by George Moore
He is after another cub, you may be sure of that, said a long, lean woman whose head was never still on her shoulders, and the folk were disposed to think with her that Rhesos was on the look-out for another wolf — a guess not far from the truth. Ajax was not forgotten by Rhesos, and a memory in his feet led him every day past the tree up which he had carried the wolf when a little cub, before he was able to lap, and afterwards memory prolonged his walks with Earine as far as Thermopylae, where the talk dropped easily from flocks to wolves; and sustained by a recollection, he would gossip on and on, giving a willing ear to everything that the shepherds said, especially when they mentioned that of late years wolves had not been seen often in the woods, some having been taken in traps, others poisoned, many shot from the boughs of trees. We have better dogs now than we had twenty years ago, a shepherd said, a fine breed from Thessaly that understands wolves as well as ourselves, holding them at bay till we come up with our spears. Rhesos did not like these stories, and he defended wolves, saying that if they were vicious, men had made them so, just as men made each other vicious, and he much relished telling his single experience with a wolf; to which the shepherds answered that Ajax was a chance wolf, and it would not be easy to find another like him. And the talks continued till one evening Earine, taking Rhesos by the arm, said: The day is drooping and it will be dark returning home through the woods; let us on at once. Art afraid of the dark? he asked. Of the things that move about in the dark, she answered. And to humour her he bade the shepherds good-bye, and they returned through the wistful woods, Earine watchful and subdued till certain dark thickets were passed.
A greyness in you thicket I am sure is following us, she said at last, but make no cry nor look round till we reach a tree into which we can climb. Rhesos laughed aloud, and Earine expected the wolf to rush out upon them, and this it did, but at Rhesos’s call, for the wolf was none other than Ajax. He hath been seeking me for seven years through these woods, said Rhesos, coming upon my trail at last. My poor Ajax, if thou hadst not come upon my trail to-day we should never have seen each other again. Soup thou shalt have to lap, with soft meat in it, for I see thou hast lost some teeth. Open thy jaws and let me see how thou art for teeth.
.. Some have gone, some are loose, and thou must have found it hard to feed thyself. To tear open the hare and the rabbit and the kid the fine remorseless teeth are needed with which thou didst tear the windpipe out of the shepherd’s dog that fell upon me without reason, or for a reason that I have forgotten. Ajax, rememberest thou these things? And on hearing his name Ajax raised himself up almost to the height of Rhesos and hugged him with his forepaws. A trick, Earine, that he learnt soon after we stole him from his dam. And he told her how Ajax had been brought up on a rag dipped in milk, refusing the rag at first and at last welcoming it —
And when he had sucked enough milk from it he climbed upon my shoulders and enfolded me in his paws. Dost remember, Ajax? No, thou hast no memory but for smells, mine haunting thee for seven years. Thine old heart must have beat quicker when thou camest upon it in yonder thicket!... Thou hast never spoken so tenderly to me, Rhesos. Ah, Earine, jealousy befits thee not — jealous of an old wolf, my faithful servant? Earine was ashamed of her jealousy, yet unable to subdue it, and they wandered home, Rhesos talking all the while to his old friend, Ajax raising himself to lick his master’s face now and again.
Thou art hungry, my Ajax! Ajax cut a caper and seemed to smile, as if he knew that a meal such as he ate in olden times awaited him, the slaves bustling to attend on his wants. The medley of rejoicing voices brought in Biote, and at the sight of Ajax she leant against the door-post, turning pale at the thought of what might befall her. But Rhesos was too happy in himself for harsh words, and he told the story, saying: After seeking me for seven years his joy in coming upon my trail is beyond human understanding. Our understanding of thee, Ajax, is but partial. Here is Biote, and if thou seest her but dimly, thy nostrils cannot have forgotten her. She did not keep thee from me, do not believe it; announce thyself to thine old friend, my mother, who left the paddock gate on the jar. And in obedience to his master Ajax laid his paw on Biote’s knee, but without lifting himself for an embrace. He rushed past me, she said, and ever since he hath been in the forest, coming round the house at first in search of thee, giving up hope in the last years. I thought he must be dead. All the same, I dared not leave Aulis with thy father, who wanted to take me away for a long holiday. And why didst thou refuse thy holiday, mother? For that Ajax might return, seeking thee once more, or come round the house to pick up a rat or a rabbit. Glad to get either, said Rhesos; see how thin the old fellow is! Dost remember how bravely he saved me from a shepherd’s dog? I thank thee, Rhesos, for not blaming me; I should have shut the gate when I brought him his breakfast. I owe thee no grudge, mother. I dare say he enjoyed himself in the forest; it was a nice holiday for him. Now, good-bye. I am on the way to my workshop. Ajax is coming with me. May I not come too? she asked, and Rhesos seeming to be willing, she took his arm. Watch him, mother. His step quickens. He knows the street, and once inside the door he’ll snuff about to make sure that he is in his own quarters.... What did I tell thee? Already the forest is forgotten. And now that he hath rolled himself into sleep in his corner, said Biote, show me thine Aphrodite; and Rhesos unveiled his marble, saying: Behold her, and find fault or admire, as it pleases thee. A little filing and scraping remains for me to do before she goes to the temple, he added. So that is the Goddess that cost thee seven years of labour! I can work a long time on a marble, mother, but not seven years. And feeling that his mother admired the statue merely because he had carved it, Rhesos began to tell his travels; but he had not reached Sicily in his narrative when Ajax came out of his corner. Ajax, go back! Biote cried. I would hear thy master tell of Syracuse. Speak not harshly to Ajax, mother; he does not understand harsh words. My travels would make a poor narrative compared with the story he could tell, if he had words, of his joys and sorrows in the forest and his daily search for me. A much more wonderful story it would be than my journey to Syracuse. I can imagine him meeting his kindred, and their doubtful talk with him, for animals talk, though their talk is not ours; and recognising him as an outcast they would pass on, the bitches with their tails between their legs, showing that they would consider themselves dishonoured to mate with a wolf that had taken his food from the hands of men. I would tell thee my suffering, Rhesos, Ajax did not suffer more than I when he ran away through the gate and off into the forest. Mother, why speak of it again? It was Ajax himself who put an end to thy suffering. Isn’t that so, Ajax, dear old boy? I am afraid his sight is dimming; one eye is half-hidden by a whiteness, a film. He is going blind, and we can do nothing. Tell me what father said. He said we should dig a pitfall, but I refused to have Ajax hunted or snared. And thou didst well, said Rhesos. Ajax was bound to seek me out and to find me sooner or later. There is somebody at the door, Rhesos — Earine, perchance. No, mother; Earine comes here only when she sits.
Ajax was on his legs in a moment, thinking that his master was going to leave the workshop, but he returned to his corner when Rhesos let in Thrasillos, who had come with a letter. Phidias and Kallikrates and Iktinos are coming to see my temple and thy statue! he said. There is much to be done and little time to do it, Rhesos answered. And seeing that the brothers had business on hand, Biote took her leave of them.
CHAPTER XXI
A FEW DAYS later Ajax was taken by a panther, and after a night of sorrow Rhesos tumbled out of bed thinking it was strange that the day before the brutal rape he should have descried the shape of a wolf in a rock hard by the bushes out of which the panther had sprung, and, to make his vision plain to Thrasillos, had marked the rallying-points which they would have to follow some day, saying: He is an old wolf, Thrasillos, with not many years of life in front of him, and when he dies we’ll carve this rock to his memory. Now that Ajax was dead he would have liked to carve the whole rock into a group, Ajax standing on his hin
d-legs with his paws about his master’s neck. But there is not time for a group in the round, only for a rough relief, he said to his brother as they faced the rock before beginning work. Now, Thrasillos, admit that thou canst follow the head and the shoulders, where the paws will come, the haunches, the tail, the back. And to please his brother Thrasillos saw all it was desirable he should see, saying to himself: If I do not yet perceive Ajax in the rock, I shall presently. Here is Corobius, said Rhesos, coming down the road. A minute late but no more, said Corobius. I promised to be here at dawn, he continued; turn thy head, Rhesos, and thou’lt see the day beginning in grey and silver. Leave the silvery fingers of the dawn to turn rosy without our knowledge, and tell me, Corobius, what is our chance to mark out Ajax’s image in a week? Wilt tell me first, Rhesos, if thou art aiming at no more than a rough representation? A rough representation, to be finished another day, Rhesos answered, and they mounted the ladders that had been raised overnight for their purpose.
Our hammers have frightened the heron and the ducks from the brook, and brought us a robin. Clutching a twig with his wiry little legs, he sings his mournful ditty as if he shared our grief for Ajax. Dost believe, Thrasillos, he is aware of our grief? He is aware of the coming winter, Rhesos, and is uncertain in which house he will spend it if the winter should prove too severe. But why should he be uncertain, Thrasillos? All last winter he hopped round our table, waiting till we left the hall to thrust his bill into the butter — a friendly little bird, with black, intelligent eyes. But I see a woman coming down the road, mother for certain, earlier out of the house than I have ever known her, come to hear how Ajax was killed. He was carried away by a panther! he cried, as soon as Biote came within hearing. So much I know, she answered. But why did the panther leave the ox he had felled? Must I go all over it again, mother? Yes, Rhesos; I would hear thee tell the story; and that I may hear without interruption bid Thrasillos and Corobius stay their hammers. The driver, fearing a stumble down the incline, said Rhesos, allowed the oxen to choose their own pace, and they plodded, unsuspicious of the lurking animal, the wind coming from the east. I was walking in the rear with Ajax, my eyes on Aphrodite, well satisfied, so thickly had we wrapped her in fleeces, when a panther burst from the bushes, bringing down one of the oxen. His fellow, taking fright, would have broken loose, but the driver was at his head, and Ajax, thinking the panther was about to spring upon me, threw himself in the midst of the struggle and was dragged away at a great pace into the forest. We should have foreseen the panther and had a few spearmen to defend the cart. We cannot foresee everything, said Biote. I will get thee another cub. No, mother; I love but once, like Ajax. A strange fate his was: seven years seeking me in the forest, to lose me in a moment. Was the ox much hurt? Biote asked. Stunned rather than hurt, Rhesos answered; we helped him on to his hooves, and the statue is now in the cella. The death of Ajax hath poisoned the day for thee, Rhesos. This day and many days to come, mother. I shall never forget the old fellow. Now I must return to the carving of him. I had hoped, said Biote, that thou and Thrasillos and Corobius would return to Aulis for the morning meal. A snack is all we need, Thrasillos answered, and we have that in the basket. And whilst eating their bread and cheese they hearkened to the horns resounding through the richly wooded hills, capturing the notes faintly farther and still farther away. The hounds seem to have been on the panther’s trail, said Rhesos. A bad scenting day, replied Corobius. Now they are coining this way! cried Thrasillos. The sculptors listened, and a few minutes later the huntsman appeared, cantering in front of the pack. A plump of spearmen followed, and Rhesos was sure they were returning with the panther. But the spoil slung on a spear was no more than the remains of Ajax, discovered in the panther’s den. A peasant came running, saying he had seen the beast at daybreak in you woods, and the huntsman blew his horn and cantered away. The panther will have half-a-dozen of the hounds laid low before he is killed, said Corobius. The hounds will bring him to bay; the spearmen will kill him, Rhesos answered, and turning from the unlovely sight of Ajax’s mangled remains, he fell to digging his friend’s grave beneath the rock, leaving Thrasillos and Corobius to continue the carving. If the carving is to be finished we cannot spare thee, said Corobius, and with reluctance Rhesos passed over the task of grave-digging to the peasant, who bartered his pleasure in following the hunt for a drachma, and the carving was continued till the close of day.
We have done good work, said Corobius. Already the rock is more than rock. And they continued their work till the end of the week, when Thrasillos was dispatched to guide their visitors to the temple, Rhesos now and then climbing to the highest point, hoping to see Phidias in the distance, and returning to ask Corobius: Dost think he’ll disappoint us? Euripides might flatter me with his presence, he continued, my father having taken the parts of messengers in the theatre, and perhaps Sophocles. Meanwhile we will continue to get our wolf into shape. And it was hammer, hammer, hammer, till at last Corobius cried from the top of the rock: They come! They come! and Rhesos climbing to the highest crag that he might see better, said: — Kallikrates and Iktinos walk together. Thrasillos should have put a poet between them, but he sacrificed ceremony in his desire to walk with Phidias. I do not blame him. And his heart rejoiced; nothing could rob him now of the certainty that Phidias would see his Aphrodite. He had gone as a boy to see Phidias and now Phidias was coming to see him, and his eyes on the folk walking towards him he sought for his master and friend, unable at first to accept the man walking with Thrasillos as Phidias, so pale did he look, so irresolute was his walk. Master, he cried, pass me not by! I am coming down the ladder.... From the top of that rock I was watching for thee, thinking of the day we first met on the steps of the Parthenon and of thine instruction to me. Of instruction there was not much need, Rhesos; the gift was in thee from the beginning. And it hath not withered; thou art acknowledged, I hear, as a sculptor everywhere. And by thee, O Phidias? My presence here is an acknowledgment, Phidias answered, adding that Rhesos must not thank him overmuch for coming to Aulis. For the physician in whose charge I am said that the little voyage would ease my complaint. But thy recovery, master — There is little hope of recovery, Rhesos, I may say none at all. My sickness is stone in the bladder, and I hope that thy life will come to an end by some other hurt, for in the night the pang of the stone seems more than I can bear; yet I do bear it somehow. If it were only the pain the stone causes at times, I might live for a few more years, but very often long intervals go by without my being able to relieve myself of water. The sound of passing feet, of voices, is enough to stay its passage, and I walk on in pain, seeking a deeper quiet. A certain rock water relieves me; I had a store brought on board and drank it all the while, and am feeling better to-day than I have done for many days. But talk of incurable sickness serves no purpose. Thou hast not seen the Parthenon? Not yet, Rhesos answered. Thy statue of Athene — is it finished, master? I was afraid I might not live to see it finished, Phidias replied, but the Gods willed otherwise, and now that it is finished it matters little whether I live six months longer or die to-day. I would escape the pain, however, which is different from any other pain, so pregnant is it, and if the rock water fails a drink of hemlock will not. And death, master? Of death I have no fear, Phidias answered. Why should a man in pain dread his pain being taken from him for ever? But, my dear Rhesos, I have not come from Athens to talk to thee of my bodily ailments, but to share thy triumph. My triumph is thine, dear master. To have been thy pupil is honour enough for me. It was thy solicitude for my health, Phidias continued, that led me — But I see Sophocles waiting for me to present thee to him.
I have come from Athens, said Sophocles, to salute the distinguished pupil of our great sculptor, Phidias; and it was a pleasure to Rhesos to see these two great men together, the hand of the poet on the sculptor’s shoulder. He blushed and was embarrassed, but the poet’s easy demeanour and gracious language helped him into speech, and he spoke of his seven years’ absence and of the ple
asure it was to return to his native land, and then of the islands he had visited and of a temple and a statue. But statues and temples reminding him of Phidias standing by, he was embarrassed again, till at last he could no longer restrain himself from speaking of a great physician who lived in Sicily and had lately discovered means of treating the disease from which Phidias suffered, and he pressed upon Phidias the necessity of a journey to Sicily. The advice of the Sicilian physician could only prolong my life a few years, Phidias replied. My life ended with the Parthenon. Moreover, so long a journey is beyond my strength; I would not die in Sicily. Should such a sad event happen, said Sophocles, thou’lt be brought back to Athens —
Speak not of bringing him back to Athens dead! cried Rhesos. He will return to Athens alive, for I will attend on him by night and by day. Thy work is in the workshop, Rhesos, and not by a bedside. I am young, master, and can afford to lose a bust or statue. Sophocles hath written many plays, Rhesos continued; one more or less will not contribute to his glory; he can come with us. The old men smiled at the youth’s enthusiasm, and Sophocles said: Thy natural and spontaneous love of art, and thy willingness to sacrifice some of thine own life to save a great life touches us. But Phidias doubts his strength for the journey, and the remedy, perchance. Have I not said that my life ended with the Parthenon? Phidias replied, and this world having nothing more to show me, I may as well hurry away to learn the secrets that perplex us here. Thinkest that what hath been withheld from us on this side will be revealed to us on the next? Sophocles asked. We may smile at what we have left behind, said Rhesos, but we shall know — The word know, Sophocles interjected, is unintelligible beyond the confines of this world, which may be but a little dust collected in the cogs of a great wheel. But the great wheel may know, master. I have only to answer thee again that the word know is unintelligible beyond the confines of our fives.
