knowest so well to awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt give her,
also, this letter, in which, after a hundred efforts, I have embodied
something of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent, every
modulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, if its music
should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some days since I
have been admitted to Ione; there is something mysterious in this
exclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; learn--for thou art
quick, and thy care for me will sharpen tenfold thy acuteness--learn the
cause of this unkindness; speak of me as often as thou canst; let my
name come ever to thy lips: insinuate how I love rather than proclaim
it; watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if she answer thee; or, if
she reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be my friend, plead for me:
and oh! how vastly wilt thou overpay the little I have done for thee!
Thou comprehendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child--have I said more than
thou canst understand?'
'No.'
'And thou wilt serve me?'
'Yes.'
'Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I will give thee
the vase I speak of; seek me in the chamber of Leda. Pretty one, thou
dost not grieve now?'
'Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with grief or joy?'
'Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; enjoy it as
thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy desire to serve me.'
'You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no freedom can give,
offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my saviour, my protector, forgive the
poor blind girl! She does not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can
contribute to thy happiness.'
'May the gods bless this grateful heart!' said Glaucus, greatly moved;
and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he repeatedly kissed her
forehead.
'Thou forgivest me,' said she, 'and thou wilt talk no more of freedom;
my happiness is to be thy slave: thou hast promised thou wilt not give
me to another...'
'I have promised.'
'And now, then, I will gather the flowers.'
Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly and jewelled
vase, in which the flowers vied with each other in hue and fragrance;
tearlessly she received his parting admonition. She paused for a moment
when his voice ceased--she did not trust herself to reply--she sought
his hand--she raised it to her lips, dropped her veil over her face, and
passed at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached the
threshold; she stretched her hands towards it, and murmured:
'Three happy days--days of unspeakable delight, have I known since I
passed thee--blessed threshold! may peace dwell ever with thee when I am
gone! And now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound it
utters bids me--die!'
Chapter VI
THE HAPPY BEAUTY AND THE BLIND SLAVE.
A SLAVE entered the chamber of Ione. A messenger from Glaucus desired
to be admitted.
Ione hesitated an instant.
'She is blind, that messenger,' said the slave; 'she will do her
commission to none but thee.'
Base is that heart which does not respect affliction! The moment she
heard the messenger was blind, Ione felt the impossibility of returning
a chilling reply. Glaucus had chosen a herald that was indeed sacred--a
herald that could not be denied.
'What can he want with me? what message can he send?' and the heart of
Ione beat quick. The curtain across the door was withdrawn; a soft and
echoless step fell upon the marble; and Nydia, led by one of the
attendants, entered with her precious gift.
She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound that might
direct her.
'Will the noble Ione,' said she, in a soft and low voice, 'deign to
speak, that I may know whither to steer these benighted steps, and that
I may lay my offerings at her feet?'
'Fair child,' said Ione, touched and soothingly, 'give not thyself the
pain to cross these slippery floors, my attendant will bring to me what
thou hast to present'; and she motioned to the handmaid to take the
vase.
'I may give these flowers to none but thee,' answered Nydia; and, guided
by her ear, she walked slowly to the place where Ione sat, and kneeling
when she came before her, proffered the vase.
Ione took it from her hand, and placed it on the table at her side. She
then raised her gently, and would have seated her on the couch, but the
girl modestly resisted.
'I have not yet discharged my office,' said she; and she drew the letter
of Glaucus from her vest. 'This will, perhaps, explain why he who sent
me chose so unworthy a messenger to Ione.'
The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand, the trembling of which Nydia
at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded arms, and downcast looks,
she stood before the proud and stately form of Ione--no less proud,
perhaps, in her attitude of submission. Ione waved her hand, and the
attendants withdrew; she gazed again upon the form of the young slave in
surprise and beautiful compassion; then, retiring a little from her, she
opened and read the following letter:
'Glaucus to Ione sends more than he dares to utter. Is Ione ill? thy
slaves tell me "No", and that assurance comforts me. Has Glaucus
offended Ione?--ah! that question I may not ask from them. For five
days I have been banished from thy presence. Has the sun shone?--I know
it not. Has the sky smiled?--it has had no smile for me. My sun and my
sky are Ione. Do I offend thee? Am I too bold? Do I say that on the
tablet which my tongue has hesitated to breathe? Alas! it is in thine
absence that I feel most the spells by which thou hast subdued me. And
absence, that deprives me of joy, brings me courage. Thou wilt not see
me; thou hast banished also the common flatterers that flock around
thee. Canst thou confound me with them? It is not possible! Thou
knowest too well that I am not of them--that their clay is not mine. For
even were I of the humblest mould, the fragrance of the rose has
penetrated me, and the spirit of thy nature hath passed within me, to
embalm, to sanctify, to inspire. Have they slandered me to thee, Ione?
Thou wilt not believe them. Did the Delphic oracle itself tell me thou
wert unworthy, I would not believe it; and am I less incredulous than
thou I think of the last time we met--of the song which I sang to
thee--of the look that thou gavest me in return. Disguise it as thou wilt,
Ione, there is something kindred between us, and our eyes acknowledged
it, though our lips were silent. Deign to see me, to listen to me, and
after that exclude me if thou wilt. I meant not so soon to say I loved.
But those words rush to my heart--they will have way. Accept, then, my
homage and my vows. We met first at the shrine of Pallas; shall we not
meet before a softer and a more ancient altar?
'Beautiful! adored Ione! If my hot youth and my Athenian blood have
misguided and allured me, they have but taught my wanderings to
appreciate the rest--the haven they have attained. I hang up my
dripping robes on the Sea-god's shrine. I have escaped shipwreck. I
have found THEE. Ione, deign to see me; thou art gentle to strangers,
wilt thou be less merciful to those of thine own land? I await thy
reply. Accept the flowers which I send--their sweet breath has a
language more eloquent than words. They take from the sun the odorous
they return--they are the emblem of the love that receives and repays
tenfold--the emblem of the heart that drunk thy rays, and owes to thee
the germ of the treasures that it proffers to thy smile. I send these
by one whom thou wilt receive for her own sake, if not for mine. She,
like us, is a stranger; her fathers' ashes lie under brighter skies:
but, less happy than we, she is blind and a slave. Poor Nydia! I seek
as much as possible to repair to her the cruelties of Nature and of
Fate, in asking permission to place her with thee. She is gentle,
quick, and docile. She is skilled in music and the song; and she is a
very Chloris to the flowers. She thinks, Ione, that thou wilt love her:
if thou dost not, send her back to me.
'One word more--let me be bold, Ione. Why thinkest thou so highly of
yon dark Egyptian? he hath not about him the air of honest men. We
Greeks learn mankind from our cradle; we are not the less profound, in
that we affect no sombre mien; our lips smile, but our eyes are
grave--they observe--they note--they study. Arbaces is not one to be
credulously trusted: can it be that he hath wronged me to thee? I think
it, for I left him with thee; thou sawest how my presence stung him;
since then thou hast not admitted me. Believe nothing that he can say to
my disfavor; if thou dost, tell me so at once; for this Ione owes to
Glaucus. Farewell! this letter touches thy hand; these characters meet
thine eyes--shall they be more blessed than he who is their author. Once
more, farewell!'
It seemed to Ione, as she read this letter, as if a mist had fallen from
her eyes. What had been the supposed offence of Glaucus?--that he had
not really loved! And now, plainly, and in no dubious terms, he
confessed that love. From that moment his power was fully restored. At
every tender word in that letter, so full of romantic and trustful
passion, her heart smote her. And had she doubted his faith, and had
she believed another? and had she not, at least, allowed to him the
culprit's right to know his crime, to plead in his defence?--the tears
rolled down her cheeks--she kissed the letter--she placed it in her
bosom: and, turning to Nydia, who stood in the same place and in the
same posture:
'Wilt thou sit, my child,' said she, 'while I write an answer to this
letter?'
'You will answer it, then!' said Nydia, coldly. 'Well, the slave that
accompanied me will take back your answer.'
'For you,' said Ione, 'stay with me--trust me, your service shall be
light.'
Nydia bowed her head.
'What is your name, fair girl?'
'They call me Nydia.'
'Your country?'
'The land of Olympus--Thessaly.'
'Thou shalt be to me a friend,' said Ione, caressingly, 'as thou art
already half a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I beseech thee, stand not on
these cold and glassy marbles. There! now that thou art seated, I can
leave thee for an instant.'
'Ione to Glaucus greeting. Come to me, Glaucus,' wrote Ione, 'come to
me to-morrow. I may have been unjust to thee; but I will tell thee, at
least, the fault that has been imputed to thy charge. Fear not,
henceforth, the Egyptian--fear none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed
too much--alas! in these hasty words I have already done so. Farewell.'
As Ione reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare to read after
she had written (Ah! common rashness, common timidity of love!)--Nydia
started from her seat.
'You have written to Glaucus?'
'I have.'
'And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy letter?'
Ione forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed from the brow to
the neck, and remained silent.
'I mean this,' added Nydia, in a calmer tone; 'the lightest word of
coldness from thee will sadden him--the lightest kindness will rejoice.
If it be the first, let the slave take back thine answer; if it be the
last, let me--I will return this evening.'
'And why, Nydia,' asked Ione, evasively, 'Wouldst thou be the bearer of
my letter?'
'It is so, then!' said Nydia. 'Ah! how could it be otherwise; who could
be unkind to Glaucus?'
'My child,' said Ione, a little more reservedly than before, 'thou
speakest warmly--Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes?'
'Noble Ione! Glaucus has been that to me which neither fortune nor the
gods have been--a friend!'
The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered these simple
words, affected the beautiful Ione: she bent down and kissed her. 'Thou
art grateful, and deservedly so; why should I blush to say that Glaucus
is worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia--take to him thyself this
letter--but return again. If I am from home when thou returnest--as
this evening, perhaps, I shall be--thy chamber shall be prepared next my
own. Nydia, I have no sister--wilt thou be one to me?' The Thessalian
kissed the hand of Ione, and then said, with some embarrassment:
'One favor, fair Ione--may I dare to ask it?'
'Thou canst not ask what I will not grant,' replied the Neapolitan.
'They tell me,' said Nydia, 'that thou art beautiful beyond the
loveliness of earth. Alas! I cannot see that which gladdens the world!
Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand over thy face?--that is my
sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright.'
She did not wait for the answer of Ione, but, as she spoke, gently and
slowly passed her hand over the bending and half-averted features of the
Greek--features which but one image in the world can yet depicture and
recall--that image is the mutilated, but all-wondrous, statue in her
native city--her own Neapolis--that Parian face, before which all the
beauty of the Florentine Venus is poor and earthly--that aspect so full
of harmony--of youth--of genius--of the soul--which modern critics have
supposed the representation of Psyche.
Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished brow--over the
downy and damask cheek--over the dimpled lip--the swan-like and whitish
neck. 'I know now, that thou art beautiful,' she said: 'and I can
picture thee to my darkness henceforth, and for ever!'
When Nydia left her, Ione sank into a deep but delicious reverie.
Glaucus then loved her; he owned it--yes, he loved her. She drew forth
again that dear confession; she paused over every word, she kissed every
