by Lew Wallace
CHAPTER III
THE HOMERIC PALACE
The reader is now informed of the history of Irene, which is to heremembered as of an important personage in the succeeding pages.Knowing also how she became possessed of the palace we have been atsome pains to describe, he is prepared to see her at home.
The night has retreated from the European shore of the Bosphorus,although the morning is yet very young. The sun in the cloudless skybeyond Becos, where it appears standing as if to rest from the fatigueof climbing the hills, is lifting Therapia bodily out of its sparklingwaters. In the bay moreover there are many calls of mariner to mariner,and much creaking of windlasses, and clashing of oars cast loose intheir leather slings. To make the scene perfectly realistic there is asmell of breakfast cooking, not unpleasant to those within its waftagewho are yet to have their appetites appeased. These sights, thesesounds, these smells, none of them reach the palace in the garden underthe promontory opposite the town. There the birds are singing theirmatin songs, the flowers loading the air with perfume, and vine andtree drinking the moisture borne down to them from the unresting sea sonear in the north. [Footnote: The Black Sea.]
Under the marble portico the mistress is sitting exactly in the placewe can imagine the old Greek loved most what time he read from hismasterful copy of Homer. Between columns she saw the Bosphorean expanseclear to the wooded Asiatic shore. Below was a portion of the gardenthrough which the walk ran, with a graceful curve, to the red kiosk bythe front gate. Just beyond it the landing lay. Around her were palmand rose trees in painted tubs, and in their midst, springing from atall vase carven over with mythologic figures, a jasmine vine affectedall the graces of its most delicate nature. Within reach of her righthand there were platters of burnished brass on a table of ebony, itsthin, spider legs inlaid with silver in lines. One of the platters borea heap of white biscuits such as at this day are called crackers; theothers supported pitchers, and some drinking cups, all of silver.
The mistress sat in an arm-chair very smooth in finish despite thelineations sunk into its surfaces, and so roomy as to permit her todrop easily into a half-reclining posture. A footstool dressed in darkstamped leather was ready to lend its aid to gracefulness and comfort.
We will presume now to introduce the reader to the Princess Irene,though, as the introduction must be in the way of description, ourinability to render the subject adequately is admitted in advance.
At the moment of first sight, she is sitting erect, her head turnedslightly to the left shoulder, and both hands resting on the dog's headgarnishing the right arm of the chair. She is gazing abstractedly outat the landing, as if waiting for some one overdue. The face isuncovered; and it is to be said here that, abhorring the custom whichbound her Byzantine sisterhood to veils, except when in the retiracy oftheir chambers, she was at all times brave enough to emphasize theabhorrence by discarding the encumbrance. She was never afraid of theeffects of the sun on her complexion, and had the art of movingmodestly and with composure among men, who, on their side, were used inmeeting her to conceal their admiration and wonder under cover of graverespect.
Her figure, tall, slender, perfectly rounded, is clad in drapery of thepurest classic mode. Outwardly it consists of but two garments--a robeof fine white woollen stuff, and over it a mantle of the same textureand hue, hanging from a yoke of close-fitting flesh-colored silk richlyembroidered with Tyrian floss. A red rope loosely twisted girdles herbody close under the breasts, from which, when she is standing, thegown in front falls to the feet, leaving a decided train. The mantlebegins at a point just in front of the arm, under which, and along thesides, it hangs, like a long open sleeve, being cut away behind abouthalf down the figure. The contrivance of the yoke enabled the artist,by gathering the drapery, to determine the lines in which it shoulddrop, and they were few but positive. In movement, the train was todraw the gown to the form so its outlines could be easily followed fromthe girdle.
The hair, of the tint of old gold, is dressed in the Grecian style; andits abundance making the knot unusually ample, there was necessity forthe two fillets of pink silk to keep it securely in place.
The real difficulty in the description is now reached. To a reader ofsharp imagination it might be sufficient to say the face of thePrincess Irene, seen the morning in question, was perfectly regular,the brows like pencilling, the nose delicate, the eyes of violetshading into blackness, the mouth small with deep corners and lipsthreads of scarlet, the cheeks and brow precisely as the received lawof beauty would have them. This would authorize a conception ofsurpassing loveliness; and perhaps it were better did we stop with thesuggestions given, since the fancy would then be left to do its ownpainting. But patience is besought, for vastly more than a face ofunrivalled perfection, the conjuration is a woman who yet lives inhistory as such a combination of intellect, spirit, character, andpersonal charm that men, themselves rulers and conquerors, fell beforeher at sight. Under necessity therefore of going on with thedescription, what words are at command to convey an idea of thecomplexion--a property so wholly unartificial with her that the veinsat the temples were as transparent shadows on snow, and the coloring ofthe cheeks like a wash of roses? What more is there than to point tothe eyes of the healthful freshness peculiar to children of tendernurture; the teeth exquisitely regular and of the whiteness of milk andthe lustre of pearls; the ears small, critically set, and tinted pinkand white, like certain shells washed ashore last night? What more? Ah,yes! There are the arms bare from the shoulder, long and round as awoman's should be, and terminating in flexile wrists, and hands sogracefully modelled we shrink from thought of their doing more thanmaking wreaths of flowers and playing with harp strings. There too isthe pose of the head expressive of breeding and delicacy of thought andfeeling, of pride and courage--the pose unattainable by effort oraffectation, and impossible except where the head, itself faultless, iscomplemented by a neck long, slender, yet round, pliant, alwaysgraceful, and set upon shoulders the despair of every one but themaster who found perfection of form and finish in the lilies of theMadonna. Finally there is the correspondence, in action as well asrepose, of body, limbs, head, and face, to which, under inspiration ofthe soul, the air and manner of lovely women are always referable.
The Princess was yet intensely observing the stretch of water beforeher, and the rapid changes of the light upon its face, when a boat,driven by a single oarsman, drew up to the landing, and disembarked apassenger. That he was not the person she was expecting becameinstantly apparent. She glanced at him once, and then, satisfied he wasa stranger in whom she had no interest, resumed study of the bay. He,however, after dropping something in the boatman's hand, turned, andwalked to the gateway, and through it towards the palace.
Ere long a servant, whose very venerable appearance belied thesteel-pointed javelin he carried, hobbled slowly along the floor of theportico marshalling a visitor. She touched the golden knot at the backof her head to be assured of its arrangement, arose, shook out thefolds of her gown and mantle, and was prepared for the interruption.
The costume of the stranger was new to the Princess. A cassock of mixedwhite and brown wool that had gone through a primitive loom with littleof any curative process except washing, hung from his neck to hisheels. Aside from the coarseness of warp and woof, it fitted so closelythat but for a slit on each side of the skirt walking would have beenseriously impeded. The sleeves were long and loose, and covered thehands. From the girdle of untanned skin a double string of black hornbeads, each large as a walnut, dropped to his knees. The buckle of thegirdle, which might have been silver deeply oxidized, was conspicuouslylarge, and of the rudest workmanship. But withal much the most curiouspart of the garb was the cowl, if such it may be called. Projectingover the face so far as to cast the features in shadow, it carried onthe sides of the head broad flaps, not unlike the ears of an elephant.This envelope was hideous, yet it served to exalt the man within togiantesque proportions.
The Princess surveyed the visitor with aston
ishment hardly concealed.What part of the world could produce a creature so utterly barbarous?What business could he have with her? Was he young or old? Twice shescanned him from head to foot. He was a monk; so much the costumecertified; and while he stopped before her with one foot advanced fromthe edge of the skirt, and resting lightly in the clasp of the thongsof a very old-fashioned sandal, she saw it was white, and blue veined,and at the edges pink, like a child's, and she said to herself, "He isyoung--a young monastic."
The stranger drew from his girdle a linen package carefully folded,kissed it reverently, and said:
"Would the Princess Irene be pleased if I open the favor for her?"
The voice was manly, the manner deferential.
"Is it a letter?" she asked.
"A letter from the Holy Father, the Archimandrite of the greatest ofthe northern Lavras." [Footnote: Monasteries.]
"Its name?"
"Bielo-Osero."
"The Bielo-Osero? Where is it?"
"In the country of the Great Prince." [Footnote: Russia.]
"I knew not that I had an acquaintance in so distant a region as thenorth of Russia. You may open the letter."
Unmindful of the indifferent air of the Princess, the monk removed thecloth, leaving its folds hanging loosely from his hand. A sheet ofvellum was exposed lying on the covered palm.
"The Holy Father bade me when I delivered the writing, O Princess, todeliver his blessing also; which--the saying is mine, not his--is ofmore worth to the soul than a coffer of gold for the wants of the body."
The pious comment was not lost; but without a word, she took thevellum, and resuming her seat, addressed herself to the reading. First,her eyes dropped to the signature. There was a look ofsurprise--another of uncertainty--then an exclamation:
"Hilarion! Not my Father Hilarion! He is but a sacred memory! He wentaway and died--and yet this is his hand. I know it as I know my own."
The monk essayed to remove the doubt.
"Permit me," he said, then asked, "Is there not an island hereaboutscalled Prinkipo?"
She gave him instant attention.
"And on the side of the island over against the Asiatic coast, under ahill named Kamares, is there not a convent built centuries ago by anEmpress?"
"Irene," she interposed.
"Yes, Irene--and was not Father Hilarion for many years Abbot of theconvent? Then, on account of his fame for learning and piety, did notthe Patriarch exalt him to attendance on his own person as Doctor ofthe Gospels? Still later, was he not summoned to serve the Emperor inthe capacity of Warden of the Purple Ink?"
"From whom have you all these things?" she asked.
"Excellent Princess, from whom could I have them save the good Fatherhimself?"
"Thou art then his messenger?"
"It becomes me better to refer you to what he has there written."
So saying, the monk stepped backward, and stood a little way off in arespectful attitude. She raised the missive, and kissed the signatureseveral times, exclaiming:
"Now hath God taken care of his own!"
Then she said to the monk, "Thou art indeed a messenger with goodtidings."
And he, accepting the welcome, uncovered his head, by raising thehideous _klobouk_, [Footnote: Cowl.] and letting it fall back pendantfrom his shoulders. The violet eyes of the Princess opened wider,brightening as with a sudden influx of light. She could not remember afiner head or a face more perfect in manly beauty, and at the same timeso refined and gentle.
And he was so young--young even as herself--certainly not more thantwenty. Such was her first general impression of him. For the pleasurethere was in the surprise, she would not allow it to be observed, butsaid:
"The Father in his letter, no doubt, tells me thy name, but since Iwish to reserve the reading, I hope thou wilt not be offended if I askit directly."
"The name my mother gave me is Andre; but when I came to be a deacon inour Bielo-Osero, Father Hilarion, who presided at the raising, asked mehow I wished to be known in the priesthood, and I answered him,Sergius. Andre was a good christening, and serves well to remind me ofmy dear mother; but Sergius is better, because at hearing it I amalways reminded that by vows and solemn rites of ordination I am aservant of God."
"I will endeavor to remember thy preference," the Princess said; "butjust now, good Sergius, it is of next importance to know if thou hastyet had breakfast?"
A smile helped his face to even more of pleasantness.
"No," he answered, "but I am used to fasting, and the great city is notmore than two hours away."
She looked concerned.
"Thy patron Saint hath not deserted thee. Here is a table already set.He for whom I held it is long on the road; thou shalt take his place,and be not less welcome." To the old servant she added: "We have aguest, not an enemy, Lysander. Put up thy javelin, and bring a seat forhim; then stand behind him, lest it happen one service of the cups benot enough."
Directly the two were at the table opposite each other.