CHAPTER II.
After the grammateus had retired, Daphne insisted upon leaving Tennisthe next day.
The desire to see Hermon's masterpiece drew her back to Alexandria evenmore strongly than the knowledge of being missed by her father.
Only the separation from Thyone rendered the departure difficult, forthe motherless girl had found in her something for which she had longyearned, and most sorely missed in her companion Chrysilla, who fromexpediency approved of everything she did or said.
The matron, too, had become warmly attached to Daphne, and would gladlyhave done all that lay in her power to lighten Hermon's sad fate, yetshe persisted in her determination to return speedily to her old husbandin Pelusium.
But she did not fully realize how difficult this departure would befor her until the blind man, after a long silence, asked whether it wasnight, if the stars were in the sky, and if she really intended to leavehim.
Then burning sympathy filled her compassionate soul, and she could nolonger restrain her tears. Daphne, too, covered her face, and imposedthe strongest restraint upon herself that she might not sob aloud.
So it seemed a boon to both when Hermon expressed the desire to spendpart of the night on deck.
This desire contained a summons to action, and to be able to bestirthemselves in useful service appeared like a favour to Thyone andDaphne.
Without calling upon a slave, a female servant, or even Chrysilla forthe smallest office, the two prepared a couch on deck for the blind man,and, leaning on the girl's stronger arm, he went up into the open air.
There he stretched both arms heavenward, inhaled deep breaths of thecool night breeze, and thirstily emptied the goblet of wine which Daphnemixed and gave him with her own hand.
Then, with a sigh of relief, he said: "Everything has not grown blackyet. A delightful feeling of pleasure takes possession even of the blindman when the open air refreshes him and the wine warms his blood in thesunshine of your kindness."
"And much better things are still in prospect," Daphne assured him."Just think what rapture it will be when you are permitted to see thelight again after so long a period of darkness!"
"When--" repeated Hermon, his head drooping as he spoke.
"It must, it must be so!" rang with confident assurance from Thyone'slips.
"And then," added Daphne, gazing sometimes upward to the firmamentstrewn with shining stars, sometimes across the broad, rippling expanseof the water, in which the reflection of the heavenly bodies shimmeredin glittering, silvery radiance, "yes, Hermon, who would not be glad toexchange with you then? You may shake your head, but I would take yourplace quickly and with joyous courage. There is a proof of the existenceof the gods, which so exactly suits the hour when you will again see,enjoy, admire what this dreary darkness now hides from you. It was aphilosopher who used it; I no longer know which one. How often I havethought of it since this cruel misfortune befell you! And now--"
"Go on," Hermon interrupted with a smile of superiority. "You arethinking of Aristotle's man who grew up in a dark cave. The conditionswhich must precede the devout astonishment of the liberated youth whenhe first emerged into the light and the verdant world would certainlyexist in me."
"Oh, not in that way," pleaded the wounded girl; and Thyone exclaimed:"What is the story of the man you mention? We don't talk about Aristotleand such subjects in Pelusium."
"Perhaps they are only too much discussed in Alexandria," said theblind artist. "The Stagirite, as you have just heard, seeks to prove theexistence of the gods by the man of whom I spoke."
"No, he does prove it," protested Daphne. "Just listen, Mother Thyone. Alittle boy grows up from earliest childhood into a youth in a dark cave.Then suddenly its doors are opened to him. For the first time he seesthe sun, moon, and stars, flowers and trees, perhaps even a beautifulhuman face. But at the moment when all these things rush upon him likeso many incomprehensible marvels, must he not ask himself who createdall this magnificence? And the answer which comes to him--"
"There is only one," cried the matron; "the omnipotent gods. Do youshrug your shoulders at that, son of the pious Erigone? Why, of course!The child who still feels the blows probably rebels against his earthlyfather. But if I see aright, the resentment will not last when you, likethe man, go out of the cave and your darkness also passes away. Then thepower from which you turned defiantly will force itself upon you, andyou will raise your hands in grateful prayer to the rescuing divinity.As to us women, we need not be drawn out of a cave to recognise it.A mother who reared three stalwart sons--I will say nothing of thedaughters--can not live without them. Why are they so necessary to her?Because we love our children twice as much as ourselves, and the dangerwhich threatens them alarms the poor mother's heart thrice as much asher own. Then it needs the helping powers. Even though they often refusetheir aid, we may still be grateful for the expectation of relief. Ihave poured forth many prayers for the three, I assure you, and afterdoing so with my whole soul, then, my son, no matter how wildly thestorm had raged within my breast, calmness returned, and Hope againtook her place at the helm. In the school of the denier of the gods, youforgot the immortals above and depended on yourself alone. Now you needa guide, or even two or three of them, in order to find the way. If yourmother were still alive, you would run back to her to hide your face inher lap. But she is dead, and if I were as proud as you, before claspingthe sustaining hand of another mortal I would first try whether onewould not be voluntarily extended from among the Olympians. If I wereyou, I would begin with Demeter, whom you honoured by so marvellous awork."
Hermon waved his hand as if brushing away a troublesome fly, exclaimingimpatiently: "The gods, always the gods! I know by my own mother,Thyone, what you women are, though I was only seven years old when I wasbereft of her by the same powers that you call good and wise, and whohave also robbed me of my eyesight, my friend, and all else that wasdear. I thank you for your kind intention, and you, too, Daphne, forrecalling the beautiful allegory. How often we have argued over itsmeaning! If we continued the discussion, perhaps it might pleasantlyshorten the next few hours, which I dread as I do my whole futureexistence, but I should be obliged in the outset to yield the victory toyou. The great Herophilus is right when he transfers the seat of thoughtfrom the heart to the head. What a wild tumult is raging here behind mybrow, and how one voice drowns another! The medley baffles description.I could more easily count with my blind eyes the cells in a honeycombthan refute with my bewildered brain even one shrewd objection. It seemsto me that we need our eyes to understand things. We certainly do totaste. Whatever I eat and drink--langustae and melons, light Mareoticwine and the dark liquor of Byblus my tongue can scarcely distinguishit. The leech assures me that this will pass away, but until the chaoswithin merges into endurable order there is nothing better for me thansolitude and rest, rest, rest."
"We will not deny them to you," replied Thyone, glancing significantlyat Daphne. "Proclus's enthusiastic judgment was sincerely meant. Beginby rejoicing over it in the inmost depths of your heart, and vividlyimagining what a wealth of exquisite joys will be yours through yourlast masterpiece."
"Willingly, if I can," replied the blind man, gratefully extending hishand. "If I could only escape the doubt whether the most cruel tyrantcould devise anything baser than to rob the artist, the very person towhom it is everything, of his sight."
"Yes, it is terrible," Daphne assented. "Yet it seems to me that aricher compensation for the lost gift is at the disposal of you artiststhan of us other mortals, for you understand how to look with the eyesof the soul. With them you retain what you have seen, and illumine itwith a special radiance. Homer was blind, and for that very reason, Ithink, the world and life became clear and transfigured for him though aveil concealed both from his physical vision."
"The poet!" Hermon exclaimed. "He draws from his own soul what sight,and sight alone, brings to us sculptors. And, besides, his spiritremained free from the horrible darkness that assailed mine.
Joy itself,Daphne, has lost its illuminating power within. What, girl, what is tobecome of the heart in which even hope was destroyed?"
"Defend it manfully and keep up your courage," she answered softly;but he pressed her hand firmly, and, in order not to betray howself-compassion was melting his own soul, burst forth impetuously: "Sayrather: Crush the wish whose fulfilment is self-humiliation! I will goback to Alexandria. Even the blind and crippled can find ways to earntheir bread there. Now grant me rest, and leave me alone!"
Thyone drew the girl away with her into the ship's cabin.
A short time after, the steward Gras went to Hermon to entreat him toyield to Thyone's entreaties and leave the deck.
The leech had directed the sufferer to protect himself from draughtsand dampness, and the cool night mists were rising more and more denselyfrom the water.
Hermon doubtless felt them, but the thought of returning to the closecabin was unendurable. He fancied that his torturing thoughts wouldstifle him in the gloom where even fresh air was denied him.
He allowed the careful Bithynian to throw a coverlet over him and drawthe hood of his cloak over his head, but his entreaties and warningswere futile.
The steward's watchful nursing reminded Hermon of his own solicitudefor his friend and of his faithful slave Bias, both of whom he had lost.Then he remembered the eulogy of the grammateus, and it brought up thequestion whether Myrtilus would have agreed with him. Like Proclus, hiskeen-sighted and honest friend had called Daphne the best model for thekindly goddess. He, too, had given to his statue the features of thedaughter of Archias, and admitted that he had been less successful. Butthe figure! Perhaps he, Hermon, in his perpetual dissatisfaction withhimself had condemned his own work too severely, but that it lacked theproper harmony had escaped neither Myrtilus nor himself. Now he recalledthe whole creation to his remembrance, and its weaknesses forcedthemselves upon him so strongly and objectionably that the extravagantpraise of the stern critic awakened fresh doubts in his mind.
Yet a man like the grammateus, who on the morrow or the day following itwould be obliged to repeat his opinion before the King and the judges,certainly would not have allowed himself to be carried away by merecompassion to so great a falsification of his judgment.
Or was he himself sharing the experience of many a fellow-artist? Howoften the creator deceived himself concerning the value of his own work!He had expected the greatest success from his Polyphemus hurling therock at Odysseus escaping in the boat, and a gigantic smith had posedfor a model. Yet the judges had condemned it in the severest manner asa work far exceeding the bounds of moderation, and arousing positivedislike. The clay figure had not been executed in stone or metal, andcrumbled away. The opposite would probably now happen with the Demeter.Her bending attitude had seemed to him daring, nay, hazardous; but theacute critic Proclus had perceived that it was in accord with one ofDaphne's habits, and therefore numbered it among the excellences of thestatue.
If the judges who awarded the prize agreed with the verdict of thegrammateus, he must accustom himself to value his own work higher,perhaps even above that of Myrtilus.
But was this possible?
He saw his friend's Demeter as though it was standing before him, andagain he recognised in it the noblest masterpiece its maker had evercreated. What praise this marvellous work would have deserved if his ownreally merited such high encomiums!
Suddenly an idea came to him, which at first he rejected asinconceivable; but it would not allow itself to be thrust aside, and itsconsideration made his breath fail.
What if his own Demeter had been destroyed and Myrtilus's statue saved?If the latter was falsely believed to be his work, then Proclus'sjudgment was explained--then--then---
Seized by a torturing anguish, he groaned aloud, and the steward Grasinquired what he wanted.
Hermon hastily grasped the Bithynian's arm, and asked what he knew aboutthe rescue of his statue.
The answer was by no means satisfying. Gras had only heard that, afterbeing found uninjured in his studio, it had been dragged with greatexertion into the open air. The goldsmith Chello had directed the work.
Hermon remembered all this himself, yet, with an imperious curtness inmarked contrast to his usual pleasant manner to this worthy servant, hehoarsely commanded him to bring Chello to him early the next morning,and then again relapsed into his solitary meditations.
If the terrible conjecture which had just entered his mind should beconfirmed, no course remained save to extinguish the only new lightwhich now illumined the darkness of his night, or to become a cheat.
Yet his resolution was instantly formed. If the goldsmith corroboratedhis fear, he would publicly attribute the rescued work to the man whocreated it. And he persisted in this intention, indignantly silencingthe secret voice which strove to shake it. It temptingly urged thatMyrtilus, so rich in successes, needed no new garland. His lost sightwould permit him, Hermon, from reaping fresh laurels, and his friendwould so gladly bestow this one upon him. But he angrily closed hisears to these enticements, and felt it a humiliation that they dared toapproach him.
With proud self-reliance he threw back his head, saying to himself that,though Myrtilus should permit him ten times over to deck him self withhis feathers, he would reject them. He would remain himself, and wasconscious of possessing powers which perhaps surpassed his friend's.He was as well qualified to create a genuine work of art as the bestsculptor, only hitherto the Muse had denied him success in awakeningpleasure, and blindness would put an end to creating anything of hisown.
The more vividly he recalled to memory his own work and his friend's,the more probable appeared his disquieting supposition.
He also saw Myrtilus's figure before him, and in imagination heard hisfriend again promise that, with the Arachne, he would wrest the prizeeven from him.
During the terrible events of the last hours he had thought but seldomand briefly of the weaver, whom it had seemed a rare piece of goodfortune to be permitted to represent. Now the remembrance of her tookpossession of his soul with fresh power.
The image of Arachne illumined by the lamplight, which Althea had showedhim, appeared like worthless jugglery, and he soon drove it back intothe darkness which surrounded him. Ledscha's figure, however, rosebefore him all the more radiantly. The desire to possess her had flownto the four winds; but he thought he had never before beheld anythingmore peculiar, more powerful, or better worth modelling than theBiamite girl as he saw her in the Temple of Nemesis, with uplifted hand,invoking the vengeance of the goddess upon him, and there--he discoveredit now--Daphne was not at all mistaken. Images never presentedthemselves as distinctly to those who could see as to the blind manin his darkness. If he was ever permitted to receive his sight, what astatue of the avenging goddess he could create from this greatest eventin the history of his vision!
After this work--of that he was sure--he would no longer need theborrowed fame which, moreover, he rejected with honest indignation.