Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each passer with violets, narcissus, and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the Panathenæa, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.
Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice. To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.
The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the lesches—the numerous little club houses about it—overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus’s booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.
“Guilty—I vote guilty,” the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower.
“Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; “you’re not condemning any poor scoundrel now.”
“Ai! ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “I only thought I was dropping the black bean—”
“Against whom?” quoth Crito, the fat contractor.
“Whom? Why that aristocrat Glaucon, surely,—to-night—” Polus suddenly checked himself and began to roll his eyes.
“You’ve a dreadful grievance against him,” remarked Clearchus; “the gods know why.”
“The wise patriot can see many things,” observed Polus, complacently, “only I repeat—wait till to-night—and then—”
“What then?” demanded all the others.
“Then you shall see,” announced the juror, with an oratorical flourish of his dirty himation, “and not you only but all of Athens.”
Clearchus grinned.
“Our dear Polus has a vast sense of his own importance. And who has been making you partner of the state secrets—Themistocles?”
“A man almost his peer, the noble patriot Democrates. Ask Phormio’s wife, Lampaxo; ask—” Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. “This will be a notable day for Athens!”
“Our good friend surely thinks so!” rejoined the potter, dryly; “but since he won’t trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate. Yonder rides Themistocles now to take command.”
The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels were prancing Cimon, Democrates, Glaucon, and many another youth of the noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as Agis.
“Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a ‘steward’ of the procession to-day,” wondered Crito.
“You’ll be enlightened to-morrow,” said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, “Ah, me,—I wish I could afford to serve in the cavalry. It’s far safer than tugging a spear on foot. But there’s one young man out yonder on whose horse I’d not gladly be sitting.”
“Phui,” complained Clearchus, “you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to take her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as handsome as her husband.”
“She needn’t ‘draw up her eyebrows,’ ”(6) growled the juror, viciously; “they’re marks of disloyalty even in her. Can’t you see she wears shoes of the Theban model, laced open so as to display her bare feet, though everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She’s no better than Glaucon.”
“Hush,” ordered Clearchus, rising, “you have spoken folly enough. Those trumpets tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march ourselves.”
Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,—what words call down light on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the artist,—his pencil may not limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the sculptor’s marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The festival of the Panathenæa was the crown of Athens.
Never had Helios looked down on fairer landscape or city. The doors of the patrician houses were opened; for a day unguarded, unconstrained, the daughters, wives, and mothers of the nobility of Athens walked forth in their queenly beauty. One could see that the sculptor’s master works were but rigid counterparts of lovelier flesh and blood. One could see veterans, stalwart almost as on the day of the old-time battles, but crowned with the snow of years. One could see youths, and need no longer marvel the young Apollo was accounted fair. Flowers, fluttering mantles, purple, gold, the bravery of armour, rousing music—what was missing? All conjoined to make a perfect spectacle.
The sun had chased the last vapours from the sky. The little ravines on distant Hymettus stood forth sharply as though near at hand. The sun grew hot, but men and women walked with bared heads, and few were the untanned cheeks and shoulders. Children of the South, and lovers of the Sun-King, the Athenians sought no shelter, their own bright humour rejoicing in the light.
On the broad parade ground outside the Dipylon, the towering northwestern gate, the procession gathered. Themistocles the Handsome, never more gallant than now upon the white Thessalian, was ordering the array, the ten young men, “stewards of the Panathenæa,” assisting. He sent his last glance down the long files, his ivory wand signed to the musicians in the van.
“Play! march!”
Fifty pipers blew, fifty citharas tinkled. The host swept into the city.
Themistocles led. Under the massy double gate caracoled the charger. The robe of his rider blew out behind him like purple wings. There was the cry and clang of cymbals and drums. From the gray battlement yellow daisies rained down like gold. Cantering, halting, advancing, beckoning, the chief went forward, and behind swept the “knights,” the mounted chivalry of Athens,—three hundred of the noblest youths of Attica, on beasts sleek and spirited, and in burnished armour, but about every helm a wreath. Behind the “knights” rode the magistracy, men white-headed and grave, some riding, some in flower-decked cars. After these the victors in the games and contests of the preceding day. Next the elders of Athens—men of blameless life, beautiful in hale and honoured age. Next the ephebi,—the youths close to manhood, whose fair limbs glistened under their sweeping chitons. Behind them, their sisters, unveiled, the maidens of Athens, walking in rhythmic beauty, and with them their attendants, daughters of resident foreigners. Following upon these was the long line of bleating victims, black bulls with gilded horns and ribbon-decked rams without blemish. And next—but here the people leaned from parapet, house-roof, portico, and shouted louder than ever:
“The car and the robe of Athena! Hail, Io, pæan! hail!”
Up the street on a car shaped like a galley moved the peplus, the great robe of the sovran goddess. From afar one could see the wide folds spread on a shipyard and rippling in the breeze. But what a sail! One year long had the noblest women of Attica wrought on it, and all the love and art that might breathe through a needle did not fail. It was a sheen of glowing colour. The strife of Athena with the brutish giants, her contest with Arachne, the deeds of the heroes of Athens—Erechtheus, Theseus, Codrus: these were some of the pictures. The car moved noiselessly on wheels turned by concealed mechanism. Under the shadow of the sail walked the fairest of its makers, eight women, maids and young matrons, clothed in white mantles and wreaths, going with stately tread, unmoved by the shouting as though themselves divine. Seven walked together. But one, their leader, went before,—Hermione, child of Hermippus.
Many an onlooker remembered this sight of her, the deep spiritual eyes, the symmetry of form and fold, the perfect carriage. Fair wishes flew out to her like doves.
“May she be blessed forever! May King Helios forever bring her joy!”
Some cried thus. More thought thus. All seemed more glad for beholding her.
Behind the peplus in less careful array went thousands of citizens of every age and station, all in festival dress, all crowned with flowers. They followed the car up the Dromos Street, across the cheering Agora, and around the southern side of the Acropolis, making a full circuit of the citadel. Those who watched saw Glaucon with Democrates and Cimon give their horses to slaves, and mount the bare knoll of Areopagus, looking down upon the western face of the Acropolis. As the procession swung about to mount the steep, Hermione lifted her glance to Areopagus, saw her husband gazing down on her, raised her hands in delighted gesture, and he answered her. It was done in the sight of thousands, and the thousands smiled with the twain.
“Justice! The beautiful salutes the beautiful.” And who thought the less of Hermione for betraying the woman beneath the mien of the goddess?
But now the march drew to an end. The procession halted, reformed, commenced the rugged way upward. Suddenly from the bastion of the Acropolis above wafted new music. Low, melancholy at first, as the pipers and harpers played in the dreamy Lydian mode, till, strengthening into the bolder Æolic, the strains floated down, inviting, “Come up hither,” then stronger still it pealed in the imperious crash of the Doric as the procession mounted steadily. Now could be seen great Lamprus, Orpheus’s peer, the master musician, standing on the balcony above the gate, beating time for the loud choral.
A chorus amongst the marchers and a second chorus in the citadel joined together, till the red crags shook,—singing the old hymn of the Homeridæ to Athena, homely, rude, yet dear with the memory of ages:—
“Pallas Athena, gray-eyed queen of wisdom,
Thy praise I sing!
Steadfast, all holy, sure ward of our city,
Triton-born rule whom High Zeus doth bring
Forth from his forehead.
Thou springest forth valiant;
The clangour swells far as thy direful arms ring.
“All the Immortals in awed hush are bending,
Beautiful, terrible, thy light thou’rt sending
Flashed from thine eyes and thy pitiless spear.
Under thy presence Olympus is groaning,
Earth heaves in terrors, the blue deeps are moaning;
‘Wisdom, the All-Seeing Goddess is here!’
“Now the sea motionless freezes before thee;
Helios, th’ Sun-Lord, draws rein to adore thee;
Whilst thou, O Queen, puttest on divine might.
Zeus, the deep-councillor, gladly greets thee!
Hail, Holy Virgin—our loud pæan meets thee,
PALLAS, CHASTE WISDOM, DISPELLER OF NIGHT!”
Up the face of the Rock, up the long, statue-lined way, till through the gate the vision burst,—the innumerable fanes and altars, the assembly of singers and priests, the great temple in its pride of glittering marble. Clearer, stronger sounded the choral, shot up through the limpid azure; swaying, burning, throbbing, sobs and shouting, tears and transports, so mounted new strains of the mighty chorus, lit through with the flames of Homeric verse. Then stronger yet was the mingling of voices, earth, sky, deep, beasts’ cry and gods’ cry, all voiced, as chorus answered to chorus. Now the peplus was wafted on a wave of song toward the temple’s dawn-facing portal, when from beneath the columns, as the tall valves turned and the sun leaped into the cella, hidden voices returned the former strains—mournful at first. Out of the adytum echoed a cry of anguish, the lament of the Mother of Wisdom at her children’s deathly ignorance, which plucks them down from the Mount of the Beautiful Vision. But as the thousands neared, as its pæans became a prayer, as yearning answered to yearning, lo! the hidden song swelled and soared,—for the goddess looked for her own, and her own were come to her. And thus in beneath the massy pediment, in through the wide-flung doors, floated the peplus, while under its guardian shadow walked Hermione.
So they brought the robe to Athena.
Glaucon and his companions had watched the procession ascend, then followed to see the sacrifice upon the giant altar. The King Archon cut the throat of the first ox and made public prayer for the people. Wood soaked in perfumed oil blazed upon the huge stone platform of the sacrifice. Girls flung frankincense upon the roaring flames. The music crashed louder. All Athens seemed mounting the citadel. The chief priestess came from the holy house, and in a brief hush proclaimed that the goddess had received the robe with all favour. After her came the makers of the peplus, and Hermione rejoined her husband.
“Let us not stay to the public feast,” was her wish; “let these hucksters and charcoal-burners who live on beans and porridge scramble for a bit of burned meat, but we return to Colonus.”
“Good then,” answered Glaucon, “and these friends of course go with us.”
Cimon assented readily. Democrates hesitated, and while hesitating was seized by the cloak by none other than Agis, who gave a hasty whisper and vanished in the swirling multitude before Democrates could do more than nod.
“He’s an uncanny fox,” remarked Cimon, mystified; “I suppose you know his reputation?”
“The servant of Athens must sometimes himself employ strange servants,” evaded the orator.
“Yet you might suffer your friends to understand—”
“Dear son of Miltiades,” Democrates’s voice shook in the slightest, “the meaning of my dealings with Agis I pray Athena you may never have cause to know.”
“Which means you will not tell us. Then by Zeus I swear the secret no doubt is not worth the knowing.” Cimon stopped suddenly, as he saw a look of horror on Hermione’s face. “Ah, lady! what’s the matter?”
“Glaucon,” she groaned, “frightful omen! I am terrified!”
Glaucon’s hands dropped at her cry. He himself paled slightly. In one of his moods of abstraction he had taken the small knife from his belt and begun to pare his nails,—to do which after a sacrifice was reputed an infallible means of provoking heaven’s anger. The friends were grave and silent. The athlete gave a forced laugh.
“The goddess will be merciful to-day. To-morrow I will propitiate her with a goat.”
“Now, now, not to-morrow,” urged Hermione, with white lips, but her husband refused.
“The goddess is surfeited with sacrifices this morning. She would forget mine.”
Then he led the rest, elbowing the way through the increasing swarms of young and old, and down into the half-deserted city. Democrates left them in the Agora, professing great stress of duties.
“Strange man,” observed Cimon, as he walked away; “what has he this past month upon his mind? That Persian spy, I warrant. But the morning wanes. It’s a long way to Colonus. ‘Let us drink, for the sun is in the zenith.’ So says Alcæus—and I love the poet, for he like myself is always thirsty.”
The three went on to the knoll of Colonus where Glaucon dwelt. Cimon was overrunning with puns and jests, but the others not very merry. The omen of Glaucon’s thoughtlessness, or something else, made husband and wife silent, yet it was a day when man or maid should have felt their spirits rise. The sky had never been brighter, not in Athens. Never had the mountains and sea spread more gloriously. From the warm olive-groves sounded the blithesome note of the Attic grasshopper. The wind sweeping over the dark cypresses by the house set their dark leaves to talking. The afternoon passed in pleasure, friends going and coming; there was laughter, music, and good stories. Hermione at least recovered part of her brightness, but her husband, contrary to all custom, remained taciturn, even melancholy. At last as the gentle tints of evening began to cover hill and plain and the red-tiled roofs of the ample city, all the friends were gone, saving only Cimon, and he—reckless fellow—was well able to dispense with companionship, being, in the words of Theognis, “not absolutely drunk, nor sober quite.” Thus husband and wife found themselves alone together on the marble bench beneath the old cypress.
“Oh, makaire! dearest and best,” asked Hermione, her hands touching his face, “is it the omen that makes you grow so sad? For the sun of your life is so seldom under clouds that when it is clouded at all, it seems as deep darkness.”
He answered by pressing back her hair, “No, not the omen. I am not a slave to chance like that. Yet to-day,—the wise God knows wherefore,—there comes a sense of brooding fear. I have been too happy—too blessed with friendship, triumph, love. It cannot last. Clotho the Spinner will weary of making my thread of gold and twine in a darker stuff. Everything lovely must pass. What said Glaucus to Diomedes? ‘Even as the race of leaves, so likewise are those of men; the leaves that now are, the wind scattereth, and the forest buddeth forth more again; thus also with the race of men, one putteth forth, another ceaseth.’ So even my joy must pass—”
“Glaucon,—take back the words. You frighten me.”
He felt her in his arms trembling, and cursed himself for what he had uttered.
“A blight upon my tongue! I have frightened you, and without cause. Surely the day is bright enough, surely Athena having been thus far good we can trust her goodness still. Who knows but that it be many a year before our sun comes to his setting!”
He kissed her many times. She grew comforted, but they had not been together long when they were surprised by the approach of Themistocles and Hermippus. Hermione ran to her father.
“Themistocles and I were summoned hither,” explained Hermippus, “by a message from Democrates bidding us come to Colonus at once, on an urgent matter touching the public weal.”
“He is not here. I cannot understand,” marvelled Glaucon; but while he spoke, he was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs from a party of horsemen spurring furiously and heading from the pass of Daphni.
