IT was understood between Typhon and Ægle that when their pilgrimage ended, they would return to Athens and wed.
“But first,” said the young man, “we must seek Soter until the year that Zethis directed has passed. Then there are certain things to be done. We are now among the loftiest peaks of the Pindus Mountains, and to journey hence to Epirus and Dodona is no great matter. Having there planted the acorns from my friend, the oak, who guards the treasure-house of Plutus, we will return by the way we have come, visit those scenes we have shared together, or I have described to you, and then go to Athens and stand before the Master and my parents.”
And so it was. Through long months they hunted side by side for Soter, tuning their hearts to patience under disappointment; but each day was like the last, though they were now skilled to know better than the wisest the alpine herbs of their native land. Still the treasure they desired smiled not. Even to the grey and silver lichens on the mountain crowns they sought, and questioned the last delicate films of life that lay upon the peaks of the earth; but none could tell of Soter, or answer to that name.
Then they descended from Pindus westerly, and travelled together to the Oracle of Zeus and Dione — she who at Dodona was worshipped as wife of the god of gods. There the first sanctuary had been itself an oak-tree, at whose foot bubbled a spring, and from whose rustling foliage the quick-eared priests and priestesses read divine direction. As yet Delphi in Phocis had not eclipsed Dodona; but the competition already grew keen.
Here Typhon planted his acorns, and was well received. Then he set his face to the east, but travelled again by the winding ways that he had followed. Nearly four years were passed since he left his home; but he had taken care, when chance offered, to send messages to his parents, that they might know all was well with him. He had not, however, mentioned Ægle in these communications, designing her for a surprise.
“What Epicurus will say at my failure remains to be heard,” said Typhon to Ægle, “but you will be able to assure him that I have done my best; and should he bid me start again to seek Soter farther afield, if need be in Lesser Asia, or upon the African coasts and deserts, I shall set out once more.”
“Let us hope he will be satisfied that you have done your best, and put a more comfortable charge upon you,” she answered.
“There remains, then, our journey home; and I will retrace it for you. First we stand by the cypress and the tomb of Zethis and his little house upon the mountain; then we shall see the spot where your dear parents died and visit the arbutus and those round about who were good to us. I next must call upon a noble pine, who befriended me against the wolves and told me certain things concerning the God Pan which were worth knowing. The great tree is beyond my service, but I would renew our friendship. Then to the oak we go and tell him that his acorns lie in Dodonian soil, to sprout when another spring touches them; and we will inquire concerning the treasure at his roots, which, Ægle, you understand is yours to the least jewel. You care not for these things, nor do I; but they have two values — the intrinsic, that may be wisely spent to lessen the trouble of the earth, and that extrinsic worth which will increase your own in the eyes of the community whence I come. A few curios we will take for gifts upon the way, and presently send my father’s trusted slaves from home to bring all in.
“Next we visit the people at the villa of Admetus, for I wish to learn how they have fared since I left them years ago and whether they took the advice that I gave them. You shall see the loveliest tree in the world at the same time. We must also hear the fate of Melas, the armourer; of Sarpedon and his son Eryx, with whom I fought; and of the vine, which wanted to escape the vineyard. These things accomplished, we set our faces to Athens.”
Ægle observed that of all his acquaintance the buckthorn was not mentioned; and she admired his tact.
The young man and woman did as Typhon ordained, and having laid a wreath of myrtle and olive upon the sleeping-place of the dead hermit, they began a slow descent from the mountain, so that each day of journeying found them sinking to the valley lands again.
They stood beside the empty place where Ægle had been born and her dear parents had perished.
“Here I will erect a noble stele of marble to the memory of Tydeus and Canace,” promised Typhon. “The spot shall be remembered for many generations; Amyntor, the sculptor, or another, shall carve an object of beauty to mark the place where they passed from earth, and Menander shall be richly paid for some beautiful words to set above their dust.”
The orphan, with her hand in Typhon’s, cast melancholy glances upon the scene, and so they turned away, while he sought to cheer her thoughts by considering the manner of the monument to be set up.
And then Ægle, through her tears, espied the woman-hating arbutus, handsomer than ever, with new buds and new berries, as yet hard and green among the polished foliage.
Typhon drew his heavy dagger and advanced, while the arbutus shivered and protested at the peril.
“It is a cowardly crime to destroy a tree,” he began, “but to choose the moment of pending fruitage and highest splendour marks you for a villain. What have I done except express certain strong opinions? Would you banish freedom of thought from off the earth?”
“No,” replied the young man; “that is the last thing I would do; but you spoke many base lies concerning women when I stood long ago beneath your branches. These falsehoods, since I am myself about to wed a woman, I take as personal. Nevertheless your crimes are forgiven for Ægle’s sake. I have vowed never to destroy a tree and I shall keep my word. I propose only to enhance your charms and enrich your glory — though little you deserve such honour.”
So speaking, he carved upon the smooth, red trunk of the arbutus the outline of a heart, and therein set two names, thus:
So was Ægle restored to happiness and the tree stung to fury.
“Many years must pass,” said Typhon, “before this inscription will vanish. Indeed I have bit so deep that it is likely to endure as long as yourself. Be proud of it. Farewell, and no longer rival your berries in their arid worthlessness, but cultivate a larger mind, and be beautiful not only without but within also.”
In the course of another month Typhon found again the pine, and the noble tree was disfigured by a blaze upon its mighty bole. He remembered Typhon, perceived that the youth was grown into a man, and hoped that life continued to treat him fairly.
“But what is this ugly stain stamped upon you?” inquired the wanderer. “It was not there when last we met.”
“The woodmen have set it here,” explained the pine. “I am to fall.”
He displayed the most stoic composure before his fate; indeed, his friends were more concerned than the tree.
“You saved Typhon from the wolves and you shall not be cut down,” said Ægle.
“Do you want to die?” asked Typhon, “because in that case I will not interfere; but if you wish to live, tell me.”
“Seeing that I am not more than a century old, I should certainly have enjoyed a lengthier span of years,” confessed the pine; “but there is no arguing with the men of the axe. They will not heed you, even if you desire to save me.”
But Typhon bade his friend be of good cheer.
“The question is one of value only,” he explained, “and if I offer the woodmen as much as you are worth to them, then they will spare you.”
“This is great and hopeful news,” replied the pine, “yet I fear to the woodmen I may be worth a considerable sum.”
“Nothing in comparison with Typhon’s life,” declared Ægle. “We will seek the woodmen and bring them here and promise them twice as much as you are worth in their eyes.”
The pine showed that he was pleased.
“I must own to you that respite from death is good to me,” he assured Typhon, who repeated his words to the girl. “I had composed myself to bid an everlasting farewell to earth and sky and my great and small neighbours. All knew by the fatal sign that I was doomed, and many have expressed their regret, for when the mighty fall, not a few little people must perish with them. I think only the wolves cared not; indeed, certain of those creatures, remembering how you saved yourself in my branches, declared that they are glad I am to perish. If, however, you carry weight enough to preserve me, I shall be amused to relate to the wolf-pack how I harboured my own saviour on the last occasion of a visit from you.”
Typhon now sought the woodmen, and very soon struck a bargain with them. The blaze was taken from the great pine and the rough cross of red paint which they had set upon it removed. Then, to prove that Typhon lied not, the woodmen sent two of their number to Athens, that they might see Agathion and carry his son’s letter to him.
They made speed and returned as quickly as they might with twice the sum that Typhon had named.
“And this,” said the woodmen, “was given as a thank-offering by the good and great Agathion and his wife, Elpenice, because in your letter you record how your face is now set for Athens and you are on the way.”
So the pine grew in respect and reverence among the folk of the forest; and they left him content, and Ægle carried from him one red cone in remembrance.
“When this is ripe,” declared she, at parting from the pine, “I will sow the seeds in my garden. Thus your children will grow up with my children, and there shall be friendship and remembrance between our families.”
“I desire nothing better,” said the giant.
So they left him and, journeying onwards, came by many marches to the Oracle of Apollo and the oak-tree that stood beside it. His naked branches still thrust above the narrowing ambit of his life, but they were longer, and his fires abated. He remembered Typhon and showed gratification at his news.
“Your acorns,” said the traveller, “are received with all due reverence at Dodona. They have been planted in holy ground and will, I doubt not, grow into trees worthy of their parent in course of time.”
“I thank you for your pious duty,” replied the oak, “and knowing now that my seed is preserved for further centuries in the sacred soil from which I sprang, I can make an end without fret or sorrow. All here is now as peaceful as I could wish. Dion and his daughter never returned, and the temple is rapidly tumbling down. But a beautiful building, erected on noble principles, makes a distinguished ruin, just as a notable tree like myself dies grandly.”
“I am going to move the temple, stone by stone, and set it up in the garden of Epicurus,” explained Typhon; and Ægle, through him, addressed the oak.
“I hope you will live for a long time yet,” said she. “You look very well and hearty — what there is left of you.”
“Another half century, perhaps,” replied the oak. “And what of the Oracle? Did Apollo tell you anything helpful, Typhon?”
“He told me the truth,” answered Typhon, “and showed me what was to happen.”
Having learned of Typhon’s adventures, and the glorious fact that he would presently wed Ægle, whom he had saved from self-destruction, the oak touched another matter.
“Concerning the buried treasure,” he said, “this is now at your service; but you must exercise caution and wisdom, for beneath your feet lie wonders that all Athens could not buy. The ransoms of a dozen emperors are here.”
“This is Ægle’s treasure,” explained Typhon. “I have given everything to her.”
“Then she is the wealthiest maiden that the world has known, or ever will know,” replied the oak.
“We want a few small jewels for presents at once,” said Typhon, “and anon, when we return to Athens, I will dispatch a guard of faithful men and remove the treasure.”
He found Dion’s rusty spade presently, dug where the tree bade him and soon unearthed a casket of trinkets that made Ægle tremble with emotion.
“Each of these will keep a hundred poor in comfort for a lifetime,” said she, and Typhon applauded this large view of the toys.
“Nevertheless,” he slyly added, “you must not be priggish and superior about it, my blessed love. Everything shall not be sold, and I have yet to see your wondrous hair and incomparable waist circled with such gems as no living woman has ever worn.”
Their opposite angles of vision provoked much argument between the lovers as they journeyed onward; for Ægle, who had known want and need in her youth, set security above all things; while Typhon, to whom poverty was but a word, thought freedom the ideal.
“Why should not everybody have both?” asked Ægle.
“Because, at present, there is neither enough security nor freedom to go round,” explained Typhon. “This is one of those things we must try to improve.”
After leaving the oak, they set out for the villa of Admetus, and when this stage of the journey was accomplished, scarcely had their destination appeared when tragedy confronted them.
Leading Ægle to visit the perfect maiden birch, they found her stricken. Some tempest beating through the glade had cast down the fair tree; her trunk was broken a foot above the ground and her death was upon her. But as yet she lived, and Typhon discovered that her unconquerable opinion of herself still served to support her and lessen the bitterness of the end.
“What has happened?” he asked, and the birch replied:
“Surely it is not difficult to see why I suffer? Some envious goddess, rendered jealous by my perfection, has called on Zeus to destroy me; and, since he obeyed her, she must have been a potent person. His thunderbolt has robbed earth of its first beauty and I leave the world the poorer. Yet, as you perceive, I am self-possessed, for without question I shall swiftly be translated into heaven and burn for ever among the immortal lights.”
“A great consolation,” said Typhon.
“A due reward for perfection — neither more nor less than I have deserved. A new star is only waiting my extinction to glimmer upon the void; and meantime, since you have known me in my glory, look to it that the pure and perfect timber, without knot or blemish, whereunto I shall soon be reduced, is dedicated only to the highest and most notable purpose. Explain in the ear of Admetus and his companions that my limbs and trunk must be treated with all reverence, and converted only into temple or palace furniture — the former for choice. What remains should be burned upon a fragrant pyre with some pomp and circumstance. If this be duly done, inform Admetus that my constellation may cast a special and refulgent beam over his mansion when the night sky is unclouded.”
“You are not in pain, I hope?” asked the young man.
“No,” replied the birch; “perfection does not recognise physical disabilities. Upon the threshold of immortality the very suggestion is banal.”
“You keep your wonderful language to the last,” murmured Typhon.
But Ægle laughed quite loudly when they were beyond earshot of the dying birch.
“Pride may survive even a fall, it seems,” said she.
At the villa they were welcomed with enthusiasm by four very happy people. Never had Ægle seen men and women so wealthy and joyful, and never had such a greeting been extended to her lover. She, too, shared the glory, and Tyro and Callidice, the poet, Admetus himself and Agenor, the incomparable sculptor, all smiled upon Ægle.
“How did it turn out?” inquired Typhon, and the practical Tyro, who was actually looking younger, informed him that his directions had been followed with magnificent success.
“After the first strangeness had worn off,” she told him, “we found ourselves happier and happier, better and better, kinder and kinder to each other, full of a great and abiding peace, which, of course, Admetus, in his generous and great-hearted fashion, extended to our slaves and humble servitors. He is incapable of keeping a good thing to himself, is my Admetus. We have become a most united, cheerful and affectionate household; we sing, we dance; we never forget the watchful gods for a moment. There are half-a-dozen new temples to divine celebrities in the grounds since you honoured us with your presence, my Typhon.”
“And is Callidice making poems?” asked the young man.
“She has made two perfect poems,” replied Tyro.
“Only two!”
“Thus far two only; but each took a considerable time. One is a boy, the other a girl.”
Even as she spoke a golden perambulator, pushed by a young and comely Nubian, appeared from a dingle of the estate, and Typhon beheld the most fascinating and lovely brace of babies possible to be imagined.
“They have called them ‘Admetus’ and ‘Tyro,’” said the lady.
“Great poetry without a doubt,” admitted Typhon. “And what of Agenor’s statues?”
“Finding himself so far in advance of the age,” explained Tyro, “Agenor has abandoned his art for the moment, that the body of critical opinion may advance somewhat, and intelligently glimpse his own deep purposes. He is, in fact, waiting for people to catch up a little. When they have done so, and there are critics and connoisseurs worth carving for, then he will resume his chisel and mallet. So, at least, he tells us. Meanwhile he devotes his boundless energy to our herbaceous borders, and reads aloud in the evenings.”
“He and Callidice are very beautiful,” said Typhon’s sweetheart, who had been gazing with admiration upon the great artists.
“They are,” admitted Tyro. “I think but one thought shadows their happiness, that would otherwise be perfect. They are very proud, and feel that to live so entirely on Admetus and myself is a little unworthy of them. We strive to allay this foolish pride, but, at intervals of six months, it casts them down for a day or two.”
Ægle had never seen such a superb banquet as Tyro arranged on the evening of their visit.
“I little knew there were such lovely things to eat and drink in the world,” she said.
Next morning, having made their friends promise to come to the wedding, they set out once more, and the sculptor undertook to turn the fallen birch into some attractive garden seats.
“I am desperately busy,” he whispered. “Between ourselves the whole care of these vast estates is really upon my shoulders. Admetus, dear fellow, doesn’t realise how I work — dreamer that he is; but I save him many a sack of gold yearly, and am proud to do so.”
“Now,” said Typhon, a week later, “we approach the scene of my slavery, for I also know what slavery means. Listen!”
Through the twilight they heard the distant note of a smith’s hammer.
“It is Melas at his forge,” explained Typhon, and Ægle trembled.
“I fear the wretch,” she whispered; but her lover only laughed and invited her to look at his biceps.
“The case is altered,” he said.
Presently they heard that Melas was singing while he worked, and to the surprise of the visitors it appeared that he chanted a hymn to Ares — a poor but pious composition. And then the shrill note of a woman’s voice also ascended in harmony.
“By Zeus!” cried Typhon, “his wife has returned to him! It is Ino — she whom I assisted to escape.”
And a moment later, when he appeared before his old tormentor, he found indeed Ino and Melas together. But an amazing change marked the armourer. He appeared powerful as ever, and beat his brass and steel with even greater vigour than of old; yet the expression of his face was changed: ferocity had given place to mildness; his eyes no longer glared like those of a savage beast, and his voice had lost its snarling and bestial quality. Ino recognised Typhon and greeted him with friendship.
“Noble boy!” said she. “I can see that you are surprised to find me once more in the home of Melas: but, as I always told you, and as no doubt this young person knows, ‘a wife is a wife.’”
“I am going to be Typhon’s wife,” said Ægle.
“Then you are fortunate,” replied Ino; “for I can assure you that he is a loyal and chivalrous lad. I see, indeed, that he has grown into a magnificent man. He saved me from Melas at a time when my dear husband suffered assault from dark and wicked spirits. But all is now changed and the real, loyal, sober and respectable Melas has appeared. I could not keep away; I had to return; something drove me back to him.”
“Probably Eros,” declared Typhon.
“At any rate I came, though in great trembling; and what did I find? Tell them, Melas.”
The smith wiped his hands and his brow and spoke mildly.
“After you had imprisoned me, Typhon, I suffered many things,” he explained. “Nobody came to the rescue and I began to think my end was at hand. But at my last gasp there arrived men with an order for fifty helmets, and they succoured me and saved me. They fed me through bars of the cage, and anon succeeding in entering it. Then there returned Ino, to find me a very sick, starved man, and she nursed me back to health and strength with wondrous love and care. After that I found the gods. Ino’s reappearance proved the turning-point in my unsatisfactory career. I vowed amendment, strove to repay those whom I had ill-used, curbed my tongue, abandoned the use of wine and called industriously on Ares, who is the rightful god for such as I.”
“And he heard Melas,” continued Ino, “and gave him a clean heart, so that now, although his work is to arm the men of war, he himself is as peaceful as a water-vole, or tree-climbing woodpecker. Experts are said to doubt these sudden conversions; but surely Melas is a shining proof that a fortnight on bread and water and a week on nothing at all can break the hardest spirit, and force that little crack which is wide enough for the gods to enter in.”
“I am really a good man now,” declared Melas; “and there is not the least reason to fear any reversion to savagery. We are happy and prosperous, and, to show this significant change has been accepted, I may tell you that our neighbours now trust me and love Ino. If you are going to be married, Typhon, I shall forge you a beautiful wedding gift of red copper and golden brass; and I hope you will accept it and let the evil that I did you be forgotten. You brought me into the ways of righteousness, though by a painful path, and I shall never remember your name except to bless it.”
“That is much to the good,” replied Typhon; “and you also taught me no little, Melas — though it was chiefly what to avoid. However, the past shall be forgotten between us and we will count each other for friends.”
The pair abode that night in the clean and garnished dwelling of Melas and Ino, shared their simple supper and, when day returned, joined them in a hymn to the God of Battles. So they went forward once again, ever nearing Athens.
Here and there they left a little gift from the small treasures of Plutus which they carried with them, and many folk offered to bear Ægle upon a litter, fearing that she wearied of the marches; but she laughed at fatigue, and vowed that never would she be carried while yet she could walk or run.
Then came a day when Typhon called on Sarpedon, the Macedonian, and introduced Ægle to the vine-grower and Eryx, his son. They showed Ægle where Typhon had climbed to eat the figs, and she gave a precious gift to the wife of Eryx, who was now married. Then Typhon bought the vine, from which he had broken a bough on the first night of his wanderings, and bade Sarpedon dig it up and bring it to Epicurus when autumn returned.
“The vine desires freedom and a place wherein she may develop her own way for creation of beauty,” explained the young man. “She argues, moreover, that her utility to her neighbours will be no wise lessened, for her berries in freedom, if not so large, are to be more numerous and sweeter.”
“She is mistaken,” replied Sarpedon; “but I will do as you direct and carry the vine to the garden of the philosopher, Epicurus, when the leaf falls.”
They parted in friendship, and presently, at the wish of his sweetheart, Typhon visited the vine herself, reminded her of the past and informed her of his purpose. The beautiful creature, now rich with ripening grapes, showed great joy at the future he had planned for her.
“I perceive,” said she, “that you have been sojourning with right pagan people, whose behaviour is so superior to the urban folk. With patricians I could dwell, being myself one, or with country men; but may the gods defend me from Demos and that last word in stark villainy of manners which we call the lower middle class!”
“They are the backbone of the nation,” explained Typhon; “yet fear not: Epicurus recognises no classes save his own; and to them, all who practise good will and true friendship for their neighbours are welcome.”
Nor did Typhon forget the old woman he used so ill. Clymene still lived, but her sister was now dead. Therefore he spoke words of sorrow to the ancient woman for his hateful conduct of the past, gave her a good gift, and won her pardon.
So they walked through the suburbs of the city and came to Athens. Here, for the first time, Typhon saw Ægle timid and nervous; but he supported her, cheered her, and soon brought her into the presence of his parents.