Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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Eudora sighed, as she answered, "It is even so. But I know not where you
could have learned it; for you have ever seemed to live in a region
above darkness and storms. Earth has left no shadow on your countenance.
It expresses the same transparent innocence, the same mild love. A light
not of this world is gleaming there; and it has grown brighter and
clearer since we parted. I could almost believe that you accompany Hera
to the Fountain of Canathus, where it is said she every year bathes to
restore her infant purity."

Philothea smiled, as she playfully laid her hand on Eudora's mouth, and
said, "Nay, Eudora, you forget that flattery produces effects very
unlike the Fountain of Canathus. We have been gazing in each other's
faces, as if we fondly hoped there to read the record of all that has
passed since we were separated. Yet, very little of all that we have
known and felt--of all that has gradually become a portion of our
life--is inscribed there. Perhaps you already know that Anaxagoras fell
asleep in Ionia. The good old man died in peace, as he had lived in
love. If I mistake not, while I talked with Pericles, Milza informed you
that I was the wife of Paralus?"

"Yes, dearest Philothea; but not till she had first told me of her own
marriage with Geta."

Philothea smiled, as she replied, "I believe it is the only case in
which that affectionate creature thinks of herself, before she thinks of
me; but Geta is to her an object of more importance than all the world
beside. When we were in Ionia, I often found her whispering magical
words, while she turned the sieve and shears, to ascertain whether her
lover were faithful to his vows. I could not find it in my heart to
reprove her fond credulity;--for I believe this proneness to wander
beyond the narrow limits of the visible world is a glimmering
reminiscence of parentage divine; and though in Milza's untutored mind
the mysterious impulse takes an inglorious form, I dare not deride what
the wisest soul can neither banish nor comprehend."

As she finished speaking, she glanced toward the curtain, which
separated them from the room where Paralus reposed, watched by the
faithful Geta. There was a tender solemnity in the expression of her
countenance, whereby Eudora conjectured the nature of her thoughts.
Speaking in a subdued voice, she asked whether Paralus would inquire for
her, when he awoke.

"He will look for me, and seem bewildered, as if something were lost,"
replied Philothea. "Since I perceived this, I have been careful not to
excite painful sensations by my absence. Geta will give me notice when
slumber seems to be passing away."

"And do you think Tithonus can restore him?" inquired Eudora.

Philothea answered, "Fear is stronger than hope. I thought I perceived a
healing influence in the perfect quiet and watchful love that surrounded
him in Athens; and to these I would fain have trusted, had it been the
will of Pericles. But, dearest Eudora, let us not speak on this subject.
It seems to me like the sacred groves, into which nothing unconsecrated
may enter."

After a short pause, Eudora said. "Then I will tell you my own history.
After we came to Elis, Phidias treated me with more tenderness and
confidence than he had ever done. Perhaps he observed that my proud,
impetuous character was chastened and subdued by affliction and
repentance. Though we were in the habit of talking unreservedly, he
never alluded to the foolish conduct that offended him so seriously. I
felt grateful for this generous forbearance; and by degress I learned to
fear him less and love him deeply."

"We received some tidings of him when Plato came into Ionia," rejoined
Philothea; "and we rejoiced to learn that he found in Elis a rich
recompense for the shameful ingratitude of Athens."

"It was a rich recompense, indeed," replied Eudora. "The people
reverenced him as if he were something more than mortal. His statue
stands in the sacred grove at Olympia, bearing the simple inscription;
'Phidias, Son of Charmides, sculptor of the Gods.' At his death, the
Elians bestowed gifts on all his servants; endowed me with the yearly
revenues of a farm; and appointed his nephew Pandaenus to the honourable
office of preserving the statue of Olympian Zeus."

"Did Phidias express no anxiety concerning your unprotected situation?"
inquired Philothea.

"It was his wish that I should marry Pandaenus," 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 Elians 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 Pandaenus 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 Pandaenus 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 Philaemon," 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 Philaemon has
taken a Persian wife, before this time."

Philothea made 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 well-known writing of Philaemon. 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 Philaemon'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 praise
The race of blessed ones, that live for aye.
HESIOD

PHILOTHEA to PHILAEMON, 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 straitened 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 in to 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
neighbourhood 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 splendour; 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 Pandaenus 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 Elians, proud of their magnificent statue of Olympian Zeus, have
paid extraordinary honours 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 minae. He to whose necessities thou wouldst
have kindly administered, hath gone where gold and silver avail 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 Chaerilaues, 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 Hecatombaeon, 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 Phoebus, 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 endeavoured 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 him 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 vapour 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 colours 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 endeavoured 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 armour; 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 of which was a
brazen eagle. When the lists were in readiness, the majestic 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 Milza, 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 endeavoured
to soothe her with all the sympathy of a 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 vigour 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."

She bathed his head with cool perfumed waters, and watched him with love
that knew no weariness.

Proclus and Telissa deemed he had fallen by the dart of Phoebus Apollo;
and fearing the god was angry for some unknown cause, they suspended
branches of rhamn and laurel on the doors, to keep off evil demons.

For three days and three nights, Paralus remained in complete oblivion.
On the morning of the fourth, a pleasant change was observed in his
countenance; and he sometimes smiled so sweetly, and so rationally, that
his friends still dared to hope his health might be fully restored.

At noon, he awoke; and looking at his wife with an expression full of
tenderness, said: "Dearest Philothea, you are with me. I saw you no
more, after the gate had closed. I believe it must have been a dream;
but it was very distinct." He glanced around the room, as if his
recollections were confused; but his eyes no longer retained the fixed
and awful expression of one who walked in his sleep.

Speaking slowly and thoughtfully, he continued: "It could not be a
dream. I was in the temple of the most ancient god. The roof was of
heaven's pure gold, which seemed to have a ligat within it, like the
splendour of the sun. All around the temple were gardens full of bloom.
I heard soft, mumuring sounds, like the cooing of doves; and I saw the
immortal Oreades and the Naiades pouring water from golden urns.
Anaxagoras stood beside me; and he said we were living in the age of
innocence, when mortals could gaze on divine beings unveiled, and yet
preserve their reason. They spoke another language than the Greeks; but
we had no need to learn it; we seemed to breathe it in the air. The
Oreades had music written on scrolls, in all the colours of the rainbow.
When I asked the meaning of this, they showed me a triangle. At the top
was crimson, at the right hand blue, and at the left hand yellow. And
they said, 'Know ye not that all life is three-fold!' It was a dark
saying; but I then thought I faintly comprehended what Pythagoras has
written concerning the mysterious signification of One and Three. Many
other things I saw and heard, but was forbidden to relate. The gate of
the temple was an arch, supported by two figures with heavy drapery,
eyes closed, and arms folded. They told me these were Sleep and Death.
Over the gate was written in large letters, 'The Entrance of Mortals.'
Beyond it, I saw you standing with outstretched arms, as if you sought
to come to me, but could not. The air was filled with voices, that sung:

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