Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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At these words, a troop of graceful maidens, representing the Zephyrs
and the Hours, glided in and out, between the marble columns, pelting
each other with roses, as they flew through the mazes of the dance.

Presently, the music, more slow and measured in its cadence, announced
the dance of Ariadne guiding her lover from the Labyrinth. In obedience
to a signal from Aspasia, Eudora sprang forward to hold the silken cord,
and Alcibiades darted forward to perform the part of Theseus. Slowly,
but gracefully as birds balancing themselves on the air, the maidens
went through the difficult involutions of the dance. They smiled on each
other, as they passed and repassed; and though Eudora's veil concealed
the expression of her features, Philothea observed, with an undefined
feeling of apprehension, that she showed no tokens of displeasure at the
brief whispers and frequent glances of Alcibiades.

At last, Pericles bade the attendants bring forth the goblet of the Good
Genius. A large golden bowl, around which a silver grape-vine twined its
luxuriant clusters, was immediately placed before him, filled with the
rich juices of the Chian grape. Then Plato, as king of the feast,
exclaimed, "The cup of the Good Genius is filled. Pledge him in unmixed
wine."

The massive goblet passed among all the guests; some taking a deep
draught, and others scarcely moistening their lips with the wine. When
the ceremony was finished, Pericles said, "Now, if it pleases Hermippus,
we should like to see him in the comic dance, for which he is so
celebrated."

Philothea looked earnestly at her grandfather. He instantly understood
her wishes, and bade farewell to Aspasia; urging the plea that his child
was unused to late hours, and too timid to be in the streets of Athens
without his protection. Phidias requested that Eudora might accompany
them; and Hipparete likewise asked leave to depart. Aspasia bestowed
gifts on her visiters, according to the munificent custom of the
country. To Hipparete she gave a bracelet of pearls; to Philothea, a
lyre of ivory and gold; and to Eudora, a broad clasp for her mantle, on
which the car of Aphrodite, drawn by swans, was painted in enamel, by
Polygnotus, the inventor of the art.

Alcibiades chose to remain at his wine; but slaves with torches were in
readiness at the gates, and Hipparete lived in the Ceramicus, within
sight of Aspasia's dwelling.

A rapid walk soon restored the maidens to their own peaceful homes.
Philothea, with the consent of Anaxagoras, went to share the apartment
of her friend; which, separated only by a small garden, was almost
within hearing of her own.

CHAPTER IV.

Much I dislike the beamless mind,
Whose earthly vision, unrefined,
Nature has never formed to see
The beauties of simplicity!
Simplicity, the flower of Heaven,
To souls elect by nature given."
ANACREON.

As the maidens entered their apartment, Eudora rather abruptly dismissed
Dione, the aged nurse, who had been waiting their arrival. Her favourite
dog was sleeping on the couch; and she gave the little creature a hasty
box on the ear, which made him spring suddenly to the floor, and look up
in her face, as if astonished at such ungentle treatment.

Philothea stooped down and caressed the animal, with a slightly
reproachful glance at her friend.

"He was sleeping on my mantle," said the petulant damsel.

"His soft, white fur could not have harmed it," rejoined her companion;
"and you know that Hylax himself, as well as the mantle, was a gift from
Philaemon."

Eudora carelesssly tossed the mantle over her embroidery frame, from
which it trailed along the dusty floor. Philothea looked earnestly in
her face, unable to comprehend such wayward conduct. "It is evident you
do not want my company to-night," she said; "I will therefore return to
my own apartment."

The peevish maiden slowly untied her sandal, without making any reply.
Philothea's voice trembled slightly, as she added, "Good night, Eudora,
To-morrow I hope you will tell me how I have offended you."

"Stay! Stay!" exclaimed the capricious damsel; and she laid her hand
coaxingly on her friend's arm. Philothea smiled a ready forgiveness.

"I know I am very petulant to-night," said Eudora; "but I do not believe
you yourself could listen to Hipparete without being vexed. She is so
stupid, and so haughty. I don't think she spoke ten words to-night
without having a grasshopper for one of them. She is so proud of her
pure Athenian blood! Do you know she has resolved to employ a skilful
artificer from Corinth, to make her an ivory box just like the one
Tithonus gave Aspasia; but she took care to inform me that it should be
inlaid with golden grasshoppers, instead of stars. A wise and witty
device, is't not? to put grasshoppers in the paws of transformed
Calisto, and fasten them in the belt of Orion. The sky will be so purely
Athenian, that Hipparete herself might condescend to be a
constellation."

The talkative maiden laughed at her own conceit; and even her more
serious companion could not refrain from a smile, as with untiring
volubility she continued: "Then she told me that she herself embroidered
her grasshopper robe, and bade me admire the excellence of the pattern.
She said Plato could not possibly have mistaken the wreath intended for
her; knowing, as he did, that her father and mother were both descended
from the most ancient families in Athens; and she repeated a list of
ancestors with names all ending in _ippus_ and _ippides_. When, in
answer to her question, I acknowledged that the ornament in her hair
was beautiful, she told me she would gladly give me one like it, if it
were proper for me to wear it. I do so detest the sight of that Athenian
emblem! I would walk to the fields of Acharnae, on purpose to crush a
grasshopper."

"You put yourself in a singular passion for such a harmless insect,"
replied Philothea, smiling. "I hope there are none of them within
hearing. You know the poets say they rose from the ashes of men, who,
when the Muses first had existence, pined away for the love of song; and
that after death they go to Parnassus, and inform the most ancient
Calliope, the heavenly Urania, and the amorous Erato, concerning the
conversation of their votaries. If they are truly the children of song,
they will indeed forget their own resentments; but your conversation
would be so unlikely to make a favourable impression on the tuneful
sisters, that it may be well for you the insects are now sleeping."

"If the tattling tribe were all awake and listening," replied Eudora, "I
would freely give them leave to report all I say against Astronomy, or
Poetry, or Music. If this be the test, I am willing to be tried with
Hipparete at the court of the Muses. If she were less stupid, I think I
could tolerate her pride. But I thought she would never have done with a
long story about a wine-stain that nearly spoiled her new dove-coloured
robe; the finest from the looms of Ecbatana; the pattern not to be
matched in all Greece; and Aspasia half wild to obtain one like it. She
did not fail to inform me that the slave who had spilled the wine, was
tied to the olive-tree in the garden, and whipped six days in
succession. I never saw her in my life that she did not remind me of
being a slave."

"Dearest Eudora," said Philothea, "how can you make yourself so unhappy
on this subject? Has not Phidias, from the first hour he bought you,
allowed you all the privileges of a daughter?"

"Yes," replied Eudora; "but the very circumstance that I was bought with
his money embitters it all. I do not thank him that I have been taught
all which becomes an Athenian maiden; for I can never be an Athenian.
The spirit and the gifts of freedom ill assort with the condition of a
slave. I wish he had left me to tend goats and bear burdens, as other
slaves do; to be beaten as they are beaten; starved as they are starved;
and die as they die. I should not then have known my degradation. I
would have made friends with the birds and the flowers, and never had a
heart-wound from a proud Athenian fool."

Philothea laid her hand gently on her friend's arm, and gazing on her
excited countenance, she said, "Eudora, some evil demon vexes you
strangely to-night. Did I not know the whole tenor of your blameless
life, I should fear you were not at peace with your own conscience."

Eudora blushed deeply, and busily caressed the dog with her foot.

In a mild, clear voice, Philothea continued: "What _now_ prevents you
from making friendship with the birds and the flowers! And why do you
cherish a pride so easily wounded? Yes, it is pride, Eudora. It is
useless disguise to call it by another name. The haughtiness of others
can never make us angry, if we ourselves are humble. Besides, it is
very possible that you are unjust to Hipparete. She might very naturally
have spoken of her slave's carelessness, without meaning to remind you
of bondage."

"She _did_ mean it," replied Eudora, with angry emphasis. "She is always
describing her pompous sacrifices to Demeter; because she knows I am
excluded from the temple. I hope I shall live to see her proud heart
humbled."

"Nay, Eudora," said Philothea, turning mournfully away: "Your feelings
are strangely embittered; the calm light of reason is totally obscured
by the wild torch-dance of your passions. Methinks hatred itself need
wish Hipparete no worse fate than to be the wife of so bold and bad a
man as Alcibiades."

"Oh, Philothea! I wonder you can call him bold," rejoined Eudora. "He
looks steadily at no one; his eyelashes ever rest on his face, like
those of a modest maiden."

"Aye, Eudora--but it is not the expression of a sinless heart, timidly
retiring within the shrine of its own purity; it is the shrinking of a
conscience that has something to conceal. Little as we know about the
evils of the world, we have heard enough of Alcibiades, to be aware that
Hipparete has much need to seek the protection of her patron goddess."

"She had better worship in the temple of Helen, at Therapne," answered
Eudora, sharply: "The journey might not prove altogether hopeless; for
that temple is said to confer beauty on the ugliest woman that ever
entered it." As the peevish damsel said this, she gave a proud glance
at her own lovely person, in the mirror, before which a lamp was
burning.

Philothea had often seen her friend in petulant moods; but she had never
before known her to evince so much bitterness, or so long resist the
soothing influence of kindness. Unwilling to contend with passions she
could not subdue, and would not flatter, she remained for some moments
in serious silence.

The expression of her countenance touched Eudora's quick feelings; and
she said, in an humble tone, "I know I am doing wrong, Philothea, but I
cannot help it."

Her friend calmly replied, "If you believe you cannot help it, you
deceive yourself; and if you do not believe it, you had better not have
said it."

"Now you are angry with me," exclaimed the sensitive maiden; and she
burst into tears.

Philothea passed her arm affectionately round her waist, saying, "I am
not angry with you, Eudora; but while I love you, I cannot and ought not
to love the bad feelings you cherish. Believe me, my dear friend, the
insults of others can never make us wretched, or resentful, if all is
right within our own hearts. The viper that stings us is always
nourished within us. Moreover, I believe, dearest Eudora, that half your
wrongs are in your own imagination. I too am a foreigner; but I have
been very happy within the walls of Athens."

"Because you have never been a slave," retorted her companion; "and you
have shared privileges that strangers are seldom allowed to share. You
have been one of the Canephorae; you have walked in the grand
procession of the Panathenaea: and your statue in pure Pentelic marble,
upholds the canopy over the sacred olive-tree. I know that your skilful
fingers, and your surpassing beauty have deserved these honours; but you
must pardon me, if I do not like the proud Athenians quite so well as
you do."

"I gratefully acknowledge the part I have been allowed to take in the
sacred service of Pallas," replied the maiden; "but I owe it neither to
my beauty, nor my skill in embroidery. It was a tribute to that wise and
good old man, my grandfather."

"And I," said Eudora, in a tone of deep melancholy, "have neither
grandfather, parent, or brother to care for me."

"Who could have proved a better protector than Phidias has been?"
inquired her gentle friend.

"Philothea, I cannot forget that I am his slave. What I said just now in
anger, I repeat in sober sadness; it would be better for me to have a
slave's mind with a slave's destiny."

"I have no doubt," replied Philothea, "that Phidias continues to be your
master merely that he may retain lawful power to protect you, until you
are the wife of Philaemon."

"Some slaves have been publicly registered as adopted children," said
Eudora.

"But in order to do that," rejoined her friend, "it is necessary to
swear to their parentage; and yours is unknown. If it were not for this
circumstance, I believe Phidias would be most willing to adopt you."

"No, Philothea--Phidias would do no such thing. He is good and kind. I
know that I have spoken of him as I ought not to have spoken. But he is
a proud man. He would not adopt a nameless orphan, found with a poor
goatherd of Phelle. Had I descended from any of the princes conquered by
Grecian valour, or were I even remotely allied with any of the
illustrious men that Athens has ostracised, then indeed I might be the
adopted daughter of Phidias," After a short pause, she added, "If he
enfranchised me without adoption, I think I should have no difficulty in
finding a protector;" and again the maiden gave a triumphant glance at
her mirror.

"I am aware that your marriage with Philaemon has only awaited the
termination of these unfortunate law-suits," replied Philothea: "Though
he is not rich, it cannot be very long before he is able to take you
under his protection; and as soon as he has the power, he will have the
disposition."

"Will he, indeed!" exclaimed Eudora; and she trotted her little foot
impatiently.

"You are altogether mysterious to-night," said Philothea: "Has any
disagreement arisen between you and Philaemon, during my absence?"

"He is proud, and jealous; and wishes me to be influenced by every whim
of his," answered the offended beauty.

"The fetters of love are a flowery bondage," rejoined Philothea:
"Blossoms do not more easily unfold themselves to the sunshine, than
woman obeys the object of her affections. Don't you remember the little
boy we found piping so sweetly, under the great plane-tree by the
fountain of Callirhoee? When my grandfather asked him where he learned to
play so well, he answered; with a look of wondering simplicity, that it
'piped itself.' Methinks this would be the reply of a loving woman, to
one who inquired how her heart had learned submission. But what has
Philaemon required, that you consider so unreasonable?"

"He dislikes to have me visit Aspasia; and was angry because I danced
with Alcibiades."

"And did you tell him that you went to Aspasia's house, in conformity
with the express directions of Phidias?" inquired Philothea.

"Why don't you say of my _master_?" interrupted Eudora, contemptuously.

Without noticing the peevishness of this remark, her friend continued:
"Are you quite sure that you have not been more frequently than you
would have been, if you had acted merely in reluctant obedience to the
will of Phidias. I am not surprised that Philaemon is offended at your
dancing with Alcibiades; assuredly a practice, so boldly at variance
with the customs of the country, is somewhat unmaidenly."

"It is enough to be one man's slave," replied Eudora. "I will dance with
whom I please. Alcibiades is the handsomest, and the most graceful, and
the most agreeable man in Athens--at least every body says so. I don't
know why I should offend him to please Philaemon."

"I thought there was a very satisfactory reason," observed Philothea,
quietly: "Alcibiades is the husband of Hipparete, and you are the
promised wife of Philaemon. I would not have believed the person who
told me that Eudora seriously called Alcibiades the handsomest and most
agreeable man in Athens."

"The sculptors think him pre-eminently beautiful," answered Eudora; "or
they would not so often copy his statue in the sacred images of Hermes.
Socrates applied Anacreon's eloquent praise of Bathyllus to him, and
said he saw in his lips 'Persuasion sleeping upon roses.'"

"That must have been in the days of youthful innocence," replied
Philothea: "Surely his countenance has now nothing divine in its
expression; though I grant the colouring rich, and the features regular.
He reminds me of the Alexandrian coin; outwardly pleasing to the eye but
inwardly made of base metal. Urania alone confers the beauty-giving
zone. The temple of Aphrodite in the Piraeus is a fitting place for the
portrait of Alcibiades; and no doubt he is well pleased that the people
go there in throngs to see him represented leaning on the shoulder of
the shameless Nemea."

"If Aristophon chose to paint him side by side with the beautiful Nemea,
it is no fault of his," said Eudora.

"The artist would not have dared so to represent Plato, or Philaemon, or
Paralus," rejoined Philothea; "nor would Alcibiades allow his picture
thus to minister to the corruption of the Athenians, if he had any
perception of what is really beautiful. I confess, Eudora, it pained me
to see you listen to his idle flattery. He worships every handsome
woman, who will allow herself to be polluted by his incense. Like
Anacreon, his heart is a nest for wanton loves. He is never without a
brood of them--some trying their wings, some in the egg, and some just
breaking the shell."

With slight resentment in her manner, Eudora answered: "Anacreon is the
most beautiful of poets; and I think you speak too harshly of the son of
Clinias."

"I am sorry for you, if you can perceive the beautiful where the pure is
wanting," rejoined Philothea; "You have changed, since my residence in
the Acropolis. The cherub Innocence, that was once the ever-present
deity in your soul, has already retired deeper within the shrine, and
veils his face in presence of the vain thoughts you have introduced
there. I fear Aspasia has made you believe that a passion for
distinction is but another name for love of the good, the true, and the
beautiful. Eudora, if this false man has flattered you, believe me, he
is always ready to bestow the same upon others. He has told me that I
was the loveliest of earthly objects; no doubt he has told you the same;
but both cannot be true."

"You!" exclaimed her companion: "Where could he find opportunity to
address such language to you?"

"Where a better man would have had better thoughts," replied Philothea:
"It was during the sacred festival of the Panathenaea. A short time
before midnight, it was my duty to receive the sacred basket from the
hands of the priestess, and deposit it in the cave, beneath the Temple
of Urania, in the gardens. Eucoline, the daughter of Agatho, attended
me, carrying a lighted torch. Having entered the cave, I held the torch
while she took up the other sacred basket, which was there in readiness
to be conveyed to the Parthenon; and we again stepped forth into the
gardens. A flood of light streamed from the Temple, so clear and
strong, that I could distinctly see the sacred doves, among the
multitude of fragrant roses--some sleeping in the shaded nooks, others
fluttering from bush to bush, or wheeling round in giddy circles,
frightened by the glare. Near a small lake in the centre of the gardens,
stood Myron's statue of the heavenly Urania, guiding a dove to her
temple by a garland of flowers. It had the pure and placid expression of
the human soul, when it dwells in love and peace. In this holy
atmosphere we paused for a moment in silent reverence. A smiling band of
infant hours came clustering round my memory, and softly folded
themselves about my heart. I thought of those early days, when, hand in
hand with Paralus, I walked forth in the spring-time, welcoming the
swallows to our shores, and gathering fragrant thyme to feed my bees. We
did not then know that bees and young hearts need none to take thought
for their joy, but best gather their own sweet nourishment in sunlight
and freedom. I remembered the helpless kid that Paralus confided to my
care. When we dressed the little creature in wreaths, we mourned that
flowers would not _grow_ in garlands; for it grieved our childish hearts
to see them wither. Once we found, in the crevice of a moss-covered
rock, a small nest with three eggs. Paralus took one of them in his
hand; and when we had admired its beauty, he kissed it reverently, and
returned it to its hiding-place. It was the natural outpouring of a
heart brimful of love for all things pure and simple. Paralus ever lived
in affectionate communion with the birds and the flowers. Firm in
principle, but gentle in affection, he himself is like the rock, in
whose bosom the loving bird found a sheltered nook, so motherly and
safe, where she might brood over her young hopes in quiet joy."

The maiden's heart had unconsciously followed her own innocent
recollections, like the dove led by a garland; and for a few moments she
remained silent in thoughtful tenderness.

Eudora's changeful and perturbed spirit had been soothed by the serene
influence of her friend; and she too was silent for awhile. But the
giddy images that had of late been reeling their wild dance through her
brain, soon came back in glittering fantasy.

"Philothea!" she exclaimed, abruptly, "you have not told me where you
met Alcibiades?"

The maiden looked up suddenly, like an infant startled from sweet dreams
by some rude noise. Recovering from her surprise, she smiled, and said,
"Eudora, your question came upon me like his unexpected and unwelcome
presence in the sacred gardens. I told you that we stood by that quiet
lake in meek reverence; worshipping,--not the marble image before
us,--but the Spirit of Beauty, that glides through the universe,
breathing the invisible through visible forms, in such mysterious
harmony. Suddenly Eucoline touched my arm with a quick and timid motion.
I turned and saw a young man gazing earnestly upon us. Our veils, which
had been thrown back while we looked at the statue, were instantly
dropped, and we hastily retraced our steps. The stranger followed us,
until we passed under the shade of the olive grove, within sight of the
Propylaea. He then knelt, and attempting to hold me by the robe, poured
forth the wildest protestations of love. I called aloud for protection;
and my voice was heard by the priests, who were passing in and out of
the Acropolis, in busy preparation for the festival. The young man
suddenly disappeared; but he was one of the equestrians that shared in
the solemnities of the night, and I again saw him as I took my place in
the procession. I had then never seen Alcibiades; but when I met him
to-night, I immediately recognized the stranger who spoke so rudely in
the olive-grove."

"You must forgive me," said Eudora, "if I am not much disposed to blame
mortal man for wishing to look upon your face a second time. Even Plato
does homage to woman's beauty."

"True, Eudora; but there is reverence mingled with his homage. The very
atmosphere around Alcibiades seemed unholy. I never before met such a
glance; and the gods grant I may never meet such another. I should not
have mentioned the occurrence, even to you, had I not wished to warn you
how lightly this volatile Athenian can make love."

"I heard something of this before," rejoined Eudora; "but I did not know
the particulars."

"How could you have heard of it?" inquired Philothea, with an accent of
strong surprise.

"Alcibiades had a more eager curiosity than yourself," replied Eudora.
"He soon ascertained the name of the lovely Canephorae that he saw in
the Gardens of Urania; and he has never ceased importuning Aspasia,
until you were persuaded to visit her house."

The face, neck, and arms of the modest maiden were flushed with
indignant crimson. "Was it for this purpose," she said, "that I was
induced to yield my own sense of propriety to the solicitations of
Pericles? It is ever thus, when we disobey the gods, to please mortals.
How could I believe that any motive so harmless as idle curiosity
induced that seductive and dangerous woman to urge me into her
unhallowed presence?"

"I marvelled at your courage in talking to her as you did," said Eudora.

"Something within impelled me," replied Philothea, reverently;--"I did
not speak from myself."

Eudora remained in serious silence for a moment; and then said, "Can you
tell me, Philothea, what you meant by saying you once heard the stars
sing? Or is that one of those things concerning which you do not love to
have me inquire?"

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