Philothea. Lydia Maria Child
cheek. "You must come here constantly, Philothea. Though I am aware," continued she, smiling, "that it is bad policy for me to seek a guest who will be sure to eclipse me."
"Pardon me, lady," said Philothea, gently disengaging herself: "Friendship cannot be without sympathy."
A sudden flush of anger suffused Aspasia's countenance; and Eudora looked imploringly at her friend, as she said, "You love me, Philothea; and I am sure we are very different."
"I crave pardon," interrupted Aspasia, with haughty impatience. "I should have remembered that the conversation prized by Pericles and Plato, might appear contemptible, to this youthful Pallas, who so proudly seeks to conceal her precious wisdom from ears profane."
"Lady, you mistake me," answered Philothea, mildly: "Your intellect, your knowledge, are as far above mine, as the radiant stars are above the flowers of the field. Besides, I never felt contempt for anything to which the gods had given life. It is impossible for me to despise you; but I pity you."
"Pity!" exclaimed Aspasia, in a piercing tone, which made both the maidens start. "Am I not the wife of Pericles, and the friend of Plato? Has not Phidias modelled his Aphrodite from my form? Is there in all Greece a poet who has not sung my praises? Is there an artist who has not paid me tribute? Phœnicia sends me her most splendid manufactures and her choicest slaves; Egypt brings her finest linen and her metals of curious workmanship; while Persia unrolls her silks, and pours out her gems at my feet. To the remotest period of time, the world—aye, the world—maiden, will hear of Aspasia, the beautiful and the gifted!"
For a moment, Philothea looked on her, silently and meekly, as she stood with folded arms, flushed brow, and proudly arched neck. Then, in a soft, sad voice, she answered: "Aye, lady—but will your spirit hear the echo of your fame, as it rolls back from the now silent shores of distant ages?"
"You utter nonsense!" said Aspasia, abruptly: "There is no immortality but fame. In history, the star of my existence will never set—but shine brilliantly and forever in the midst of its most glorious constellation!"
After a brief pause, Philothea resumed: "But when men talk of Aspasia the beautiful and the gifted, will they add, Aspasia the good—the happy—the innocent?"
The last word was spoken in a low, emphatic tone. A slight quivering about Aspasia's lips betrayed emotion crowded back upon the heart; while Eudora bowed her head, in silent confusion, at the bold admonition of her friend.
With impressive kindness, the maiden continued: "Daughter of Axiochus, do you never suspect that the homage you receive is half made up of selfishness and impurity? This boasted power of intellect—this giddy triumph of beauty—what do they do for you? Do they make you happy in the communion of your own heart? Do they bring you nearer to the gods? Do they make the memory of your childhood a gladness, or a sorrow?"
Aspasia sank on the couch, and bowed her head upon her hands. For a few moments, the tears might be seen stealing through her fingers; while Eudora, with the ready sympathy of a warm heart, sobbed aloud.
Aspasia soon recovered her composure. "Philothea," she said, "you have spoken to me as no one ever dared to speak; but my own heart has sometimes uttered the truth less mildly. Yesterday I learned the same lesson from a harsher voice. A Corinthian sailor pointed at this house, and said, 'There dwells Aspasia, the courtezan, who makes her wealth by the corruption of Athens!' My very blood boiled in my veins, that such an one as he could give me pain. It is true the illustrious Pericles has made me his wife; but there are things which even his power, and my own allurements, fail to procure. Ambitious women do indeed come here to learn how to be distinguished; and the vain come to study the fashion of my garments, and the newest braid of my hair. But the purest and best matrons of Greece refuse to be my guests. You, Philothea, came reluctantly—and because Pericles would have it so. Yes," she added, the tears again starting to her eyes—"I know the price at which I purchase celebrity. Poets will sing of me at feasts, and orators describe me at the games; but what will that be to me, when I have gone into the silent tomb? Like the lifeless guest at Egyptian tables, Aspasia will be all unconscious of the garlands she wears.
"Philothea, you think me vain, and heartless, and wicked; and so I am. But there are moments when I am willing that this tongue, so praised for its eloquence, should be dumb forever—that this beauty, which men worship, should be hidden in the deepest recesses of barbarian forests—so that I might again be as I was, when the sky was clothed in perpetual glory, and the earth wore not so sad a smile as now. Oh, Philothea! would to the gods, I had your purity and goodness! But you despise me;—for you are innocent."
Soothingly, and almost tearfully, the maiden replied: "No, lady; such were not the feelings which made me say we could not be friends. It is because we have chosen different paths; and paths that never approach each other. What to you seem idle dreams, are to me sublime realities, for which I would gladly exchange all that you prize in existence. You live for immortality in this world; I live for immortality in another. The public voice is your oracle; I listen to the whisperings of the gods in the stillness of my own heart; and never yet, dear lady, have those two oracles spoken the same language."
Then falling on her knees, and looking up earnestly, she exclaimed, "Beautiful and gifted one! Listen to the voice that tries to win you back to innocence and truth! Give your heart up to it, as a little child led by its mother's hand! Then shall the flowers again breathe poetry, and the stars move in music."
"It is too late," murmured Aspasia: "The flowers are scorched—the stars are clouded. I cannot again be as I have been."
"Lady, it is never too late," replied Philothea: "You have unbounded influence—use it nobly! No longer seek popularity by flattering the vanity, or ministering to the passions of the Athenians. Let young men hear the praise of virtue from the lips of beauty. Let them see religion married to immortal genius. Tell them it is ignoble to barter the heart's wealth for heaps of coin—that love weaves a simple wreath of his own bright hopes, stronger than massive chains of gold. Urge Pericles to prize the good of Athens more than the applause of its populace—to value the permanence of her free institutions more than the splendour of her edifices. Oh, lady, never, never, had any mortal such power to do good!"
Aspasia sat gazing intently on the beautiful speaker, whose tones grew more and more earnest as she proceeded.
"Philothea," she replied, "you have moved me strangely. There is about you an influence that cannot be resisted. It is like what Pindar says of music; if it does not give delight, it is sure to agitate and oppress the heart. From the first moment you spoke, I have felt this mysterious power. It is as if some superior being led me back, even against my will, to the days of my childhood, when I gathered acorns from the ancient oak that shadows the fountain of Byblis, or ran about on the banks of my own beloved Meander, filling my robe with flowers."
There was silence for a moment. Eudora smiled through her tears, as she whispered, "Now, Philothea, sing that sweet song Anaxagoras taught you. He too is of Ionia; and Aspasia will love to hear it."
The maiden answered with a gentle smile, and began to warble the first notes of a simple bird-like song.
"Hush!" said Aspasia, putting her hand on Philothea's mouth, and bursting into tears—"It was the first tune I ever learned; and I have not heard it since my mother sung it to me."
"Then let me sing it, lady," rejoined Philothea: "It is good for us to keep near our childhood. In leaving it, we wander from the gods."
A slight tap at the door made Aspasia start up suddenly; and stooping over the alabaster vase of water, she hastened to remove all traces of her tears.
As Eudora opened the door, a Byzantian slave bowed low, and waited permission to speak.
"Your message?" said Aspasia, with queenly brevity.
"If it please you, lady, my master bids me say he desires your presence."
"We come directly," she replied; and with another low bow, the Byzantian closed the door. Before a mirror of polished steel, supported by ivory Graces, Aspasia paused to adjust the folds of her robe, and replace