Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

Eudora answered warmly, "If you knew Alcibiades, you would not suspect
him of such sordid motives. He would throw money into the sea like dust,
if it stood in the way of his affections."

"I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness, when he wishes to purchase
popularity by lavish expenditure," replied Philothea. "But Alcibiades
has found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy with drachmae,
what he can so easily obtain by flattery. Your own heart, I believe, is
not really touched. Your imagination is dazzled with his splendid
chariots of ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian
horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden armour which he
loves to display at festivals; his richly-coloured garments, fresh from
the looms of Sardis, and redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are
proud of his notice, because you see that other maidens are flattered by
it; because his statue stands among the Olympionicae, in the sacred
groves of Zeus, and because all Athens rings with the praises of his
beauty, his gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity."

"I am not so weak as your words imply," rejoined Eudora. "I believe that
I love Alcibiades better than I ever loved Philaemon; and if the consent
of Phidias can be obtained, I cannot see why you should object to our
marriage."

For a few moments, Philothea remained in hopeless silence; then, in a
tone of tender expostulation, she continued: "Eudora, I would the power
were given me to open your eyes before it is too late! If Hipparete be
not beautiful, she certainly is not unpleasing; her connections have
high rank and great wealth; she is virtuous and affectionate, and the
mother of his children. If, with all these claims, she can be so lightly
turned away for the sake of a lovelier face, what can you expect, when
your beauty no longer has the charm of novelty? You, who have neither
wealth nor powerful connections, to serve the purposes of that ambitious
man? And think for yourself, Eudora, if Alcibiades means as he says, why
does he seek stolen interviews at midnight, in the absence of Phidias?"

"It is because he knows that Phidias has an uncommon regard for
Philaemon," replied Eudora; "but he thinks he can, in time, persuade him
to consult our wishes. I know, better than you possibly can, what
reasons I have to trust the strength of his affection. Aspasia says she
has never seen him so deeply in love as he is now."

"It is as I feared," said Philothea; "the voice of that siren is luring
you to destruction."

Eudora answered, in an angry tone, "I love Aspasia; and it offends me to
hear her spoken of in this manner. If you are content to be a slave,
like the other Grecian women, who bring water and grind corn for their
masters, I have no objection. I have a spirit within me that demands a
wider field of action, and I enjoy the freedom that reigns in Aspasia's
house. Alcibiades says he does not blame women for not liking to be shut
up within four walls all their life-time, ashamed to show their faces
like other mortals."

Quietly, but sadly, Philothea replied: "Farewell, Eudora. May the powers
that guide our destiny, preserve you from any real cause for shame. You
are now living in Calypso's island; and divine beings alone can save you
from the power of her enchantments."

Eudora made no response, and did not even raise her eyes, as her
companion left the apartment.

As Philothea passed through the garden, she saw Milza standing in the
shadow of the vines, feeding a kid with some flowers she held in her
hand, while Geta was fastening a crimson cord about its neck. A glad
influence passed from this innocent group into the maiden's heart, like
the glance of a sunbeam over a dreary landscape.

"Is the kid yours, Milza?" she asked, with an affectionate smile.

The happy little peasant raised her eyes with an arch expression, but
instantly lowered them again, covered with blushes. It was a look that
told all the secrets of her young heart more eloquently than language.

Philothea had drank freely from those abundant fountains of joy in the
human soul, which remain hidden till love reveals their existence, as
secret springs are said to be discovered by a magic wand. With
affectionate sympathy she placed her hand gently on Milza's head, and
said, "Be good--and the gods will ever provide friends for you."

The humble lovers gazed after her with a blessing in their eyes; and in
the consciousness of this, her meek spirit found a solace for the wounds
Eudora had given.

CHAPTER VII.

O Zeus! why hast thou given us certain proof
To know adulterate gold, but stamped no mark,
Where it is needed most, on man's base metal?
EURIPIDES.

When Philothea returned to her grandfather's apartment, she found the
good old man with an open tablet before him, and the remainder of a rich
cluster of grapes lying on a shell by his side.

"I have wanted you, my child," said he, "Have you heard the news all
Athens is talking of, that you sought your friend so early in the day?
You are not wont to be so eager to carry tidings."

"I have not heard the rumours whereof you speak," replied Philothea.
"What is it, my father?"

"Hipparete went from Aspasia's house to her brother Callias, instead of
the dwelling of her husband," rejoined Anaxagoras: "by his advice she
refused to return; and she yesterday appealed to the archons for a
divorce from Alcibiades, on the plea of his notorious profligacy.
Alcibiades, hearing of this, rushed into the assembly, with his usual
boldness, seized his wife in his arms, carried her through the crowd,
and locked her up in her own apartment. No man ventured to interfere
with this lawful exercise of his authority. It is rumoured that
Hipparete particularly accused him of promising marriage to Electra the
Corinthian, and Eudora, of the household of Phidias."

For the first time in her life, Philothea turned away her face, to
conceal its expression, while she inquired in a tremulous tone whether
these facts had been told to Philaemon, the preceding evening.

"Some of the guests were speaking of it when he entered," replied
Anaxagoras; "but no one alluded to it in his presence. Perhaps he had
heard the rumour, for he seemed sad and disquieted, and joined little in
the conversation."

Embarrassed by the questions which her grandfather was naturally
disposed to ask, Philothea briefly confessed that a singular change had
taken place in Eudora's character, and begged permission to silent on a
subject so painful to her feelings. She felt strongly inclined to return
immediately to her deluded friend; but the hopelessness induced by her
recent conversation, combined with the necessity of superintending Milza
in some of her household occupations, occasioned a few hours' delay.

As she attempted to cross the garden for that purpose, she saw Eudora
enter hastily by the private gate, and pass to her own apartment.
Philothea instantly followed her, and found that she had thrown herself
on the couch, sobbing violently. She put her arms about her neck, and
affectionately inquired the cause of her distress.

For a long time the poor girl resisted every soothing effort, and
continued to weep bitterly. At last, in a voice stifled with sobs, she
said, "I was indeed deceived; and you, Philothea, was my truest friend;
as you have always been."

The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon her hand, and asked
whether it was Hipparete's appeal to the archons, that had so suddenly
convinced her of the falsehood of Alcibiades.

"I have heard it all," replied Eudora, with a deep blush; "and I have
heard my name coupled with epithets never to be repeated to your pure
ears. I was so infatuated that, after you left me this morning, I sought
the counsels of Aspasia, to strengthen me in the course I had determined
to pursue. As I approached her apartment, the voice of Alcibiades met my
ear. I stopped and listened. I heard him exult in his triumph over
Hipparete; I heard my name joined with Electra, the wanton Corinthian. I
heard him boast how easily our affections had been won; I heard--"

She paused for a few moments, with a look of intense shame, and the
tears fell fast upon her robe.

In gentle tones Philothea said, "These are precious tears, Eudora. They
will prove like spring-showers, bringing forth fragrant blossoms."

With sudden impulse, the contrite maiden threw her arms around her neck,
saying, in a subdued voice, "You must not be so kind to me--it will
break my heart."

By degrees the placid influence of her friend calmed her perturbed
spirit. "Philothea," she said, "I promise with solemn earnestness to
tell you every action of my life, and every thought of my soul; but
never ask me to repeat all I heard at Aspasia's dwelling. The words went
through my heart like poisoned arrows."

"Nay," replied Philothea, smiling; "they have healed, not poisoned."

Eudora sighed, as she added, "When I came away, in anger and in shame, I
heard that false man singing in mockery:

"Count me on the summer trees
Every leaf that courts the breeze;
Count me on the foamy deep
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then when you have numbered these,
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love."

Philothea, how could you, who are so pure yourself, see so much clearer
than I did the treachery of that bad man?"

The maiden replied, "Mortals, without the aid of experience, would
always be aware of the presence of evil, if they sought to put away the
love of it in their own hearts, and in silent obedience listened to the
voice of their guiding spirit. Flowers feel the approach of storms, and
birds need none to teach them the enmity of serpents. This knowledge is
given to them as perpetually as the sunshine; and they receive it fully,
because their little lives are all obedience and love."

"Then, dearest Philothea, you may well know when evil approaches. By
some mysterious power you have ever known my heart better than I myself
have known it. I now perceive that you told me the truth when you said I
was not blinded by love, but by foolish pride. If it were not so, my
feelings could not so easily have turned to hatred. I have more than
once tried to deceive you, but you will feel that I am not now speaking
falsely. The interview you witnessed was the first and only one I ever
granted to Alcibiades."

Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion, and her joy
that the real character of the graceful hypocrite had so soon been made
manifest. Her thoughts turned towards Philaemon; but certain
recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They were both
silent for a few moments; and Eudora's countenance was troubled. She
looked up earnestly in her friend's face, but instantly turned away her
eyes, and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and timid voice, "Do
you think Philaemon can ever love me again?"

Philothea felt painfully embarrassed; for when she recollected how
deeply Philaemon was enamoured of purity in women, she dared not answer
in the language of hope.

While she yet hesitated, Dione came to say that her master required the
attendance of Eudora alone in his apartment.

Phidias had always exacted implicit obedience from his household, and
Eudora's gratitude towards him had ever been mingled with fear. The
consciousness of recent misconduct filled her with extreme dread. Her
countenance became deadly pale, as she turned toward her friend, and
said, "Oh, Philothea, go with me."

The firm-hearted maiden took her arm gently within her own, and
whispered, "Speak the truth, and trust in the Divine Powers."

CHAPTER VIII.

Thus it is; I have made those
Averse to me whom nature formed my friends;
Those, who from me deserved no ill, to win
Thy grace, I gave just cause to be my foes;
And thou, most vile of men, thou hast betrayed me.
EURIPIDES.

Phidias was alone, with a large unfinished drawing before him, on a
waxen tablet. Various groups of statues were about the room; among which
was conspicuous the beautiful workmanship of Myron, representing a
kneeling Paris offering the golden apple to Aphrodite; and by a mode of
flattery common with Athenian artists, the graceful youth bore the
features of Alcibiades. Near this group was Hera and Pallas, from the
hand of Phidias; characterized by a severe majesty of expression, as
they looked toward Paris and his voluptuous goddess in quiet scorn.

Stern displeasure was visible in the countenance of the great sculptor.
As the maidens entered, with their faces covered, he looked up, and said
coldly, "I bade that daughter of unknown parents come into my presence
unattended."

Eudora keenly felt the reproach implied by the suppression of her name,
which Phidias deemed she had dishonoured; and the tremulous motion of
her veil betrayed her agitation.

Philothea spoke in a mild, but firm voice: "Son of Charmides, by the
friendship of my father, I conjure you do not require me to forsake
Eudora in this hour of great distress."

In a softened tone, Phidias replied: "The daughter of Alcimenes knows
that for his sake, and for the sake of her own gentle nature, I can
refuse her nothing."

"I give thee thanks," rejoined the maiden, "and relying on this
assurance, I will venture to plead for this helpless orphan, whom the
gods committed to thy charge. The counsels of Aspasia have led her into
error; and is the son of Charmides blameless, for bringing one so young
within the influence of that seductive woman?"

After a short pause, Phidias answered: "Philothea, it is true that my
pride in her gift of sweet sounds first brought her into the presence of
that bad and dangerous man; it was contrary to Philaemon's wishes, too;
and in this I have erred. If that giddy damsel can tell me the meeting
in the garden was not by her own consent, I will again restore her to my
confidence. Eudora, can you with truth give me this assurance?"

Eudora made no reply; but she trembled so violently, that she would have
sunk, had she not leaned on the arm of her friend.

Philothea, pitying her distress, said, "Son of Charmides, I do not
believe Eudora can truly give the answer you wish to receive; but
remember in her favour that she does not seek to excuse herself by
falsehood. Alcibiades has had no other interview than that one, of which
the divine Phoebus sent a messenger to warn me in my sleep. For that
fault, the deluded maiden has already suffered a bitter portion of shame
and grief."

After a short silence, Phidias spoke: "Eudora, when I called you
hither, it was with the determination of sending you to the temple of
Castor and Polydeuces, there to be offered for sale to your paramour,
who has already tried, in a secret way, to purchase you, by the
negociation of powerful friends; but Philothea has not pleaded for you
in vain. I will not punish your fault so severely as Alcibiades ventured
to hope. You shall remain under my protection. But from henceforth you
must never leave your own apartment, without my express permission,
which will not soon be granted. I dare not trust your sudden repentance;
and shall therefore order a mastiff to be chained to your door. Dione
will bring you bread and water only. If you fail in obedience, the fate
I first intended will assuredly be yours, without time given for
expostulation. Now go to the room that opens into the garden; and there
remain, till I send Dione to conduct you to your own apartment."

Eudora was so completely humbled, that these harsh words aroused no
feeling of offended pride. Her heart was too full for utterance; and her
eyes so blinded with tears, that, as she turned to leave the apartment,
she frequently stumbled over the scattered fragments of marble.

It was a day of severe trials for the poor maiden. They had remained but
a short time waiting for Dione, when Philaemon entered, conducted by
Phidias, who immediately left the apartment. Eudora instantly bowed her
head upon the couch, and covered her face with her hands.

In a voice tremulous with emotion, the young man said, "Eudora,
notwithstanding the bitter recollection of where I last saw you, I have
earnestly wished to see you once more--to hear from your own lips
whether the interview I witnessed in the garden was by your own
appointment. Although many things in your late conduct have surprised
and grieved me, I am slow to believe that you could have taken a step so
unmaidenly; particularly at this time, when it has pleased the gods to
load me with misfortunes. By the affection I once cherished, I entreat
you to tell me whether that meeting was unexpected."

He waited in vain for any other answer than audible sobs. After a slight
pause, he continued: "Eudora, I wait for a reply more positive than
silence. Let me hear from your own lips the words that must decide my
destiny. Perchance it is the last favour I shall ever ask."

The repentant maiden, without looking up, answered, in broken accents,
"Philaemon, I will not add deceit to other wrongs, I must speak the
truth, if my heart is broken. I did consent to that interview."

The young man bowed his head in silent anguish against one of the
pillars--his breast heaved, and his lips quivered. After a hard struggle
with himself, he said, "Farewell, Eudora. I shall never again intrude
upon your presence. Many will flatter you; but none will love you as I
have loved."

With a faint shriek, Eudora sprung forward, and threw herself at his
feet. She would have clasped his knees, but he involuntarily recoiled
from her touch, and gathered the folds of his robe about him.

Then the arrow entered deeply into her heart, She rested her burning
forehead against the marble pillar, and said, in tones of agonized
entreaty, "I never met him but once."

Philothea, who during this scene had wept like an infant, laid her hand
beseechingly on his arm, and added, "Son of Chaerilaues, remember that
was the only interview."

Philaemon shook his head mournfully, as he replied, "But I cannot forget
that it was an appointed one.--We can never meet again."

He turned hastily to leave the room; but lingered on the threshold, and
looked back upon Eudora with an expression of unutterable sadness.

Philothea perceived the countenance of her unhappy friend grow rigid
beneath his gaze. She hastened to raise her from the ground whereon she
knelt, and received her senseless in her arms.

CHAPTER IX.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid!
My soul,--its fondest hopes betrayed,
Betrayed, perfidious girl, by thee,--
Is now on wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceased to love me here.
ANACREON.

Not long after the parting interview with Eudora, Philaemon, sad and
solitary, slowly wended his way from Athens. As he passed along the
banks of the Illyssus, he paused for a moment, and stood with folded
arms, before the chaste and beautiful little temple of Agrotera, the
huntress with the unerring bow.

The temple was shaded by lofty plane trees, and thickly intertwined
willows, among which transparent rivulets glided in quiet beauty; while
the marble nymphs, with which the grove was adorned, looked modestly
down upon the sparkling waters, as if awe-stricken by the presence of
their sylvan goddess.

A well-known voice said, "Enter Philaemon. It is a beautiful retreat. The
soft verdant grass tempts to repose; a gentle breeze brings fragrance
from the blossoms; and the grasshoppers are chirping with a summer-like
and sonorous sound. Enter, my son."

"Thanks, Anaxagoras," replied Philaemon, as he moved forward to give and
receive the cordial salutation of his friend: "I have scarcely travelled
far enough to need repose; but the day is sultry, and this balmy air is
indeed refreshing."

"Whither leads your path, my son?" inquired the good old man. "I
perceive that no servant follows you with a seat whereon to rest, when
you wish to enjoy the prospect, and your garments are girded about you,
like one who travels afar."

"I seek Mount Hymettus, my father," replied Philaemon: "There I shall
stop to-night, to take my last look of Athens. To-morrow, I join a
company on their way to Persia; where they say Athenian learning is
eagerly sought by the Great King and his nobles."

"And would you have left Athens without my blessing?" inquired
Anaxagoras.

"In truth, my father, I wished to avoid the pain of parting," rejoined
Philaemon. "Not even my beloved Paralus is aware that the homeless
outcast of ungrateful Athens has left her walls forever."

The aged philosopher endeavoured to speak, but his voice was tremulous
with emotion. After a short pause, he put his arm within Philaemon's, and
said, "My son, we will journey together. I shall easily find my way back
to Athens before the lamps of evening are lighted."

The young man spoke of the wearisome walk; and reminded him that Ibycus,
the beloved of the gods, was murdered while returning to the city after
twilight. But the philosopher replied, "My old limbs are used to
fatigue, and everybody knows that the plain robe of Anaxagoras conceals
no gold."

As they passed along through the smiling fields of Agra, the
cheerfulness of the scene redoubled the despondency of the exile. Troops
of laughing girls were returning from the vineyards with baskets full
of grapes; women were grinding corn, singing merrily, as they toiled;
groups of boys were throwing quoits, or seated on the grass eagerly
playing at dice, and anon filling the air with their shouts; in one
place was a rural procession in honour of Dionysus; in another, loads of
pure Pentelic marble were on their way from the quarry, to increase the
architectural glory of Athens.

"I could almost envy that senseless stone!" exclaimed Philaemon. "It goes
where I have spent many a happy hour, and where I shall never enter
more. It is destined for the Temple of the Muses, which Plato is causing
to be built among the olive-groves of Academus. The model is more
beautifully simple than anything I have ever seen."

"The grove of Academus is one of the few places now remaining where
virtue is really taught and encouraged," rejoined Anaxagoras. "As for
these new teachers, misnamed philosophers, they are rapidly hastening
the decay of a state whose diseases produced them."

"A few days since, I heard one of the sophists talking to crowds of
people in the old Agora," said Philaemon; "and truly his doctrines
formed a strange contrast with the severe simplicity of virtue expressed
in the countenances of Solon, Aristides, and the other god-like statues
that stood around him. He told the populace that it was unquestionably a
great blessing to commit an injury with impunity; but as there was more
evil in suffering an injury than there was good in committing one, it
was necessary to have the subject regulated by laws: that justice,
correctly defined, meant nothing more than the interest of the
strongest; that a just man always fared worse than the unjust, because
he neglected to aggrandize himself by dishonest actions, and thus became
unpopular among his acquaintances; while those who were less scrupulous,
grew rich and were flattered. He said the weak very naturally considered
justice as a common right; but he who had power, if he had likewise
courage, would never submit to any such agreement: that they who praised
virtue, did it because they had some object to gain from those who had
less philosophy than themselves; and these pretended worthies, if they
could act invisibly, would soon be found in the same path with the
villain. He called rhetoric the noblest of the arts, because it enabled
an ignorant man to appear to know as much as one who was thoroughly
master of his subject. Some of the people demanded what he had to say of
the gods, since he had spoken so ably of men. With an unpleasant mixture
of derision and feigned humility, the sophist replied, that he left such
vast subjects to be discussed by the immortal Socrates. He forthwith
left the Agora, and many a loud laugh and profane jest followed his
departure. When such doctrines can be uttered without exciting
indignation, it is easy to foresee the destinies of the state."

"Thucydides speaks truly," rejoined Anaxagoras: "In the history he is
writing, he says,--The Athenian people are beginning to be more fond of
calling dishonest men able, than simple men honest; and that statesmen
begin to be ashamed of the more worthy title, while they take pride in
the other: thus sincerity, of which there is much in generous natures,
will be laughed down; while wickedness and hypocrisy are everywhere
triumphant."

"But evil grows weary of wearing a mask in reluctant homage to good,"
replied Philaemon; "she is ever seeking to push it aside, with the hope
that men may become accustomed to her face, and find more beauty
therein, than in the disguise she wears. The hidden thought at last
struggles forth into expression, and cherished passions assume a form in
action. One of the sophists has already given notice that he can teach
any young man how to prove that right is wrong, or wrong is right. It is
said that Xanthippus has sent his son to benefit by these instructions,
with a request that he may learn the art thoroughly, but be taught to
use it only in the right way."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17