TYPHON set his way for Marathon and travelled north. He enjoyed pleasant and endured unpleasant adventures, and his good resolves, never to be angry and never to be cruel, were not wholly kept. For things fell out that made him angry despite his high purposes; and he was cruel occasionally without knowing it, as happens to all men. He increased in understanding and patience very slowly, but life did not daunt him, and he persevered in steadfast search for Soter. As yet no growing thing could throw light upon the matter, neither had any human being heard of the plant. He judged it to be a creature of the loneliest heights, beyond reach of man or tree.
“Winter is now nearly past, and when her snows are melted,” thought Typhon, “I shall find it among the rampires of the mountains in dangerous places, and having gathered it may set out to return homeward.” But he was in no haste to leave his present life, for the spirit of adventure grew upon him, and he found himself increasing in stature, in strength, in quickness of understanding.
There came an evening when the sky was of a dusky green along the hills and blue at the zenith. Typhon, who used to seek shelter at nightfall, and pay for his accommodation with work before he went forward, had this night noted a considerable villa perched above meads of grass and copses of fine trees.
He sat awhile before ascending a forest road to the mansion, and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, brought forth a hunch of bread and a frayed scrap of papyrus.
The bread he ate, the paper he regarded and then opened. Though worn by the friction of such other things as came and went from Typhon’s pocket, the document had never yet been read by him. It was Menander’s poem.
“It is an infamous thing,” reflected the youth, “that I have had a poet’s poem in my pouch for all these months and not even attempted to read it. I will do so now. Thank the gods, it is very short.” He reclined upon the bole of a solitary birch-tree and read the poet’s gift, while the stars already began to wink bright eyes through the gloaming.
THE STAR
A POINT in the uncharted sky
Unseen, unknown in golden rout,
With tiny orbit clear marked out,
And a life to live and a death to die,
Threading her own dim bead of light
Through deep and vast of starry space,
Holding her punctual time and place
Till crumbled back on formless night.
“Was it worth while,” asks her broken clay,
Turning to cosmic dust again —
“The long-drawn glimmer worth the pain?
I will not say ‘yea’; I dare not say ‘nay.’”
Typhon could make nothing whatever of the piece. Then, as he folded up Menander’s present, and restored it to his tunic, a voice fell upon him from above. “Poetry, I observe,” said the tree over his head. “Something about me, I imagine?”
He looked upwards and observed a very lovely maiden birch already making ready for her spring glories.
“Yes, poetry,” replied Typhon; “but not about you — about a star.”
“I am in a sense a star,” replied the birch. “You have the fortune to behold the most beautiful tree on this beautiful earth. It is now too dark for you to realise my ineffable wonder, but visit me to-morrow and you will be rewarded.”
“You are pleased with yourself,” replied the wanderer.
“That is to misunderstand my self-consciousness,” declared the tree. “The question is not so much of pleasure as of reverence and responsibility. I am, remember, the most beautiful thing in this world, for, since birches are the fairest of trees, and I am the most perfect of them all, I become an unparagoned perfection in the universal scheme. This is a source of solemn gratification, I grant; but the responsibility is not small. From those greatly endowed the world demands greatness. I am, therefore, somewhat self-absorbed, that I may preserve my astounding distinction and live up to it. To be myself is a tremendous fact; for not a day passes in the four seasons when I may relax. Every manifestation demands its own measure of concentration. Now you see me shadowy upon the dying sky — a candelabra of silver still supporting a few last flames from my autumnal magnificence. For the moment I stand veiled in the mystery of my amethystine winter wonder — inexpressibly fair, to my least purple finial trembling against the sunset; but within a month, like a rain of glittering emeralds I shall once more salute Proserpine and add another miracle to spring. And so forth; and so forth — all perfect, all matchless, all unparalleled.”
“You do use long words,” said Typhon.
“Consider, also, those radical extremities hidden from your sight,” proceeded the birch. “It is not too much to say that my root system, with its crypts and treasure-houses deep in the sweet darkness of earth, is one of the most exquisite things to be imagined in a poet’s dream, and only less amazing than what you behold. From them I draw, first, support against the hurricane and buffets of envious tempest; secondly, my nourishment and sustenance; and if all could be stripped to the gaze of understanding eyes, you would observe great main arteries, lesser rootlets, networks of fibril, and final feathery, almost invisible, threads and feelers, each faithfully performing its appointed task. A tree, my boy, from its last expression against the sky, from its topmost leaf to its nethermost bundle of sponge-like nerve, deep, deep underground, is the most wonderful thing in nature; and I who address you am the most remarkable of them all!”
Typhon was interested.
“Who is your god?” he asked.
“Such a miracle as I represent can hardly be the achievement of a solitary deity,” explained the egregious birch. “I am inclined to think myself the offspring of some round-table conference, to which each and every divinity worth naming brought a measure of inspiration.”
“One conference has, then, been successful,” answered Typhon, “for you are certainly an admirable tree. Tell me, now, please, who inhabit yonder great white house, and if I may seek the comfort of food and shelter among them.”
“Four persons, attended by many slaves, dwell at this villa,” replied the birch. “They are Callidice and Admetus, her husband, and Agenor and Tyro, his wife. Callidice is a poet, though she has not as yet composed a lyric in my honour. She permitted Admetus to wed her. He has great possessions. In fact I believe everything belongs to him as far as you can see. Agenor is a sculptor. He appears to be a distinguished genius, who allowed Tyro to mate with him at her earnest desire. Tyro is very rich, I understand. Countless slaves wait upon them and they dwell harmoniously together, make beautiful things, and appreciate the privilege of living so near to me.”
Leaving the birch to blow her own silver trumpet into the night, Typhon now approached the villa; and great was his surprise to find himself expected. Admetus and Callidice, Agenor and Tyro were assembled beneath the columns of the portico, and they welcomed the weary youth with enthusiasm.
“Young man,” said Admetus, “though you may know it not, you have come as an answer to prayer. For together and apart, my wife and myself and these, our nearest and best friends, Agenor and his wife, have called earnestly upon the gods that they would send one among us to light our darkening way and solve certain complicated problems that now threaten our peace. Hail, therefore! Whether you are indeed no more than a lad, who looks tired and hungry, or a god in disguise, we cannot tell; but that you were sent as an answer to our united petition there can be no doubt whatever.”
Typhon felt no small surprise to hear Agenor thus address him. His suspicious scowl took in the four persons, but found nothing but friendship and respect upon their faces. The master of the villa was a man of five-and-thirty years old. He had a simple and appealing countenance, with bulbous eyes of faded brown, a beautiful, well-kept and curly beard, a healthy complexion, a plump outline, and just that suspicion of modest pride proper to nonentity wedded with a wife of distinction. Agenor represented the very type and exemplar of that masculine shadow who marries a notable woman and finds himself serene under those conditions. Such, even as the male spider, enjoy life in their twilight fashion.
Callidice, his wife, revealed a beautiful, discontented face and a mouth down-drooping as Niobe’s. She was very dark, younger by many years than Admetus, and of a willowy and graceful presence, with eyes that shone like melancholy planets upon Typhon through the dusk.
“He is not a god; he is a hungry human boy,” said she, taking the visitor by the hand; “and he must eat and drink and slumber sweetly before he can do the will of the gods who sent him to us.”
As for Agenor, the sculptor, he too was dark and very comely. His noble head crowned a fine throat. He stood nearly six feet tall, and wore his muscular arms bare to the shoulder. His hands were those of an artist — delicate and nervous; upon his clean-cut, clean-shaven countenance there sat a wistful and brooding doubt. Beside him stood Tyro, his wife, a little woman of homely aspect but magnificent attire. She wore cloth-of-gold woven into sea-green lamb’s-wool. Her shoes were of silver-gilt, her arms and neck glittered with costly gems. She was very plain, with hair of a faded yellow, small eyes, gentle and pleading, but so pale that they seemed colourless, a silly little mouth and a wavering voice with no more quality than the chirrup of a young bird.
Tyro applauded the speech of Callidice, and left them to prepare a feast for the traveller. She possessed a queenly nature, and her heart was as golden as anything about her. Not the meanest slave but worshipped her and would have died to save her a headache.
“I cannot guess what you mean,” said Typhon presently. “You appear glad to see me, and willing that I should eat and drink and slumber on a comfortable couch. For that I thank you; and if to-morrow it is in my power to be of any service I shall gladly return your friendship in that manner.”
“You were sent to be of supreme service,” replied Admetus. “Upon your wisdom, inspired as we most potently believe by the high gods, much may depend for all four of us. But to-morrow you shall hear what there is to be told. For to-night let us welcome you as a wanderer who needs our succour and friendship. Follow this slave and he will bring you to a bath and sweet raiment. Then a banquet, somewhat out of the common, awaits you.”
Clad in delicious silk as soft as the morning breeze of summer, and radiant with cunning colours which enhanced his beauty, Typhon anon reclined among his new friends and perceived that a rich and rare repast awaited him.
“I may tell you,” he said, “that I am the disciple of Epicurus, the philosopher, at Athens. I undertook a mission for him last autumn and the work is not yet accomplished.”
“We, too, are Epicureans,” declared Admetus; “all, that is, save Agenor, the sculptor.”
“I am a Stoic,” explained Agenor.
“You’re not,” replied Callidice. “You think you are; but you’re not. Is he, Tyro?”
Agenor’s wife smiled rather sadly upon her spouse. She was many years older than the artist. “I don’t know what he is,” she answered. “If he worships anything, it is the beautiful.”
“Which I find in your heart as nowhere else,” declared Agenor.
He spoke melodiously, but without conviction.
“Epicurus,” declared Typhon, “would eat none of these fine things you give me. He loads the table for his friends, but himself lives on food that would bore a field-mouse.”
“They lie,” said Admetus, “who accuse the divine man of undue luxury. That I have heard from those who are privileged to know him and dwell within his house.”
Typhon enjoyed the entertainment, but began to grow very sleepy when he had eaten enough.
He discovered that good food was not all that it had once been to him, and he drank no wine, for he had grown used to the springs and rivers.
Finding that he was falling asleep, Tyro herself made him follow her and conducted him to his couch. He kept awake just long enough to thank her, and then, flinging himself upon a bed of ivory, slept for twelve hours. After a pleasant meal when morning came, he found himself ushered before his hosts and hostesses into an open court, around which leapt delicate pillars about a fountain, and sprang orange-trees, sweet with blossom and ruddy with ripe fruit. Here, upon a floor of tessellated marble, was lifted a little throne draped with a leopard-skin, while before it stood four lesser chairs already occupied by Admetus and Callidice, Tyro and Agenor. They rose, welcomed Typhon, made him take the higher place and without delay revealed his great task.
The lad, feeling both nervous and important in so strange a situation, climbed three steps to the throne and settled himself in it.
“This is all very strange,” he said; “but if, as you declare, I have been sent by the gods to throw light on your difficulties, I will do my best. I am, however, neither wise nor experienced in grown-up affairs.”
“That is as the gods would have it, doubtless,” answered Agenor. “You will begin, Admetus, and after you and Callidice have spoken, Tyro will take her turn. As for me — ”
He left his speech unfinished, and Admetus rose and opened the proceedings.
“Callidice, my wife, as you may or may not know, Typhon, is a second Sappho. Indeed among those who alone can judge, she excels Sappho herself in certain qualities. Her tragedies have the greatness and humanity of a Sophocles; her comedies, were they acted, would put Menander himself in the shade. But she is too great to compete with any, and only our own select group at Athens knows her stupendous genius. Judge of my joy when the lady willed to wed me, and guess if you can at the extent of my preparations on her behalf when I found this dwelling was to become a poet’s home! Within these extensive walls Callidice has six separate studies, facing all ways — one for any mood in which she may find herself. Her unequalled art is my first thought, and I labour without ceasing that she may discover no shadow between her mind and its sublime conceptions. Yet my very solicitude causes her uneasiness; my enthusiasm clouds her highest moments; my sleepless attention, instead of helping her to scale new heights, acts rather as a drag upon creation. Instead of being her first and most precious inspiration, as such a loving and devoted spouse should be, I act as a — as a — ”
“As a quencher,” suggested Typhon, who followed the argument closely.
“It is a hard word, but may serve the turn,” granted Admetus. “I am not here to blink facts or gloss the tragic truth. What happened, think you, three days agone? Yes, Callidice, I shall tell him, that he may the better judge. Three days since I sought my wife with joy, bearing to her a purple crocus with a golden tassel in its heart that had thrust up from the auburn carpet of last year’s beech leaves. She was in the apartment apportioned to tragedy, and entering with the harbinger of Spring I cried out my discovery. Whereupon, assuming an expression of actual dislike, the poet flung her stylus at me and stained my azure cloak with ink!”
“You see, he had ruined a great idea and wrecked one of the most tremendous situations I ever imagined,” said Callidice calmly.
“I know; it will be a lasting grief; but to what pass must our relations have come, into what a gulf must our understanding have tumbled, before this horrible incident? Moreover, it is only one of many. The situation grows more and more grave. We both suffer, and many untoward things happen. Yesterday I found my gifted wife dragging a female slave across the atrium by her hair. This fury was not occasioned by any dereliction of the girl; but because I had advised Callidice to write a sparkling lyric to a little hedgehog we discovered rooting among some herbaceous plants at dusk. For the life of me, I see nothing inept in offering a poet subjects for her muse; but Callidice takes another opinion and has not hesitated to tell me plainly that the moment I suggest a theme it is doomed for her, and becomes repellent and impossible. Nor am I guiltless of unseemly explosions. I have been observed smiting faithful domestics, and saying harsh, uncalled-for things to retainers of long standing, for no reason whatever, save as a relief and discharge to my own baffled emotions. Callidice writes but little now, and will not even show me what she writes. It is her opinion that her art is dead, or dying, and while not accusing me of creating this awful disaster, cannot in honesty charge it against another. When I am by her side, she tells me flatly that inspiration perishes; if I go hence, and give her a rest, she holds me indifferent and lacking sympathy. It is all beyond the comprehension of a plain man. Now Callidice herself shall speak, and if I have said more than the truth she will correct me.”
Admetus sat down with a face full of melancholy; indeed a tear fell from his bulbous eyes. He stroked his beard, sighed deeply and regarded his wife with combined affection and bewilderment.
Tyro patted his hand and he pressed her fingers, indicating his sense of her compassion.
“My dear husband has told nothing but the painful truth,” said Callidice, in a hollow voice. “He lifted me from poverty, that I might tune my lyre under pleasanter circumstances; he lavished amazing kindness upon me; but kindness without imagination is often cruelty in disguise. He has, in fact, overdone it from the very first, and now, with the highest and noblest intentions, intrudes between my divine gifts and myself. We know that any inartistic being who assumes the rôle of a patron must need immense skill and self-restraint; how much more then the Philistine who actually marries a great artist! I use the word against generous Admetus in no unkindly sense. Without Philistines to sharpen their scorn upon, where would our poets, painters and creators be? But in relations with an artist, lesser people require exquisite sensibilities, which they invariably lack. They cannot, of course, understand us, and we do not ask them to attempt it. We only implore them not to attempt it. There is a tact that conceals tact, to which our gifts entitle us; but needless to say we never get it. To see my dear Admetus trying to be tactful is a sight to make the gods weep. The pathos of his elephantine attempts is only equalled by their futility. And then I become exasperated and say, and even do, things that should be utterly impossible to the humblest poetaster. Thus I lose my self-respect; and everybody knows that if you lose your self-respect you may as well abandon serious art at once. It is granted that some notable writers never produce more admirable prose and poetry than when they are being wicked, or being worried; but I am not one of these. My art is chaste, severe, even didactic; therefore these lapses leave me as it were stranded and barren, ashamed of my pen, even reduced to using it as a missile. And this condition of mind reacts — I will not deny it — on my attitude to Admetus. To the real artist, Typhon, any influence, however benignant, that thrusts between him and his creative work, must breed discomfort; and that emotion, according to the character of the sufferer, develops into hopeless indifference or ferocious despair. A kind and gentle spirit endures and makes the best of it; a furious and assertive being rises up and either turns his back on the peril, or destroys it without ruth or a shadow of remorse. Now I admire and respect my precious, pudding-headed husband far too much to cause him one twinge of needless pain; but I am really a considerable poet, though not all he thinks — ”
“Pardon me, you are incomparable,” said Agenor, the sculptor. “Admetus, whatever his mental endowment, makes no mistake in that matter.”
“Be quiet, Agenor, and let me conclude,” replied Callidice. “Indeed, I have concluded. So far the case is now impartially set before you; but you have as yet heard only half the story, because, though Admetus does not think so, I feel, and Tyro feels, that what you have still to learn may influence your judgment on the situation as a whole.”
“Let Tyro speak then,” replied Typhon. “I see no light at present.”
Tyro stood up. She was voluble and more business-like than the others. Her Greek might not be so fine; but her meaning was clear enough.
“Whether my husband regards me as ‘pudding-headed’ I know not,” she began; “but I am in no doubt concerning him. He is the greatest sculptor who has ever created immortal beauty, and though as yet no work of his adorns market-place, theatre or circus, that is because — true master that he is — he hesitates to challenge the ignorant public eye. He combines the exquisite surface of Praxiteles with the masculine sublimity of Pheidias — who, as you know, was the Æschylus of marble. In addition to their mastery, Agenor has that sense of proportion and divine synthesis of the human figure we associate with Lysippos; while he also reflects the highest dreams of the Attic mind and the genius and spirit of our nation, which we find in the masterpieces of Myron. This astounding man — Agenor, I mean — possessing no income whatever, consented to link his lot with mine; and when I wedded him we joined my second cousin, Admetus, on his estate, and endeavoured to create a centre for the expression of notable and epoch-making art. Admetus and I had the pelf that would enable our divinely gifted consorts to continue their achievements without fret of base detail; while they, as we reasonably imagined, in an atmosphere of unusual comfort and devotion, would bloom and blossom with unexampled works of wonder. But they are doing nothing of the sort. Agenor will be the first to grant that of late his efforts are only remarkable for an entire absence of inspiration. When he does toil, it is fitfully, and he has wasted the last month on attempts to give us a bust of Callidice, which resembles neither the wife of Admetus nor anybody else. Agenor argues that he has caught the soul of Callidice, and if the soul of Callidice looks like the arm of a sofa then he is correct. But, Philistine or no, I refuse to believe it. A face is a face, and if you claim to carve the likeness of a beautiful woman, however great your genius, a face she must have. So at least the masters have always believed. From time to time I interrupted these sittings, with a little fruit and other refreshment for the sitter, and a bowl of our best vintage wine to cheer Agenor; but on these occasions it is idle to pretend that my dear husband was at work, or Callidice posing for him. I surprised them in intimate discourse, and though Agenor did not fling mallet or chisel at my innocent head, there was a glint in his eye that showed he would have liked to do so.”
“I never thought of such a thing,” said Agenor.
“Thus,” continued Tyro, “our efforts to lighten and gladden the way of this gifted couple have been crowned with failure. I am sorry for us all — especially for Admetus, whose patient struggles to fortify and elevate the poetry of his wife have filled me with admiration. I am also sorry for both these great artists and exceedingly sorry for myself. What it is about me that has induced Agenor to push his clay into these grotesque, and sometimes indelicate, apparitions I cannot tell you. I understand the art of sculpture perfectly; I have studied the theory with enthusiasm from my youth up; I know a great deal more about statuary and the technique of the masters than Agenor himself; while love has quickened my understanding to realise the immensity of his endowment. He might fill another Parthenon pediment, or lift gold and ivory statues to all Olympus; but he doesn’t even start. He married me fully intending to do these things. If you saw his sketches, you would measure the magnitude of his conceptions; yet when it comes to work he merely messes about — there is no other word for it. He fiddles over silly little illustrations of Callidice’s poems; carves butterflies, or stupid fauns and nymphs, when he ought to be making gods and goddesses, or designing temples. Whether it is life in this villa, or whether it is just me, Athene alone knows; but things are exceedingly wrong with us, and a problem has developed that must be solved pretty smartly for all our sakes. We all love one another; it ought to be an ideal arrangement; but the fact remains that Callidice has stacks of unstained papyrus, thanks to Admetus; Agenor can show you a mountain of marble from Pentelicus which I have provided; and nothing happens. Meantime I mark the gathering cloud on the forehead of my dear cousin, and the tear in his expressive eye; and personally I have lost all joy of life and am confronted with my first grey hairs — long before I have a right to expect them.” She turned to the sculptor.
“Now, Agenor, please — if you have anything to add.”
“Not a word,” replied her husband gloomily. “You have stated the situation, Tyro, with your usual directness, regard for truth and disregard for sentiment. It is as you say. Something is altogether wrong; but we none of us can give it a name. Consequently none of us know what to do about it. In my case inspiration has utterly departed, as the flame of a lamp deprived of oil, and Callidice finds herself in the same unfortunate position. Her grief is naturally greater than all the rest of us put together, because her gifts are greater; and her extinction really means that the world is a loser. I don’t matter. Probably I am the greatest sculptor that ever lived, but I don’t matter. Tyro’s troubles, however, torment me terribly — as she takes good care they shall; while Admetus, stout fellow, puts a bold face against his griefs and hopes against hope for something to set the apple-cart on its wheels again. Well, no doubt the gods can do so, since they are all-wise and all-powerful; but unless you come armed with their wisdom, my young friend, I fail to see how a lad of your inexperience is going to cut the knot.”
“Always a pessimist!” snapped Tyro.
“Not always,” answered Agenor — “only since I married. I was the most hopeful devil on earth three years ago.”
Admetus summed up:
“Thus, then, it stands, and we are faced with heartrending complications. Strange phenomena have already resulted, for we find ourselves seeking comfort in unconventional places. Did you pry into our orange groves at dusk, or among certain secluded glades sacred to solitude and reflection, you might be startled to observe Tyro and myself together, in drear speculations over the fate that has overtaken us; while, very possibly, round the next corner Agenor and Callidice would be discovered, sitting side by side like lovely monuments in a mausoleum, supporting each other’s sufferings. Speak, therefore, blessed boy, as one holding the authority of the gods, and tell us what, if anything, may be done where no wise and prudent action is open to our moral understanding.”
Yet Typhon, lacking all knowledge of the marriage state and those conditions and stipulations which control so solemn a matter, found the problem present no difficulty whatever.
“Answer just two questions,” said he, frowning upon them and feeling very important. “What do you, Admetus, think of Tyro?”
“I esteem her as a woman of magic perception and infinite capability. We are alike in all things, especially patience.”
“And your view of Callidice, Agenor?”
“Callidice and I,” replied the sculptor, “see with the same eyes, feel with the same nerves, understand with the same intelligence and reverberate our genius to the same echo. Our hearts beat in unison and each, by sure instinct, knows to its unfathomable depths the very soul of the other.”
“Then where on earth is the puzzle?” asked Typhon. “Let Tyro pack her treasures and take them into the wing where dwells Admetus; while Callidice directs that her manuscripts and possessions be transferred to the spacious domicile of Agenor. You merely change wives and husbands and — there you are!”
A gasp of astonishment from all concerned greeted this simple solution to their difficulty. Admetus grew quite red. His eyes goggled and he stroked his beard with both hands.
“I’m bound to say — I’m bound to say — ” he began, then stopped.
“If you’re bound to say it — say it,” directed Callidice; but Admetus appeared unable really to do so.
Agenor, however, found less difficulty.
“This,” he began triumphantly, “is not a moment in which to disguise the nature of things. Philosophers may seek to do so if they will; the modern artist has no such ambition. Truth alone attracts him. He knows that it is seldom beautiful, and suspects and distrusts beauty; but beautiful it can be, as on this occasion. With respect to Typhon’s direction, only two courses lie open to us. Either we must believe that he speaks with the very voice of the gods — not Hera, or Athene, probably, but Zeus at any rate — or we must suppose that his proposal springs from his own rational though inexperienced mind. For my part I cannot forget that we called on Olympus for a messenger to guide us; and most emphatically I believe young Typhon to be that messenger. It follows that he has expressed the divine will in our ears; and the rest is entirely our affair.”
Natural delight and conventional uneasiness struggled for victory on the expansive countenance of Admetus.
“What will people say?” he asked.
“The question is, what the gods have said,” replied Agenor firmly. “For my part, their opinion is the more important, and in truth quite conclusive.”
“So I think,” declared Callidice, with poetic frankness.
“And your view, Tyro?” inquired Admetus.
“It will take me a week to move across to your wing,” replied Tyro, “and I have no shadow of doubt about the propriety of doing so. The gods have spoken if ever they did.”
“I can move in less than a week,” said Callidice.
Admetus sighed as though a mountain had rolled from off his bosom.
“Wonderful!” he murmured. “Wonderful! How simple grows life when the gods direct it!”
They chattered together, and, being Greeks, no false modesty dictated their discourse. All four were so overjoyed that for a moment they entirely forgot Typhon. It was left for Tyro to remember him.
“You blessed child!” she cried. “How can we thank you?”
“I want little,” replied Typhon; “and I am glad that you are pleased with my opinion. It seems so simple to me. If you will, in return, give me some new clothes before I leave you, I should be glad.”
Tyro undertook this duty and, his mind now at rest, Admetus desired to compensate Typhon with fabulous gifts. As for Callidice and Agenor, they had disappeared together. They were much moved.
“Lands, slaves, a dwelling — all that I can do shall be done to reward you for this astounding service,” declared Admetus. “It is impossible to question your direction; and if society dares to challenge our conclusions, and the arrangements based upon them, then society must be made to understand that its quarrel lies against the high gods, not Tyro and myself. As for the poet and sculptor, they have their own standards of conduct, and we shall continue hopefully to give them every encouragement and support.”
“If they begin to make things — not otherwise,” said Tyro rather sternly.
“They will,” prophesied Admetus.
The traveller remained until his new garments were ready; then, declining any other assistance or reward, he departed. All four escorted him to the confines of the estate, and they took leave of him beside the silver birch.
“A perfect tree,” declared Admetus, smiling upon his property.
“By no means,” replied Callidice, who had exquisite judgment in such questions. “Your birch is far too symmetrical, fat and prosperous — like yourself, dear Admetus. There is something akin to vulgarity in such perfection of well-being. The perfect birches live upon the hills, where storms have torn many a bough and wild beasts whetted their ivory upon the silver stems. They bear the dignity of toil and battle. The honourable scars of life are upon them, and their loveliness is magnified by the evidence of their courageous struggle against circumstance. The stricken veterans of the hill are beautiful — hot this sleek, comfortable creature.”
“One for the birch!” thought Typhon; and then, after Tyro and Callidice had both insisted upon kissing him, he went his way, well pleased to be gone.