Part 7 (1/2)
”That,” he said, ”is the workshop of Phidias. There he made the gold and ivory statue of Zeus that you shall see in Zeus's temple. That workshop will stay there many a year, I think, for people to love because so great a thing was done there.”
”Is it so wonderful?” asked Charmides.
”When it was finished,” Glaucon answered solemnly, ”Phidias stood before it and prayed to Zeus to tell him whether it pleased the G.o.d. Great Zeus heard the prayer, and in his joy at the beautiful thing he hurled a blazing thunderbolt and smote the floor before the statue as if to say, 'This image is Zeus himself.' But I have never seen it, for a slave may not pa.s.s the sacred wall.”
Now the full moon had risen, and the world was swimming in silver light.
The statue of Victory hung over the sacred place on spread wings. Many another great form on its high pillar seemed standing in the deep sky above the world. The little pool in the pebbly river had stars in the bottom.
”This Kladeos is a savage little river in the spring,” said Glaucon. ”It tries to tear away our Olympia or drown it or cover it with sand. You see, men have had to fence it in with stone walls.”
But Charmides was looking at the sacred place and its soft s.h.i.+ning statues in the sky.
”Let us walk around the wall,” he said.
So they left the river and pa.s.sed the gymnasium and the gate. Along this side the wall cast a wide shadow. Here they walked in silence. Here there were no tents, no torches, no noisy people. Everything was quiet in the evening air. The far-off sounds of the fair were a gentle hum. A hundred pictures were floating in Charmides' mind--Phidias, Zeus, Creon with the strigil, his own little Hermes, the strange people in the fair, the marble Apollo under the sculptor's tent. In a few moments they turned a corner and came out into the soft moonlight. A little beyond gleamed a broad river, the Alphaeus. Charmides and the slave went over and strolled along its banks. Here they were again in the crowd and among tents. They saw a group of people and went toward them. A man sat on a low knoll a little above the crowd. His hair hung about his shoulders and his long robe lay in glistening folds about his feet. A lyre rested on his knees, and he was striking the strings softly. The sweet notes floated high in the moonlit air. At last he lifted his voice and sang:
When the swan spreadeth out his wings to alight On the whirling pools of the foaming stream, He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a note.
When the sweet-voiced minstrel lifteth his lyre And stretcheth his hand on the singing string, He sendeth to thee, Apollo, a prayer.
Even so do I now, a wors.h.i.+ping bard, With my heart lifted up to begin my lay, Cry aloud to Apollo, the lord of song.
Then he sang of that lordliest of all minstrels, Orpheus--how the trees swung circling about to his music; how the savage beasts lay down at his feet to listen; how the rocks rose up at his bidding and followed him, dancing, to build a town without hands; how he went to the dismal land of the dead to seek his wife and with his clear lyre and sweet voice drew tears from the iron heart of the king of h.e.l.l and won back his loved Eurydice and lost her again the same hour.
The boy, sitting there in the moonlight, went floating away on the song until he felt himself straying through that fair garden of the dead with singing lyre or riding with Artemis through the sky in her moon chariot.
When the song was ended, Glaucon said, ”Come, little master, you have fallen asleep. Let us go home.”
And Charmides rose and went, still clutching his image of Hermes in his hand and still holding the song fast in his heart.
In the morning the whole great camp was awake and moving long before daylight. Every man and boy was in his fairest clothes. On every head was a fresh fillet. Every hand bore some beautiful gift for the G.o.ds--a vase, a plate of gold, an embroidered robe, a basket of silver. All were pouring to the open gate in the sacred wall. Here a procession formed.
Young men led cattle with gilded horns and swinging garlands, or sheep with clean, combed wool. Stately priests in long chitons paced to the music of flutes. The judges glowed in their purple robes. Then walked the athletes, their eyes burning with excitement. And last came all the visitors with gift-laden hands. The slaves and foreigners crowded at the gate to see the procession pa.s.s, for on this first holy day only freedmen and Greeks of pure blood might visit the sacred shrines. When Charmides pa.s.sed through, his heart leaped. Here was no empty field with a few altars. He had never seen a greater crowd in the busy market place at home in Athens. But here the people were even more beautiful than the Athenians. Their limbs were round and perfect. They stood always gracefully. Their garments hung in delicate folds, for they were people made by great artists--people of marble and of bronze. All the G.o.ds of Olympos were there, and athletes of years gone by, wrestling, running, hurling the disc. There were bronze chariots with horses of bronze to draw them and men of bronze to hold the reins. There were heroes of Troy still fighting. And here and there were little altars of marble or stone or earth or ashes with an ancient, holy statue. At every one the procession halted. The priests poured a libation and chanted a prayer.
The people sang a hymn. Many left gifts piled about the altar. Before Hermes Charmides left his little clay image of the G.o.d. And while the priests prayed aloud, the boy sent up a whispered prayer for his brother.
Once the procession came before a low, narrow temple. It was of sun-dried bricks coated with plaster. Its columns were all different from one another. Some were slender, others thick; some fluted, others plain; and all were brightly painted. Charmides smiled up at his father.
”It is not so beautiful as the Parthenon,” he said.
”No,” his father answered, ”but it is very old and very holy. Every generation of man has put a new column here. That is why they are not alike. This is the ancient temple of Hera.”
Then they entered the door. Down the long aisle they walked between small open rooms on either side. Here stood statues gazing out--some of marble, some of gold and ivory. The priests had moved to the front and stood praying before the ancient statues of Zeus and Hera. But suddenly Charmides stopped and would go no farther. For here, in a little room all alone, stood his Hermes with the baby Dionysus. The boy cried out softly with joy and crept toward the lovely thing. He gently touched the golden sandal. He gazed into the kind blue eyes and smiled. The marble was delicately tinted and glowed like warm skin. A frail wreath of golden leaves lay on the curling hair. Charmides looked up at the tiny baby and laughed at its coaxing arms.
”Are you smiling at him?” he whispered to Hermes. ”Or are you dreaming of Olympos? Are you carrying him to the nymphs on Mount Nysa?” And then more softly still he said, ”Do not forget Creon, blessed G.o.d.”
When his father came back he found him still gazing into the quiet face and smiling tenderly with love of the beautiful thing. As Menon led him away, he waved a loving farewell to the G.o.d.
The most wonderful time was after the sacrifice to Zeus before the great temple with its deep porches and its marble watchers in the gable.
The altar was a huge pile of ashes. For hundreds of years Greeks had sacrificed here. The holy ashes had piled up and piled up until they stood as a hill more than twenty feet high. The people waited around the foot of it, watching. The priests walked up its side. Men led up the sleek cattle to be slain for the feast of the G.o.ds. And on the very top a fire leaped toward heaven. Far up in the sky Charmides could half see the beautiful G.o.ds leaning down and smiling upon their wors.h.i.+ping people.
Then he turned and walked with the crowd under the temple porch and into the great, dim room. He trembled and grasped his father's hand in awe.