THUS it was with Typhon and Ægle. She found a hamlet hard by, where, working for others, the wherewithal was reached to procure food for herself and the young man; while he traversed the hills and suffered no day to close without exploring new grounds for Soter. Presently, when the snows had shrunk a little and high summer returned, he meant to leave the hut of dead Zethis and take to the mountains; and Ægle intended to accompany him; but for the present they went different ways by day and met at their little hut when night descended.
Better and better did they read each other’s hearts, and Ægle knew very well what had happened; but Typhon, such was the simplicity of his nature in some directions, still puzzled to determine his true emotions. Sometimes he desired her and rejoiced that she should be near him; sometimes he was glad to lose sight of her for a long day; but if she delayed, and came not back to the little house before he returned, instantly he grew troubled. To live entirely without her seemed a fate from the very thought of which he shrank. He had told himself how light must soon be thrown upon his relation with Ægle and remembered that Zethis had said Eros awaited them.
They speculated not seldom upon the word of Eros as they sat after supper in the moonlight, and other things they also discussed.
“Epicurus told me that it was well to study character,” said Typhon, on one occasion, “and I have been studying yours for a long time, greatly to my advantage. I find it the most beautiful character life has revealed to me. Indeed I can imagine nothing more perfect in its self-possession and generosity, its amazing intelligence and insight; in its courage, humour and love of beauty — especially the last. That Epicurus held to be a sign of grace, and those who lack it must be educated, if possible, to develop a sense of it. This you have unconsciously awakened in me, and being of all beautiful things yourself the most beautiful, I have, as it were, the very symbol and exemplar of beauty to lift my taste.”
“I love to hear you talk nonsense of that kind,” answered Ægle. “Doubtless you do not know that the face of every still pool will show you something far more beautiful than I; but very often the most beautiful things have the least sense of loveliness.”
“Then they are not beautiful,” replied he; “for beauty, so said Zethis, must come from within.”
“Absurd!” she replied. “A flower has nothing within, yet these mountain pinks I weave for our dead friend’s grave are very beautiful indeed, and sweet also. The eyes of a lynx are very beautiful, and the skin of a snake is lovely and most harmonious in its russet and ebony and silver, yet we know how beautiful the heart of a snake happens to be, or the idea behind the jewels of the lynx’s eyes.”
“I want to get under the surface of all things,” explained Typhon, “and find what makes and mars character. You do not help me here, because perfection is not helpful; nor can I learn the truth of myself, for it happens now with me that I am not myself. Vague wonders and fears, attractions and repulsions encompass my mind. I am unrestful.”
“You are,” admitted Ægle, “and, what is much worse, you threaten to grow a little round in the shoulders, as you keep your eyes upon the earth for Soter. It is time we went upward to the mountains, so that you may lift your head and seek above it, rather than ever at your feet.”
“I know the names of all the little people now,” he assured her. “There is not one remaining unfamiliar to me; and there is not one who has ever heard of Soter. Of a truth sometimes I feel my care and labour all lost, and that I might as well anoint a stone as seek any longer for this invisible, herb.”
“Cast off any such doubt,” she said, “and talk of something else. You have a treasure unshared by me. Bring out the poem of Menander, that Epicurus told you would be an heirloom in your family, and read it to me by moonlight.”
“The stars are cold companions for a weary heart,” answered Typhon; “and without a family, heirlooms are in vain. However, you shall hear.”
He produced the poem.
“You may see more in it than is revealed to me,” he said. “For my part I harbour doubt sometimes if the adventure of living is worth while, to star or man.”
“Your supper has not agreed with you,” answered Ægle. “Be no longer melancholy or I shall leave you and go to bed. I hate your tone of voice and the way you drag your vowels when you are sad.”
Then he read the verses:
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.’”
“The star never loved,” said Ægle. “It is all summed up in that. Had she loved, she must have known that life was well worth while, and said ‘yea!’ loud enough for all the other stars to hear her. If it be æons long, or minutes short, the life is worth while that love comes into; and this star, of Menander’s must have been a little wilful thing if she could find no other star to care for her in all the heaven of stars.”
“Menander says that love darkens council,” answered Typhon, putting the verses back into his pocket.
“Then Menander knows nothing about it,” replied the maiden firmly. “The first thing, I suppose, is to know love when you see it. Of course if one has not reached that point …”
“We shall meet Eros anon,” said Typhon.
“I hope so,” answered she.
Once after a long and fruitless day Typhon turned his thoughts into the past.
“As we get old,” he said, “our thoughts seem naturally to turn backward and we tread the vanished years again.”
“No doubt, when you are twenty, there is little to hope from the balance of life,” replied Ægle; and this cheered him for, even under the present wave of doubt and mystery, he could still laugh.
“Three most important things have happened to me since I set out on my quest,” he said. “And all are speeches. One I heard when the Oracle spoke; one I heard in a dream uttered by Epicurus; and the last was spoken by Zethis before he departed to the Shades. These three utterances are never long absent from my mind, and light has at last dawned on the Oracle.”
“What were the exact words?” asked Ægle.
“The words were these: ‘Typhon will seek more than he finds. Typhon will find more than he seeks.’ Well, so far that is exceedingly true.”
She nodded.
“You have sought more than you have found, in the shape of Soter; you have found more than you sought, in the shape of me.”
“Exactly so,” said Typhon. “After that one cannot very well doubt Oracles.”
“I should hope not,” answered Ægle.
“Then consider my dream. What a strange word was there! As yet I see no meaning whatever in it; though perhaps time may bring harmony and light. In my dream Epicurus made this singular remark. He said, speaking to my mother: ‘Fear nothing, Elpenice; Typhon shall find Soter and shall not find Soter.’ Now what the Hades can you make of that?”
“Nothing,” declared Ægle. “A man cannot both do a thing and not do it.”
“And yet Epicurus could not lie.”
“It was a dream.”
“Even in a dream he could not.”
“Then there remains the word of Zethis,” said Ægle. “‘Seek earnestly for one more year, and then, I think, you will find it, though you know not when you do.’”
“Another puzzle. How shall one find a thing, after toilsome search, yet know not when one has done so?”
“Indeed I cannot tell you, Typhon. One must go on hunting in faith.”
“No doubt faith is about all that I have left,” he admitted; “and while you believe that I shall find it, it shall be sought.”
“Something tells me that it lurks at the edge of eternal snows,” answered Ægle. “And I long to start upon the climbing.”
“Then start we will,” said he; and within a few days, carrying good store of provisions, they left their home for a season and ascended new and steep paths.
Typhon had thought that he knew the name of everything that grew in Greece; yet now there twinkled above him on all sides fair new creatures that blinked their blue and silver eyes and starred the peak and precipice with immortal loveliness. Here, among the pathless places, these plants made their homes, and the sparks and flashes of many colours, the rosettes and cushions from which they sprang, all endured longer than the crumbling moraine and flowing glacier-edge that gave them life. Lifted thus high only the least of growing things could live, and humility was a condition of their existence.
“Wherefore?” asked Typhon of a saxifrage that hung its spray of ivory blossoms from a cleft above his head — “wherefore do you little people haunt the frozen crag and sun-scorched pinnacle? What is there to make life good, or prompt you to gladden the loneliness with jewels that none shall see?”
“We are ourselves,” replied the saxifrage, “and can do no other. These arid heights and bitter blasts perfect us, and are vital to the best that we have to offer. Whether eyes see us or do not is no concern of ours. We are here to carry the beauty of earth as near to heaven as may be. We are well worth while, though you may doubt it, and we work hard to be beautiful, despite the terrific forces that fight the mountains without regard to our welfare. Snow and ice, sun and hurricane, lightning and sleepless frost all wear down these iron scarps and counterscarps; the moraine flows even as the glacier flows, so that flux may be maintained. Thus the mountains sink to the valleys and again the valleys are built up to the mountains. The giants that mould and remould are also making beautiful things; but their gigantic art is only measured by the eyes of the gods. You will find much more than little plants upon the mountains if you stay long enough, and you are quite mistaken to suppose that none beholds us. The highest beings walk these uplifted paths, brood amidst the sky-climbing pinnacles. The gods breathe this air with us, smile into our tiny faces and praise our treasures. Look behind you, children of men, and you will see that I am right.”
A breath like a warm breeze passed over Typhon and Ægle, and it seemed to wake a deeper glow in the little blossoms round about and carry their thin fragrance like incense above them. Turning, therefore, the travellers beheld a boy, such as Typhon himself had been five years before, yet such as Typhon had never been in the perfection of his form and the majesty of his white forehead. The famous vision of Praxiteles, carved in snowy marble, was but as coarse clay before reality. His lovely limbs seemed made of ivory, that blushed within as though his veins ran gold; his head shone with bright curls and his eyes were bluer than the sapphire sea.
Then the boy came to them, and smiled and bade them welcome. But they knew him not yet for a god.
“Isn’t he lovely?” whispered Ægle.
“Wonderful to behold; but how did he get here?” answered Typhon.
“We are well met,” said he, in a voice that rang most musical upon their ears. “Be happy in each other, Typhon and Ægle, and do not disdain to listen to what I shall say. Come, sit beside me, my children. Here will we rest a little while with the flowers for a cushion.”
“Your children?” laughed the girl. “Why, fair boy, Typhon is a man and I am a woman!”
“Have you ever heard of Hesiod?” asked the sunny youth.
“Yes,” answered Typhon. “I have heard of him. He is only less than Homer, and a great poet in the world’s esteem.”
“We are not far distant from his birthplace,” replied the other. “He fell short a little of Homer’s majesty, yet I like him better, for the reason that he says many pleasant and true things about me.”
“About you!” exclaimed his listeners.
“I was not born yesterday, as you appear to imagine,” answered the god with whom they spoke. “Hesiod says I am most beautiful, to begin with.”
“You are indeed,” admitted Ægle.
“He explains that I am the power which builds the world by inner union of elements, and the greatest philosophers agree with him. The moderns pretend that I am a child — the capricious, cruel, wilful offspring of Aphrodite and Ares. But believe not such fond fables. I am Eros, born with Earth and Tartarus from Chaos at the morning of days. I am the immortal comrade from her birth of Aphrodite, whom I taught to love — though, between ourselves, she has bettered my instruction in certain particulars.”
At the name of Eros both mortals started to their feet in reverence; but the god bade them sit down again.
“It is right and seemly that you should love each other,” continued the divine boy, as though that were a matter already determined. “From dawn till dusk, and through the dream avenues of Hypnos, you must find your hearts full each of the other; but I am here to tell you precious facts as yet unknown to you, and see that you do not start lightly upon your tremendous enterprise. For love is a much greater thing than the Universe; indeed the Universe hangs upon it.
“Love, like truth, has a myriad aspects, and as no truth confounds another, so no true love confounds true love. There are countless loves, and lovers of sufficient good will and great heart may embrace them all. Consider then the immensity and diversity of the subject.
“A man may love his parents, his wife, his mistress, his children, his home, his work and his play. He may love his body, to keep it clean and healthy and strong. For that purpose he would love his play in the gymnasium and at the bath. These are all healthy and wholesome loves; while high above them we set the supreme love of the gods themselves, which, if genuine and not merely pretended, will serve largely to glorify all other loves. But this is only a beginning — the love personal that belongs to the lover’s own little environment of heart and brain.
“Eros moves in other categories than that; for a man may love his nation — and other nations even better — be he Greek, Roman or barbarian; and he may love his kind more than his kindred, and desert the few for the many. He may love the truth above all things, or virtue; or set pure beauty first in his affection. Beyond these abstract loves is the desire for creation: the artist’s love of making things, where the making rather than the thing made is the joy; the reformer’s love of breaking things, where the breaking is the joy; the mother’s love, where not the making but the things made are the joy.
“Many of you love what seem to me the bad and the ugly, choosing the nettles and thorns that infest the pastures of humanity and exalting weeds to their gardens in the name of truth. This generation has forgotten that truth can sometimes be beautiful, and for a few years beauty will be under a ban; but presently the pendulum swings, and sublimer subjects again win worship.
“Love first arises out of hunger, but in its highest exemplars will grow sublimated, stage by stage, until desire ascends into devotion; devotion springs to self-sacrifice and may magnify itself even to the glory of martyrdom. Love is at the root of all the reality you can know. Love is life itself, since without a primal desire, to start the worlds upon their way, all must have remained for ever passionless, static, frozen.
“You have thought many wise things and many foolish things concerning me. Socrates declared Love to be a daemon from the middle place between men and gods — not himself immortal, but a potent force lying betwixt the two and apt to influence both. He was, however, mistaken, for you see me a very god, existing independently of space and time. Plato is nearer the mark. Speaking through the mouth of one Agatho, in that very attractive piece, The Banquet, written on my account, he says happy and true things of Eros. ‘Love,’ he will tell you, ‘is at once the best and most beautiful. Love banishes all feeling of alienation, establishes good meetings, and in festivals, dances and sacrifices becomes leader and master. Love destroys harshness, breeds good will’ — of which the world of men never stood more in need than now. ‘Love denies enmity and pours grace upon the good. The wise revere him, the gods admire him, the luckless envy him, the fortunate possess him. He is the parent of luxury, of tenderness, of elegance, of grace, of regret. He is careful of virtue, averse from wickedness; the pilot and sustainer, both in labour and rest. Love loves peace and is thus first saviour and upholder of godkind and mankind — the leader and source of fine inspiration; and in his train it is the joyful task of all created things to follow, hymning his praises and beauty in that sweet song he sings when swift to soothe the hearts of mortal and immortal.’
“Now that is handsomely said, Typhon, and much to the point, for it lifts me to final considerations before I approach the personal subject of your little self and little Ægle.”
“Do talk about us, dear god,” whispered the girl.
“I shall, Ægle. It is because you have the making of a grand love between you that I am here to utter seasonable words. But still there remains a comprehensive thought, which you may, however, regard as personal. I would have you notable lovers on the grand plane of myself and Plato. Therefore let us not mince language.
“Lust makes desirable, as bread and meat to the starving; love makes sacred, as the god to the votary. There are a sort of men and women in whom love incinerates lust for ever, since to them the passion is a sacrament, not an appetite; and of such only is the love that endures. In matters of lesser love, the sole decent and comely action is to separate when the emotion perishes; for dead things are better put out of sight — and no clean spirit must be asked to live with a corpse.
“Many are not endowed with the power to love at all, and when they pretend to it they speak of something else. Of these are the stallion men, content to caper in any pasture; while now one hears of a singular portent — that maidens of low breeding but rare intelligence will receive and invite an eminent rhetorician, or man of wisdom, to father their babes. Of old, in Thebes, Babylon, Lycia, women of high degree would be locked into the temples by night, and the hierarchs of those holy places always looked to it that a divine personage should arrive and embrace them. But these latter-day enthusiasts care not what stranger body shall possess their own, so that the brain of it enjoys the extra twist to make their paramour great! What fee these supermen demand for their service is hidden even from the gods, and while the spectacle of genius at the stud lacks not for humour, you are to know that neither Eros nor Aphrodite holds any concern whatever in affairs so unlovely. A child got in cold blood is little better than a child murdered in cold blood, and the babe of business, as opposed to the offspring of passion, may prove a curious customer if it reaches years of understanding.
“There remain those mysterious adumbrations of love which challenge Æsculapius rather than myself; while amid such extremes the norm still lies, where men and women glimpse the august truth of me very occasionally, and do what poor best they may to maintain their wedded state with dignity and self-respect.
“The highest love is beyond all assault, remember. Dirt may overlay a diamond, but it cannot enter in; therefore see that your affection is built of the adamant fineness which time withers not. From few would I demand that supreme and immortal response, for few there are moulded by the gods to contain such fire; but to you, Typhon and Ægle, I declare that you may rise to these heights, and I demand, out of compliment and gratitude to me, that you endeavour to do so.”
“We will!” promised man and maid together; and then, from nowhere and everywhere, suddenly, deliciously, there came sweet music, and round about the god appeared a hundred little Erotes — dancing Loves — who stood but baby-high, with the wings of wood-doves, plump rosy bodies and laughing faces such as Donatello and the Della Robbias made in after time. The fairy things joined hands and danced round Eros. Their shrill voices, like bells of glass, were lifted in his praise; and then a bright morning cloud descended from the mountains, and the god with his small ministrants all vanished together into it. A warm and delicate light, which burned out of Eros, departed, and Typhon and Ægle stood together, but alone.
“Now,” said he, “we have seen one of the greatest of the gods, and must keep his counsel for ever.”
“I suppose we must,” answered she.
“Undoubtedly. He has thrown his light upon my darkness, and shown that my uneasiness and misery were but a prelude to the glorious discovery that I love you, Ægle, better than all the earth.”
“And I have been exceedingly miserable, too,” she replied. “But my misery was different from yours. I knew right well what was the matter with me, for I have loved you ever since you restrained me from the fire; but I, too, was most miserable, because I could not tell how you felt about it.”
“Did you really want me?” asked Typhon.
“I wanted you to want me,” replied Ægle, with feminine caution.
“And indeed I did. One can own it now that the glorious truth is ours. I wanted you very much and very often; but your trust saved you. Had you fled; had you feared — Well, man is a hunter, but who could kill the bird that hops to his finger and sings? You were as near and open as a book that one is reading; and appetite vanished, as Eros described, since I was fortunately capable of something better. No, my Ægle, I shall never make a meal of you; but only a sacrament.”
She considered this high saying doubtfully.
“A meal, however, might prove jollier, since in love you can, perhaps, eat your cake and have it again. To eat each other now and then would be a happy thought.”
“The dust on the diamond, I expect,” said lofty Typhon.
“Not at all,” replied Ægle. “Eros is a very magnificent, solemn and beautiful god, and I adore him; but there still remains Aphrodite, and though he says that he taught her all he could, he himself admits that she knows a thing or two which he does not. And if we met her — ”
“Probably our supreme and glorious Eros may look at love from a nobler standpoint than is exactly possible to men and women,” admitted Typhon.
“Be sure he does,” said Ægle; “and even we mortals must be aware of certain wonders beyond the grasp of a god, since without mortality one cannot know them.”
“The great fact remains, however, that we have his authority for believing that we may love in the grand manner if we will,” answered Typhon. “We shall love each other as long as we live, and our love must never faint and perish, as happens in the hearts of unhappier folk.”
“True,” answered Ægle; “but we need not be superior and priggish about it; or we shall bore everybody — if not each other. Love dies of frost quicklier than it perishes of fire.”
“Neither frosty nor too fiery shall be our love, my heart,” said he, “but of an even and equable tenor, flickering to glorious heights of flame sometimes, yet ever based on steadfast foundations of celestial fuel that cannot burn away.”
“Then kiss me,” said Ægle; and for the first time their arms encircled each other and their beautiful lips met.