heart. But there is one subject, on which my mind is filled with foreboding. I hope you will leave Athens as soon as it is safe to return to Elis.”

  “Do you then fear that I would again dance over a pit, because it was artfully covered with garlands?” said Eudora. “Believe me, I have been tried with too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a load of shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous snares.”

  Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied: “You are good and pure; but you have ever been like a loving and graceful vine, ready to cling to its nearest support.”

  “’Tis you have made me so,” rejoined Eudora, kissing her pale cheek: “To you I have always applied for advice and instruction; and when you gave it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the gods.”

  “Then so much the more need that I should caution the weakness I have produced,” responded Philothea. “Should Aspasia gain access to you, when I am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness consists not in the duties we perform, but in the distinction we acquire; that my hopes of Elysium are all founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has returned to the elements of which he was composed; that he nourishes the plants, and forms some of the innumerable particles of the atmosphere. I have seen him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him; and I believe the same power that enabled me to see him when these poor eyes were veiled in slumber, will restore him to my vision when they are closed in eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a beautiful but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen to her syren tongue, the secret, guiding voice will be heard no more. She will make evil appear good, and good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight, unable to perceive the real size and character of any object.”

  “Never,” exclaimed Eudora. “Never could she induce me to believe you an idle dreamer. Moreover, she will never again have opportunity to exert influence over me. The conversation I heard between her and Alcibiades is too well impressed upon my memory; and while that remains unforgotten, I shall shun them both, as I would shun a pestilence.”

  Philothea answered: “I do indeed believe that no blandishments will now make you a willing victim. But I have a secret dread of the character and power of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes a pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak of his childish obstinacy and perseverance. He was one day playing at dice with other boys, when a loaded wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered the driver to stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded, he laid down before the horses’ feet, and told him to go on if he dared. The same character remains with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph of his own will. From his youth, he has been a popular idol; a circumstance which has doubtless increased the requirements of his passions, without diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Mibra tells me he has already inquired of her concerning your present residence and future intentions. Obstacles will only increase his eagerness and multiply his artifices.

  I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely connected with our own, to supply the place of your distant guardian, while you remain in Athens. In Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so fatally under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so lightly of these matters, I sometimes fear they might both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too trivial for their interference. For these reasons I wish you to return to Elis as soon as possible when I am gone.”

  Eudora’s countenance kindled with indignation, as she listened to what Mibra had told. In broken and contrite tones, she answered; “Philothea, whatever trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all. But rest assured, whenever it pleases the gods to remove your counsel and protection, I will not abide in Athens a single hour after it is possible to leave with safety.”

  “I find consolation in that assurance,” replied Philothea; “and I have strong belief that a divine shield will guard you from impending evil. And now I will go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be lulled with music.”

  Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a succession of sweet and plaintive tunes, familiar to their childhood. Her friend listened with an expression of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful sleep.

  After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly, and looking up with a beaming glance, exclaimed, “I shall follow him soon!”

  Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she had spoken in such delighted accents.

  Philothea answered: “I dreamed that I sat upon a bank of violets, with Paralus by my side; and he wove a garland and placed it on my head. Suddenly, golden sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as Paralus often described, when his soul lived apart from the body, and only returned at intervals, to bring strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell him so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments that shone like woven sunbeams. Then voices above us began to sing:

  Come hither, kindred spirits, come!

  Hail to the mystic two in one!

  Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus distinctly. It sounded like the voice of Paralus in his youth, when we used to sing together, to please my grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each other in silent love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow him.”

  The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for resignation to this bereavement seemed too hard a lesson for her suffering heart.

&nb
sp; For several weeks, there was no apparent change in Philothea’s health or spirits. The same sad serenity remained—perpetually exciting the compassion it never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the neighborhood brought their simple offering of flowers, with which she wove fresh garlands for the tomb of Paralus. When no longer able to visit the sepulchre herself, she intrusted them to the youthful Pericles, who reverently placed them on his brother’s urn.

  The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in the conversation of his widowed daughter. Scarcely a day passed without an interview between them, and renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.

  He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his desolated heart now bestowed a double portion of paternal love. They remained a long time, in earnest discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in tears.

  Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the portico, and gazed after them, as long as she could see a fold of their garments. As she turned to lean on Eudora’s arm, she said, “It is the last time I shall ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister’s love for that dear boy. His heart is young and innocent.”

  For a few hours after, she continued to talk with unusual animation, and her eyes beamed with an expression of inspired earnestness. At her request, Geta and Mibra were called; and the faithful servants listened with mournful gratitude to her parting words of advice and consolation.

  At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of flowers, sent by the youthful Pericles. She took them with a smile, and said, “How fragrant is their breath, and how beautiful their colors! I have heard that the Persians write their music in colors; and Paralus spoke the same concerning music in the spirit-world. Perchance there was heavenly melody written on this fair earth in the age of innocence; but mortals have now forgotten its language.” Perceiving Eudora’s thoughtful countenance, she said: “Is my gentle friend disturbed, lest infant nymphs closed their brief existence when these stems were broken?”