He sang a song filled with sadness, that recalled the regular beating of the waves against the shore.
At Pandion’s request the old man sang him the lays of the origin of their race, and about neighbouring lands and peoples.
Aware of the fact that he was hearing the words for the last time, the youth tried to catch every single one of them, striving to remember songs that from earliest childhood had been closely bound up with the image of his grandfather. Pandion pictured in his mind the ancient heroes who had united the tribes.
The old bard sang of the stern beauties of his native land where all things in nature are gods incarnate; he sang of the greatness of those who loved life and conquered nature, instead of hiding from her in the temples and turning their backs on the present day.
And the youth’s heart beat furiously — it was as though he ‘stood at the beginning of roads leading into the unknown distance where every turn opened up new and unexpected vistas.
That morning it seemed that the hot summer had returned. The clear blue of the sky breathed heat, the still air was filled with the song of the grasshoppers and the white cliffs and boulders gave off a dazzling reflection of the sun. The sea had turned transparent and rippled idly along the shore, for all the world like old wine in a giant cup.
When his grandfather’s boat was lost to sight in the distance sorrow gripped Pandion’s breast like an iron band. He fell to the ground, resting his head on his crossed arms. He felt himself a small boy, alone and abandoned, who with the departure of his grandfather had lost part of his own heart. Tears poured over Pandion’s arms, but these were not the tears of a child, they came in huge, separate drops that brought no relief.
His dreams of great deeds had receded far into the background. There was nothing that could console him, he wanted to stay with his grandfather.
Slowly but surely came the realization that the loss was irreparable, and Pandion made an effort to set his feelings under control. Ashamed of his tears, he bit his lip, raised his head and gazed for a long time into the distant sea, until his confused thoughts again began to flow smoothly and consistently. He rose to his feet, his eyes swept over the sun-warmed shore and the hut under the plane-tree, and again he was overcome by unutterable sorrow. He realized that the carefree days of his youth were past, never again to return with their semi-childish dreams.
Pandion plodded his way slowly to the hut. Here he buckled on his sword and wrapped his other possessions in his cloak. He fastened the door securely so that storms might not enter the hut and went off along a stony path swept clean by the sea winds, the harsh dry grass swishing mournfully under his feet. The path led to a hill covered with dark green bushes whose sun-warmed leaves gave off the strong odour of pressed olives. At the foot of the hill the path branched into two — the right-hand path leading to a group of fishermen’s huts on the seashore, the other continuing along the river-bank to the town. Pandion took the left-hand path and passed the hill; his feet sank into hot white dust and the singing of myriads of grasshoppers drowned the noise of the sea. The stony slope of the hill disappeared in a wealth of trees where its foot reached the river. The long narrow leaves of the oleanders and the heavy green of the bay-trees were overshadowed by the dense foliage of huge walnut-trees, the whole merging into a curling mass that seemed almost black against the white background of limestone. Pandion’s path led him through the forest shade and after a few turns brought him to an’ open glade on which stood a number of small houses clustered at the foot of the gently sloping terraces of the vineyards. The youth quickened his pace and hastened towards a low, white house visible behind the angular trunks of an olive grove. He entered an open shed and a middle-aged, black-bearded man of medium height rose to meet him; this was Agenor, the master sculptor.
“So you’ve come at last,” exclaimed the sculptor in some elation. “I was thinking of sending for you… And what’s this?” Agenor noticed that Pandion was armed. “Let me embrace you, my boy. Thessa, Thessa!” he shouted, “come and look at our warrior!”
Pandion turned quickly round. Out of the inner door peeped a girl in a dark red himation thrown carelessly over a chiton (Himation — woman’s outer garment consisting of a rectangular piece of material in the form of a shawl; it was usually thrown over the shoulder but in bad weather could be used to cover the head. The chiton is a long, sleeveless garment of thin material, worn without the himation in the house.) of fine, but faded, pale blue material. A smile of pleasure revealed her lovely teeth but an instant later the smile vanished, the girl frowned and gave Pandion a cold stare.
“See, Thessa’s angry with you; for two whole days you haven’t been able to find time to come here and tell us you were not going to work,” said the sculptor, reproachfully.
The youth stood silent with drooping head and his eyes shifted stealthily from the girl to his master.
“What’s wrong with you, boy? No, not boy but warrior,” said Agenor. “Why this sadness and what’s that bundle you have brought with you?”
Hesitantly, incoherently, again afflicted by the sorrow of parting, he told of his grandfather’s departure.
Agenor’s wife, the mother of Thessa, approached them. The sculptor laid his hands on the youth’s shoulders. “You have long since earned our love, Pandion. I am glad you have chosen the life of an artist in preference to that of a warrior. The fighting will come, you won’t be able to avoid it, but in the meantime you have much to achieve by hard, persevering labour and meditation.”
Pandion, following the custom, bowed low to Agenor’s wife and she covered his head with the corner of her mantle and then pressed him fondly to her bosom.
The girl gave a little shout of joy and then, with signs of embarrassment, disappeared into the house, followed by her father’s smile.
Agenor sat down by the entrance to his workshop for a quiet rest. A grove of ancient olive-trees grew right outside the house; their huge, angular trunks were intertwined in the most fantastic manner that to the contemplative eye of the artist resembled people and animals. One of the trees was like a kneeling giant whose arms were held wide apart above his head. The rugged irregularities of another tree-trunk formed an ugly body, distorted by suffering. It seemed as though all the trees were bent under the effort to raise upward the heavy weight of their countless branches covered with tiny silvery leaves.
The figure of a woman in a bright blue holiday himation with gold ornaments slipped out of the other side of the house. As she disappeared behind the slope of the hill the sculptor recognized his daughter. Treading softly with her bare feet, Agenor’s wife came and sat down beside her husband.
“Thessa has gone to Pandion in the pine grove again,” said the sculptor and then added: “The children think we don’t know their little secret!”
His wife laughed gaily but turned suddenly serious as she asked: -
“What do you think of Pandion now that he’s been with us a year?”
“I like him more than ever,” answered Agenor and his wife nodded her head in agreement. “But…” The artist paused before choosing his next words.
“He wants too much,” his wife finished the sentence for him.
“Yes, he wants a lot and much has been granted him by the gods. There is nobody to teach him, I cannot give him what he’s seeking,” said the old artist with a note of sorrow in his voice.
“It seems to me that he’s too uncertain, he can’t find his own vocation; he’s not like other lads,” the woman said in a low voice. “I can’t imagine what he wants and sometimes I feel sorry for him.”