It was the yearly festival of Diana Taurica, and the temple was filled with the music of choral hymns, and the odours of incense-laden sacrifices. Throughout the long summer day the goddess was worshipped in her character of huntress. No longer hovering silently in the dim light of the temple, the virgin priestesses laid aside their white garments for a sylvan dress, and rushed to the open woods, where the day was spent in wild joy, and sports such as befitted the nymphs of Diana. Upon these revels no unhallowed eye dared look; such intrusion was instantly punished with death.
But when twilight drew on, began the worship of Cynthia, the goddess of the night. As the full moon arose, there was heard from the temple a hymn, sweet yet plaintive, and solemn withal. Through the deserted streets wound the maiden train, led by the highpriestess. Then came the initiated, who had long been devoted to the service of the temple, and afterwards walked the young novices, crowned with poppygarlands, and chanting hymns in the still and solemn moonlight. Last of all came the young maidens of the city, who alone were permitted to witness and share in the solemnities.
These ceremonies ended with the twilight. When night came, the mysterious rites of Diana Triformis were celebrated. There, in her character of Queen of the land of silence and death, Hecate was propitiated; but how, or by what unearthly ceremonies, was known to none except the higher order of the priesthood. The golden curtains of the inner sanctuary were drawn, and nothing was heard or seen by those who waited without, crouching with veiled faces, or lying prostrate on the marble floor. These chosen worshippers were all young girls, some hardly past childhood; self-dedicated, or else vowed by their parents to the service of Diana. Many of them were beautiful; some with the pure, pale statue-like features of their clime; others with dazzling golden locks, and cheeks like rose-leaves. One of them - she was fairest of all - knelt motionless, not in fear, but with her head uplifted in an ecstatic enthusiasm that dilated her child-like face, until it wore an almost divine aspect. One of the elder novices drew near, and looked at her, saying in a whisper, as if she trembled at the sound of her own voice:-
"Erotion, how is it with thee?"
Erotion moved not nor answered.
"Hush! Phrene, speak not to her," said another maiden, fearfully. "Seest thou not that the power of the goddess is upon her?" And the young girls stole away from their companion, whose wild eyes were fixed on vacancy, as if beholding what was invisible to all the rest.
"Diana the mighty has called her," whispered Phrene; "she was never like one of us."
"And none know whence she came, for she was brought up from a babe in the temple, an orphan, and homeless," said the violet-eyed Cydippe.
"It is the goddess's will, doubtless, that the lot this night should fall upon her," murmured Leuconoe; and then a heavy silence gathered over all the maidens, for they trembled at the fearful ordeal which one of them, they knew not who, must go through in that long, lonely vigil, before the statue of Diana Triformis.
At last, from the dead stillness which pervaded the sanctuary, arose a faint melody, like the wind passing over the strings of a harp; clouds of incense rolled in fragrant wreaths from above the golden screen, filling the temple with luxurious perfume, that steeped every sense with its intoxicating power. Then the curtains were lifted, and, with her long black garments sweeping the ground, came forth the high-priestess, the chosen of Diana - Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon.
Beautiful was she, as when she was led to the sacrifice at Aulis - but it was the beauty of a marble statue. There was no trace of life in her face, except in the dark, unfathomable eyes,
"Orb within orb, deeper than sleep or death."
Her black robes moved without a sound, and her unbound hair twined like a golden serpent round her white arms, which were folded on her breast. As she advanced, the young novices moved aside, all but the still-kneeling Erotion, who remained immovable. The high-priestess looked upon the child, and touched her with a light finger. A shiver came over her frame, she lifted her eyes, and glanced round wildly, like one awaking from a trance.
"Arise, my daughter," said Iphigenia, in a voice that sounded sweet, and yet solemn; and the maiden rose up, and crept silently to her companions.
And now the golden urn was brought forth, that the fatal lot might be drawn, which appointed one of the young novices to the awful vigil. Each year one of the band was thus chosen, who, after this initiation, was received into the order of priestesses, or else was banished the temple, and never more seen by human eye. That the ordeal was terrible, all knew well, for many a frail creature had been found in the gray light of morning, dead on the marble pavement; while those who passed through that fearful night, never again recovered the sweet smiling face of youth. But what the trial was none could tell, for each novice took a solemn vow never to reveal it. No marvel was it that many a bright cheek grew pale, and many a lip quivered with fear, as the maidens advanced one by one to the urn.
The lot fell upon Erotion. Then rose up the wild chorus of the priestesses, as they closed round the chosen one of Diana, the pale, silent child, who stood without word or movement while they took away her novice's tunic, and robed her in a long garment of white wool, placing on her head the consecrated poppy-wreath, sacred to the goddess.
"Dost thou fear?" said the high-priestess, as the young girl bent at her feet, ere entering the sanctuary. "Dost thou fear, my daughter?"
"I have no fear," murmured Erotion; and there was indeed no terror on that fair young face, but an expression of mingled awe and rapture.
Iphigenia laid her hands on the child's head -
"The goddess calls, and must be obeyed. Go, and be thou fortunate; for the influence of her whose name is unutterable is upon thee."
The child arose - the golden curtains were lifted - they closed upon her, and the awful vigil was begun.
Chapter II
There was dead silence in the temple; the lamps burned dimly on the altar, and threw long shadows on the wall; everywhere else the darkness seemed like a visible presence - a gloom that could be felt, gathering around, and taking wild and horrible shapes, the more horrible because they were undefined. Beneath the veiled statue of the goddess crouched Erotion; her large dark eyes were not drooping, but fixed steadfastly on the image - her head was not buried in her robe, but raised fearlessly. Still there was no sound, no movement - the statue moved not under its drapery; there was no presence in the temple save that of night and darkness, and these had no terrors to the heart of the lonely child.
By degrees it seemed as if the poppies which bound her hair were piercing with their dreamy influence unto her brain. Her eye-lids closed, her cheek fell upon her hand, and a delicious numbness, which was scarcely sleep, absorbed the senses of Erotion. Gradually the veiled image upon which she looked appeared to move underneath its drapery; the marble dissolved into folds that took the appearance of mist, and two strangely-beautiful eyes gleamed from out that vapoury shroud. The child felt them upon her, looking into her very soul, and binding her with a spell of stillness, so that she could not turn away from that mysterious gaze. At last words came to her trembling lips, and Erotion said -
"What wouldst thou, 0 goddess? Behold, I am here. Art thou she whose name I may not utter?"
An answer came - it was not from the animated statue, but a voice, an "airy tongue," like that which poets hear in the wind, in the rustling of the trees, in the stirring of the grass. So faint was it, that whence it came Erotion knew not; but to her opened ears it was distinct and intelligible.
"I am the spirit whom mankind worship under the name of Diana, the spirit of purity, existing in heaven, on earth, and in the land of the dead. I have no form, but men give me such shape, and ascribe to me such symbols, as are easiest of comprehension to the human mind. What is purer than the moon in heaven, or the life of a woodland virgin on earth? But these are only personifications of my being. Mankind invest me with a nature half human, half divine; they build me temples and shrines, yet I am everywher
e - a spiritual essence, needing neither prayers nor sacrifices."
As the voice spoke, boldness and clearness came to the young maiden's soul; every cloud of fear and mortal weakness was swept away; her intellect expanded, and the child of fourteen years felt and apprehended as a woman, nay, as an angel.
"Yet, 0 spirit," said Erotion, "thou sufferest us to worship thee as a goddess!"
"Because man's piety clings so closely to outward forms; yet those whom I choose know me as I am - therefore have I chosen thee, Erotion."
"Can the divine thus regard the human?" said the child.
"Look by thy side, and thou shalt know"
Erotion turned, and lo! on either hand there stood beside her two forms, of stature far above mortal height. One seemed a spirit of light, with floating garments, woven as it were of sunbeams; the other, dark, gloomy, and half concealed by an ebon mantle, that veiled the face and form. The child looked in wonder; but, even while she beheld, the phantoms melted into air.
"These are thy good and evil genii," said the invisible voice; "they were with thee at thy birth, and will follow thee until death. It is they who inspire thee with thoughts holy or sinful, sweet or bitter; who produce all those strange and warring impulses which rule thy life. They have power over thee, but not over thy destiny, except so far as it is under thine own control, according as thou listenest to one or other of these guardian spirits."
"I see! I feel!" cried the child. "I dreamed of this before - now I know it. Life is a mystery indeed!" and Erotion's voice sank, solemn and trembling. "Tell me, what is death?"
No answer came; but a touch, light as that of summer air, pressed Erotion's lips and eyes. Immediately the lips drooped; she beheld no more the sanctuary or the image, but a dim haze, through which myriads of shapes, some horrible, some lovely, were visible, like bright floating spectres, that glide before the eyes ere slumber comes on. Faintly in the child's ear came aerial music, sweeter than she had ever before heard, even in dreams; her breathing ceased, and yet it was no pain; her limbs relaxed, and a frozen calm came over them. A voice, which she knew was that of the spirit, whispered, "Erotion, this is death;" and then she felt no more.
The child awoke as out of a long sleep, and found herself wandering on what seemed a desolate shore. Before, in the distance, lay the dim and gloomy sea: behind, clouds shut out the view. Those who reached that shore might no more look behind. The child glanced fearfully round her, but could see nothing except the lonely shore, and the terrible, waveless sea, that looked as though no living thing had ever stirred upon or beneath its waters. Erotion wrung her hands, but lo! palm met palm as air meets air - they were nought but outward semblance. She lifted her voice to cry aloud, but no sound echoed in the stillness of that fearful place. She glided over the shore, but her feet felt not the sands over which they passed, and left no prints behind. Again Erotion's lips strove to utter a sound; all was still; but an answer came - a voice, which the child knew well, murmured -
"Fear not, Erotion; I am here. I rule in the land of silence as upon earth. Come with me, and thou shalt cross the ocean which separates life from eternity."
Impelled by an invisible power, Erotion reached the margin of that dark sea. It neither ebbed nor flowed; no light waves danced upon its surface, which was of one unvaried dusky hue, as if an eternal thunder-cloud hung over it, and was reflected in its mysterious depths. Only one slender thread of brightness, answering to the milky way across the night-heaven, made a pathway over it. The child stood trembling on its verge.
"Erotion, place thy foot on the ocean without fear," said the voice at her side.
Erotion did so, and it yielded not. Swiftly she glided along the silver line, with a motion like that which is felt in dreams, when we seem borne through the air invisibly. The desolate shore grew dim as the child sped on; the clouds furled off from the sky; the sea beneath her feet grew pellucid and blue, and melodious with dancing ripples. On, on, until in the dim horizon arose a golden cloud, which gradually formed itself into a land, beautiful as Paradise. Erotion beheld vales, and purple hills, trees, fountains and rivers; among which flitted, like fire-flies on eastern nights, bright and lovely forms, transparent as vapours, and yet bearing mortal semblance. As her feet touched the golden strand, she heard glorious music; she strove to join in the heavenly melody, and strains came from her lips, so sweet, so divine, that her soul was ravished with the angelic harmony.
"Thou hast passed through the Ocean of Death," said the voice which still accompanied her; "thou art now in the land of immortality."
And never, save in dreams, did mortal behold a land so glorious. It was most like those landscapes we trace sometimes in the sky, where snowy hills, and purple valleys, and silver streams, seemed formed in the clouds of sunset, vanishing as soon as formed. But here there was no night to dim the never-fading view; for though like earth, as, in its glorified beauty, it sprang from the hand of the Fashioner, still it was not earth.
The child's spirit lifted its airy hands in rapture; and then glided toward the green plain that sloped to the sea, the unseen voice leading. Thus she passed, until she came nearer to those beautiful shadows which were flitting about on every side. Human they seemed, but it was humanity exalted into perfect beauty.
"Who are these shapes that I see?" asked the child.
"They are the spirits of the dead," answered the guiding voice. "Thou seest that each bears the face and form which it wore on earth; yet they are only shadows, for the soul is of itself impalpable. They enjoy perfect bliss; and those delights which the spirit felt while in its clay-vestures, are theirs now unalloyed - love in its essence, knowledge, wisdom, genius, every sensation in which the body had no share; and those who on earth most cherished these spiritual pleasures, enjoy them highest now."
"And oh!" said Erotion, "if those are the souls of the wise and holy dead, where are those of the unrighteous?"
A soft sigh, like the closing of a flower at sunset, was heard by the child, and the voice answered sadly -
"We may not speak of them; they are not here - they sleep".
Without another word, Erotion glided on until she came to a green recess, golden-wove with sunbeam threads, that made a fairy network through the trees. There, hymning glorious poetry, such as never earthly bard conceived, reclined a shadow which seemed a youth. His face - and it was the same which had grown pale and sunken in life - now shone with divine beauty; the golden hair waved, and the sweet eyes looked as they did on earth.
"I lived - I suffered - I died!" cried the poet in his song; "And yet men knew me not. I brought with me fire from heaven, and it was not seen; yet I cherished it in my bosom - it warmed and cheered me, and I was happy."
The child drew near, and her spirit stood face to face with the poet's soul. Erotion spoke, for she felt no fear:
"And yet thou didst die unknown, and hast left behind no immortal name?"
"Not so," said the shadow; "for men sing my songs. I live again in their hearts, though they never heard my name. Age after age they will think my thoughts, repeat my words, hold me as a dear friend, and honour me as a great teacher. This is the only immortality on earth."
And as the child turned she heard from another celestial bower the echoing of the same song. There stood another soul, like the poet's in radiance; and lo! wherever the shadow turned its beaming eyes, lovely pictures appeared in air; the artist had now no need of the frail hand which lay mingled with earth's dust, to embody his divine conception.
"Genius is the only immortality!" echoed the shadow. "I laboured, I perished, and no man heeded; yet it is nought to me now; I am blessed. No friendly foot hovers near my grave, but I am not forgotten even on earth. Do not men bow down before my work? - do not they call it divine? - my glorious ideal! - do they not adore it, thinking it came from the finger of a god? and yet the hand that made it is now a heap of dust. But the work remains, and I live still in the creation of my genius."
Erotion knew not the form of the
spirit which thus spake; but her awakened soul told her that she beheld the youth who had given to the temple of Diana Taurica its goddess - and died.
Onward went the spirit of the child, through meadows and valleys thick with imperishable flowers - over streams that sang ever their own sweet melodies-amidst woods whose leaves knew no withering; and still the invisible voice followed. At last Erotion came where the sunshine grew less bright, the flowers less beautiful, while a thin silver mist, like twilight vapours, obscured the view. Through it there floated shadows like the rest, but less brilliant, while on each face rested a pensive sweetness that was almost sad. Again a question rose to the child's lips, but ere it was uttered the voice answered -
"These are they who have once erred, suffered, and repented on earth. They are happy, yet there still remains a faint shade of sadness - the memory of the past - until every sorrow which their error caused to others on earth shall have passed away."
As the voice ceased, one of the spirits glided towards the child. It bore the semblance of a fair woman: the face was pale, but oh, how heavenly sweet! Erotion had seen it in her dreams; it had looked down upon her from among the stars in her night-watches. She had not known it then, save as a sweet fancy; but now her senses were all unclouded, and the child felt that she was near the spirit of her mother, whom on earth she had never beheld. The shadow approached : soft arms clasped Erotion - sweet kisses were upon her eyelids; for death cannot change love, least of all the love of a mother.
"Has death freed thee, too, oh, my daughter!" whispered the spirit, and bright pearls - they were not tears now - shone in the celestial eyes; "then soon shall all trace of suffering caused by me be swept from earth, and I shall be entirely blessed."
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy: 19th Century (European Literary Fantasy Anthologies) Page 15