CHAPTER XVIII.
"NOBLESSE OBLIGE."
Some fourteen or fifteen days have passed since the humiliation ofAthens was completed. To have come to the end, bitter as it was, was inone way a relief. To know the worst always brings a certain comfort, andthat worst might have been, was, in fact, very near being far moreterrible than what actually happened. Then there was a great materialrelief. The pressure of famine was removed. Supplies poured plentifullyinto Athens, for the city, in spite of all its sacrifices and losses,was still rich. If fever still remained--it always lingers a while afterits precursor, hunger, has departed--it was now possible to cope with iteffectually. And then, last not least, it was the delightful season ofspring. The Athenians could once more enjoy the delights of that countrylife from which they had been shut out so long, but which they had neverceased to love. Attica, indeed, had suffered sadly from the presence,repeated year after year, of the invading host; but it had suffered lessthan might have been expected. The olive yards in particular, had notbeen touched. A religious feeling had forbidden any injury to a treewhich was supposed to be under the special protection of the patrongoddess of the land. The sacred groves also of the heroes, that werescattered about the country, had not been harmed. Not a few houses withtheir gardens had been saved by having served as residences for officershigh in command in the Peloponnesian army. And now Nature, the restorer,was busy in the genial season of growth in healing or at least hidingthe wounds that had been made by the ravages of war.
"What do you say to a trip to Marathon?" said Hippocles one day, to hisdaughter and Callias. "You both of you look as if a little fresh airwould do you good."
"An excellent idea," cried Hermione, clapping her hands, "it is yearssince I have seen the place."
"What say you, Callias?" said Hippocles, turning to the young man.
Callias was only too glad to join any expedition when he was to have thecompany of Hermione. He did not give this reason, but he assented to theproposal very heartily.
"But, father, how shall we go?" said Hermione. "There is scarcely ahorse to be found, I suppose."
"Why not go by sea?" was her father's reply. "I have a pinnace whichwould just suit us. We will go to-morrow if the weather holds fine, stopthe first night at Sunium, and the second at Marathon. At Sunium thereis my villa, and at Marathon there is a little house of which I can getthe use, and which will serve us if we do not mind roughing it a little.We can return the next day. Only we must take provisions, for exceptsuch fish as we may catch in the Marathon stream, and possibly, somegoats' milk, if all the goats have not been eaten up, we shall havenothing but what we bring. That must be your care, Hermione."
"Trust me, father," cried the girl joyously. "If you have gone throughfour months' famine, depend upon it you shall not be starved now."
The weather on the following day was all that could be desired. A warmand gentle west wind was blowing. This served them very well as theysailed southward to Sunium. In such good time did they reach thepromontory, that by unanimous vote they agreed to finish their journeythat same day. Sailing northward was as easy as sailing southward, andthe sun was still an hour from setting when they reached the northernend of the plain, having travelled a distance of upwards of sixty miles.This was about four times as far as they would have had to go, had theymade the journey by land. No one, however, regretted having followedHippocles' suggestion. The voyage was indeed as delightful an excursionas could have been devised. The deep blue sky overhead, the sea,borrowing from the heavens a color as intense, and only touched here andthere with a speck of white where a little wave swelled and broke, seabirds now flying high in the air, now darting for their prey into thewaters, the white cliffs tipped with the fresh green of spring thatframed the coast line, made a picture that the party intensely enjoyed,although they did not put their enjoyment into words with the fluencyand ease which would have come readily to a modern. The ancients lovednature, but, as a rule, they felt this love much more than theyexpressed it.
The little house at Marathon was one that had escaped destruction byhaving been occupied by a Spartan officer. It was bare indeed offurniture, but it was habitable; and the party had brought with themthe few things that were absolutely necessary, far fewer, we mustremember, than what we now consider to be indispensable. Supper was feltby all to be a most enjoyable meal. The room in which they sat was bare,for, of course, the luxurious couches on which it was the fashion torecline were absent. There was not even a table, and there was but onebroken chair, which was naturally resigned to Hermione. But it waslightened with a cheerful fire, which was not unwelcome after seven oreight hours' exposure to a high wind. Happily the late occupant had lefta store of logs, which had been cut on the slopes of Pentelicus in theprevious autumn, and which now blazed up most cheerfully. The meal wasdeclared by both Hippocles and Callias to be good enough for aState-banquet in the Prytaneum. One of the sailors had caught abasketful of fish in the stream, and these Hermione had cooked with herown hands. An Athenian who had plenty of fish, seldom wanted anything inthe way of flesh, and the provisions which Hermione, not liking to trustto the skill or the luck of the anglers had brought with her, were nottouched. A cold maize pudding, some of the famous Attic figs, which hadbeen preserved through the winter, bread with honey from Hymettus, anddried grapes completed the repast. Some of the goats, it turned out, hadsurvived, and a jug of their milk was forthcoming for Hermione. The twomen had a flask of wine which they largely diluted with water. When,after the libation, Hippocles proposed the toast of the evening, as, inconsideration of the locality it might fairly be called, "To the memoryof the Heroes of Marathon," Hermione honored it by putting her lips tothe cup. It was the first time that wine had ever passed them, but shecould not refuse this tribute to the chief glory of the city of heradoption.
Hermione, fatigued, it may be said, with all the delights of the day,retired early to rest. Soon after she had gone Callias took theopportunity of opening his heart to his companion on a subject which hadlong occupied his thoughts.
"We have peace at last," he said, "not such a peace as I had ever hopedfor, but still better than the utter ruin which lately I had begun tofear. A good citizen may now begin to think of himself and of his ownhappiness. You, sir, can hardly have failed to observe why I have begunto look for that happiness. If your daughter will only consent to sharemy life, I feel that I shall have to ask the gods for nothing more. Sheis free as far as I know. And me you have known from my childhood. Youwere my father's friend and since he died you have stood in his place.Can you give her to me?"
Hippocles caught his young companion's hand, and gave it a hearty grasp.
"I will not pretend," he said, "not to have observed something of whatyou say; nor will I deny that I have observed it with pleasure. Whatfather would not be glad if Callias, the son of Hipponicus, loved hisdaughter? Of Hermione's feelings I say nothing, indeed I know nothing,save that she has regarded you since childhood with a strong affection,and that as you say she is free. But there are facts which neither younor I can forget; and the chief of them is this, that while you areCallias, son of Hipponicus, an Eupatrid of the Eupatrids,[57] I amHippocles, the Alien. I am well-born in my own country, but that isnothing here. I am wealthy--so wealthy that I care not a single drachmawhether my future son-in-law has a thousand talents for his patrimony orone. I am, I hope and believe, not without honor in the city of myadoption. But I am an alien, my child is an alien. Whether you havethought of all that this means I know not--love is apt to hide thesedifficulties from a man's eyes--but the fact must be faced; you and mydaughter must face it. You speak of my giving her to you. But, ifHermione is a Greek, she is also an Italian. The Italian women choosefor themselves. I could not if I would constrain her will. She mustdecide, and she must answer."
"There is nothing that I should desire better. But you do not tell me,sir, what you yourself wish. Have I your consent and your good wishes?"
"Yes," said Hippocles, "you have. I have thought o
ver the difficulties,for I foresaw that you would some day speak to me on this subject. Asfar as I am concerned I am ready to waive them. But then, they do notconcern me in the first place."
The two men sat in silence for some time after this conversation hadpassed between them, buried each of them in his own thoughts. At lastHippocles rose from his seat.
"It is time to sleep," he said; "I will speak to my daughter to-morrow;you shall not want my good word, but I can do nothing more. You mustspeak to her yourself. That is, I think, what few fathers in Greecewould tell a suitor to do. But then Hermione is not as other maidens."
Callias passed a restless night, and was glad, to make his way into theopen air when the first streaks of dawn appeared on the Euboean hills,which were in full view from the house. He shrank from meeting Hermionetill he could meet her alone, and ask the momentous question which wasoccupying his whole mind. Partly to employ the time, partly to banishthought, if it might be done by severe bodily exercise, he started toclimb the height of Pentelicus, which rose on the southern side of theMarathonian plain. The excursion occupied him the whole morning. On hisway back he traversed the hills which skirted the western side of theplain, and, following what was evidently a well-beaten track, came atlast in view of the mound under which reposed the Athenian dead who hadfallen in that great battle. His quick eye soon perceived a familiarfigure, conspicuous in its white garments among the monuments whichstood on the top of the mound. Hippocles had fulfilled his promise, andhad said all that he could to Hermione in favor of her suitor. He haddwelt upon his noble birth, the reputation as a soldier which he hadalready won, his culture and taste for philosophy, and his blamelesslife. "As for wealth," he ended by saying, "that is of little accountwhere my daughter is concerned. Yet a man should be independent of hiswife, and I may tell you as one who knows--and I have had charge of hisproperty for some years past--that Callias is one of the richest men inAthens. That will not weigh with you I know, but I would have you knowall the circumstances."
Hermione said nothing; she took her father's hand and kissed it. A teardropped on it as she raised it to her lips. As she turned away,Hippocles noticed that she was shaken by a sob.
An instinct in the girl's heart told her that it was on the mound thather lover would speak to her, and it was here that she wished to giveher answer to him. It was not the first time that she had visited it.Indeed there was not a woman, and not many men in Athens who knew somuch about its records.
On the top of this tumulus, which still rises thirty feet above thesurrounding plain, and which was then, it is probable, considerablyhigher, there stood in those days eleven stone columns inscribed withthe names of those who had fallen in the great battle. Each of the tenAthenian tribes had its own peculiar column, while the eleventhcommemorated the gallant men of Plataea, Plataea, which alone among thecities of Greece, had sent her sons on that day to stand shoulder toshoulder with the soldiers of Athens.
Hermione was apparently engrossed in the task of deciphering the names,now grown somewhat obliterated by time, which were engraved on one ofthe columns. So intent was she on this occupation that she did notnotice the young man's approach. Turning suddenly round, she faced him.At that moment, though she had expected him to come, his actual comingwas a surprise, and the hot blood crimsoned her face and neck.
"Hermione," he said, "I have spoken to your father, and he bids me speakto you. You can hardly have failed to read my heart, and if I have notspoken to you before, it has been because I have not presumed. You knowall that needs be known about me, and though I do not think myselfworthy of you, I need not be ashamed of my fathers or of myself."
The brilliant color had faded from the girl's cheek, her hand trembled,her bosom heaved. Twice she opened her lips; twice the voice seemed tofail her. At last she spoke.
"You speak of your fathers. You are, I think, of the tribe of Pandion?"
"I am," said Callias.
"And this is the column of their tribe, and this"--she pointed as shespoke--"the name of an ancestor of yours?"
"Yes," replied the young man, "this Hipponicus whose name you seeengraved here was my great grandfather."
"He had been Archon at Athens the year before the great battle. Yousee," she added with a faint smile, "I know something of your familyhistory."
"It was so."
"And his son, a Callias like yourself, was Archon general manytimes--held, in fact, every honor that Athens could bestow?"
"Yes, there was no more distinguished man in the city than he."
"And your father; he died, I think I have heard, in early manhood; buthe was already far advanced in the career of honor?"
"Doubtless had he lived he would not have been inferior in distinctionto my grandfather."
"And you have started well in the same course? I need not ask you that.We all know it better, perhaps, than you know it yourself, and we areproud of it. My dear brother," the girl's voice which hitherto had beenclear and even commanding in its tones, faltered at the mention of thedead, "my dear brother used to say that there was nothing that you mightnot hope for, nothing to which you might not rise."
"You speak too well of me; but I hope that I am not altogether unworthyof my ancestors."
The girl paused for a while. She seemed unable to utter what she hadnext to say. The flush mounted again to her cheek, and she stood silentand with downcast eyes.
Meanwhile the young man stood in utter perplexity. He had heard nothingfrom the girl's lips but what might have made any man proud to hear. Sheknew, as she had said, the history of his race, and she believed him tobe not unworthy of it. Yet this was not the way in which he had hoped tohear her speak. He was conscious that there was something behind thatdid not promise well for his hopes.
At last she went on. Her voice was low but distinct, her eyes were stillbent on the ground.
"And what your fathers have been in Athens, what you hope to beyourself, you would have your son to be after you?"
"Surely," he answered without thinking of what he was admitting.
"Could it be so if I--" she altered the phrase--"if a woman not ofAthenian blood were his mother?"
He was struck dumb. So this was the end she had before her when sheenumerated the honors and distinctions of his race.
"Mind," she said, "I do not say that my race is unworthy of yours. I amnot ashamed of my ancestors. They were chiefs; they were good men. I amproud to be their daughter. But here in Athens their goodness and theirnobility goes for nothing. I am Hermione, the daughter of Hippocles, theAlien. Marrying me you shut out, not perhaps yourself, but your childrenfrom the career which is their inheritance. I am too proud,"--and herethe girl dropped her voice to a whisper,--"and I love you too well forthat."
"What is my career to your love?" cried the young man passionately; "Iam ready to give up country and all for that."
"That," said Hermione, "is the only unworthy thing that I ever heard yousay. Your better thoughts will make you withdraw it. Athens has fallen;the gods know that it has wrung my heart to see it. But she needs allthe more such sons as you are. She has little now to offer. It is athankless office, perhaps, to command her fleets and armies. All themore honor to those who cling to her still and cherish her still. Youmust not leave her or betray her. I should think foul shame of myself ifI tempted you for a moment to waver in your loyalty to her. I may notlove you--that the gods have forbidden me--but you will let me be proudof you."
The young man turned away. The final word, he knew, had been spoken.This resolution was not to be shaken by indignant reproaches or bytender pleadings. All that remained was to forget, if that was possible.He would not see Hippocles or his daughter again till the wound of thisbitter disappointment had had time to heal. Returning to the house,which he found empty but for a single attendant, he snatched a hastymeal, and then set out to return over-land to Athens.
FOOTNOTES:
[57] The class name of the Athenian nobility.