Part 13

Verily, no Phidias, or Praxiteles, among the ancients, could have worshiped by means of the sacred art of their day, and found a better subject to crystallize in form for the good of future generations, than this, an Olympian Madonna, a son at his mother’s knee. Maternal love and the responsive trust and veneration of Youth.

The nearer approach of Eros naturally brought his torch in closer proximity. Its brilliancy became dazzling, in fact blinding to eyes long since unused to its power.

Aphrodite, conscious only of the physical inconvenience, placed her hand before her face as if to shade the eyes. This was enough for Eros, he placed his torch upon a tripod at greater distance, where it remained, so near and yet so far; so subtle are the adverse influences when the physical becomes dominant over the spiritual.

And instantly the natural consequence:

Eros separated from his torch was no longer the same. He had entered the shadows; his aspect at once changed. His form, still exquisite to behold, was like sculptured marble, faultless in outline, yet without the flesh tint, the warmth of color; complete except the illuminating flame which Zeus had given him.

Aphrodite still gazed with admiration, but, alas! strange to say, his aspect having become more familiar to present conditions and himself speechless, she also said nothing; and Eros continued to manifest the beauty of form alone.

And again the natural consequence:

Aphrodite had called him for a purpose, and must talk with him; must cause the exquisite form to manifest life, the statue must respond. And she called him anew:

“Eros! Oh, Eros! why not speak? Come to me from amid those shadows! Eros! answer!”

Alas, no response.

And again she called him.

He was but a stone.

And again, for the third time.

No response possible.

* * * * *

Yet while she waited, a profound and thrilling change did take place, both in form and expression. Not that Eros spake, but his form manifested a movement or evolution towards another phase of his nature. So impressive had he been as a statue of divine suggestion, that many a Greek would have placed him within the precincts of a sacred temple as most appropriate locality for his abode. Once there, his heavenly youth would serve to uplift the hearts of all who beheld him. Once so conceived, any religion might have felt enriched from an artistic point of view, to possess him among the treasures of the sacred enclosure, as a symbol of the countless babes within the heavenly realm; for “of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

And so Eros now appeared, as a mediæval cherub, a concomitant to a sacred picture. His religious aspect still apparent, but now as accessory; and often represented only as “head and wings,” gazing upwards.

And still he was silent; significant, but silent.

To Aphrodite he seemed as one fading away from her forever, to be lost amid enveloping clouds; possibly to be appropriated by other worshipers than those who frequented Olympus. And such would have been the case if the torch of Zeus, ever radiant, so near and yet so far, had not still cast some light upon the scene. To Aphrodite, Eros was still hers, of her, and from her, by whatever name he might be addressed; and who more potent than she to call him by any name she chose, any endearing term that sprang from her heart?

“Eros, my own! Eros, my darling! My cherub! surely you wish not to offend me, and rest gazing at others. Cupid! speak!”

She had called him by his later and modern name; and again the natural consequence, the final change. Of course he spoke. Being what he was as Cupid in modern conception, he could not do otherwise, he could not avoid conversation. Also, his youthful wings commenced to flutter; and his beauty, never lost since the beginning, made him, from the worldly point of view, adorable.

But, alas! not as Eros, simply the modern fascinating Cupid. Sad, also! no longer the Aphrodite of early times, but the Roman Venus still in vogue; Venus who at once asserted herself by giving orders to her attendant Cherub. The Cherub carried his bow and arrows, and the torch of Zeus grew very dim as Venus spake:

“Cupid! you certainly are clever! but you gave me such a shock! I thought you never would wake up, or speak to me again!”

The Cherub fluttered about her person not unlike a butterfly to fascinate by graceful movement; the poetry of motion, an admirable motif for decoration; activity, new sensations; no more, no less.

“Cupid! if ever that occurs again, you will be caught and imprisoned, imprisoned within a picture gallery, and there you will remain. Zeus help you! Naughty boy!”

The beautiful winged youth, the spritely Cupid, at once answered:

“I’ll girdle the earth in forty minutes. Catch me, who catch can.”

Venus smiled. Some would have thought this smile “bewitching,” others could have called her expression “a cynical smile.” But it soon faded away, and in no degree prevented her proceeding at once to the object of their interview.

“Cupid! there is going to be an engagement.”

“Ah! then the fight comes later on,” remarked the precocious Sprite.

“Are you ready?”

“Always ready,” and as if to suit the action to the word, he fluttered in graceful curves, and finally, _en passant_, kissed her upon the cheek.

“Good. I see you are! You may amuse yourself with bow and arrows when the time comes.”

“May I respectfully inquire when this momentous engagement is to transpire?”

“When you see me----”

“Do what, my Lady Venus?”

“Rise from the sea, and give the usual signal.”

The confab ended for the present. Lady Venus and Cupid understood each other perfectly.

* * * * *

A moonlit night and zephyrs wafted in; an easy chair, and no one looking on. Two in shadow, gazing upon legendary Greece; talking mythology such as they alone could understand; feeling fluctuations of quite another kind.

A convalescent lassie, and a sympathizing lad, old friends for at least a year, it seemed as if from childhood. A timely aid, and a grateful maid; compliments in words, and nature’s complementary. A man’s stout heart, and a woman’s tender sympathy, sincerity and truth.

The conditions were favorable.

What else?

A secret, a secret to all but Cupid who stood behind a celestial-rose bush on the heights nearby, his bow and arrows ready. An event not to be seen by the binoculars of newsy gossips, nor even perceived by the mental eyes of inquisitives. All is left to the spiritual discernment of those who have loved.

What actually occurred during that heavenly evening when they drifted upon the bosom of the Adriatic, when the stars shone brightly or when cloud-draperies hid some endearing charm, can only fully be known to two (and the divinities), these two nature’s lovely, lovable and loved. But sure it is, before the evening closed, Aphrodite again arose from the sea, a Vision of Loveliness. Gliding by in her graceful shell, floating amid foam on the crest of a wave, illumined by a divine radiance, she threw a kiss of affection, the signal. And from behind the celestial-rose bush sped Love’s Arrow, borne upon the wings of the unseen. As this sweet messenger enters the hearts of those ready to respond, so it was welcomed by Adele and Paul, reclining beneath the brow of Olympus.

XXVI

INTERMEZZO--ALLEGRO

Oh, that voyage! From the brow of Olympus, across the Mediterranean, down the Roseate Sea, the two lovers journeyed. As they skirted the shore, never did delicate tints upon a sapphire surface give back more heavenly reflections! Those sunny days, under double awnings, when none dared look at a thermometer lest he himself should melt away. Those first-magnitude starlit nights when sleeping on deck, with glimpses of others passing like spooks in the dark; and in the distance, on “P. and O.” boats, the invisible friends known to be there.

The last glimpse of Boreas was in a storm brewing off in the direction of the Ægean Sea. Some thought they saw him in propria-persona, gesticulating upon the high cliffs of Candia as the vessel sailed by in the teeth of the wind, but this individual proved to be merely a Turkish brigand, one of the gang which infested that region.

But are not all such minor incidents already recorded in the chronicles of the Cultus family for publication in future genealogical records? How at Alexandria the Doctor took little interest in the modern city upon the island of Pharos, but much interest in the Ancient Library with no books left! How, since said Library was destroyed some time ago, Paul and Adele managed to reconstruct a brand new temple with lamps, incense, and priests--all complete, to say nothing of singing birds, and vestal virgins each carrying a sieve instead of a lamp! How Miss Winchester met the Four Hundred élite of Alexandria at the base of Pompey’s Pillar, and was kodaked by Paul with the four hundred gamins at her feet, asking for backsheesh; this historic picture labeled, “Hypatia Addressing the Multitude. A. D. MDCCCLXXXXIX.” How Mrs. Cultus took in the situation from a barouche, positively refusing to set foot on the sward of a country famous for asps and beetles; and also how Mrs. Cultus announced that Cleopatra’s relish for pearls was in good taste, only it carried her too far. How the unfortunate noseless Sphynx turned up her nose, as usual, at all innocents abroad; and how Mrs. Cultus, when entering the memorial bridal chamber of Cheops, slipped upon the inclined staircase which leads thereto, and fell into the arms of a modern bridegroom--a young sheik. How the Professor stood upon the apex of Cheops and took notes, alternate notes upon lichens which grew there, and upon Memphis where it once was. Is it not also recorded among the archives of modern Egypt how, during the period of occupation of Shepherd’s, cards were left in due form upon Pharaoh’s mummy in the Boulak Museum; and how Mrs. Cultus received in turn a scarab, and some little scarabei, of Manchester manufacture, taken from the left pocket of Pharaoh’s forty-second cousin, after reposing there since A. D. 1492 (some said from 4000 B. C.)--a slight token of regard from the Pharonic dynasty to the latest Republic on earth? Was it not recorded also at the time, in the society column of the “Pyramid Times,” that “Miss Pearline Cultus and Mr. Adolph Warder were last seen behind an umbrella on the top of the Pyramid with their feet hanging over the top step?” probably the most conspicuous perch on the globe for two lovers.

And above all, was it not also jotted down in the private memoranda of both Paul and Adele, when passing Mocha and Perim and Aden, in and out of the gloaming, that the voyage was perfect bliss, the coffee--nectar fit for the gods, and the coals of Perim--black diamonds? As to Aden, the much-abused Aden, said to be separated only by a thin sheet of Manila paper from the infernal-region-frying-pan--such assertions proved absolutely false. Aden was a Paradise of fruit and flowers, its reservoir like Lake Tahoe, and its inhabitants--white-robed angels with Chinese features, flying hither and thither in phantom jinrikishas. Was it not here at Aden that Paul had the innocent audacity to open that delicious but appalling fruit, the dorian, chopping it with a hatchet under their very noses, only to hurl both dorian and hatchet into the sea for the delectation of fishes whose noses were equal to the occasion? And finally, did not the whole party, except Mrs. Cultus, visit Mother Eve at Djeddah, and find her the most attenuated specimen of humanity, both physically and historically, that anyone could imagine, at least forty feet long, aged six millenniums (some say eight or nine; possibly seven times seven, or thereabouts), with her toes turned up about two feet? And did they not make the astonishing discovery which Mrs. Cultus at once reported to the Politely Civil Archæological Society, that our own Mother Eve was really very dark in complexion; in fact, quite a fast black (since local tradition said so, and tradition was invariably exact, if not too exact)?--a case of proving too much; which wonderful discovery made them all wonder and debate if they themselves, being white at present, might not possibly be changed backwards, and revert to original color and type before entering Mahomet’s Paradise.

* * * * *

Youth! Oh, Youth! how many are thy pleasures and privileges, and thou dost not realize it. Thine the period when all things are interesting, new sensations at every turn, and little responsibility to interfere with whims. Go to the circus, go globe-trotting in an automobile, and take part in the show. Oh, Youth! thine is the blessed time of freedom, although thou mayst not think so. Thou wilt, no doubt, hear much good advice, but follow thine own inclinations, and enjoy the happy privilege of changing thy mind on short notice. Mrs. Cultus was no longer youthful, but she held on to the privileges just the same.

“I always change my mind, Frank, when it suits me. I fully intended to call upon Eva at Djeddah, certainly the first lady in the land, even if she were only Mahomet’s wife, and not our mutual ancestress; but, Frank, when it turned out so midsummer hot, with such a brazen sky, I gave it up. Why, Frank Winchester, I wouldn’t appear in the condition you were, in that bedraggled gown and hat and felt slippers--no! not if I really wished to call. That’s wisdom, my dear; take an elder’s advice. Never hesitate to change your mind, especially when it suits you.”

XXVII

INTERMEZZO--ANDANTE

_The Royal Route._

_O Science!_ How true thou art! How true thou strivest to be! Yet, what is not claimed in thy name, when few are the golden gems picked up upon the limited shore of this single world! We learn of thee, O Science! through thee! by thee! but ever when we ask of thee the Bread of Life, thou givest us a stone; and when we ask for a fish, thou givest us a serpent. From the beginning it has been so. Know thyself, O Science! thy finite place. Learn even as a little child sitting at the feet of Infinite Knowledge.

_O Philosophy!_ How noble thou art, to seek the truth in all things as they are; ignoring nothing in nature, in any province of thought, word or deed--in Science or Religion. But thou revealest nothing. Thy intellect is finite--not infinite; thy standpoint mortal--not immortal. Thou art god-like--but not God.

_O Religion!_ Thou Voice of the Mind of Nature! of Our Almighty-Father, Creator; accepting all of Truth in Science and Philosophy; yet, ever speaking of a higher and better life, here and hereafter. How many untruths have been spoken in Thy name, even spoken as _ex cathedra_, taking Thy name in vain; yet, verily none can escape Thee, Thyself, O Thou Holy Spirit of Truth in Love, in the heart of Humanity--Immanuel, God with us!

XXVIII

THE AFTERGLOW

Again the shores had vanished, this time Europe left behind, and the Orient lifting before them. It was after the sun had plunged beneath the waves, and the distance was illumined with the afterglow; when the Parsee matrons had retired to rest, publicly, upon the saloon floors, and some mysterious figures re-entered to recline on deck in awkward pose, with crooked necks against chairs and skylights, that Paul and Adele also glided forward, past captain and capstan, to their favorite spot. Only the prow of the vessel when it mounted the billows, and a spooky lanthorn aloft, hung in space between them and the constellations. Together they gazed forwards and upwards, listening to the thoughts of the stilly night.

“Fond memories for other days,” remarked Adele.

Paul looked round to discover the object supposed to suggest memories, and then concluded his chair was not quite close enough to hers.

“There it is,” said she, looking toward the constellation of the Southern Cross, resplendent in the heavens. “I never shall forget it.”

“Beautiful, each star a gem, all gems; but----”

“I cannot conceive anything more suggestive or more appropriate in the heavens than that cross,” said Adele.

“I am yet inclined to think that perhaps Orion is still more magnificent.”

“Don’t let’s make comparisons, Paul. I don’t feel in the mood just now; that only spoils our present enjoyment.”

“All right; take things as they are,” and Paul looked again at the constellation.

“See those four stars, Adele; they would make an exquisite pin. Would you like one in that form?”

“Pin! Please don’t think I care only for trinkets, and at such a time as this! Please don’t, it only belittles everything;” her voice betraying a slight trace of emotion.

Paul vowed inwardly that he would acquiesce in everything she said, so in duty bound endeavored to be philosophic himself.

“There’s nothing like being natural, even when it feels unnatural.”

Adele laughed outright.

“My dear Paul, philosophy never did sit well on you; please don’t.” Paul felt somewhat subdued, and immediately changed the subject.

“What was it you said you wished to ask me?”

“Oh, yes, about being inquisitive. We’re all getting so horribly inquisitive that I’ve had a curious experience. I really don’t know what I think.”

It was Paul’s turn to laugh. “Oh, that comes from thinking too much. Give it up; we’ve got something else on hand just now; don’t let’s think.”

This idea seemed to impress Adele rather favorably in her present mood, but she could not resist the temptation to continue.

“Paul, I really feel that I must exert my will--yes, I must will that I won’t--no! I mustn’t won’t anything, that is not what I mean. I can’t untangle my thoughts while talking. Paul, try to help me; you do the talking.”

“I know exactly what’s the matter with you, Adele; what Frank Winchester would call your ‘thinking apparatus’ is a little weary, and I have a sure cure--put it here;” his shoulder being very convenient. “Now we can talk without thinking or think without talking; just as you please.”

Adele felt safer, and her mind much less disturbed.

“I’m so very inquisitive,” said she.

“That’s perfectly natural,” acquiesced Paul, who was himself feeling quite comfortable; “most women, I mean most people, are.”

“Doctor Wise is,” said Adele. “I like to hear him talk.”

“Oh, that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” exclaimed Paul. “I knew you would tell me sooner or later. I know the Doctor like a book. He’s the best friend I have in the world; but I’ll tell you something about him.”

“I don’t wish to know unless it’s good,” said Adele, then paused an instant; “but I think he can trust both of us.”

“Oh, yes, but the Doctor’s this way; now I tell you this in confidence. He often forgets how old he is, and thinks we are about the same age.”

“I don’t see anything very confidential in that; besides, I rather like these middle-aged old fellows who must wear glasses and won’t wear ‘specs;’ they keep their youth.”

“You surely don’t like frisky old boys?” laughed Paul.

“Nonsense! People may live many years and yet not be aged. The Doctor’s not frisky.”

“Nor very slow, either,” laughed Paul. “Only he will persist in looking backward, and above one’s head, and sometimes inside of one, while you and I always look forward; don’t we, Adele?”

“Why, of course.”

“Well, then, when we reach his age, we may find some satisfaction in the other thing, but just at present I don’t feel like it. The Doctor mixes me up, too, sometimes; even when I understand his words perfectly. It’s the after-effects.”

“‘After-effects’ is good,” said Adele. “I’ve felt ’em myself, lately--in my state-room; but even before that, when they talked in the Sunday-school about Jebusites and Perizites, the most mixed-up crowd I ever met; almost as bad as those so-called scientists we met on the Atlantic. Now, I really care more about Porto Rico and the Philippine Islanders than any of those ancient or modern mixtures; and to return to what I started with, don’t you think the Doctor attempts to explain too much?”

“Well, yes--and no. Of course there are some things no fellow can find out, but the Doctor is not really trying to discover; he merely tries to arrange after his own fashion what he already has read and experienced. He really sees much more than most of us, and he told me he had discovered that fact written in the palm of his own hand.”

“I see he has you well in hand,” said Adele, thoughtlessly.

Paul winced.

Adele felt a slight shiver, and was sorry she had so spoken.

“He has helped me greatly,” said Paul, reminiscent of the Doctor’s friendship. “I never met a man who tried more to give his friends something worth thinking and talking about instead of twaddle and bosh.”

“And that’s just where my trouble comes in,” said Adele. “I don’t care for twaddle and bosh, but isn’t there such a thing as too much thinking; I mean too much thinking about too many things? I’ve a great notion to do something radical.”

“Gracious! You a Radical? What do you propose to do?”

“Change my mind.”

“Don’t do that; it’s too radical! Change your method, or your climate; but for heaven’s sake leave your mind alone.” And Paul’s sudden outburst of laughter attracted attention from the night watchman, who came forward to see if anything was wanted.

“Nothing. Thanks!” answered Paul.

“Oh, yes, there is,” continued Adele; “something must be done. I cannot undertake to keep up with all that’s going on above, below, outside, inside and underneath. I used to think so at college, but now it’s fatiguing. It’s not safe to live with all creation coming down on you at every turn.”

“I never thought Atlas a happy man,” interjected Paul.

“He gives me the backache to look at him,” said Adele; “and I’ve a notion not even to listen to philosophers or, in fact, any talk that involves so many ifs and buts in one’s own mind. Others may enjoy that game; I don’t. I told Father I detested ‘exceptions’ to rules when at school, and now it’s worse. I’m getting to think that most people had best leave such things alone in real life. What do you think about it?”

Paul felt a thrill of satisfaction run through him as Adele allowed herself to run on, giving vent to her feelings; and she also felt a pressure of endearment which thrilled also.

“My dearest,” said he, “that’s the wisest thing you ever thought out in your life. You’re the most level-headed girl I ever met in all my days.” He spoke as if both he and she were quite as old as the Doctor. Then, wishing to be very profound, Paul tried to be eloquent.

“Adele! do you know what you have done?--the most--h’m!--the most satisfactory thing I could have wished for in life.”

“Nothing radical, I trust, or I probably shall regret it;” her voice fading away towards the last in secret amusement.

“God knows! The Lord only knows how much trouble it will save us--after we’re settled.”

“Don’t swear, my dear, don’t swear! I’ve been thinking about it for some time. It’s the kind of philosophy I really believe in.”

“So do I,” said Paul, his voice betraying strong feeling.

“Not to bother with ’osophies or sophistries, anthropologies or any other apologies,” said Adele. “I want to live a free, open life--a life in the open.”

“Take things as they are.”

“Yes, and people as we find them--try to do them good.”

A pause followed.

Paul was striving to grasp within his own consciousness what an admirable girl Adele was, and how happy he ought to be with such a true woman for his wife; but such thoughts only confused him. All he could do was to whisper, more to himself than to her, the old, old words, “How I do love you, love you with all my heart!”

She heard him, and her heart responded.

“Do you know what _you_ have done?” asked Adele softly, intertwining her fingers in his. The sympathetic touch, the currents of emotion, vitality and supreme strength entered his very soul.

“Given me,” said she, “for my very own that which I most crave.”

He bowed his head in reverence, and could not lift so much as his eyes towards heaven.