"In your house?"
"I don't run after the youth, now he is grown up."

"Neither shall we!  You are giving yourself useless trouble, Jason, and
I earnestly beg you not to disturb me any longer now, for a dark spot is
already appearing on the roast.  Quick, Chloris--lift the spit from the
fire!"

"I should like to bid Lysander good-morning."

"He is tired, and wants to see no one.  The servants have vexed him."

"Then I'll stay awhile in the garden."

"To try your luck with Xanthe?  I tell you, it's trouble wasted, for
she's dressing her hair to receive our guest from Messina; and, if she
were standing where those cabbage-leaves be, she wouldn't contradict me
if I were to repeat what you heard from my lips this morning at sunrise.
Our girl will never become Phaon's wife until I myself offer a sacrifice
to Aphrodite, that she may fill Xanthe's heart with love for him."

Jason shrugged his shoulders, and was preparing to turn his back on the
old woman, when Dorippe entered and approached the hearth.  Her eyes were
red with weeping, and in her arms she carried a round, yellowish-white
creature that, struggling and stretching it's little legs in the air,
squealed in a clear, shrill voice, even more loudly and piteously than a
hungry babe.

It was a pretty, well-fattened sucking pig.

Jason looked at it significantly, but Semestre snatched it out of the
girl's arms, pressed it to her own bosom, turned her back upon the old
man with resolute meaning, and said, just loud enough for him alone to
hear:

"A roast for the banquet."

As soon as Jason had left the room, she put the nicely-washed pig on a
little wooden bench, ordered Chloris to see that it did not soil itself;
drew from a small box, standing beside the loom, one blue ribbon and two
red ones; tied the former carefully around the little creature's curly
tail, and the latter about its cars; lifted the pig again, looked at it
as a mother gazes at her prettily-dressed darling, patted its fattest
parts with her right-hand, and ordered Dorippe to carry it to Aphrodite's
temple immediately.

It's a beautiful creature, absolutely faultless, and the priest must slay
it at once in Honor of the gracious goddess.  I will come myself, as soon
as everything is ready here; and, after such a gift, foam-born Cypris
will surely grant my petition.  Hide the little treasure carefully under
your robe, that no one may see it."

"It struggles and squeals when I carry it," replied the girl.

"Yes, it does squeal," said the old woman.  "Wait, I'll look for a
suitable basket."

The house-keeper went out, and, when she returned, cried:

"Mopsus  is  standing outside with  our donkey, to carry bag and baggage
to his mother's house, but he's still in Lysander's service to-day.  Let
him put the creature in a basket on the donkey's back, and then he can
quickly carry it to the temple--at once and without delay, for, if I
don't find it on the goddess's altar in an hour, you shall answer for it!
Tell him this, and then get some rosemary and myrtle to garland our
hearth."

Mopsus did not hasten to perform the errand.  He had first to help
Dorippe cut the green branches, and, while thus engaged, sought pleasant
gifts not only on the ground, but from his sweetheart's red lips, then
moved up the mountain with his donkey, very slowly, without urging the
animal.  The latter carried one basket on the right and one on the left
of its saddle, wore bright cock's feathers on its head, and had a fiery-
red bridle.  It looked gay enough in its finery, yet hung its head,
though far less sorrowfully than its young driver, whom Semestre had
exiled from his master's house and the girl he loved.

He spent half an hour in reaching the sanctuary.

Old Jason, at the same time, was standing before the little grove beside
the steps leading to the cella.

The worthy man cradled in his arms, as Dorippe had just done in
Lysander's house, a little squealing creature, and this, too, was a pig;
but it wore no ribbon around its little tail and ears, was not
particularly fat, and had numerous black spots under its scanty bristles
and on its sharp snout.

The old man was gazing at the innocent creature by no means tenderly,
but with the utmost indignation.  He had good reason to be angry, for the
priest had not thought it fit for a sacrifice to the goddess, it was so
poor in fat and full of bad marks.

Alas, and Jason had no second pig, and was so eager to win the goddess to
Phaon's cause.

As soon as he saw Semestre's offering, he had hurried home to anticipate
her with his own, and first win the goddess's heart for his young master.

Now he stood considering whether he should strangle the unlucky creature,
or carry it back to its mother.

Like a frugal steward, he decided upon the latter course, and, just as he
was comparing the image of the lean, spotted animal with its future well-
rounded condition, he heard the hoofs of the donkey driven by Mopsus, the
heavy thud of a stick on the elastic flesh, and after every blow, the
shout, "Semestre!"

Directly after Mopsus and his donkey reached the old man, and as the
youth, without looking to the right or left, dealt the animal another
thwack, again uttering the house-keeper's name, and in connection with it
a succession of harsh, abusive words, Jason looked at the young man with
approval, nay, almost tenderly.

The latter usually shouted a loud "Joy be with you!"  whenever he met the
old man, but to-day answered his greeting only with a sorrowful nod and
low murmur.

The steward had stepped in front of him, laid his hard hand on the
donkey's head, and asked:

"Do you call your ass Semestre?"  Mopsus blushed, and answered:

"In  future  I  shall  call  all  she-asses that, but the old Megaera
named this one Jason."

"Why, see," cried the steward, "how kindly the worthy woman remembers me!
But she, too, was not forgotten, for, whenever you lifted your stick, you
thought, I should suppose, of her."

"Indeed  I  did!"  cried  Mopsus;  then, while stroking the stripes on
the donkey's flanks, added kindly:

"Poor Jason, you too have nothing for which to thank the old woman.  If
you only knew how abominable this woman is--"

"I do know," the steward interrupted, "but she is an old woman, and it
does not beseem you to abuse her; she represents the house under its
invalid ruler."

"I'd willingly lay both these hands under his feet," cried the youth,
"but Semestre has driven me out of his service for nothing, away from
here and Dorippe, and where can I find a place in the neighborhood?"

The almost whining tone of the complaint contrasted oddly with the
appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered Mopsus, yet tears filled his
eyes, as he now told the steward about the juggler, the dance, Semestre's
anger, his banishment from Lysander's house, and the house-keeper's
commission to carry a sucking-pig to Aphrodite's temple for her.

Jason listened with only partial attention, for the low grunting of a
pig, that reached his ears from one of the baskets on the donkey, seemed
to him far more interesting than the poor fellow's story.  He knew the
ways of every domestic animal, and such sounds were only uttered by a
little pig that felt comfortably fat, and lived under favorable
circumstances.

A great thought awoke in his mind, and must have pleased him hugely, for
his eyes began to sparkle, his mouth puckered in a smile, and he looked
exactly like a satyr thrusting his thick lips toward the largest and
ripest bunches of grapes in the vineyard.

When Mopsus paused, he angrily noticed what an enlivening influence his
sorrowful story had had upon the old man, but soon laughed too; for, ere
he could give expression to his dissatisfaction, Jason had opened the
basket on the left of the donkey, taken out Semestre's gayly-decked pig,
put his own lanky animal in its place, and said, giggling with pleasure:

"After what Semestre has done to a poor fellow like you, she doesn't
deserve the favor of our goddess.  Let me offer Aphrodite this most
charming of pigs, and you offer my little beast in the house-keeper's
name; then her petition will certainly find no hearing."

At these words Mopsus's broad face brightened, and, after laughing
loudly, he struck his fist in the palm of his left hand, turned on the
heel of his right foot, and exclaimed:

"Yes, that will be just right."

True, directly after, he looked as doubtful as if an invisible myrtle-
staff had been swung over his back, and asked:

"But if she notices it?"

"I know how we'll manage it," replied the old man, and, putting
Semestre's pig in Mopsus's arms, took the ribbons from its ears and curly
tail.

Meantime, the little animal grunted as piteously as if it noticed that
its finery was being stolen and its beauty impaired.

And when Jason, with Mopsus's assistance, put the same ribbons on his own
lank pig, it looked neither better nor prouder than before, for it was no
lucky animal and did not appreciate beautiful gifts.




CHAPTER V.

THE WALK TO THE SEA.

While the priest of Aphrodite received Jason's gift, praised the pig's
beauty, and promised to slay it immediately, but said he would only
accept the lean animal Mopsus offered in Semestre's name for the sake of
its ornaments and the giver, Xanthe came out of her father's house.  She
wore her handsomest garments, and had carefully arranged her beautiful
fair hair reflecting as she did so on many different things, for maidens
are fond of thinking when seated at the loom or spinning-wheel, or
quietly occupied in adorning their tresses.

Semestre followed close behind, and gave her a small knife, saying:

"It is seemly to decorate the door of a welcome guest with flowers.  The
bushes are full of roses now, so go and cut as many as will be needed for
a handsome garland, but gather only red or yellow flowers, no white ones,
for they bring no good fortune.  You will find the largest below near the
bench by the sea."

"I know."

"Wait and hear me out."

"Well?"

"The weather is delightful, there was a light breeze from the north
during the night, so it may happen that the ship from Messina will arrive
before noon."

"Then let me go down."

"Go and watch for the sails.  If you see ours, hurry back and tell
Chloris to call me, for I must go to the temple of Cypris."

"You?"  asked Xanthe, laughing.

"I, and you are the last person who should sneer at the errand; nay, you
can accompany me."

"No!  I will cut the roses."

These words were uttered in a tone the house-keeper knew well.  Whenever
Xanthe used it, she insisted upon having her own way, and did what she
pleased, while Semestre, who usually never admitted that her hearing was
no longer so keen as in former clays, in such cases willingly pleaded her
deafness, in order to avoid a retreat.

To-day she particularly shrank from irritating the easily-excited girl,
and therefore replied:

"What did you say?  Wouldn't it be better for you to go and cut the roses
immediately, my dove?  Make haste, for the vessel for which you are to
watch bears your happiness.  How beautiful the ornaments Leonax is
bringing will look!  We have never yet seen the like, I imagine.  The
people in Messina haven't forgotten poor me either, for I heard whispers
about a robe such as matrons wear.  It is--it might be--well, we shall
see."

Tittering, and almost embarrassed, she fixed her eyes upon the ground,
reminded Xanthe once more to have her called as soon as the ship from
Messina appeared, and then, leaning on her myrtle-staff, tottered up the
path leading to the temple of the goddess.

Xanthe did not go directly down to the sea, but approached her uncle's
house to seek Phaon with her eyes.

As she could not see him, either in the stables, or the walk lined with
fig-trees trained upon espaliers beside the house, she turned quickly
away, repressing out of pride her desire to call him.

On her way to the sea she met her uncle's high-shouldered slave.  Xanthe
stopped and questioned him.

Semestre had told no lie.  Phaon had not yet returned from a nocturnal
excursion, and for several days had not reached home until just before
sunrise.

No, he was not the man to offer support to her sick father.  He was
looking for a wealthy heiress, and forgot his relatives for the sake of
dissolute young men and worthless wenches.

This thought hurt her sorely, so sorely that she wanted to weep as she
had done by the spring.

But she forced back her tears; not one wet her cheeks, yet it seemed as
if her poor heart had obtained eyes to shed them.

The little knife in her hand reminded her of her task of cutting roses,
and watching for the ship which was to bring her uncle's son from
Messina.

If Leonax was what Semestre described him, she would not repel him like
the other suitors, whom she had rejected with laughing lips.

Yes, she would become his wife, not only for her father's sake, but to
punish Phaon.

Sorrow and pain never felt before filled her heart after making this
resolution.  Wholly engrossed by these conflicting emotions, instead of
going down to the sea, she walked straight on till she reached the great
gate that led to her own home.  There she remembered the object of her
errand, and was just turning back, when the conjurer, who was resting
outside the gate with his cart in the shadow of the fence, called:

"You are obeying my advice, beautiful Xanthe, and move as thoughtfully
as a sophist."

"Then you must not disturb me," cried the girl, raising her head
defiantly.  "Pardon me if I do so," replied the other, "but I wanted to
tell you that I might perhaps know of aid for your father.  In my home--"

"Where is your home?"

"In Messina."

"Messina!"  exclaimed Xanthe, eagerly.

"A very experienced physician lives there," interrupted the conjurer.

"No one has helped my father."

"Yet!"

"Then come in and speak to him."

"I'm afraid of the cross old woman."

"She has gone out, and you will find father alone."

"Then I'll go to him."

"Did you say you were from Messina?"

"That is my home."

"Do you know my uncle Alciphron, the merchant?"

"Certainly.  He owns the most ships in the place."

"And his son Leonax, too?"

"I often saw him, for my hut stands opposite to the landing-place of
your uncle's vessels, and the youth always superintends the loading and
unloading.  He, if any one, belongs to those spoiled children of fortune
who disgust poor dwarfs like me with life, and make us laugh when people
say there are just gods above."

"You are blaspheming."

"I only say what others think."

"Yet you too were young once."

"But I was a dwarf, and he resembles Achilles in stature; I was poor and
he does not know what to do with his wealth; maidens fled from me as they
seek him; I was found in the streets; and a father still guides, a loving
mother kisses him.  I don't envy him, for whoever enters life an orphan
is spared the pain of becoming one afterward."

"You speak bitter words."

"He who is beaten does not laugh."

"So you envy Leonax his prosperity?"

"No, for, though I might have such excellent cause to complain, I envy no
king, for there is but one person whose inmost heart I know thoroughly,
and that one stands before you.

"You revile Fate, and yet believe it possible that we may all have more
sorrow to bear than you."

"You have understood me rightly."

"Then admit that you may be happier than many."

"If only most of the contented people were not stupid.  However, this
morning I am pleased, because your father gave me this new garment, and I
rarely need despair; I earn enough bread, cheese, and wine with the aid
of my hens, and am not obliged to ask any man's favor.  I go with my cart
wherever I choose."

"Then you ought to thank the gods, instead of accusing them."

"No, for absence of suffering is not happiness."

"And do you believe Leonax happy?"

"Hitherto he seems to be, and the fickle goddess will perhaps remain
faithful to him longer than to many others, for he is busy from early
till late, and is his father's right-hand.  At least he won't fall into
one of the pits Fate digs for mortals."

"And that is--?"

"Weariness.  Thousands are worse, and few better, than your cousin; yes,
the maiden he chooses for his wife may rejoice."  Xanthe blushed, and the
dwarf, as he entered the gate, asked:

"Is Leonax wooing his little cousin?"

"Perhaps."

"But the little cousin has some one else in her mind."

"Who told you so?"

"My hens."

"Then remember me to them!"  cried Xanthe, who left the juggler and ran
straight toward the path leading to the sea.

Just at the point where the latter branched off from the broader road
used by carts as well as foot-passengers, stood a singular monument,
before which the young girl checked her steps.

The praise the conjurer had lavished on Leonax afforded her little
pleasure; nay, she would rather have heard censure of the Messina suitor,
for, if he corresponded with the dwarf's portrait, he would be the right
man to supply a son's place to her father, and rule as master over the
estate, where many things did not go on as they ought.  Then she must
forget the faithless night-reveller, Phaon--if she could.

Every possession seems most charming at the time we are obliged to resign
it, and never in all her life had Xanthe thought so tenderly and
longingly of Phaon as now and on this spot.

The monument, overgrown with blossoming vines, before which she paused,
was a singular structure, that had been built of brick between her own
and her uncle's garden.

It was in the form of a strong wall, bounded by two tall pillars.  In the
wall were three rows of deep niches with arched ceilings, while on the
pillars, exquisitely painted upon a brownish-red ground, were the Genius
of Death lowering his torch before an offering-altar, and Orpheus, who
had released his wife from the realm of shadows and was now bearing her
to the upper world.

Many of the niches were still empty, but in some stood vases of semi-
transparent alabaster.

The newest, which had found a place in the lowest row, contained the
ashes of the young girl's grandfather, Dionysius, and his wife, and
another pair of urns the two mothers, her own and Phaon's.

Both had fallen victims on the same day to the plague, the only
pestilence that had visited this bright coast within the memory of man.
This had happened eight years ago.

At that time Xanthe was still a child, but Phaon a tall lad.

The girl passed this place ten times a day, often thought of the beloved
dead, and, when she chanced to remember them still more vividly, waved a
greeting to the dear ashes, because some impulse urged her to give her
faithful memory some outward expression.

Very rarely did she recall the day when the funeral-pile had cooled, and
the ashes of the two mothers, both so early summoned to the realm of
shadows, were collected, placed in the vases, and added to the other
urns.  But now she could not help remembering it, and how she had sat
before one of the pillars of the monument weeping bitterly, and asking
herself again and again, if it were possible that her mother would never,
never come to kiss her, speak caressing words, arrange her hair and pet
her; nay, for the first time, she longed to hear even a sharp reproof
from the lips now closed forever.

Phaon was standing by the other pillar, his eyes covered with his right
hand.

Never before or since had she seen him look so sad, and it cut her to the
heart when she noticed that he trembled as if a chill had seized him,
and, drawing a long breath, pushed back the hair, which like a coalblack
curtain, covered half his forehead.  She had wept bitterly, but he shed
no tears.  Only a few poor words were exchanged between them in that
hour, but each one still echoed in her ears to-day, as if hours instead
of years intervened between that time and now.

"Mine was so good," Xanthe had sobbed; but he only nodded, and, after
fifteen minutes had passed, said nothing but, "And mine too."

In spite of the long pause that separated the girl's words from the
boy's, they were tenderly united, bound together by the thought, dwelling
uninterruptedly in both childish hearts, "My mother was so good."

It was again Xanthe who, after some time, had broken the silence by
asking "Whom have I now?"

Again it was long ere Phaon, for his only answer, could repeat softly:

"Yes, whom?"

They were trivial words, but they expressed the deep wretchedness which
only a child's heart can feel.

Scarcely had they found their way over the boy's lips when he pressed his
left hand also over his eyes, his breast heaved convulsively, and a
torrent of burning tears coursed down his cheeks.

Both children still had their fathers, but they forgot them in this hour.

Who, if the warm sun were extinguished, would instantly remember that the
moon and stars remain?

As Phaon wept so violently, Xanthe's tears began to flow more slowly, and
she gazed at him a long time with ardent sympathy, unperceived by the
lad, for he still covered his eyes with his hands.

The child had met a greater grief than her own, and, as soon as she felt
that she was less sorrow-stricken than her playfellow, a desire to soothe
his sorrow arose.

As the whole plant, with its flowers and fruit, is contained in the
sprouting seed, so, too, in the youngest girl lives the future mother,
who dries all tears, cheers and consoles.

As Phaon remained in the same attitude, Xanthe rose, approached him,
timidly pulled his cloak, and said:

"Come down to our house; I will show you something pretty: four young
doves have come out of the shell; they have big, wide bills, and are very
ugly."

Her playmate removed his hands from his eyes and answered kindly:

"No, let me alone, please."

Xanthe now took his hand and drew him away, saying:

"Yes, you must come; the pole of my cart is broken."

Phaon had been so accustomed to be always called upon whenever there were
any of the little girl's playthings to mend that he obeyed, and the next
day allowed her to persuade him to do many things for which he felt no
inclination.

He yielded in order not to grieve her, and, as he became more cheerful
and even joined in her merry laugh, Xanthe rejoiced as if she had
released him from his sorrow.  From that time she claimed his services as
eagerly as before, but in her own heart felt as if she were his little
mother, and watched all his actions as though specially commissioned to
do so.

When she had grown up she did not hesitate to encourage or blame him,
nay, was often vexed or grieved about him, especially if in the games or
dances he paid more attention than she deemed reasonable to other girls,
against whom there was much or little objection, nay, often none at all.
Not on her own account, she said to herself, it could make no difference
to her, but she knew these girls, and it was her duty to warn him.

She willingly forgave many things, but on this point was extremely rigid,
and even allowed anger to carry her to the verge of rudeness.

Now, as she stood beside the sepulchre, she thought of the hour when she
had comforted him, of her care for him and how it had all been vain, for
he spent his nights in rioting with flute-playing women.  Yes, Semestre
had said so.  He seemed to Xanthe lost, utterly lost.

When she wept in the morning beside the spring, it was not, she now
thought, because of the heiress from Messina; no, the tears that had
sprung to her eyes were like those a mother sheds for her erring son.

She seemed to herself extremely venerable, and would have thought it only
natural if gray hair instead of golden had adorned the head over which
scarcely seventeen years had passed.

She even assumed the gait of a dignified matron, but it was hardly like a
mother, when, on her way to the rose-bushes by the sea, she studiously
strove to misunderstand and pervert everything good in Phaon, and call
his quiet nature indolence, his zeal to be useful to her weakness, his
taciturn manner mere narrow-mindedness, and even his beautiful, dreamy
eyes sleepy.

With all this, the young girl found little time to think of the new
suitor; she must first shatter the old divine image, but every blow of
the hammer hurt her as if it fell upon herself.




CHAPTER VI.

The rose-bush to which Xanthe went grew on the dike that belonged in
common to her father and uncle, beside a bench of beautifully-polished
white marble.

Many a winter had loosened the different blocks, and bordered them with
yellow edges.

Even at a distance the girl saw that the seat was not vacant.  The brook
that flowed from the spring to the sea ran beneath it, and the maid-
servants were in the habit of washing the household linen in its swift
current.

Were they now using the bench to spread out the garments they had rinsed?

No!  A man lay on the hard marble, a man who had drawn his light cloak
over his face to protect himself from the rays of the sun, now rising
higher and higher.

His sandaled feet and ankles, bandaged as if for journeying, appeared
beneath the covering.

By these feet Xanthe quickly recognized the sleeping youth.

It was Phaon.  She would have known him, even if she had seen only two of
his fingers.

The sun would soon reach its meridian height, and there he lay asleep.

At first it had startled her to find him here, but she soon felt nothing
but indignation, and again the image of the flute-playing women, with
whom he must have revelled until thus exhausted, rose before her mind.

"Let him sleep," she murmured proudly and contemptuously; she passed him,
cut a handful of roses from the bushes covered with crimson and yellow
blossoms, sat down on the vacant space beside his head, watched for the
ship from Messina, and, as it did not come, began to weave the garland.

She could do the work here as well as anywhere else, and told herself
that it was all the same to her whether Phaon or her father's linen lay
there.  But her heart belied these reflections, for it throbbed so
violently that it ached.

And why would not her fingers move; why could her eyes scarcely