CHAPTER XII
“THE PLACE OF GOLDEN TRIPODS”
Theria awoke in the first grey of dawn. She sat bolt upright in her narrow bed. A dream had awakened her, or rather a purpose, a purpose full formed in sleep. Awake, even her bold mind could not have dared it.
Theria was going to dare to go out of the house! Out into the free morning. Under the sky. Away through Delphi. Up into the beloved Precinct. Oh, she would see all of it—this once!
The consequence? Never once did she think of consequence. She was simply doing what she did as if a god had pushed her to it, feeling vaguely that she was in the hands of her god. She sprang from bed and threw about her bare lovely body her chiton, pinning it at the shoulders. How her fingers trembled! Then around her supple waist went her zone, drawn tight; then came cloak and sandals.
The key to the front door was in her father’s room. Nikander slept soundly, but Melantho slept, like puss by the fire, with one eye open. “If they see me they will whip me again,” she thought. “Well, what of that?”
Noiselessly she stepped out upon the court gallery. Everything in the court stood strangely distinct in the dawn. Would she ever see again the little altar, the swing that hung motionless in its place? No one could tell what might ensue if she went out. Theria stole forward to her parents’ room.
Yes, they were asleep. The key was kept in the chest among the book-scrolls. With an instinctive prayer, she opened the chest and put her hand deftly among the metal cylinders. But one of them settled noisily into a new position. It clattered like a chariot in her ears, and she crouched terror-struck. Her father moved, sighed. The key was not there. In desperation she arose and pushed her hands behind some clothes on a peg. There, O Kairos! it hung. And grasping it in her hand, Theria disappeared like a shadow, and so descended the stair.
The porter would be near the door; but at this hour surely in his lodge asleep. And Medon was growing very deaf these days. He was hardly a fit porter, but Nikander would not grieve the old man by taking away his office. Theria had grace enough to feel a passing regret that Medon through this escapade of hers might lose his beloved duty.
Now she was at the door, fitting the great key into its hole. Careful Medon was asleep but lying almost across his door. Oh, if she could be quicker! If she would not so lose breath! But slowly the door opened. It did not creak—not very much.
She slipped through the crack.
Then, O Hermes, O gods of all open spaces and swift feet! She was out of doors. She was under the sky. So high that sky that she was dizzy looking up at it. Not the accustomed low ceiling of the room or the narrow opening above the court. It was the lofty treading place of the Immortals. All the air in the world met her first deep-taken breath—fragrance a thousand fold—the uprising spirit of the morn meeting her spirit.
She ran like a deer along the road in the grey silver light. A marvellous place in which to be set free. A vast amphitheatre of hills, spaceful and she in the midst of the space. On every side in a far-flung circle rose dim mountain forms to the silvery sky. On a nearer hillside, aslant like a picture, lay the precious sanctuary, framed four square within its clear-seen walls. But within all was dim and confused, for the cliffs which towered above it still had it in their shadow.
She stopped to gaze at it with that tenderness which we feel toward things asleep and with a reverence born of twelve generations of worship. Men of her blood and bone had here met the god and here had builded his temple. Hers the Precinct had been long before she was born. Hers it would be when she was dead a thousand years.
But how was she to get in? The Precinct was so strictly guarded, the wall so high. Her spirit shrank as she thought of it.
Suddenly Theria heard a footfall coming toward her and quick as a thought she turned down one of the steep streets. Once within the narrow blackness she could see a little—could see the house doors set down and down the terraces, and the Apollo statues standing pillar-like beside each door. No one was abroad in the street.
She passed down the better section and came below into the slave quarter. Here a stench met her which was almost more than she could bear. In this fetid place doors were wide open and crowded slaves snoring within. The sweat and weariness of slaves were the very smell of the place. Was it here that Olen and the kitchen slaves had to come after their day’s work was done? Now she passed some half-naked women asleep in the street. Great pity for them swept her, pity for their slave life and slave lowness. She stooped over one of them, gazing into her face.
The creature awoke with a howl of terror.
“Ye fool,” she cried. “Damned of Hades. If ye come home late as this can’t ye keep still? Ho, I’ll trounce ye.”
The woman leaped to her feet. Theria fled down the street, turned the corner, and fled down another, the woman in full chase, her cries arousing the quarter. Here was real danger. This was the place where thieves and ruffians hid themselves who came to rob the Precinct. But even in her fright Theria had no instinct to run home. She only fled farther away down the hill. She outdistanced the woman, who presently gave up the chase. Then Theria found herself below the town in the depth of the glen.
She was hurt as if the woman had struck her. Never had she heard loathsome oaths such as had been flung after her. Their meaning filled her with horror. Thus much had her cloistering done for her that it had kept her whitely pure. She crouched like a wildwood thing amid the bushes—confused, daunted. Then slowly her determination came back, and she began to climb cautiously upward.
At last she regained the highroad.
While this low adventure was chancing a whole new world had been made—a world of dawn, of faint rose and amethyst under an awakened sky, immense, marvellous, holy.
Theria had emerged directly below the sanctuary. Its great wall towered above her with glimpses over it of temple roofs. Above all rose the great Phaidriades cliffs, colossal, shutting out the east. Their colour now was the ripe bloom of a plum from their base up to where their clear-cut summits met the zenith. Theria stood clasping and unclasping her hands. She was a living spark of expectancy in that expectant morning world. Here outside the wall near the gate stood the victor statues. She could not but pause by one. She knew its place well, her supple, young great-grandfather, who had won the running match for boys. There he stood, long limbed, spare, archaically smiling at her and, for all time, fourteen years old. Dryas also would have a statue here among the music victors. Tenderly proud Theria marked the place for it near their ancestor. In her present mood she had no jealousy or regret.
According to custom, ancient and immutable, Theria must now pass by the Precinct and go onward some distance to Castaly’s fount before entering the sacred place. She wrapped herself in her cloak and hurried forward.
She easily found Castaly—a pool glassy-still in its rock-cut basin at the foot of the sheer cliff. It was quite deserted and hidden from the road. Birds fluttered up at her approach. A solemn place.
She looked about her. In mortal fear she took off her cloak and dropped her chiton to her feet. So, like a white nymph, very small at the foot of the cliff, Theria stepped down into the sacred pool. She met the icy water with a shivering cry, but she took the plunge. No one might enter the temple who had not first bathed here. She came out tingling, touched with ecstasy. For holy Castalia cleansed the soul as well as the body. Quickly she put on her garments, quickly walked back to the Precinct.
She dared not even think now of the difficulty of entrance. One terrible moment would decide. She mounted the six steps to the Precinct gate, dipped her trembling fingers in the lustral bowl—then knocked. They were great bronze doors opening inward.
At once came steps within and the clanking of heavy keys—the rasp of the unlocking. Then the doors slowly, stingily, opened.
When she saw the keeper’s hideous face at the crack, her courage sank in her.
“I want to come into the sanctuary,” said her faint voice. “I want to pray to the god. I would like to make a sacrifice.”
“Ye can’t consult no priests now,” said the man. “They’re just gettin’ out o’ their beds.” Behind the man she saw the glitter of the armed guard.
“I don’t want to consult a priest, I want to pray—to pray for myself and my house.”
“Women like you ain’t got no house. Now get along with you.” He was shutting the doors. Desperately she laid her hand in the crack. “I pray you, I pray you,” she cried. Then she tore off the himation which wrapped her head. “Judge you whether I have a house or no”—lifting her face—“I am a Nikander.”
“Great gods in Olympos!” quoth the keeper. “Ye sure be.”
He opened the doors slowly, hesitating even yet. The guard fell back.
“Line for line an’ feature for feature,” murmured the keeper of the keys. “That daughter of Nikander’s. It’s crazy she is. I’ve heard o’ her.”
Theria slipped through the narrow opening.
She was within! Locked into a wilderness of beauty. Multitudes of little temples, red, blue, and gold; multitudes of statues, some of hoary eld, some glossy new; statues of wood, marble, bronze, standing under graceful porticoes, or standing bareheaded by the wayside looking out dreamily from life-like eyes.
And over all the still holiness of the morning the unearthly light whose steady increase affected her spirit like a joyous, irresistible call.
A child set free in fairyland? Oh, Theria was more than that. A soul set in heaven, if ever heaven came down to earth; and, in sooth, it sometimes does. Theria’s soul leaped up from its depths. Suddenly she could not see for the tears which filled her eyes. She brushed them away impatiently. She must not waste one moment of her seeing.
Right at hand stood the Athenian Gift after Marathon—statues of Athenian gods and heroes standing so friendly, mortal with immortal together in their portico.
“Ah, Athena, thou art dreaming of thine own hill in Athens,” she cried, moving closer. “No, thou must not. Be happy here, dear Athena.” Bred in the worship of images, Theria quite forgot that all these were not alive.
Here was Miltiades. He who nine years ago had won the battle of Marathon. He was a noble statue in the new manner. Almost a portrait, with his curling beard and fearless eyes. Theria touched his robe.
“It was thou who saved Hellas,” she said seriously. “Oh, thou couldst do it, thou hast the look.”
Suddenly Theria realized that the light was much increased. She had told her name at the gate. That would mean quick capture. She must hasten. Before her the white Sacred Way zigzagged boldly among the treasuries up to the lordly temple of Apollo above them all. In Delphi there is neither near nor far, but only below and above.
Swiftly Theria chose out what she must see and what she must pass by, perhaps never to see again. For though she might some day walk here in processions she could never linger as now. Every object had its story, “history,” she would have called it, for she believed them all.
Here near by was the Argive bronze horse given to commemorate the Wooden Horse which Odysseus made and gave to Troy. Everyone knew that tale. And here was the Sikyonian Treasury. Theria must see that, because it was the first little temple at the wayside and was very old. It was round with a circle of chaste pillars upholding the roof. She mounted the three shallow steps. The doors had been just opened, for some god had destined her to go in. The little circular cella held many treasures, but of these Theria saw only the central one—a book unrolled upon a marble table. The antique lettering was of pure gold. Eagerly she began to read. No one had told her of this book. It was the epic poem of Aristomache of Erythrai, a woman! Aristomache had won the prize at the Isthmian games. Of course it was long ago. But a woman had won it! The poem, how lovely, how much more noble than Theria’s; but a woman’s, a woman’s! Theria would try again, try to reach the high goal this woman had set. Oh, she would try soon! She was heartened and came out of that treasury with shining, purposeful face.
Theria had lingered here longer than she had intended. In haste she had to pass the treasuries higher up the way, the Knidian—a little temple exquisite as a jewel lifted high upon its tower-like foundation, its porch upheld by tall, long-haired maidens—“Korai,” she called them.
She began to meet caretakers on the way, yawning after their night watch, going to their homes.
Now came the first turn upward of the Way. Here stood her beloved Naxian Sphynx, the one the top of whose wing she had always glimpsed from her window. How wonderful now, close at hand, high on her high pillar, her breast covered with brilliant feathers, her blue wings flung up lofty to the sky, her woman’s face dreamily smiling. Ah, well she kept her wisdom to herself, Mistress Sphynx! Theria knew she was dreaming tenderly over the silent dead. For she was Gê, mistress of earth and underworld.
Theria climbed dreamily higher up the Way, passing now the threshing-floor where Dryas had enacted the play. Memories, stories, faiths—all these swam together in her mind until she dreamed herself away and became part of the poesy about her.
Now the Sacred Way made its last steep turn. From here the whole Delphic Vale burst into view. The Way here ran upward and clung against the wall-like foundation of the Great Temple, but on its outer side was a veritable Olympos, full of gods and godlike men, statues which would remake art if we could but see them now.
All were in action. Achilles on horseback and his beloved young Patroclos running beside the horse and gazing up at him. Apollo and Heracles both grasping the tripod (for they had once had a quarrel over it). The mother Leto and sister Artemis were trying to quiet the angry god, and Athena was quieting the boisterous hero. The eyes of these statues were set with living coloured stones and looked in anger, command, compassion, whatever they willed. No wonder Theria shrank from them a little afraid.
Suddenly Theria was aware beyond the statues of the great depth of vale—the Pleistos a silver ribbon visible for miles, the hills away and away, and ah! the direct golden sunlight in long level shafts flooding the vale. The sun had risen high over the mountain. Her time was almost spent. She fairly ran up to the remaining Way to the platform of the great Temple.
She stood breathless, awed before the greatest temple of all Hellas. It was pure Doric. Grandeur spoke from its mighty columns, repose from its perfect roof. It was at once solemn and tender—man’s thought of God made visible. And indeed the god breathed forth in every line of it. No mere thing of white marble was this. Gorgeous it faced the sunrise, crimson of column, blue and orange of architrave, and golden griffined at eaves and peak.
The doors were newly opened and he who had opened them was busily brushing the threshold with a laurel branch for broom. He was singing softly to himself. Happy young priest at his happy task!
Theria came softly nearer. She knew what was in the temple, every bit of sacred furniture and age-old thing. She wanted to see each object, to treasure it in her heart for ever. The young priest saw her and stopped his sweeping in amazement.
“May I go in?” she asked.
“You know very well you may not,” was his answer. Unlike the rude porter he knew that Theria was a lady. “I cannot imagine, Despoinia, how you managed to come up here.”
“I cannot imagine either,” she answered. The joy of it overcame her and she laughed a gay ripple of laughter. This angered the young man.
“You had no business to come here,” he said severely. “You have disobeyed in coming, that I know, or you would not be alone.”
Just at this moment an eagle circling down from the cliffs above made a swoop like a falling stone for the altar where the early sacrifice lay. Instantly the young man seized a bow, near at hand for such adventure, lifted it Apollo-wise, and shot the bird. The he bounded down the temple steps to seize it.
And Theria quick as thought darted into her beloved fane. How lofty it was within, the flickering light from the hearth-flame playing everywhere and meeting palely the day that poured in at the eastern door. This hearth-flame was eternal and must never go out. An old priestess was tending it. Theria paused by the famous navel stone which marked the centre of the earth. Who knows how many thousands of years men had worshipped it. It was a rude stone, but immeasurably holy. Two golden eagles were perched either side of it—commemorating those whom Zeus had sent to meet at Delphi. Farther within, near the Statues of the Fates, was Pindar’s chair, waiting for him always to come and sit and sing inspired songs—the songful Apollo welcoming the human singer and giving him of his own divine fire.
Theria bent and kissed the chair for the love she bore the poet. As she did so her shoulder was seized and roughly shaken.
“What do you mean by coming in here when I had forbidden you?” said the furious priest.
Theria was too startled to speak.
“Answer me!” he shouted.
“I had wished for this,” she faltered. “Perhaps I can never come——”
“I should say not.”
Theria came to herself and stood like a tall goddess.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” she cried. “How dare you?”
But the priest seized her shoulder again. “Get out,” he stormed. “The priests even now are coming up the road with visitors. Get out, I say.”
Theria had no time for either dignity or resistance. The youth pushed her out of the cella, across the temple porch and down the steps.
She fled across the platform. A single glance showed her the whole Precinct below. The little shrines, unearthly in new golden light, the bronze tripods all aglitter. Yes, and the Way! The priests coming up the Way. She was in terror—not of punishment, but of more unkindness. She was almost sobbing.