CHAPTER I.
While the market place in Tennis was filling, Archias's white househad become a heap of smouldering ruins. Hundreds of men and women werestanding around the scene of the conflagration, but no one saw thestatue of Demeter, which had been removed from Hermon's studio just intime. The nomarch had had it locked up in the neighbouring temple of thegoddess.
It was rumoured that the divinity had saved her own statue by a miracle;Pamaut, the police officer, said that he had seen her himself as,surrounded by a brilliant light, she soared upward on the smoke thatpoured from the burning house. The strategist and the nomarch usedevery means in their power to capture the robbers, but without the leastsuccess.
As it had become known that Paseth, Gula's husband, had cast off hiswife because she had gone to Hermon's studio, the magistrates believedthat the attack had been made by the Biamites; yet Paseth was absentfrom the city during the assault, and the innocence of the others couldalso be proved.
Since, for two entire years, piracy had entirely ceased in thisneighbourhood, no one thought of corsairs, and the bodies of theincendiaries having been consumed by the flames with the white house, itcould not be ascertained to what class the marauders belonged.
The blinded sculptor could only testify that one of the robbers was anegro, or at any rate had had his face blackened, and that the size ofanother had appeared to him almost superhuman. This circumstance gaverise to the fable that, during the terrible storm of the previous clay,Hades had opened and spirits of darkness had rushed into the studio ofthe Greek betrayer.
The strategist, it is true, did not believe such tales, but thesuperstition of the Biamites, who, moreover, aided the Greeksreluctantly to punish a crime which threatened to involve their owncountrymen, put obstacles in the way of his measures.
Not until he heard of Ledscha's disappearance, and was informed bythe priest of Nemesis of the handsome sum which had been found in theoffering box of the temple shortly after the attack, did he arrive ata conjecture not very far from the real state of affairs; only itwas still incomprehensible to him what body of men could have placedthemselves at the disposal of a girl's vengeful plan.
On the second day after the fire, the epistrategus of the whole Delta,who had accidentally come to the border fortress, arrived at Tennison the galley of the commandant of Pelusium, and with him Proclus, thegrammateus of the Dionysian artists, the Lady Thyone, Daphne, and hercompanion Chrysilla.
The old hero Philippus was detained in the fortress by the preparationsfor war.
Althea had returned to Alexandria, and Philotas, who disliked her, hadgone there himself, as Chrysilla intimated to him that he could hopefor no success in his suit to her ward so long as Daphne had to devoteherself to the care of the blinded Hermon.
The epistrategus proceeded with great caution, but his efforts alsoremained futile. He ordered a report to be made of all the vessels whichhad entered the harbours and bays of the northeastern Delta, but thosecommanded by Satabus and his sons gave no cause for investigation; theyhad come into the Tanite arm of the Nile as lumber ships from Pontus,and had discharged beams and planks for the account of a well-knowncommercial house in Sinope.
Yet the official ordered the Owl's Nest to be searched. In doing thishe made himself guilty of an act of violence, as the island's right ofasylum still existed, and this incensed the irritable and refractoryBiamites the more violently, the deeper was the reverent awe with whichthe nation regarded Tabus, who, according to their belief, was over ahundred years old. The Biamites honoured her not only as an enchantressand a leech, but as the ancestress of a race of mighty men. By molestingthis aged woman, and interfering with an ancient privilege, theepistrategus lost the aid of the hostile fishermen, sailors, andweavers. Any information from their ranks to him was regarded astreachery; and, besides, his stay in Tennis could be but brief, as theKing, on account of the impending war, had summoned him back to thecapital.
On the third day after his arrival he left Tennis and sailed from Tanisfor Alexandria. He had had little time to attend to Thyone and herguests.
Proclus, too, could not devote himself to them until after the departureof the epistrategus, since he had gone immediately to Tanis, where,as head of the Dionysian artists of all Egypt, he had been occupied inattending to the affairs of the newly established theatre.
On his return to Tennis he had instantly requested to be conducted tothe Temple of Demeter, to inspect the blinded Hermon's rescued work.
He had entered the cella of the sanctuary with the expectation offinding a peculiar, probably a powerful work, but one repugnant to histaste, and left it fairly overpowered by the beauty of this noble workof art.
What he had formerly seen of Hermon's productions had prejudicedhim against the artist, whose talent was great, but who, instead ofdedicating it to the service of the beautiful and the sublime, chosesubjects which, to Proclus, did not seem worthy of artistic treatment,or, when they were, sedulously deprived them of that by which, in hiseyes, they gained genuine value. In Hermon's Olympian Banquet he--whoalso held the office of a high priest of Apollo in Alexandria--had evenseen an insult to the dignity of the deity. In the Street Boy EatingFigs, the connoisseur's eye had recognised a peculiar masterpiece, buthe had been repelled by this also; for, instead of a handsome boy, itrepresented a starving, emaciated vagabond.
True to life as this figure might be, it seemed to him reprehensible,for it had already induced others to choose similar vulgar subjects.
When recently at Althea's performance he had met Hermon and saw howquickly his beautiful travelling companion allowed herself to be inducedto bestow the wreath on the handsome, black-bearded fellow, it vexedhim, and he had therefore treated him with distant coldness, and allowedhim to perceive the disapproval which the direction taken by his art hadawakened in his mind.
In the presence of Hermon's Demeter, the opinion of the experienced manand intelligent connoisseur had suddenly changed.
The creator of this work was not only one of the foremost artists of hisday, nay, he had also been permitted to fathom the nature of the deityand to bestow upon it a perfect form.
This Demeter was the most successful personification of the divinegoodness which rewards the sowing of seed with the harvest. When Hermoncreated it, Daphne's image had hovered before his mind, even if he hadnot been permitted to use her as a model, and of all the maidens whom heknew there was scarcely one better suited to serve as the type for theDemeter.
So what he had seen in Pelusium, and learned from women, was true. Theheart and mind of the artist who had created this work were not filledwith the image of Althea--who during the journey had bestowed many amark of favour upon the aging man, and with whom he was obliged to workhand in hand for Queen Arsinoe's plans--but the daughter of Archias, andthis circumstance also aided in producing his change of view.
Hermon's blindness, it was to be hoped, would be cured.
Duty, and perhaps also interest, commanded him to show him frankly howhighly he estimated his art and his last work.
After the arrival of Thyone and Daphne, Hermon had consented toaccompany them on board the Proserpina, their spacious galley. True, hehad yielded reluctantly to this arrangement of his parents' old friend,and neither she nor Daphne had hitherto succeeded in soothing the fierceresentment against fate which filled his soul after the loss of hissight and his dearest friend. As yet every attempt to induce him tobear his terrible misfortune with even a certain degree of composure hadfailed.
The Tennis leech, trained by the Egyptian priests at Sais in the art ofhealing, who was attached as a pastophorus to the Temple of Isis, in thecity of weavers, had covered the artist's scorched face with bandages,and earnestly adjured him never in his absence to raise them, and tokeep every ray of light from his blinded eyes. But the agitation whichhad mastered Hermon's whole being was so great that, in spite of thewoman's protestations, he lifted the covering again and again to seewhether he could not perceive once more at least a glimmer of th
esunlight whose warming power he felt. The thought of living in darknessuntil the end of his life seemed unendurable, especially as now all thehorrors which, hitherto, had only visited him in times of trial duringthe night assailed him with never-ceasing cruelty.
The image of the spider often forced itself upon him, and he fanciedthat the busy insect was spreading its quickly made web over his blindedeyes, which he was not to touch, yet over which he passed his hand tofree them from the repulsive veil.
The myth related that because Athene's blow had struck the ambitiousweaver Arachne, she had resolved, before the goddess transformed herinto a spider, to put an end to her disgrace.
How infinitely harder was the one dealt to him! How much better reasonhe had to use the privilege in which man possesses an advantage over theimmortals, of putting himself to death with his own hand when he deemsthe fitting time has come! What should he, the artist, to whom his eyesbrought whatever made life valuable, do longer in this hideous blacknight, brightened by no sunbeam?
He was often overwhelmed, too, by the remembrance of the terrible endof the friend in whom he saw the only person who might have given himconsolation in this distress, and the painful thought of his poverty.
He was supported solely by what his art brought and his wealthy uncleallowed him. The Demeter which Archias had ordered had been partiallypaid for in advance, and he had intended to use the gold--a considerablesum--to pay debts in Alexandria. But it was consumed with the rest ofhis property--tools, clothing, mementoes of his dead parents, and afew books which contained his favourite poems and the writings of hismaster, Straton.
These precious rolls had aided him to maintain the proud conviction ofowing everything which he attained or possessed solely to himself. Ithad again become perfectly clear to him that the destiny of earth-bornmortals was not directed by the gods whom men had invented aftertheir own likeness, in order to find causes for the effects which theyperceived, but by deaf and blind chance. Else how could even worsemisfortune, according to the opinion of most people, have befallenthe pure, guiltless Myrtilus, who so deeply revered the Olympians andunderstood how to honour them so magnificently by his art, than himself,the despiser of the gods?
But was the death for which he longed a misfortune?
Was the Nemesis who had so swiftly and fully granted the fervent prayerof an ill-used girl also only an image conjured up by the power of humanimagination?
It was scarcely possible!
Yet if there was one goddess, did not that admit the probability of theexistence of all the others?
He shuddered at the idea; for if the immortals thought, felt, acted, howterribly his already cruel fate would still develop! He had denied andinsulted almost all the Olympians, and not even stirred a finger to thepraise and honour of a single one.
What marvel if they should choose him for the target of their resentmentand revenge?
He had just believed that the heaviest misfortune which can befall a manand an artist had already stricken him. Now he felt that this, too, hadbeen an error; for, like a physical pain, he realized the collapse ofthe proud delusion of being independent of every power except himself,freely and arbitrarily controlling his own destiny, owing no gratitudeexcept to his own might, and being compelled to yield to nothing savethe enigmatical, pitiless power of eternal laws or their co-operation,so incomprehensible to the human intellect, called "chance," which tookno heed of merit or unworthiness.
Must he, who had learned to silence and to starve every covetous desire,in order to require no gifts from his own uncle and his wealthy kinsmanand friend, and be able to continue to hold his head high, as the mostindependent of the independent, now, in addition to all his other woe,be forced to believe in powers that exercised an influence over hisevery act? Must he recognise praying to them and thanking them as thedemand of justice, of duty, and wisdom? Was this possible either?
And, believing himself alone, since he could not see Thyone and Daphne,who were close by him, he struck his scorched brow with his clinchedfist, because he felt like a free man who suddenly realizes that a ropewhich he can not break is bound around his hands and feet, and a giantpulls and loosens it at his pleasure.
Yet no! Better die than become for gods and men a puppet that obeysevery jerk of visible and invisible hands.
Starting up in violent excitement, he tore the bandage from his face andeyes, declaring, as Thyone seriously reprimanded him, that he would goaway, no matter where, and earn his daily bread at the handmill, likethe blind Ethiopian slave whom he had seen in the cabinetmaker's houseat Tennis.
Then Daphne spoke to him tenderly, but her soothing voice caused himkeener pain than his old friend's stern one.
To sit still longer seemed unendurable, and, with the intention ofregaining his lost composure by pacing to and fro, he began to walk; butat the first free step he struck against the little table in front ofThyone's couch, and as it upset and the vessels containing water fellwith it, clinking and breaking, he stopped and, as if utterly crushed,groped his way back, with both arms outstretched, to the armchair he hadquitted.
If he could only have seen Daphne press her handkerchief first to hereyes, from which tears were streaming, and then to her lips, thathe might not hear her sobs, if he could have perceived how Thyone'swrinkled old face contracted as if she were swallowing a colocynthapple, while at the same time she patted his strong shoulder briskly,exclaiming with forced cheerfulness: "Go on, my boy! The steed rearswhen the hornet stings! Try again, if it only soothes you! We will takeeverything out of your way. You need not mind the water-jars. The potterwill make new ones!"
Then Hermon threw back his burning head, rested it against the back ofthe chair, and did not stir until the bandage was renewed.
How comfortable it felt!
He knew, too, that he owed it to Daphne; the matron's fingers could notbe so slender and delicate, and he would have been more than gladto raise them to his lips and thank her; but he denied himself thepleasure.
If she really did love him, the bond between them must now be severed;for, even if her goodness of heart extended far enough to induce herto unite her blooming young existence to his crippled one, how could hehave accepted the sacrifice without humiliating himself? Whether such amarriage would have made her happy or miserable he did not ask, but hewas all the more keenly aware that if, in this condition, he became herhusband, he would be the recipient of alms, and he would far rather, hementally repeated, share the fate of the negro at the handmill.
The expression of his features revealed the current of his thoughts toDaphne, and, much as she wished to speak to him, she forced herself toremain silent, that the tones of her voice might not betray how deeplyshe was suffering with him; but he himself now longed for a kind wordfrom her lips, and he had just asked if she was still there when Thyoneannounced a visit from the grammateus Proclus.
He had recently felt that this man was unfriendly to him, and again hisanger burst forth. To be exposed in the midst of his misery to the scornof a despiser of his art was too much for his exhausted patience.
But here he was interrupted by Proclus himself, who had entered thedarkened cabin where the blind man remained very soon after Thyone.
Hermon's last words had betrayed to the experienced courtier how wellhe remembered his unkind remarks, so he deferred the expression ofhis approval, and began by delivering the farewell message of theepistrategus, who had been summoned away so quickly.
He stated that his investigations had discovered nothing of importance,except, perhaps, the confirmation of the sorrowful apprehension that theadmirable Myrtilus had been killed by the marauders. A carved stone hadbeen found under the ashes, and Chello, the Tennis goldsmith, said hehad had in his own workshop the gem set in the hapless artist's shoulderclasp, and supplied it with a new pin.
While speaking, he took Hermon's hand and gave him the stone, but theartist instantly used his finger tips to feel it.
Perhaps it really did belong to the clasp Myrtilus
wore, for, althoughstill unpractised in groping, he recognised that a human head was carvedin relief upon the stone, and Mrytilus's had been adorned with thelikeness of the Epicurean.
The damaged little work of art, in the opinion of Proclus and Daphne,appeared to represent this philosopher, and at the thought that hisfriend had fallen a victim to the flames Hermon bowed his head andexerted all his strength of will in order not to betray by violent sobshow deeply this idea pierced his heart.
Thyone, shrugging her shoulders mournfully, pointed to the sufferingartist. Proclus nodded significantly, and, moving nearer to Hermon,informed him that he had sought out his Demeter and found the statueuninjured. He was well aware that it would be presumptuous to offerconsolation in so heavy an affliction, and after the loss of his dearestfriend, yet perhaps Hermon would be glad to hear his assurance that he,whose judgment was certainly not unpractised, numbered his work amongthe most perfect which the sculptor's art had created in recent years.
"I myself best know the value of this Demeter," the sculptor broke inharshly. "Your praise is the bit of honey which is put into the mouth ofthe hurt child."
"No, my friend," Proclus protested with grave decision. "I shouldexpress no less warmly the ardent admiration with which this noblefigure of the goddess fills me if you were well and still possessed yoursight. You were right just now when you alluded to my aversion, or, letus say, lack of appreciation of the individuality of your art; but thisnoble work changes everything, and nothing affords me more pleasurethan that I am to be the first to assure you how magnificently you havesucceeded in this statue."
"The first!" Hermon again interrupted harshly. "But the second and thirdwill be lacking in Alexandria. What a pleasure it is to pour the giftsof sympathy upon one to whom we wish ill! But, however successful myDemeter may be, you would have awarded the prize twice over to the oneby Myrtilus."
"Wrong, my young friend!" the statesman protested with honest zeal."All honour to the great dead, whose end was so lamentable; but inthis contest--let me swear it by the goddess herself!--you wouldhave remained victor; for, at the utmost, nothing can rank with theincomparable save a work of equal merit, and--I know life and art--twoartists rarely or never succeed in producing anything so perfect as thismasterpiece at the same time and in the same place."
"Enough!" gasped Hermon, hoarse with excitement; but Proclus, withincreasing animation, continued: "Brief as is our acquaintance, you haveprobably perceived that I do not belong to the class of flatterers, andin Alexandria it has hardly remained unknown to you that the youngerartists number me, to whom the office of judge so often falls, amongthe sterner critics. Only because I desire their best good do I franklypoint out their errors. The multitude provides the praise. It will soonflow upon you also in torrents, I can see its approach, and as thisblindness, if the august Aesculapius and healing Isis aid, will passaway like a dreary winter night, it would seem to me criminal to deceiveyou about your own ability and success. I already behold you creatingother works to the delight of gods and men; but this Demeter extortsboundless, enthusiastic appreciation; both as a whole, and in detail, itis faultless and worthy of the most ardent praise. Oh, how long itis, my dear, unfortunate friend, since I could congratulate any otherAlexandrian with such joyful confidence upon the most magnificentsuccess! Every word--you may believe it!--which comes to you incommendation of this last work from lips unused to eulogy is sincerelymeant, and as I utter it to you I shall repeat it in the presence of theKing, Archias, and the other judges."
Daphne, with hurried breath, deeply flushed cheeks, and sparklingeyes, had fairly hung upon the lips of the clever connoisseur. She knewProclus, and his dreaded, absolutely inconsiderate acuteness, and wasaware that this praise expressed his deepest conviction. Had he beendissatisfied with the statue of Demeter, or even merely superficiallytouched by its beauty, he might have shrunk from wounding theunfortunate artist by censure, and remained silent; but only somethinggrand, consummate, could lead him to such warmth of recognition.
She now felt it a misfortune that she and Thyone had hitherto beenprevented, by anxiety for their patient, from admiring his work. Had itstill been light, she would have gone to the temple of Demeter at once;but the sun had just set, and Proclus was obliged to beg her to havepatience.
As the cases were standing finished at the cabinetmaker's, the statuehad been packed immediately, under his own direction, and carried onboard his ship, which would convey it with him to the capital the nextday.
While this arrangement called forth loud expressions of regret fromDaphne and the vivacious matron, Hermon assented to it, for it wouldat least secure the ladies, until their arrival in Alexandria, from apainful disappointment.
"Rather," Proclus protested with firm dissent, "it will rob you for sometime of a great pleasure, and you, noble daughter of Archias, probablyof the deepest emotion of gratitude with which the favour of theimmortals has hitherto rendered you happy; yet the master who createdthis genuine goddess owes the best part of it to your own face."
"He told me himself that he thought of me while at work," Daphneadmitted, and a flood of the warmest love reached Hermon's ears in heragitated tones, while, greatly perplexed, he wondered with increasinganxiety whether the stern critic Proclus had really been serious in theextravagant eulogium, so alien to his reputation in the city.
Myrtilus, too, had admired the head of his Demeter, and--this he himselfmight admit--he had succeeded in it, and yet ought not the figure, withits too pronounced inclination forward, which, it is true, correspondedwith Daphne's usual bearing, and the somewhat angular bend of the arms,have induced this keen-sighted connoisseur to moderate the exaltedstrain of his praise? Or was the whole really so admirable that it wouldhave seemed petty to find fault with the less successful details? At anyrate, Proclus's eulogy ought to give him twofold pleasure, because hisart had formerly repelled him, and Hermon tried to let it produce thiseffect upon him. But it would not do; he was continually overpowered bythe feeling that under the enthusiastic homage of the intriguing QueenArsinoe's favourite lurked a sting which he should some day feel. Orcould Proclus have been persuaded by Thyone and Daphne to help themreconcile the hapless blind man to his hard fate?
Hermon's every movement betrayed the great anxiety which filled hismind, and it by no means escaped Proclus's attention, but he attributedit to the blinded sculptor's anguish in being prevented, after so greata success, from pursuing his art further.
Sincerely touched, he laid his slender hand on the sufferer's musculararm, saying: "A more severe trial than yours, my young friend, canscarcely be imposed upon the artist who has just attained the highestgoal, but three things warrant you to hope for recovery--your vigorousyouth, the skill of our Alexandrian leeches, and the favour of theimmortal gods. You shrug your shoulders? Yet I insist that you have wonthis favour by your Demeter. True, you owe it less to yourself than toyonder maiden. What pleasure it affords one whom, like myself, taste andoffice bind to the arts, to perceive such a revolution in an artist'scourse of creation, and trace it to its source! I indulged myself in itand, if you will listen, I should like to show you the result."
"Speak," replied Hermon dully, bowing his head as if submitting to theinevitable, while Proclus began:
"Hitherto your art imitated, not without success, what your eyes showedyou, and if this was filled with the warm breath of life, your worksucceeded. All respect to your Boy Eating Figs, in whose presence youwould feel the pleasure he himself enjoyed while consuming the sweetfruit. Here, among the works of Egyptian antiquity, there is imminentdanger of falling under the tyranny of the canon of proportions whichcan be expressed in figures, or merely even the demands of the stylehallowed by thousands of years, but in a subject like the 'Fig-eater'such a reproach is not to be feared. He speaks his own intelligiblelanguage, and whoever reproduces it without turning to the right or lefthas won, for he has created a work whose value every true friend of art,no matter to what school he belongs, prizes highly.
&n
bsp; "To me personally such works of living reality are cordially welcome.Yet art neither can nor will be satisfied with snatches of what isclose at hand; but you are late-born, sons of a time when the two greattendencies of art have nearly reached the limits of what is attainableto them. You were everywhere confronted with completed work, and you areright when you refuse to sink to mere imitators of earlier works, andtherefore return to Nature, with which we Hellenes, and perhapsthe Egyptians also, began. The latter forgot her; the former--weGreeks--continued to cling to her closely."
"Some few," Hermon eagerly interrupted the other, "still think itworth the trouble to take from her what she alone can bestow. Theysave themselves the toilsome search for the model which others sosuccessfully used before them, and bronze and marble still keepwonderfully well. Bring out the old masterpieces. Take the head fromthis one, the arm from that, etc. The pupil impresses the proportions onhis mind. Only so far as the longing for the beautiful permits do eventhe better ones remain faithful to Nature, not a finger's breadth more."
"Quite right," the other went on calmly. "But your objection onlybrings one nearer the goal. How many who care only for applause contentthemselves to-day, unfortunately, with Nature at second hand! Withoutreturning to her eternally fresh, inexhaustible spring, they draw fromthe conveniently accessible wells which the great ancients dug forthem."
"I know these many," Hermon wrathfully exclaimed. "They are the brothersof the Homeric poets, who take verses from the Iliad and Odyssey topiece out from them their own pitiful poems."
"Excellent, my son!" exclaimed Thyone, laughing, and Daphne remarkedthat the poet Cleon had surprised her father with such a poem a fewweeks before. It was a marvellous bit of botchwork, and yet there was acertain meaning in the production, compiled solely from Homeric verses.
"Diomed's Hecuba," observed Proclus, "and the Aphrodite by Hippias,which were executed in marble, originated in the same way, and deserveno better fate, although they please the great multitude. But, praisedbe my lord, Apollo, our age can also boast of other artists. Filled withthe spirit of the god, they are able to model truthfully and faithfullyeven the forms of the immortals invisible to the physical eye. Theystand before the spectator as if borrowed from Nature, for theircreators have filled them with their own healthy vigour. Our poorMyrtilus belonged to this class and, after your Demeter, the world willinclude you in it also."
"And yet," answered Hermon in a tone of dissent, "I remained faithful tomyself, and put nothing, nothing at all of my own personality, into theforms borrowed from Nature."
"What need of that was there?" asked Proclus with a subtle smile. "Yourmodel spared you the task. And this at last brings me to the goal Idesired to reach. As the great Athenians created types for eternity,so also does Nature at times in a happy hour, for her own pleasure, andsuch a model you found in our Daphne.-No contradiction, my dear younglady! The outlines of the figure--By the dog! Hermon might possibly havefound forms no less beautiful in the Aphrosion, but how charming andlifelike is the somewhat unusual yet graceful pose of yours! And thenthe heart, the soul! In your companionship our artist had nothing to doexcept lovingly to share your feelings in order to have at his disposaleverything which renders so dear to us all the giver of bread, thepreserver of peace, the protector of marriage, the creator and supporterof the law of moderation in Nature, as well as in human existence. Wherewould all these traits be found more perfectly united in a single humanbeing than in your person, Daphne, your quiet, kindly rule?"
"Oh, stop!" the girl entreated. "I am only too well aware--"
"That you also are not free from human frailties," Proclus continued,undismayed. "We will take them, great or small as they may be, into thebargain. The secret ones do not concern the sculptor, who does not orwill not see them. What he perceives in you, what you enable him torecognise through every feature of your sweet, tranquillizing face,is enough for the genuine artist to imagine the goddess; for thedistinction between the mortal and the immortal is only the degree ofperfection, and the human intellect and artist soul can find nothingmore perfect in the whole domain of Demeter's jurisdiction than ispresented to them in your nature. Our friend yonder seized it, and hismagnificent work of art proves how nearly it approaches the purest andloftiest conception we form of the goddess whom he had to represent. Itis not that he deified you, Daphne; he merely bestowed on the divinityforms which he recognised in you."
Just at that moment, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, Hermon pulledthe bandage from his eyes to see once more the woman to whom this warmhomage was paid.
Was the experienced connoisseur of art and the artist soul in the right?
He had told himself the same thing when he selected Daphne for a model,and her head reproduced what Proclus praised as the common possession ofDaphne and Demeter. Truthful Myrtilus had also seen it. Perhaps his workhad really been so marvellously successful because, while he was engagedupon it, his friend had constantly stood before his mind in all thecharm of her inexhaustible goodness.
Animated by the ardent desire to gaze once more at the beloved face, towhich he now owed also this unexpectedly great success, he turned towardthe spot whence her voice had reached him; but a wall of violet mist,dotted with black specks, was all that his blinded eyes showed him, andwith a low groan he drew the linen cloth over the burns.
This time Proclus also perceived what was passing in the poor artist'smind, and when he took leave of him it was with the resolve to do hisutmost to brighten with the stars of recognition and renown the darknight of suffering which enshrouded this highly gifted sculptor, whoseunexpectedly great modesty had prepossessed him still more in hisfavour.