Part 4

PHIDIAS (_with a moan turns from his tormentor to face the stone wall, muttering_). “Dreamer,” he called me. Is it by that name My curse comes? Verily; I dreamed my shame, My rich accusings. Dreamed brook-flowing folds Of draperies, dreamed my young hero-moulds, Dreamed men who sat their horses, as they rode Clouds over seas, dreamed Panathenaic ode In singing-rhythm round the Parthenon; The frieze and metopes of Theseion; Dreamed the sweet-bodied girls, whose maiden strength Poise vase and basket all the Temple length. Dreamed the slow, garlanded, portentous beasts, Led by the veiled and sacrificial priests; Dreamed the young, leaping horseman’s haughty ease Pediment grouped, or filleted in frieze. Was it a dream only to-day shall know? Lives it no longer than this artist’s throe? If that must be, then butterfly most drear I sink back to the worm-thing crawling here.

JAILER (_having curiously listened, now struts forward and faces the Sculptor. He eyes him stupidly and shakes his finger at him_). Why, were it not for Pericles who gave Thee marble, color, gold for statues brave,-- Poured out his coffers,--we should amply be Equipped for Persia. Bronze and ivory Changed back to drachmæ, all the sacred rock Would stand as staunch, to the barbaric shock, As when Pisistratus, with hardy race, Made the Acropolis his fortress place. And look ye, with that gold Athena wears (Filched from State monies, for thy stone affairs), We could plant ships in Piræus, array Our strength to Corinth, where the Persians may Once more with envy strike.--But, thou wouldest bring To a State’s need thy stone imagining! Fie! but for gold, thy dreams would be as vague As fat my wife scrapes from altar-dreg, And boils to stuff to make my chiton white; Ethereal substance, wind-shaken, alight With lambent iridescence, very fine, From the amphora gushing forth like wine. But look you, in a moment, just a trace Of foam is all that froths from out the vase, And nothing’s left but the damp greasy lees; So knave, with thee, without thy Pericles!

THE SCULPTOR (_with scornful amusement to himself_). He mouths that name as if it were a mask, Through which a stupid actor says his task, Forgets, mistakes, yet struts around the place Thinking the mask gives him a certain grace.

(_Phidias wearily rises and stretches himself, the jailer meanwhile curiously observing him._)

PHIDIAS (_abruptly_). Slave, thou art childish, many a name like this Links close to art, for its own ego-bliss, To have possession, be the master, who Owns, keeps, controls, the work we artists do. Pericles views the height of Athens’ power, Pomp of Acropolis, where every hour In golden, crimson, blue, and creamy dye Ecstatic marble forms sing to the sky, And hears them sing! (This for his kingly wage:) “_Nikomen_, Athens, Pericles, Golden Age!”

JAILER (_looking at the prisoner with heavy curiosity_). And what, by Hades, _is_ the thing they sing?

PHIDIAS (_turns impulsively to answer; then a fierce reticence makes him draw himself up and turn away_). Torture me not with thy coarse questioning; My sorrowing answers, for the ribaldries Of bath or games: “Thus spluttered Phidias, Maddened at being walled up.” So the crass Idling crowd, jostling in brainless mass, Gapes, sneers, and marvels, at my grim defeat; Mud covers stately names where rascals meet.

JAILER (_with offended dignity_). Well, then, good-night. I leave thee to thy prayers. No friends, no patron, for thy artist-wares, Unless, indeed (_grinning back of his hand_) Zeus showers thee with gold Like Danaē.

PHIDIAS (_steadily and reverently_). Yea, most mighty Zeus can hold Me to my service, to that Ageless Thing Higher than he, called Beauty.

(_He breaks off suddenly, goes eagerly to the now departing jailer, saying authoritatively_.)

Fellow, bring Here to my cell, some wax, a tool or two, Some clay, a lump, stuck in thy cap will do-- A hand’s length of the white, Pentelic stone, From where it sleeps within the mountain, grown Pregnant by streams and flowers, for some birth Of wingéd dream, out of hypnotic earth.

JAILER (_backing mockingly away, mimics coarsely_). A jewel, a star, a little bit of wax! Some tiny thing this mighty genius lacks! That pearl, perchance, Aspasia’s bosom decks, Or blood-red stones hung round Hetairæ-necks!

PHIDIAS (_beseechingly_). Only some clay, man, in the dark my touch Will fashion thee a goddess-image, such As still they place in niches, who obey “Sea-wards, oh! Mystæ,” on Eleusis-Way. I’ll mould thee woman’s hand, or horse’s head, A dreaming faun, Marsyas as he bled; A babe’s round, dimpled, saucy little back; A vine-wreathed satyr, with his grape-filled sack.

JAILER (_pompously drawing aloof_). By Dionysus! that were illy done. Artist is one thing. State another. Shun Thee and punish thee, doth Will of State, Who art no artist more, but he who late Sculptor to Pericles, now is a knave, Who sits and twists his thumbs in prison-cave!

(_The_ JAILER _finishes by an insulting gesture and departs_. PHIDIAS _going to the heavy door listens to his retreating footsteps. He draws a long sigh and, standing with his back to the door, looks up at the patch of blue sky, in silence. At last he speaks._)

Thus they leave Phidias, worker in the bronze, Breather of life! breaker of chisel-bonds! He is, they think, a man, a common thing-- All yellow, freckled, thin-blooded; they wring His soul, because of policies. Make him a sacrifice to fallacies; “Drop him,” they say, in any dungeon now; “Gods, grant in time his traitor’s neck shall bow To death, for that he trifled with the State! Strike his face from the shield where he dared mate That face with Pericles,”--Oh! lofty Hill High Sacred Rock, where sun-bathed columns thrill; Proud statue-gleaming, gold Acropolis; Dreamed I so high, to fall as low as--this? Athens, I made thee out of my heart’s blood; Rising by ages, from Time’s ’whelming flood. Deucalion-fashion, soar my stones that sing The beauty of this age’s visioning. Out of Iktinos’ soul the Parthenon grew-- Those glorious Doric shafts, that taper through The blaze of morn or eve. Athena’s shrine, Lodging her ivory maidenhood, is mine! ’Twas I who gave the Lemnian her life, Knew god-like action whether peace or strife. Knew how a god would stand, breathe, smile, or frown, And by that knowledge, deities’ renown, I was a god-creator. Yet I lie Here in befoulèd darkness, with the sky Still burning blue upon the mountain tops Surrounding Athens; where the Sun-God stops Of evening, all his golden fingers laid On marble chords of rhythmic colonnade, And plays so strange, so Delphic-high a strain, That hopes ethereal fill men’s hearts again. Oh! Athens, marble glory, is it naught Phidias lived, and dreamed, and planned, and taught?

(_In his agony the Sculptor buries his head in his hands. There is a long silence, suddenly broken by the alighting of a_ CRICKET _upon the small grated window; the_ CRICKET _keeps up a steady trilling and is not at first noticed by the Sculptor_.)

THE CRICKET

Greet, greet, greet, Pan with hymning sweet. Wine and corn are here, Grapes and honey clear; Olives, purple-black, Burst from tawny sack. Through Olympian night Temples glimmer white Stars their tangled vines Wreathe around the shrines. Shepherds all alone Under mountain tree, By the midnight sea, Shall pipe songs of thee Singer in the stone!

(PHIDIAS _listening intently, passes his hand over his eyes, creeps nearer under the grating, straining his gaze upward_.)

Prometheus! but I think this minstrel wrings Wise melody from gauzy zither-wings, A healing balm, like to the lustral wave At Delphi, comes my broken soul to lave. For, as he perches with his roundelay, Methinks he counsels me; not for to-day Only is artist-pride and feverish bliss-- Perchance my spirit still may suffer this Infamy, yet go singing down the years!

(_The Sculptor pauses doubtfully. Still looking upward, he presses closer beneath the little window._)

Answer me, Cricket, are my stricken tears, My empty hands, proof of a thing to be, That I dreamed true? If Beauty nourished me, Mothered and saved; shall I in ages more Stand firm and proud, telling what guise she wore These days? For with young Myron I would hold There is a law of Beauty, which, controlled By men’s stern truth, becomes a sacred thing, Expanded from our holy cherishing. It is not static, cold, but lives and grows Out of the All of Life, the artist knows.

(_The_ CRICKET _after another silence, again chirps. This time the rhythm is feebler and grows fainter and fainter, as the Sculptor, face upwards, eagerly listens_.)

THE CRICKET

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Praise is full and meet; O’er the architrave, Beautiful and brave, Strong and good and fair, Poise in hallowed air. In the violet clime, In the winter rime, On the poppied steep, In the passes deep, All the temples know Paths that Greece shall go Toward posterities Far beyond the seas! Far as man is known, Thou shalt speak to men Far beyond thy ken, Beyond tongue or pen, Singer in the stone!

(PHIDIAS _at the close of the lilt lifts both arms appealingly. The_ CRICKET _is silent a moment_.)

PHIDIAS. Hist!--the green minstrel, god-of-little-things, Thinketh perchance he strums his lyric wings On dark Hymettus, where bees sip so long, They lose their way in all the flower throng, And many a little waxy dot of fuzz Is caught in honey-prison. (_Whimsically._) Thou dost buzz Cricket, as loud as I, encased In this hard prison, bitter to my taste.

(_The_ CRICKET _after a long pause trills for the last time_.)

Fleet, fleet, fleet, The ways of fame are sweet. A marble head of dreams Conquers the world, meseems. Beautiful vases tell How happy peoples dwell. Beautiful bodies speak New message to the weak. Greece adown the years Is the song of Seers. Kora still intones Nike still responds: “Wielder of the wands.” “Worker in the Bronze.” “Singer in the Stones.”

SCULPTOR (_suddenly and rapturously_). Xaire! thou little herald, Xaire! thou Hast cheered me, saved me! See my courage now! What foul, damp cell can ever hold me here? What slander stain my work of yester-year? Upon the Hill my glowing children call To the unborn of Artists; to the All, Great Fusion of the races, who Shall yet unite, some holy thing to do, Before this strange world on its journey far In trackless space shall move an empty star. For portico and frieze and vase and fane. Fountain and stele, that our utmost main Our utterest patience brought to perfect whole Will cast strange, spellful seed, and where the soul Of art is known, its free, broad, ardent wing, “Greece,” will be whispered like a sacred thing! (_To the_ CRICKET.) Yea, Yea! thou little herald, “wingèd pipe,” So I’ll indite thee in thy wisdom ripe-- Now will I write my comrade young and lithe Pæonius, how I imprisoned writhe. Yet for his comfort will I softly tell The cricket message to my dreary cell. Luck! that I hid the chalk lump in my sleeve! Joy that I have the parchment! Who’ll believe That this is _all_ he hath, who was the friend Of Pericles brought to this bitter end!

(_The Sculptor with the parchment on his knee, busies himself in writing. Occasionally he pauses and reads aloud what he has written._)

Pæonius, good comrade, merry Greek, Walking Olympian groves, watching the freak Of scarlet-flowered pomegranate vine Tasting the cool jugs filled with pine-tree wine, Fruits like warm bowls of amber nectar hung And figs from branches o’er the streamlets flung-- Read and reflect, and if thou com’st to see Some supple scheme to set thy brother free, Act on it swiftly; only be advised _Pericles’ day is over_. What he prized Was proud display, but what the people want Is arms and ships that they may proudly vaunt. (Since Marathon no Greek knows how to smile Passing the Soros’ valiant hero-pile, And still they say in Sparta, athletes wait To teach barbarians how Greece is great.) I, the poor Sculptor, lived too near the throne, Therefore, I lie now on the dungeon stone!

(PHIDIAS’S _gaze wanders, he becomes absorbed, intense, then once more he applies himself to the letter_.)

Last summer, passing Sunion, my sail Red-burning down the stormy silver trail O’er clouded blue, I humbly turned my sight Up to that white fane, on the bronzèd height, All its upspringing columns touched with sun As the slow golden clouds walked high upon Wave buttressed paths, to purple Cyclades Those mystic islands of Saronic seas. And as the molten sapphire round me sprayed O’er the eye-painted prow, I humbly prayed Poseidon, that Piræus I might gain; Offered no cock, no vase, oil to contain, But vowed a frieze from my young pupil’s skill, New, daring sculpture for the Sea-God’s Hill In Parian marble, calm and haughty white, To gleam for sailors passing in the night. How I was timid then! who after dared Dispute with Pericles, and proudly shared His vast ambitions for that golden realm-- That Athens, which the vulgar overwhelm. That I did promise, wilt thou execute? So will these singing stones, out of the mute Parian marble, form immortal choir Chanting “Poseidon” to the ocean’s lyre.

(PHIDIAS _pauses once more. He draws a long sigh, then continues writing._)

Well, brother-artist, here I agonized, Until a cricket, by great Zeus apprised, Perched on the window-bar and chirped a thing Wise as Athena, took away the sting Of the world’s serpent-sayings. Friend, I give Faith to the cricket message while I live.

(_The Sculptor, head in hands ponders deeply then again resumes writing._)

He trilled, Pæonius, a theme like this: What we _do_ lives, though after all the bliss Of our own living, must our bodies pass! Hast ever caught the perfume of sweet grass Dying beneath the sickle? Our breath goes Thus to the gods indifferent, ’mid the snows High on Parnassos’ or Kiona’s crest, Where mountain after mountain heaves a breast, Black, billow-deep, sky-ranging, in a chain Tumultuously, serene around the plain. But what we make of beauty keeps its power Down the long years, from the conception’s hour. For mark ye, lad, I never sensed my work, But did it all unconscious; now in murk, In prison black, I see it flying forth, The strong wings of my friezes! All the worth Of Laurion silver in Colossi paid And proud Athena, ivory o’er laid. Gold-sandalled, springing, mellow-marble feet, Olive-crowned heads in pensive bending, sweet Backs, limbs, and bosoms! Noble eye and tress, Caught in the dream of their own loveliness-- I see it all, so calm! “Nothing too much,” Tunics in solemn folds, majesty such As comes with purity; things strong and free; White to the sky and naked to the sea. Women and men that move adown the days Out of the forest deep, through shimmering maize, In fructifying suns, in cooling dews,-- All tranquil, noble, filled with God, or Muse Of deathless Greece.--Yea, all my strife, My will, my soul, was this portrayal--Life!

(_Moved by what he has written, the Sculptor gets to his feet and paces feverishly his narrow cell. He goes on writing as he walks and reading aloud._)

I now see by prophetic cricket-voice That Life is deathless, that my works rejoice For all rejoicing. Brother mine We carve for worlds to come. Beyond the line Of horizons, untravelled, rise the lands Hungry of spirit, waiting at our hands Bread of True Vision. Yea, where rusty wars, Hot blood of nation-struggle, stain these shores, Women and men shall bleed with sacrifice To a dead god, called Progress, and the Vice Of chance-worship, on sickly, pampered knees And counting gold in languors of disease. Can’st picture these, coming to look upon My glorious horsemen of the Parthenon? Seeing your Nikes tread triumphant air? Our marble dreams forever beauty-clean And dark heroic bronzes stained with green, By fire and sword and water all unspoiled, Their perfect limbs’ clear candor unassoiled? Mark ye, those stranger eyes shall take and take, Still the thirst grow and still the joy to slake From Old-World beauty. Till we sculptors stand Supreme World-life within our pulseless hand! Think, lad, when father’s little ones shall tell How Greeks saw, felt, and struggled, conquered, fell! Fear not, Pæonius, our spirits win Out of this age to call all ages kin.

(PHIDIAS, _sighing as one relieved of a burden, pauses awhile, then writes a few more lines_.)

Smile not upon this, friend--All fancy--Yea! But, by the Etruscans, gone but yesterday To Italy, and now established there; By Dorians, building temples by the fair Purple Tyrennian, so I think Greek soul o’erflows, as over fountain-brink, And that we circle out and out, our creed Begetting world-dream for an unborn breed, Ardent posterities!--Thus do I then Bid now farewell to my own race of men! And for a future permanence, new clime, Lift statues in the peristyles of Time And trust my message, where that message seeks Its own fulfillment. Hail to the happy Greeks Hail to that Race; keen, wistful, passionate, That shall know Greece, Athens, the gods, the State!

(_The paper hangs listlessly in the hand of_ PHIDIAS, _who sits in revery, lost to all around him_.)

JAILER (_entering_). Rise! thou infamous sculptor! A decree! Follow! Thy haughty judges have demanded thee!

(PHIDIAS _wearily rising, stares stupidly at him, then looks up to the little window where the_ CRICKET _perched and makes a slight gesture of salute and farewell_.)

PHIDIAS. “So be it.” (_Hastily aside._) See this coin? Of all good fees The best, with head of high Themistocles-- Thine--if thy hand this simple scroll wilt bear To the great sculptor at Olympia. To give to him my farewell words and tears, (_The Sculptor pauses, looking unseeingly at the_ JAILER _and adding softly_.) As I pass outward--down the faithful years!

EPILOGUE

As children keep Some spiraled shell or crystal crusted stone For wonder and for solace, when alone They fall asleep,

So do I soft caress And guard through days of World-dark such a charm And cherish from indifference and harm One loveliness.

And every Grecian vase And sculptured fragment to my eyes doth mean Life, calm and balanced, simple, and serene, Transcending Race!

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious punctuation errors and omissions have been corrected.

Page 37: “grim Thermoyplæ” changed to “grim Thermopylæ”

Page 108: “the rythm is feebler” changed to “the rhythm is feebler”