Ione, with a small party of chosen friends, were returning from an
excursion round the bay; their vessel skimmed lightly over the twilight
waters, whose lucid mirror was only broken by the dripping oars. As the
rest of the party conversed gaily with each other, Glaucus lay at the
feet of Ione, and he would have looked up in her face, but he did not
dare. Ione broke the pause between them.
'My poor brother,' said she, sighing, 'how once he would have enjoyed
this hour!'
'Your brother!' said Glaucus; 'I have not seen him. Occupied with you,
I have thought of nothing else, or I should have asked if that was not
your brother for whose companionship you left me at the Temple of
Minerva, in Neapolis?'
'It was.'
'And is he here?'
'He is.
'At Pompeii! and not constantly with you? Impossible!'
'He has other duties,' answered Ione, sadly; 'he is a priest of Isis.'
'So young, too; and that priesthood, in its laws at least, so severe!'
said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in surprise and pity. 'What
could have been his inducement?'
'He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious devotion: and the
eloquence of an Egyptian--our friend and guardian--kindled in him the
pious desire to consecrate his life to the most mystic of our deities.
Perhaps in the intenseness of his zeal, he found in the severity of that
peculiar priesthood its peculiar attraction.'
'And he does not repent his choice?--I trust he is happy.'
Ione sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes.
'I wish,' said she, after a pause, 'that he had not been so hasty.
Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is revolted too easily!'
'Then he is not happy in his new condition. And this Egyptian, was he a
priest himself? was he interested in recruits to the sacred band?
'No. His main interest was in our happiness. He thought he promoted
that of my brother. We were left orphans.'
'Like myself,' said Glaucus, with a deep meaning in his voice.
Ione cast down her eyes as she resumed:
'And Arbaces sought to supply the place of our parent. You must know
him. He loves genius.'
'Arbaces! I know him already; at least, we speak when we meet. But for
your praise I would not seek to know more of him. My heart inclines
readily to most of my kind. But that dark Egyptian, with his gloomy
brow and icy smiles, seems to me to sadden the very sun. One would think
that, like Epimenides, the Cretan, he had spent forty years in a cave,
and had found something unnatural in the daylight ever afterwards.'
'Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and wise, and gentle,' answered Ione.
'Oh, happy that he has thy praise! He needs no other virtues to make
him dear to me.'
'His calm, his coldness,' said Ione, evasively pursuing the subject,
'are perhaps but the exhaustion of past sufferings; as yonder mountain
(and she pointed to Vesuvius), which we see dark and tranquil in the
distance, once nursed the fires for ever quenched.'
They both gazed on the mountain as Ione said these words; the rest of
the sky was bathed in rosy and tender hues, but over that grey summit,
rising amidst the woods and vineyards that then clomb half-way up the
ascent, there hung a black and ominous cloud, the single frown of the
landscape. A sudden and unaccountable gloom came over each as they thus
gazed; and in that sympathy which love had already taught them, and
which bade them, in the slightest shadows of emotion, the faintest
presentiment of evil, turn for refuge to each other, their gaze at the
same moment left the mountain, and full of unimaginable tenderness, met.
What need had they of words to say they loved?
Chapter VI
THE FOWLER SNARES AGAIN THE BIRD THAT HAD JUST ESCAPED, AND SETS HIS
NETS FOR A NEW VICTIM.
IN the history I relate, the events are crowded and rapid as those of
the drama. I write of an epoch in which days sufficed to ripen the
ordinary fruits of years.
Meanwhile, Arbaces had not of late much frequented the house of Ione;
and when he had visited her he had not encountered Glaucus, nor knew he,
as yet, of that love which had so suddenly sprung up between himself and
his designs. In his interest for the brother of Ione, he had been
forced, too, a little while, to suspend his interest in Ione herself.
His pride and his selfishness were aroused and alarmed at the sudden
change which had come over the spirit of the youth. He trembled lest he
himself should lose a docile pupil, and Isis an enthusiastic servant.
Apaecides had ceased to seek or to consult him. He was rarely to be
found; he turned sullenly from the Egyptian--nay, he fled when he
perceived him in the distance. Arbaces was one of those haughty and
powerful spirits accustomed to master others; he chafed at the notion
that one once his own should ever elude his grasp. He swore inly that
Apaecides should not escape him.
It was with this resolution that he passed through a thick grove in the
city, which lay between his house and that of Ione, in his way to the
latter; and there, leaning against a tree, and gazing on the ground, he
came unawares on the young priest of Isis.
'Apaecides!' said he--and he laid his hand affectionately on the young
man's shoulder.
The priest started; and his first instinct seemed to be that of flight.
'My son,' said the Egyptian, 'what has chanced that you desire to shun
me?'
Apaecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on the earth, as his
lips quivered, and his breast heaved with emotion.
'Speak to me, my friend,' continued the Egyptian. 'Speak. Something
burdens thy spirit. What hast thou to reveal?'
'To thee--nothing.'
'And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential?'
'Because thou hast been my enemy.'
'Let us confer,' said Arbaces, in a low voice; and drawing the reluctant
arm of the priest in his own, he led him to one of the seats which were
scattered within the grove. They sat down--and in those gloomy forms
there was something congenial to the shade and solitude of the place.
Apaecides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed to have
exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian; his delicate and regular
features were worn and colorless; his eyes were hollow, and shone with a
brilliant and feverish glare: his frame bowed prematurely, and in his
hands, which were small to effeminacy, the blue and swollen veins
indicated the lassitude and weakness of the relaxed fibres. You saw in
his face a strong resemblance to Ione, but the expression was altogether
different from that majestic and spiritual calm which breathed so divine
and classical a repose over his sister's beauty. In her, enthusiasm was
visible, but it seemed always suppressed and restrained; this made the
charm and sentiment of her countenance; you longed to awaken a spirit
which reposed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apaecides the whole
aspect betokened the fervor and passion of his temperament, and the
intellectual portion of his nature seemed, by the wild fire of the eyes,
the great breadth of the temples when compared with the height of the
brow, the trembling restlessness of the lips, to be swayed and
tyrannized over by the imaginative and ideal. Fancy, with the sister,
had stopped short at the golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less
happy and less restrained, it had wandered into visions more intangible
and unembodied; and the faculties which gave genius to the one
threatened madness to the other.
'You say I have been your enemy,' said Arbaces, 'I know the cause of
that unjust accusation: I have placed you amidst the priests of
Isis--you are revolted at their trickeries and imposture--you think that
I too have deceived you--the purity of your mind is offended--you
imagine that I am one of the deceitful...'
'You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,' answered Apaecides; 'why
did you disguise them from me?--When you excited my desire to devote
myself to the office whose garb I bear, you spoke to me of the holy life
of men resigning themselves to knowledge--you have given me for
companions an ignorant and sensual herd, who have no knowledge but that
of the grossest frauds; you spoke to me of men sacrificing the earthlier
pleasures to the sublime cultivation of virtue--you place me amongst men
reeking with all the filthiness of vice; you spoke to me of the friends,
the enlighteners of our common kind--I see but their cheats and
deluders! Oh! it was basely done!--you have robbed me of the glory of
youth, of the convictions of virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after
wisdom. Young as I was, rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth
before me, I resigned all without a sign, nay, with happiness and
exultation, in the thought that I resigned them for the abstruse
mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companionship of gods--for the
revelations of Heaven--and now--now...'
Convulsive sobs checked the priest's voice; he covered his face with his
hands, and large tears forced themselves through the wasted fingers, and
ran profusely down his vest.
'What I promised to thee, that will I give, my friend, my pupil: these
have been but trials to thy virtue--it comes forth the brighter for thy
novitiate--think no more of those dull cheats--assort no more with those
menials of the goddess, the atrienses of her hall--you are worthy to
enter into the penetralia. I henceforth will be your priest, your
guide, and you who now curse my friendship shall live to bless it.'
The young man lifted up his head, and gazed with a vacant and wondering
stare upon the Egyptian.
'Listen to me,' continued Arbaces, in an earnest and solemn voice,
casting first his searching eyes around to see that they were still
alone. 'From Egypt came all the knowledge of the world; from Egypt came
the lore of Athens, and the profound policy of Crete; from Egypt came
those early and mysterious tribes which (long before the hordes of
Romulus swept over the plains of Italy, and in the eternal cycle of
events drove back civilization into barbarism and darkness) possessed
all the arts of wisdom and the graces of intellectual life. From Egypt
came the rites and the grandeur of that solemn Caere, whose inhabitants
taught their iron vanquishers of Rome all that they yet know of elevated
in religion and sublime in worship. And how deemest thou, young man,
that that Egypt, the mother of countless nations, achieved her
greatness, and soared to her cloud-capt eminence of wisdom?--It was the
result of a profound and holy policy. Your modern nations owe their
greatness to Egypt--Egypt her greatness to her priests. Rapt in
themselves, coveting a sway over the nobler part of man, his soul and
his belief, those ancient ministers of God were inspired with the
grandest thought that ever exalted mortals. From the revolutions of the
stars, from the seasons of the earth, from the round and unvarying
circle of human destinies, they devised an august allegory; they made it
gross and palpable to the vulgar by the signs of gods and goddesses, and
that which in reality was Government they named Religion. Isis is a
fable--start not!--that for which Isis is a type is a reality, an
immortal being; Isis is nothing. Nature, which she represents, is the
mother of all things--dark, ancient, inscrutable, save to the gifted
few. "None among mortals hath ever lifted up my veil," so saith the
Isis that you adore; but to the wise that veil hath been removed, and we
have stood face to face with the solemn loveliness of Nature. The
priests then were the benefactors, the civilizers of mankind; true, they
were also cheats, impostors if you will. But think you, young man, that
if they had not deceived their kind they could have served them? The
ignorant and servile vulgar must be blinded to attain to their proper
good; they would not believe a maxim--they revere an oracle. The
Emperor of Rome sways the vast and various tribes of earth, and
harmonizes the conflicting and disunited elements; thence come peace,
order, law, the blessings of life. Think you it is the man, the emperor,
that thus sways?--no, it is the pomp, the awe, the majesty that surround
him--these are his impostures, his delusions; our oracles and our
divinations, our rites and our ceremonies, are the means of our
sovereignty and the engines of our power. They are the same means to
the same end, the welfare and harmony of mankind. You listen to me rapt
and intent--the light begins to dawn upon you.'
Apaecides remained silent, but the changes rapidly passing over his
speaking countenance betrayed the effect produced upon him by the words
of the Egyptian--words made tenfold more eloquent by the voice, the
aspect, and the manner of the man.
'While, then,' resumed Arbaces, 'our fathers of the Nile thus achieved
the first elements by whose life chaos is destroyed, namely, the
obedience and reverence of the multitude for the few, they drew from
their majestic and starred meditations that wisdom which was no
delusion: they invented the codes and regularities of law--the arts and
glories of existence. They asked belief; they returned the gift by
civilization. Were not their very cheats a virtue! Trust me, whosoever
in yon far heavens of a diviner and more beneficent nature look down
upon our world, smile approvingly on the wisdom which has worked such
ends. But you wish me to apply these generalities to yourself; I hasten
to obey the wish. The altars of the goddess of our ancient faith must
be served, and served too by others than the stolid and soulless things
that are but as pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet and the robe.
Remember two sayings of Sextus the Pythagorean, sayings borrowed from
the lore of Egypt. The first is, "Speak not of God to the multitude";
