I thought, on the way, about my own initiation. I had been the last to enter the old Mystery, and the first into the new. Though I had known in part, from the priests and from the bard, what was to be done, yet there was great power in it, great dread and darkness, great light and bliss. Passing years and their deeds had worn the memory thin. But now I thought of it, and of the lad about to meet it. What would he have made of the old one; the wrestling to the death, with the throned Queen watching; the marriage bed in the dark cave, the shameless torchlight? Would he blush and run for the hills? “Yet,” I thought, “surely he has heard of it. She whom he serves is not a maiden always; and before all her faces she likes due incense burned. He is made more like a man than most men are. Some day the Bride will say to him, ‘Is my altar to be cold forever?’”
It was a fine shining night. The mystae stripped themselves, men and women, and waded with their torches into the sea, the last rite of their cleansing. Once it had washed them of the dead king’s blood. Even then, it was grave and seemly; how solemn it is now, all the world knows. For a long time the torch of the priest was leading; then another passed it, mirrored in the water, held by a taller man who could wade deeper in. Somewhere among all the wavering lights was Phaedra, safe with the Good Goddess, where she would take no harm.
The lights went out. There was a long pause, for the rerobing. Through the gloom I saw from the Citadel above only a stir of shadows; they were trooping into the sacred temenos, where all the rock-gaps had been closed to keep the Mystery secret. Into the deep hush rose a sound of chanting, sweet and full of grief. It was too far to hear the prayers. The night fell back into silence. Somewhere a dog howled, as dogs do when they feel solemnity; it broke off in a yelp, and all was still.
It is the time for dying (I say no more; the Twice-Born will understand) and my thoughts were with the dead. Once more my heart died with her. At last from within the earth the gong tolled out, the voice of darkness; even from far off one felt the awe. But for me it had no terror. No dread; and no promise either.
Then came the clear light shining; the silent wonder, the great cry of joy, the hymn. New-lit torches flickered forth like fireflies from a cave, and the dance began. I watched its measure, unwearying as the course of stars, till dawn broke on the mountain. Then I led the people down to meet the mystae and bring them home.
As the risen sun made a sparkling sea-path towards Athens, they met us by the shore, with their new white robes on, crowned with wheat-ears and flowers. The faces, I suppose, were what one sees each year: some still half-dazed after the fright and the glory; some, who had dreaded it long before, just happy to have it behind them; some joyful at having won a happy fate in the Land beyond the River. I looked at the youths, and the lad who led them, thinking to see him sleepwalking in a trance, still seeing his vision. But he gazed about him, all delight, as if his eyes could find nothing that was not precious and dear. His face held great peace, and wonder; but, also, the tenderness that goes with half a smile. Picture a grown man who has watched children stumble through some solemn game, seeing in it beauty they do not know of, and a meaning beyond their reach. He looked like that.
I spoke the ritual welcome; the priests made answer. It was time for the mystae to break their fast among their friends. As Hippolytos came towards me with a smile of greeting, there was a great dark swoop of wings across the sun. A raven, sailing from the high crags to scan the plain, had paused above us; hovering so low, one could see the purple sheen upon its breast, like the enamel-work on precious swords. The people pointed and called to one another, arguing the omen. But the lad just gazed upward, happy and still; you could tell he saw nothing but the beauty that hung outspread upon the breeze. As it stooped lower, he reached out his hand, as if to greet it; and it skimmed down almost to his fingertips, before it swept out towards Salamis and the sea.
I watched it, feeling troubled, till a fussing among the women drew my eyes away. It was Phaedra, who was being held head-down, and given wine. What with the fasting and the standing, and the strong awe of the rites, one or two women always faint at the Mysteries. This year there were four, and I thought no more of it.
III
IT WAS QUITE SOON after this that Akamas looked pale one day, with circled eyes. When I asked how he was, he said he had never felt better. But his mother told me he had had a choking-fit in the night, the first for years.
“I will send the doctor,” I said. I was thinking it would be a bad business, if the next king turned out as brittle in body as in mind. “But meanwhile, it might do him good to see his brother first. Hippolytos has a good deal to do today; he sails tomorrow; but it seems he helped the boy before.”
I sent to seek him. He had been bidding farewell to his friends, and their love came with him, like a scent of summer. It ran to waste off him, this power over men he could have turned to mastery. As the love came he bloomed in it; it was enough for the day. When the harvest ripened, he would give it away for nothing.
After being with Akamas some time, he came back thoughtful, and sat down by my chair. He would have squatted like a page, if I had not pushed him the footstool. It was not humility, but the carelessness a man can afford who stands six feet and three fingers. He talked quite simply, like a good plowboy speaking of his ox. “Last time he had these turns, it was something on his mind. Nothing much, as Apollo showed him; all it wanted was the air let in. This time he won’t talk, which is a pity; but by my guess it’s not far different. His mother does not look so well as before the Eleusinia; do you think so, Father? Maybe she’s homesick for Crete.”
“Maybe,” I said. ”I will ask, at least. At this rate, I don’t know how the boy will get on leading warriors in the field. He could do with some of your strength. Well, he will be sorry you must sail tomorrow.”
“Oh, I told him I would stay a day or two, if I have your leave, Father. May I send a runner to the ship?”
That evening I went over to Phaedra’s room. She had kept to it since the Mysteries. That first night she had been tired; I had had the girl from Sicily; and so it had gone on, with nothing said on either side. When I came in, she looked up quickly and called for her shawl. She looked thinner, and higher-colored, as if with fever; there was something about her taut and crackling, as if her hair would spark under the comb.
When the maids were gone, I asked after Akamas, whom I had just seen sleeping easily, and then after herself. She said she was well enough; she had some headaches; it was nothing; yet it made her tired. I said Hippolytos had been concerned for her; on which she sat up, laughed at his fancying himself a doctor, and asked what he had said.
They don’t laugh in Troizen,” I answered. “They think he has healing hands.”
“Why, then, the thought will heal them. What did he say?”
I told her. She stiffened in her chair; then jumped to her feet with the shawl clutched round her. What had I been about, she cried, to allow such insolence? Because this youth thought himself too good for anyone, would I let him command my household now? Where was my pride? Her voice grew shrill; she was shaking from head to foot; I had never seen her so angry. I thought it must be her moon-time, and answered calmly that the lad had spoken in kindness, meaning no harm.
“No harm? How do you know? Oh, there is something behind. Why does he want me sent away? He wants us forgotten, me and my son, to give him first place before the people.”
“You are much mistaken.” She was late with her fear; the irony made me want to laugh. But I held it back; she was Minos’ daughter. “As you know, he has made his choice.” But she still ran on about his pride and coldness. Such pettiness seemed unlike her. I feared that she guessed my wishes; it was a thousand pities I had brought her here, to make her ambitious for her son. Only a fool, however, will try to reason with women when they have their times. I went away and, the night being young, found other company.