Chapter V
THE PHILTRE. ITS EFFECT.
WHEN Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia seated under the
portico of his garden. In fact, she had sought his house in the mere chance
that he might return at an early hour: anxious, fearful, anticipative, she
resolved upon seizing the earliest opportunity of availing herself of the
love-charm, while at the same time she half hoped the opportunity might be
deferred.
It was then, in that fearful burning mood, her heart beating, her cheek
flushing, that Nydia awaited the possibility of Glaucus's return before the
night. He crossed the portico just as the first stars began to rise, and
the heaven above had assumed its most purple robe.
'Ho, my child, wait you for me?'
'Nay, I have been tending the flowers, and did but linger a little while to
rest myself'
'It has been warm,' said Glaucus, placing himself also on one of the seats
beneath the colonnade.
'Very.'
'Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I have drunk heats me, and I long for
some cooling drink.'
Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nydia
awaited presented itself; of himself, at his own free choice, he afforded to
her that occasion. She breathed quick--'I will prepare for you myself,'
said she, 'the summer draught that Ione loves--of honey and weak wine cooled
in snow.'
'Thanks,' said the unconscious Glaucus. 'If Ione love it, enough; it would
be grateful were it poison.'
Nydia frowned, and then smiled; she withdrew for a few moments, and returned
with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her hand. What
would not Nydia have given then for one hour's prerogative of sight, to have
watched her hopes ripening to effect--to have seen the first dawn of the
imagined love--to have worshipped with more than Persian adoration the
rising of that sun which her credulous soul believed was to break upon her
dreary night! Far different, as she stood then and there, were the
thoughts, the emotions of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeian
under a similar suspense. In the last, what poor and frivolous passions had
made up the daring whole! What petty pique, what small revenge, what
expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled the attributes of that
sentiment she dignified with the name of love! but in the wild heart of the
Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion--erring,
unwomanly, frenzied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling.
Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of
winning love in return!
She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, before so flushed,
was now white as snow, and with her delicate hands clasped convulsively
together, her lips apart, her eyes on the ground, she waited the next words
Glaucus should utter.
Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already drained about a
fourth of its contents, when his eye suddenly glancing upon the face of
Nydia, he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and
painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still holding
the cup near his lips, exclaimed:
'Why, Nydia! Nydia! I say, art thou ill or in pain? Nay, thy face speaks
for thee. What ails my poor child?' As he spoke, he put down the cup and
rose from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his
heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the brain.
The floor seemed to glide from under him--his feet seemed to move on air--a
mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit--he felt too buoyant
for the earth--he longed for wings, nay, it seemed in the buoyancy of his
new existence, as if he possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud
and thrilling laugh. He clapped his hands--he bounded aloft--he was as a
Pythoness inspired; suddenly as it came this preternatural transport passed,
though only partially, away. He now felt his blood rushing loudly and
rapidly through his veins; it seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a
stream that has burst its bounds, and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in
his ear with a mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins
in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no longer contain the
violent and increasing tide--then a kind of darkness fell over his
eyes--darkness, but not entire; for through the dim shade he saw the
opposite walls glow out, and the figures painted thereon seemed, ghost-like,
to creep and glide. What was most strange, he did not feel himself ill--he
did not sink or quail beneath the dread frenzy that was gathering over him.
The novelty of the feelings seemed bright and vivid--he felt as if a younger
health had been infused into his frame. He was gliding on to madness--and
he knew it not!
Nydia had not answered his first question--she had not been able to
reply--his wild and fearful laugh had roused her from her passionate
suspense: she could not see his fierce gesture--she could not mark his
reeling and unsteady step as he paced unconsciously to and fro; but she
heard the words, broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips. She
became terrified and appalled--she hastened to him, feeling with her arms
until she touched his knees, and then falling on the ground she embraced
them, weeping with terror and excitement.
'Oh, speak to me! speak! you do not hate me?--speak, speak!'
'By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprus! Ho! how they fill us
with wine instead of blood! now they open the veins of the Faun yonder, to
show how the tide within bubbles and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god!
thou ridest on a goat, eh?--what long silky hair he has! He is worth all
the coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee--this wine of thine is too
strong for us mortals. Oh! beautiful! the boughs are at rest! the green
waves of the forest have caught the Zephyr and drowned him! Not a breath
stirs the leaves--and I view the Dreams sleeping with folded wings upon the
motionless elm; and I look beyond, and I see a blue stream sparkle in the
silent noon; a fountain--a fountain springing aloft! Ah! my fount, thou
wilt not put out rays of my Grecian sun, though thou triest ever so hard
with thy nimble and silver arms. And now, what form steals yonder through
the boughs? she glides like a moonbeam!--she has a garland of oak-leaves on
her head. In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she pours pink and
tiny shells and sparkling water. Oh! look on yon face! Man never before
saw its like. See! we are alone; only I and she in the wide forest. There
is no smile upon her lips--she moves, grave and sweetly sad. Ha! fly, it is
a nymph!--it is one of the wild Napaeae! Whoever sees her becomes mad-fly!
see, she discovers me!'
'Oh! Glaucus! Glaucus! do you not know me? Rave not so wildly, or thou wilt
kill me with a word!'
A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and disordered mind of
the unfortunate Athenian. He put his hand upon Nydia's silken hair; he
smoothed the locks--he looked wistfully upon her face, and then, as in the
broken chain of thought one or two links were yet unsevered, it seemed that
her countenance brought its associations of Ione; and with that remembrance
his madness became yet more powerful, and it swayed and tinged by passion,
as he burst forth:
'I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though I have now the world
on my shoulders, as my countryman Hercules (ah, dull Rome! whoever was truly
great was of Greece; why, you would be godless if it were not for us!)--I
say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would let it fall into chaos
for one smile from Ione. Ah, Beautiful,--Adored,' he added, in a voice
inexpressibly fond and plaintive, 'thou lovest me not. Thou art unkind to
me. The Egyptian hath belied me to thee--thou knowest not what hours I have
spent beneath thy casement--thou knowest not how I have outwatched the
stars, thinking thou, my sun, wouldst rise at last--and thou lovest me not,
thou forsakest me! Oh! do not leave me now! I feel that my life will not
be long; let me gaze on thee at least unto the last. I am of the bright
land of thy fathers--I have trod the heights of Phyle--I have gathered the
hyacinth and rose amidst the olive-groves of Ilyssus. Thou shouldst not
desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to my own. And they say this land
is lovely, and these climes serene, but I will bear thee with me--Ho! dark
form, why risest thou like a cloud between me and mine? Death sits calmly
dread upon thy brow--on thy lip is the smile that slays: thy name is Orcus,
but on earth men call thee Arbaces. See, I know thee! fly, dim shadow, thy
spells avail not!'
'Glaucus! Glaucus!' murmured Nydia, releasing her hold and falling, beneath
the excitement of her dismay, remorse, and anguish, insensible on the floor.
'Who calls?' said he in a loud voice. 'Ione, it is she! they have borne her
off--we will save her--where is my stilus? Ha, I have it! I come, Ione, to
thy rescue! I come! I come!'
So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, he traversed the
house, and rushed with swift but vacillating steps, and muttering audibly to
himself, down the starlit streets. The direful potion burnt like fire in
his veins, for its effect was made, perhaps, still more sudden from the wine
he had drunk previously. Used to the excesses of nocturnal revellers, the
citizens, with smiles and winks, gave way to his reeling steps; they
naturally imagined him under the influence of the Bromian god, not vainly
worshipped at Pompeii; but they who looked twice upon his face started in a
nameless fear, and the smile withered from their lips. He passed the more
populous streets; and, pursuing mechanically the way to Ione's house, he
traversed a more deserted quarter, and entered now the lonely grove of
Cybele, in which Apaecides had held his interview with Olinthus.
