The Woman Who Vowed (The Demetrian)

  CHAPTER V

  IRENE

  I spent the whole harvest season at Tyringham, and when it was over Iwent with Chairo to New York in order to get some ocular understandingof their factory system. It was there that I understood one of thereasons that made Lydia hesitate, for I met there another woman--aDemetrian also--whose history had been intimately interwoven withChairo's.

  Lydia had decided, much to Chairo's disappointment, that she would spendOctober in the Demetrian cloister attached to the temple. She said shefelt the need of seclusion. It was one of the functions of thecloistered to attend the daily rite at the altar, and I often went atthe sacred hour to attend the service, doubtless drawn by the desire tosee Lydia engaged in her ministration. One afternoon, as I sat in theshadow of a pillar, I was struck by the singular majesty of one of theministrants. She headed the procession of women who carried thecensers, and it was she who offered the incense at the altar.

  I was living with Chairo and Ariston in bachelor quarters and describedthe priestess to the latter on my return home. Ariston's face flushed ashe answered: "That must be Irene of Tania; she is a Demetrian and is themother of a boy by Chairo."

  Noticing that my question had moved Ariston I was unwilling to push myinquiries; but after a few moments of silence Ariston, who after hislaconic answer had lowered his eyes to the book he was reading, lookedup and seeing the question in my eyes that I had refrained from puttinginto words, added:

  "Her story is a sad one. She was selected by Demeter not on account ofany special gifts, but because of her splendid combination of qualities;she was a type; she represented a standard it was useful to reproduce.Chairo for similar reasons was selected as her bridegroom; she chose toknow him and became deeply enamored. How should she not? He remaineddevoted to her until her boy was weaned and then did not renew his vows.She bore his decision with dignity; indeed, so well did she disguise herdisappointment that for a long time no one knew whether it was Chairoor herself who had decided to separate. But when Chairo began to showhis love for Lydia, Irene sickened; there was no apparent reason for itand no acute disease; her appetite failed and she lost strength andcolor."

  Ariston paused, as though he were going over it all in his mind,unwilling to give it utterance. Finally, he arose and walked to thewindow, and after looking out a little, turned to me and said:

  "The fact is, I was consumedly in love with her myself; her illness gaveme an excuse for being a great deal with her, and at last in a moment offolly--for I might have guessed--I told her of my love. I shall neverforget her face when I did so: the sadness on it deepened; she held outher hand to me and said: 'I am fond of you, Ariston--and am grateful!But I love Chairo and shall never love anyone but him.'" Ariston's voicebecame hoarse as he repeated Irene's words. But he paused, cleared histhroat, and went on.

  "Since then she has made a great effort over herself. She was told thatshe was allowing sorrow to unfit her for her duty to her child, and thatshe was suffering from no malady beyond that most pernicious of allmaladies--the malady of the will. She collected herself, regainedcontrol, and has now recovered her health--and all her beauty. Wasthere ever beauty greater than her's?"

  "She is very beautiful--more than beautiful--she filled me with a kindof wonder. But tell me, won't she object to your having told me hersecret?"

  "It is not a secret; these things are not regarded as secrets; we holdit unworthy to blab of such things, but we never make an effort toconceal them. Often since then Irene has spoken of Chairo in such amanner as to leave no doubt as to her feelings for him; and yet she hasprobably never in terms admitted it to anyone but me. In confiding toyou my love for her, she would not complain at my also confiding to youher love for him."

  Ariston's simplicity filled my heart with tenderness for him.

  I went to him, put my hands on his shoulders, and said:

  "I am sorry for you."

  For a moment he seemed taken aback by this expression of sympathy; butwhen our eyes met his were dimmed. In a moment, however, he hadrecovered control, and said:

  "It doesn't make any difference in one way. I see her still; and one ofthese days she will be sorry for me and become my wife; she will thenend by loving me. I mean to work to this end; the hope of attaining allthis gives me courage."

  It seemed all the worse to me that Ariston, with his gayety and humor,should be in his heart so sad. And yet, if it was to be, better that itshould come to one who had a fund of joyousness within himself, on whichhe could draw.

  The next day Lydia sent word to Ariston that she would like to see him,and Ariston suggested that I should go with him to the cloister. "Ishall, of course," he said, "wish to see Lydia alone for a little, butyou will have an opportunity of seeing the cloister and what they dothere."

  The cloister of Demeter and all the institutions which clustered aroundit were situated in the neighborhood of what was in my time MadisonSquare. All the buildings between Twentieth Street and Thirty-fourthStreet, north and south, and between Sixth Avenue and Fourth Avenue,east and west, had been cleared away; and upon the cleared space hadbeen constructed a building dedicated to the cult. The temple ofDemeter, closely resembling the Pantheon, was surrounded by a grove ofilex trees. At a short distance from the temple and connected with it bya columned arcade, was the cloister, built also of white marble, arounda court carpeted with lawn; this cloister was the dwelling place of thepriestesses of Demeter and of all those women who were either in retreator in novitiate. A short distance from the cloister was a largebuilding, similar to the other large buildings of which New York nowmainly consisted. Twenty stories in height, covering acres of ground andbuilt around a large open court, these buildings were no longer open tothe objection alleged against them in my time, owing to the fact thatthey were now removed from one another by large spaces planted withtrees. This particular building was devoted to the education of youth,and particularly all children who, for any reason, became what wastermed "children of the state." The building was so large that itpermitted of a running track within the court of four laps to the mile.New York had been transformed by the construction of these enormousbuildings, each one of which constituted practically a city of itself.Some of them, such as the one in which I was living with Ariston, weredevoted exclusively to bachelors and childless widowers; others wereentirely for unmarried women and childless widows; others, on thecontrary, were set aside for the use of families and consisted ofapartments of different sizes.

  Although the inmates of these buildings constantly met after thefulfillment of their daily task, every family had as separate a home asin my day. Almost every building had a dramatic corps of its own, amusical choir of its own, a football club, a tennis club, and otherathletic, amusement, and educational clubs of its own, and all theseclubs contributed to the amusement one of the other, each colonycontributing its share to the enjoyment of the whole community.

  Lydia was in the hospital ward of the state children's building, whereat last we found her, for though in retreat she was by no means idle.She was not discountenanced when she saw us; nor would she even allow meto leave them, but told Ariston what she had to say simply and in a fewwords. It was this: She had come to the cloister, she said, very largelyfor the purpose of seeing Irene there; she took it for granted thatIrene's duties at the temple would bring them together. Lydia feared,however, that Irene was avoiding her, and wanted Ariston to arrange ameeting between them.

  Ariston promised to do this, and then we all three walked through thebuildings, Lydia taking great pride in her share of the work there.

  Ariston did not find it easy to arrange this meeting. Irene freelyconfessed that she did not want to speak to Lydia at this moment; shewas unwilling to give her reasons, but we both easily guessed them.Irene, however, did not refuse to see Lydia and promised to go to her onthe following day.

  The following day was the first of the Eleusinian festival. In the dailyrite, incense was offered to the goddess as a token of sacrifice, but atthe Eleusinian f
estival there was added a note of thanksgiving to therite, which substituted perfumes and flowers in lieu of incense. It wasthe privilege of Irene to select from among the ministrants the one whowas to hand her the gifts brought by the rest, and it was from the handof the chosen one that Irene took the gifts and laid them upon thealtar.

  On this opening day Irene selected Lydia for this privilege, for shemeant this joint ministration at the altar to serve as prelude andpreparation for their meeting. The temple was crowded.

  Lydia trembled a little as she followed Irene to the altar; a prieststood on either side as the priestesses, postulants, and novices of theDemetrian procession went up the steps to it. Arrived at the foot of thealtar they formed a group about it, dividing one-half on one side, theother half on the other; between the altar and the body of the templestood only Irene and Lydia.

  Lydia took the perfumes and handed them to Irene, who sprinkled themfirst upon the altar, then upon the priests, and then toward thecongregation; then she took the flowers, some of them in vases, othersin wreaths, and handed them to Irene, who arranged them upon the altar;when the last gift had been taken there Irene kneeled and Lydia kneeledby her side. There was a deep silence in the temple. At this point inthe ritual there was a pause, during which it was the privilege of thepostulants and novices to have a prayer offered in case of specialanxiety. Irene, though unsolicited, at this moment offered the followingprayer:

  "Mother of Fruitfulness, to her who now asks for thy special grace, grant that she may neither accept thy mission hastily nor reject it without consideration; for thy glory, O Mother, is the glory of all thy people."

  There was a word in this prayer which did not fail to strike theattention of every worshipper in the temple that day. The words of theritual were "Grant that she may neither accept the mission_unworthily_." Irene had substituted "hastily" for the word"unworthily." She had paused at this word and given it special emphasis.It was usual for the Demetrian procession to remain kneeling after theservice was over and the congregation dismissed; and it happened thatthe procession and the priests left the temple, leaving Irene and Lydiaalone there. For Irene did not rise with the other Demetrians, andLydia, feeling that she had been chosen as ministrant for a purpose,remained beside Irene. The two knelt alone in the temple, Irene prayingand Lydia waiting on her. At last Irene arose and Lydia also, and theyboth walked out into the covered way.

  Neither spoke until they were in the seclusion of the cloistered court.Then Irene said: "You wanted to speak to me, Lydia."

  "And you have been avoiding me," said Lydia.

  "Yes," answered Irene. "You have a matter to decide regarding which youhave already guessed I am not altogether unconcerned."

  Lydia lowered her voice as she said: "You still love Chairo?"

  Irene answered in a voice still lower, but firm, "I do."

  For a few minutes they paced the cloister. Lydia was trying to decidehow to confess her own secret, but she did not find the words. At lastIrene said:

  "When the mission of Demeter was first tendered to me I was eighteen,and, although I had often preferred certain of my playmates to others, Ihad not known love. The honor of the mission made a great impression,and as it slowly came upon me that I was chosen to make of myself asacrifice, the beauty of it filled my heart with happiness. It hardlyoccurred to me possible to refuse the mission; I was absorbed by onesingle desire--to make myself worthy of it. I thought very little aboutthe sacrifice itself. I had the legend of Eros and Psyche in my mind;one day I should hear heavenly music and be approached as it were by anunknown god. And passing from the pagan to the Christian myth, I saw theImmaculate Conception of Murillo--that of the young maiden at the Pradoin Madrid--and I felt lifted into the ecstasy of a mystic motherhood. Sountil I accepted the mission at the Eleusinian festival I lived in arapture--the days passing in the studies and ministrations of ournovitiate, the nights in dreamless sleep. But once the vows taken andthe bridal night fixed, there came upon me a revulsion as it were fromthe outside and took control of my entire being so as to make meunderstand what the ancients meant when they described certain personsas 'possessed by an evil spirit.' The thought of the approaching crisiswas a pure horror to me. I lost my appetite and sleep; or, if I slept,it was to dream a nightmare. Neither our priest nor priestess couldconsole me, the legend of Eros and Psyche became abominable, theImmaculate Conception absurd, and, believe me, Lydia, nothing but pridekept me to my word. It was a bad pride, the pride that could not lookforward to the humiliation of refusing a sacrifice I had once accepted.That pride held me in a vice and accomplished what religion itself wouldnever have accomplished."

  Irene paused--and Lydia passed her arm around Irene's waist as theycontinued to pace the solitary cloister, whispering "Go on" in Irene'sear.

  "You know the rest," continued Irene. "The unknown god came to me in myterror and converted my terror into love; and as I look back at it now Iam struck by two things: One, how unaccountable and unfounded the terrorwas; the other, how little my pride would have sufficed to overcome ithad the terror been enforced by love."

  Lydia looked at Irene askance.

  "I mean," said Irene, "love for some one else!"

  A sigh broke from Lydia. This was what she had been waiting for.

  "And you think," said Lydia, "that a woman should not accept the missionif she already loves?"

  "I don't _think_ it; I _know_ it!"

  Lydia felt a burden taken from her--the burden of doubt as well as theburden of sacrifice. But suddenly she remembered that Irene in advisingthe refusal of the mission was making a sacrifice of her own love, andshe said very low in Irene's ear:

  "But, Irene, it's Chairo----"

  "I know," answered Irene, "and this is all the greater reason forrefusing. Had you loved a lesser man you might have doubted the truenessof your love, but having loved Chairo once you can never cease to lovehim. I speak who know"; and Irene turned on Lydia a look of immortalsorrow.

  But the tumult of emotion in Lydia's heart could no longer berestrained. Her own great love for Chairo, her inability to sacrificeit, contrasted with the dignity of Irene's renunciation, started atorrent of tears. She fell on Irene's neck and sobbed there. Irene'sstrong heart beat against her's as they stood in close embrace under thecloister, and calmed Lydia. She slowly disengaged herself, and lookinginto Irene's face, said:

  "And so you tell me to refuse the mission?"

  "You cannot do otherwise."

  Then Lydia kissed Irene and withdrew.

  Lydia went to her chamber and sat in the window seat, looking across thelawn to the temple of Demeter.

  What did it all mean? She had felt the beauty of the mission; had glowedat the thought of sacrifice; had taken pride in it. But such was thestrength of her love for Chairo that so long as he was in her mind themission seemed a sacrilege and her heart had responded to Irene's advicewith a bound of gratitude and delight. And yet now as she looked at thewhite columns of the temple at which she would never again be worthy tominister, an unutterable sadness came over her, as though she wereparting from the dearest and most precious thing in her existence.

  She was unwilling to mingle that night with the other novices, andretired without seeing them. The night was filled with conflictingdreams and she woke up next morning with the guilty conviction that shehad committed a crime.