This told him why the living features he retained in his memory were not to be found in the statues of the gods and heroes he saw all round him and which he was being taught to make. Even the most skilled sculptors of Oeniadae (Oeniadae — Pandion’s birthplace, at the south-western tip of Northern Greece. The story belongs to the early period in Greek history, before the classical era.) could not mould a convincing image of the living human body.
The youth felt instinctively that certain features expressing joy, will power, wrath or tenderness were crudely exaggerated, and to give this artificial prominence to certain forcefully expressed features the artist had sacrificed all else. But he must learn to depict life! Only then would he become the greatest sculptor in his country and people would acclaim him and admire the things he would create. His would be the first works of art to perpetuate the beauty of life in bronze or stone!
The youth had been carried far away into the land of dreams when he was aroused by a bigger wave crashing against the rock. A few drops of water fell on the youth’s face. He shivered, opened his eyes and smiled, embarrassed, in the darkness. Oh, Gods! That dream was probably still far away in the future… In the meantime his teacher Agenor was constantly upbraiding him for his clumsy work and for some reason or another the teacher was always right… And there was his grandfather… Grandad showed little interest in Pandion’s progress as an artist, he was training his grandson with a view to making him a famous wrestler. As though an artist needed strength! Still, it was a good thing grandad had trained him like that, had made him more than ordinarily strong and hardy; Pandion liked to show his strength and prowess at the evening contests in the village, when Thessa, his teacher’s daughter, was present, and to note the gleam of approbation in the girl’s eyes.
With burning cheeks the youth jumped to his feet, every muscle in his body tensed. He thrust out his chest as if to challenge the wind and raised his face to the stars; suddenly he laughed softly.
He walked slowly to the edge, peered into the seemingly bottomless gloom, gave a loud cry and sprang from the rock. The calm, silent night immediately came to life. Below the rock there was the sea whose waters wrapped his hot skin in a cooling embrace, sparkling with tiny dots of fire around his arms and shoulders.
The waves, in their play, forced the youth upwards, striving to throw him back. As he swam in the darkness he estimated the undulations of the waves and confidently threw himself at the high crests that appeared suddenly before him. It seemed to Pandion that the sea was bottomless and boundless, that it merged with the dark sky in a single whole.
A big wave lifted the youth high above the sea and he saw a red light far away along the coast. An easy stroke and the wave obediently carried the youth to the shore, towards a scarcely visible grey patch of sand.
Shivering slightly from the cold he again climbed on to the flat rock, took up his coarse woollen cloak, rolled it up, and set off at a run along the beach towards the light of the fire.
The aromatic smoke of burning brushwood curled through the adjacent thickets. The feeble light of the flames lit up the wall of a small hut built of rough-hewn stones with the eaves of a thatched roof projecting over it. The wide spreading branches of a single plane-tree protected the hut from inclement weather. An old man in a grey cloak sat by the fire, deep in thought. On hearing the approaching footsteps he turned towards them his smiling wrinkled face the tan of which showed darker in the frame of a grey curling beard. “Where have you been so long, Pandion?” asked the old man reproachfully. “I’ve been back a long time and wanted to talk to you.”
“I didn’t think you’d come so soon,” answered the youth. “I went to bathe. And now I’m ready to listen to you all night, if you like.” The old man shook his head in refusal. “No, the talk will be a long one and you have to be up early in the morning. I want to give you a trial tomorrow and you will need all your strength. Here are some fresh cakes — I brought a new stock of them with me — and here is the honey. It’s a festive supper tonight: you may eat as becomes a warrior — little and without greed.”
The young man contentedly broke a cake and dipped the white, broken edge into an earthen pot of honey. As he ate he kept his eyes fixed on his grandfather who sat silently watching his grandson with a fond look. The eyes of both, the old man and the youth, were alike and unusual; they gleamed golden like the concentrated light of a sun-ray. There was a popular belief that people with such eyes were descended from the earthly lovers of the “Son of the Heights,” Hyperion, the sun god.
“I thought about you after you’d gone today, Grandad,” said the youth. “Why is it that other bards live in good houses and eat their fill although they know nothing but their songs? But you, Grandad, who know so much, who make such wonderful songs, have to toil on the sea. The boat’s too heavy for you now and I’m your only helper. We haven’t got a single slave.”
The old man smiled and placed his gnarled hand on Pandion’s curly head.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. Only one thing will I say tonight: many different songs may be composed about the gods and about people. If you are honest with yourself, if your eyes are open, your songs will not sound pleasant to the lordly owners of the land and the warrior chiefs. And you will have neither rich gifts, nor slaves, nor fame, you will not be known in the great houses and you will not gain a livelihood by your songs… Time for bed,” the old man broke off. “Look, the Chariot of the Night (Chariot of the Night — the Great Bear constellation. Cf. Charles’s Wain. — Tr.) is already turning to the other side of the heavens. Its black horses travel fast and a man who wants to be strong must rest. Come on.” And the old man moved off towards the narrow doorway of his miserable hut.
The old man awakened Pandion early next morning. The cold autumn was drawing near; the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, a cutting wind rustled in the dry reeds and in the few remaining leaves of the plane-tree. Under his grandfather’s stern and exacting guidance Pandion went through his gymnastic exercises. Thousands and thousands of times, from early boyhood, he had repeated them every day at sunrise and sunset, but today grandad selected the most difficult exercises and increased their number.
Pandion hurled a heavy javelin, threw stones and jumped over obstacles with a sack of sand on his shoulders. At last grandad fastened a heavy piece of walnut wood to his left hand, placed a gnarled wooden club in his right and tied a piece of a broken stone vase to his head. Restraining his laughter for fear of wasting his breath, Pandion awaited a sign from his grandfather and then set out at a run northwards, where the path from the littoral ran round a steep, stony slope. He raced along the path like lightning, scrambled up to the first ledge of a cliff, turned and came down even faster. The old man met his grandson at the hut, relieved him of his burden and then pressed his cheek to the lad’s face to determine the degree of tiredness from the rate of his breathing.
After a few seconds the youth said:
“I could run there and back many times before I would ask for a rest.”
“Yes, I think you could,” answered the old man slowly, and proudly straightened his back. “You’re fit to be a warrior, capable of fighting tirelessly in battle and carrying heavy bronze accoutrements. My son, your father, gave you health and strength, I have developed them in you and made you bold and enduring.” The old man cast a glance over the youth’s figure, allowing his eyes to rest on his broad, powerful chest and on the mighty muscles that rippled under a skin without a single blemish. “I’m the only relative you have,” he continued, “and I’m old and weak; we’ve neither wealth nor servants and our entire phralry ( Phratry — a union of several clans Tribes grew out of several, phratries when the gentile social system still predominated.)consists of three villages on a stony seashore… The world is great and there are many dangers besetting a lonely man. The greatest of them is the loss of liberty, the possibility of being taken captive and sent to slavery. This is why I have devoted so much time and effort
to making a warrior of you, a man of courage who is competent in all matters of war. Now you are free to serve your people. Come, let us make sacrifice to Hyperion, our patron, in honour of your attaining man’s estate.”
Grandfather and grandson made their way along the patches of sedge grass and reeds towards a narrow spit of land that reached far out into the sea like a long wall.
Two thick oaks with wide spreading branches grew at the end of the spit. Between them stood an altar built of rude limestone blocks behind which was a blackened wooden post, crudely carved in the shape of a human figure. This was an ancient temple dedicated to the local deity, the River Achelous, which joined the sea there.
The mouth of the river was hidden in the green reeds and bushes swarming with migratory birds from the north.
Before them stretched the mist-covered sea. Waves raced with a crash against the point of a spit resembling the neck of some gigantic animal holding its head under water.
The solemn roar of the waves, the shrill cries of the birds, the whistling of the wind in the reeds and the rustling foliage of the oaks — all these sounds merged into an uneasy, rumbling melody.
The old man lit a fire on the rude altar and threw a piece of meat and a cake into the flames. When the sacrifice had been made, the old man led Pandion to a big stone at the foot of a steep mossy cliff and bade him push the stone aside. The youth did so with ease and then, following his grandfather’s instructions, thrust his hand into a deep crevice between two strata of limestone. There was a rattle of metal and Pandion drew out a bronze sword, a helmet and a wide belt of square copper plates serving as armour for the lower part of the body — all of them dulled with patches of verdigris.
“These are the arms of your father, who died young,” said the grandfather in a low voice. “A shield and bow you must acquire yourself.”
The youth bent excitedly over the accoutrements and began carefully cleaning off the verdigris.
The old man sat down on the stone, leaned his back against the cliff and fell to watching his grandson and trying to hide his sorrow from him.
Pandion left his armour and in a burst of ecstasy threw himself on the old man and embraced him. The old man placed an arm round the youth, feeling the knots of his mighty muscles. It seemed to the grandfather that his long-dead son was reborn in this youthful body, designed to overcome obstacles.
The old man turned the youth’s face towards himself and stared long into the frank, golden eyes.
“Now you have to decide, Pandion: will you go at once to the chief of our phratry to serve him as a warrior, or will you remain Agenor’s apprentice?”
“I shall remain with Agenor,” answered Pandion without giving the matter a second thought. “If I go now to the chief in the village I shall have to stay there to live and eat in the company of the men and you will be left here alone. I don’t want to be parted from you and shall stay and help you.”
“No, Pandion, we must part company,” said the old man, firmly but with an effort.
The youth jumped back in astonishment but the old man’s hand held him.
“I have fulfilled the promise I made my son, your father, Pandion,” continued the old man. “Now you must, make your own way in life. You must start on your life’s road free, not burdened by the care of a helpless old man. I am leaving our Oeniadae for fertile Elis, where my daughters live with their husbands. When you become a famous sculptor you will be able to find me…”
The youth’s heated protests only made the old man shake his head. Pandion had said many tender, imploring and discontented words before he finally realized that the old man had for years carried in his mind this unalterable decision and that his experience of life made him implacable.
With a sad and heavy heart the youth spent the whole day with his grandfather helping him prepare for his journey.
In the evening they sat down together on an upturned, newly caulked boat, and the grandfather got out a lyre that had seen much in its time. The strong, youthful voice of the aged bard carried along the beach, dying out in the distance.
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.”
The Land of Foam Page 2
