Philothea Part 19

The affectionate peasant looked earnestly at Philothea, and wept as she placed it in his hand.

Making an effort to rise, he seemed surprised at his own weakness. They gently raised him, bolstered him with pillows, and told him he had long been ill.

"I have not known it," he replied. "It seems to me I have returned from a far country."

He touched the lyre, and easily recalled the tune which he said he had learned in the Land of Dreams. It was a wild, unearthly strain, with sounds of solemn gladness, that deeply affected Philothea's soul.

Pericles had not visited his son since his return to perfect consciousness. When he came, Paralus looked upon him with a smile of recognition, and said, "My father!"

Milza had been sent to call the heart-stricken parent, and prepare him for some favourable change; but when he heard those welcome words, he dropped suddenly upon his knees, buried his face in the drapery of the couch, and his whole frame shook with emotion.

The invalid continued: "They tell me I have been very ill, dear father; but it appears to me that I have only travelled. I have seen Anaxagoras often--Plato sometimes--and Philothea almost constantly; but I have never seen you, since I thought you were dying of the plague at Athens."

Pericles replied, "You have indeed been ill, my son. You are to me as the dead restored to life. But you must be quiet now, and seek repose."

For some time after the interview with his father, Paralus remained very wakeful. His eyes sparkled, and a feverish flush was on his cheek.

Philothea took her cithara, and played his favourite tunes. This seemed to tranquilize him; and as the music grew more slow and plaintive, he became drowsy, and at length sunk into a gentle slumber.

After more than two hours of deep repose, he was awakened by the merry shouts of little Zoila, who had run out to meet Plato, as he came from Olympia. Philothea feared, lest the shrill noise had given him pain; but he smiled; and said, "The voice of childhood is pleasant."

He expressed a wish to see his favourite philosopher; and their kindred souls held long and sweet communion together. When Plato retired from the couch, he said to Philothea, "I have learned more from this dear wanderer, than philosophers or poets have ever written. I am confirmed in my belief that no impelling truth is ever learned in this world; but that all is received directly from the Divine Ideal, flowing into the soul of man when his reason is obedient and still."

A basket of grapes, tastefully ornamented with flowers, was presented to the invalid; and in answer to his inquiries, he was informed that they were prepared by Eudora. He immediately desired that she might be called; and when she came, he received her with the most cordial affection. He alluded to past events with great clearness of memory, and asked his father several questions concerning the condition of Athens.

When Philothea arranged his pillows and bathed his head, he pressed her hand affectionately, and said, "It almost seems as if you were my wife."

Pericles, deeply affected, replied, "My dear son, she is your wife. She forgot all my pride, and consented to marry you, that she might become your nurse, when we all feared that you would be restored to us no more."

Paralus looked up with a bright expression of grat.i.tude, and said, "I thank you, father. This was very kind. Now you will be her father, when I am gone."

Perceiving that Pericles and Eudora wept, he added: "Do not mourn because I am soon to depart. Why would ye detain my soul in this world?

Its best pleasures are like the shallow gardens of Adonis, fresh and fair in the morning, and peris.h.i.+ng at noon."

He then repeated his last vision, and asked for the lyre, that they might hear the music he had learned from immortal voices.

There was melancholy beauty in the sight of one so pale and thin, touching the lyre with an inspired countenance, and thus revealing to mortal ears the melodies of Heaven.

One by one his friends withdrew; being tenderly solicitous that he should not become exhausted by interviews prolonged beyond his strength.

He was left alone with Philothea; and many precious words were spoken, that sunk deep into her heart, never to be forgotten.

But sleep departed from his eyes; and it soon became evident that the soul, in returning to its union with the body, brought with it a consciousness of corporeal suffering. This became more and more intense; and though he uttered no complaint, he said to those who asked him, that bodily pain seemed at times too powerful for endurance.

Pericles had for several days remained under the same roof, to watch the progress of recovery; but at midnight, he was called to witness convulsive struggles, that indicated approaching death.

During intervals of comparative ease, Paralus recognized his afflicted parent, and conjured him to think less of the fleeting honours of this world, which often eluded the grasp, and were always worthless in the possession.

He held Philothea's hand continually, and often spoke to her in words of consolation. Immediately after an acute spasm of pain had subsided, he asked to be turned upon his right side, that he might see her face more distinctly. As she leaned over him, he smiled faintly, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. He remained tranquil, with his eyes fixed upon hers; and a voice within impelled her to sing:

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!

Hail to the mystic two in one!

He looked upward with a radiant expression, and feebly pressed her hand.

Not long after, his eyelids closed, and sleep seemed to cover his features with her heavy veil.

Suddenly his countenance shone with a strange and impressive beauty. The soul had departed to return to earth no more.

In all his troubles, Pericles had never shed a tear; but now he rent the air with his groans, and sobbed, like a mother bereft of her child.

Philothea, though deeply bowed down in spirit, was more composed: for she heard angelic voices singing:

When sleep hath pa.s.sed, thy dreams remain-- What he hath brought, Death brings again.

Come hither, kindred spirits, come!

Hail to the mystic two in one!

CHAPTER XVI.

Thus a poor father, helpless and undone, Mourns o'er the ashes of an only son; Takes a sad pleasure the last bones to burn, And pour in tears, ere yet they close the urn.

HOMER

Of the immense concourse collected together at Olympia, each one pursued his pleasure, or his interest, in the way best suited to his taste.

Alcibiades was proud of giving a feast corresponding in magnificence to the chariots he had brought into the course. Crowds of parasites flattered him and the other victors, to receive invitations in return; while a generous few sympathized with the vanquished. Merchants were busy forming plans for profitable negociation, and statesmen were eagerly watching every symptom of jealousy between rival states and contending parties.

One, amid that ma.s.s of human hearts, felt so little interest in all the world could offer, that she seemed already removed beyond its influence.

Philothea had herself closed the eyes of her husband, and imprinted her last kiss upon his lips. Bathed in pure water, and perfumed with ointment, the lifeless form of Paralus lay wrapped in the robe he had been accustomed to wear. A wreath of parsley encircled his head, and flowers were strewn around him in profusion.

In one hand was placed an obolus, to pay the ferryman that rowed him across the river of death; and in the other, a cake made of honey and flour, to appease the triple-headed dog, which guarded the entrance to the world of souls.

The bereaved wife sat by his side, and occasionally renewed the garlands, with a quiet and serene expression, as if she still found happiness in being occupied for him who had given her his heart in the innocence and freshness of its childhood.

The food prepared by Milza's active kindness was scarcely tasted; except when she observed the tears of her faithful attendant, and sought to soothe her feelings with characterestic tenderness.

The event soon became universally known; for the hair of the deceased, consecrated to Persephone, and a vase of water at the threshold, proclaimed tidings of death within the dwelling.

Many of the a.s.sembled mult.i.tude chose to remain until the funeral solemnities were past; some from personal affection for Paralus, others from respect to the son of Pericles.

Plato sent two large vases, filled with wine and honey; Eudora provided ointments and perfumes; Alcibiades presented a white cloak, richly embroidered with silver; and the young men of Athens, present at the games, gave a silver urn, on which were sculptured weeping genii, with their torches turned downward.

Enveloped in his glittering mantle, and covered with flowers, the form of Paralus remained until the third day. The procession, which was to attend the body to the funeral pile, formed at morning twilight; for such was the custom with regard to those who died in their youth.

Philothea followed the bier, dressed in white, with a wreath of roses and myrtle around her head, and a garland about the waist. She chose this beautiful manner to express her joy that his pure spirit had pa.s.sed into Elysium.

At the door of the house, the nearest relatives addressed the inanimate form, so soon to be removed from the sight of mortals. In tones of anguish, almost amounting to despair, Pericles exclaimed: "Oh, my son!

my son! Why didst thou leave us? Why wast thou, so richly gifted of the G.o.ds, to be taken from us in thy youth? Oh, my son, why was I left to mourn for thee?"

Instead of the usual shrieks and lamentations of Grecian women, Philothea said, in sad, heart-moving accents: "Paralus, farewell!

Husband of my youth, beloved of my heart, farewell!"