The Woman Who Vowed (The Demetrian) Read online

  CHAPTER II

  HARVESTING AND HARMONY

  We had finished breakfast now, and my hunger satisfied, I was free tolook about me a little. The hall was lofty, and the roof supported byGothic arches, sculptured by hands that had enjoyed the work; foralthough the design of the building was simple and dignified it wascovered with ornaments of bewildering complexity. We were waited on bywomen who could not be distinguished from those upon whom they waited;of every age and of every type, most of them were glowing with healthand cheerfulness. They laughed a great deal with one another, andoffered me advice as to what they put before me; warned me when a dishwas hot, and recommended the cream as particularly fresh and sweet. Theymade me feel as though I had been there for years and knew every one ofthem intimately. Just as we were finishing, a fine old man with a whitebeard and a patriarchal countenance joined us:

  "You come from a couple of centuries ago," he said.

  "Is it two centuries, or a thousand years?" asked I.

  "I have been looking at your clothes; you don't mind, do you? theyindicate the end of the nineteenth or beginning of the twentiethcentury."

  "You have guessed right," said I; "and what year are you?"

  "We count from the last Constitution which was voted ninety-three yearsago, in 2011 of your reckoning. So we call the present year 93."

  "So you have given up the old Constitution," I said with a touch ofsentiment in my voice.

  "Yes, it had to be changed when we advanced to where we are now inmethods of manufacture and distribution of profits."

  "Can you give your methods a name?"

  "You used to call it Collectivism; we call it Solidarity."

  "You mean to say you actually practise Collectivism!"

  The patriarch smiled.

  "Your writers used to say it was impossible," he said; "just as theEnglish engineers once said the building of the Suez Canal wasimpossible, and our own engineers the building of the Panama Canal wasimpossible. As a matter of fact, Collectivism is as much easier thanyour old plan as mowing with a reaper is easier than mowing with ascythe. You will see this for yourself--and you will see" here his browdarkened--"that the real problem--the as yet unsolved problem--is a verydifferent one. But Cleon must join the haymakers; what would you like todo?"

  I was much interested in the old man and was anxious to hear what he hadto say about the "as yet unsolved problem," which I already guessed. ButI was still more anxious to be with Lydia, so I asked:

  "Does Cleon work with his sister?"

  "Yes," said Cleon, "on the slope, a few minutes from here."

  "Perhaps I had better make myself useful," said I hypocritically.

  I thought I detected a little smile behind the big white beard as theold man said to Cleon, "Well, hurry off now; you are late."

  I followed Cleon up the hill. He explained to me on the way that themeadows were all cut by machinery, but that the slopes had still to becut by hand. We soon came upon a group in which I recognized Lydia andAriston. They were on a steep hill. Lydia was swinging her scythe withthe strength and skill of a man. She was the nearest to me of a row often, all swinging together. Ariston was singing an air that followed themovement; he sang low; and all joined occasionally in a modulatedchorus. Cleon took up a scythe and joined them. I was glad to observethat there was no scythe for me, for I had never handled one. I stoodwatching the work. When the song was over they worked in silence, butthe rhythm of their swinging replaced the music. It reminded me of theexhilarating harmony of an eight-oared crew. At last one of the girlscried out, "I want to rest"; and all stopped.

  "I was hoping some one would cry 'halt!'" said Ariston.

  "So was I," whispered Lydia to him.

  "So were we all," called out the rest.

  They sat down on the grass; after a moment's breathing space Aristonlifted his hand; all looked at him, and he started a fugue which wastaken up, one after another, by the entire party; to my surprise anddelight I recognized Bach's Number Seven in C flat, and I began tounderstand the role that music might play in the life of a people, andwhat a pitiable business our twentieth-century notion of it was.Confined to a few laborious executants and still fewer composers, therich partook of it at stated hours in overheated rooms, and the massesignored it, except in its most vulgar form, almost altogether; whilehere, under a tree in the large light of the sun during an interval ofrest, all not only enjoyed it, but joined in it at its best. I singledout Lydia's rich contralto and noted how she dwelt on the notes thatmarked changes of key, with a delight in counter-point that belonged toher mathematical temperament. I watched her every movement. She hadthrown off the loose gloves she wore while mowing and was lying on herface, playing with a flower. The posture would have been regarded by usof the twentieth century as unmaidenly; but in the atmosphere created bythe simplicity of these people I felt as though I were in one of Corot'spictures. Maidenliness had ceased to be a matter of convention and hadbecome a matter of fact. There was a fund of reserve behind thefrankness of Lydia's manner that conveyed a conviction of rectitudeentirely beyond the necessity of a rigorous manner, or of a particularmethod of deportment.

  I seemed to be transported back to the peasantry of some parts of Franceor of the Tyrol; but here was an added refinement that demolished thedistance which had always kept me despairingly aloof from these; herewas the charm of frankness, of gayety, and of simplicity, coupled with acleanliness of person, delicacy of thought and manner, culture, art,music--all that makes life beautiful and sweet.

  The young men and women who sat singing under the trees, smitten hereand there with patches of sunlight, were all of them comely andwholesome of body and mind; but Lydia was to me preeminent; and yet,could it be said that she was beautiful? Her eyes were long and narrowand when I crossed glances with her they escaped me; so that I forgotthe matter of beauty in my eagerness to penetrate their meaning; herface was too square to satisfy the ideal; her nose was distinctlytip-tilted, like the petal of a flower; her mouth was large and wellshaped--altogether desirable; and her hair was flaxen and straight, butin its coils it seemed to have a separate life of its own so brightlydid it gleam and glow.

  Lydia was the first to jump up and suggest that work be resumed; and asshe stood among the prostrate forms of her companions she embodied to mymind Diana, with a scythe in her hand instead of a bow. All arosetogether and set to work again, but in silence this time; and under theshade where I sat, nothing broke the quiet save the hum of insect lifein the blazing sun and the periodic swirl of the reapers. They did notrest again until the patch of hillside at which they worked was mown,when with a sigh of satisfaction they rested a moment on their scythes;but for a moment only, for presently Lydia ran for shelter from the sunto the shade of the tree under which I sat. She reclined quite close tome, looked me frankly in the face and smiled. I was surprised to findeyes that had escaped me till now suddenly become fixed composedly onmine, and noticed for the first time that these women put on and offtheir coquetry according to the context of their thought, for presentlyshe said:

  "I am afraid you are lazy!"

  "I believe I am," answered I.

  "You mean to say you wouldn't like to join us in our work?"

  There was not the slightest reproach in her voice, only surprise.

  "I much prefer looking at you," I replied with a little attempt atgallantry. But there was no response in her eyes that remained fixed onme. She was trying to explain me to herself. I felt uncomfortable atbeing a mere object of abstract curiosity. She was reclining on herside, resting on one hand: in the other hand she was absently twistinga flower she had plucked. Notwithstanding my discomfort I rejoiced in atlast plunging my look deep into hers. What was happening in the bluedepths of those eyes? I felt as though I were trying to penetrate thesecrets of a house the windows of which reflected more light than theypassed through. I saw the reflection only. Behind was a judge weighingme in the balance, but as to whose judgment I could form no idea. Andalthough I was conscious t
hat in her I had a critic, I was so bewitchedby her charm that I said to her in an undertone--for the others weretalking to one another:

  "You are very beautiful!"

  She waved her flower before my eyes as though to put a materialobstacle, however frail, between us and smiled; but she looked downpresently and laughingly answered:

  "That doesn't make you any the less lazy."

  I did not wish to be set down permanently in her mind as good fornothing, so I explained:

  "I am not incurably so; indeed, at my own work I was industrious; but Inever held a scythe in my life."

  She looked at me again in open-eyed wonder.

  "What was 'your own work'?" asked she.

  "I practised law."

  "What, nothing but law? Did you never get tired of doing nothing butlaw?"

  "We believed in specializing."

  "Ah, I remember! The nineteenth century was the great century ofspecialization. Later on it was found that specialization was necessaryto original work, but that it brutalized labor; we have very fewspecialists now: only those who have genius for particular things, as,for example, doctors, engineers, electricians--but we have no_lawyers_." She laughed at me with bantering but good-natured contemptin her laugh as she emphasized the word "lawyers." "And you mean to sayyou did nothing but lawyerise?" And she suddenly with finger and thumblifted my free hand that was resting on the grass--for I was recliningon my other elbow, too--and I became aware that my hand was soft andwhite.

  "It wasn't always soft and white," I explained. "I did a great deal ofrowing at college."

  She kept hold of my hand with finger and thumb and laughed gently:

  "I don't believe it ever did a useful bit of work in its life."

  I was piqued; and yet her low laugh was so catching, her long eyes sosubtle, her lips so bewitching, that I gladly let my hand hang in hercontemptuous fingers so long as I could be near her and in commune withher.

  "That depends on what you call useful work," said I.

  "I call useful any work that contributes to our health, wealth, andwell-being." The coquetry went out of her manner again and she becamethoughtful. "The people of that time needed lawyers to fight theirbattles for them, but we have got rid of at any rate one principaloccasion of discord--the occasion that made lawyers necessary. We havemen specially versed in the law still, but they don't confine themselvesto law; they cut hay too. Ariston is a great lawyer."

  She had dropped my hand by this time; as she mentioned Ariston we bothlooked toward him; one of the girls exclaimed:

  "I am hot; let's sing something cool."

  "The Fountain," called out another.

  Ariston lifted his hand again, and after beating a measure struck aclear high note; he held the note during a measure and then his voicecame tumbling down the scale in bursts of semitones relieved by tonicspaces, with a variety that reminded me of the Shepherd's song in"Tristan and Isolde." The moment he left the first high note it wastaken up by another voice during the full measure, and as soon as thesecond voice dropped down the scale, a third one pitched the high noteagain, and so on voice after voice, the high note imaging the highestpoint of the _jet d'eau_, and every voice dropping tumultuously downinto a placid pool of infinite variety below. Lydia did not attempt thehigh note, but beginning low kept at the low level in peaceful contrastto the sparkling tenors and sopranos, the whole musical structureresting on the bass which moved ponderously and contrapuntally againstthe contraltos.

  How shall I tell the thoughts that crowded upon me as, lying on my back,I listened to this amazing harmony! The beginning reminded me of one ofPalestrina's masses and transported me to a Christmas midnight at thechurch of St. Gervais; but as soon as the intention of the strain becameclear to me, I felt that it belonged to the open air, to the eternalspaces, to the new-mown hay, to my radiant companions. The merriment ofit, its complexity, its wholesomeness, the delight it gave--all broughtto a focus and intensified the interest that was growing within me forLydia.

  But the whole party rose now to begin work on another hillside and Lydiaturned to me with:

  "Why do you stay with us? Why not go to the Hall? You will find thePater there; we call him the Pater because he is the father of thesettlement. He will want to talk to you, and you _need_ to talk to him."She put an arch little emphasis on the word "need." Evidently she didnot want me to be loitering among them. I pretended to adopt hersuggestion with alacrity although in my heart I wished nothing but toremain with her.

  "Yes," I said, "I shall never get out of my bewilderment unless I talkto some one who can understand my point of view."

  "And you will probably find Chairo there," she added, with a provokingsmile. "He was to arrive to-day."

  Ariston pricked his ear:

  "Ah!" he said. "You will enjoy meeting Chairo; he is the leader of ourRadical party; he is in favor of all sorts of Radical measures--such asthe destruction of the Cult--" the women looked at one another--"therespect of private property----"

  "What! Do you call the respect of private property Radical?" asked I."It was the shibboleth of the Conservatives in my time; they called itthe 'sacredness of private property.'"

  "Just as the Demetrians speak of the 'sacredness' of the Cult to-day,"said Ariston.

  "Whenever Hypocrisy wants to preserve an abuse she calls it Sacred,"said a strong voice at my elbow. I turned and saw that a new companionhad been added to us, and I guessed at once that it was Chairo.

  He was a splendid man; nothing was wanting to him--stature, nor beauty,nor strength. He was remarkable, too, by the fact that his face wasclean shaved, whereas all the other men I had met wore beards; but hisface bore a likeness so striking to that of Augustus that to have hiddenit by a beard would have been a desecration. And he was strong enough inmind as well as in muscle to bear being exceptional. It would have beenimpossible for him to be other than exceptional.

  Lydia blushed as she recognized him, and the blush suggested what I mostfeared to know. Chairo went to her and without a shadow of affectationtook her hand, knelt on one knee, and kissed it. There could have beenno clearer confession of his love. I could not help contrasting thefrankness of this act and the superb humility of it with the reticence,hypocrisy, and pride that characterized our twentieth-centurylove-making.

  Lydia with her disengaged hand made a sign of the cross over his head;not the rapid, timid, fugitive conventional sign that Catholics made inour day, but with her whole arm, a large sign, swinging from above herhead to his as it bowed over her hand, with a large sweep afterwardacross; and as she did so I saw her eyes widen and her glance stretchforward across the heavenly distance.

  For the first time I felt the narrowness of my life and my owninsignificance. And I--_I_--had dared to think I could make love to thiswoman! For a moment it occurred to me that Lydia had encouraged me; butso mean an apprehension of her could not live in her presence. As shestood there making the sign of the cross over the bowed head of herbeloved, I knew that Love was something more in this civilization thanthe satisfaction of a caprice or the banter of good-humored gallantry;that it was possible to make of Love a religion, without for that reasonsacrificing the charm of life, and the particular charm that makes thecompanionship of a woman something different from the companionship of aman.

  And yet I was puzzled; was Lydia not a Demetrian? Cleon had told me shehad not yet made up her mind; but was there not in this greeting withChairo a practical admission of a betrothal? And what was the meaning ofthe sign of the cross? Was Christianity still alive, then? And if so,how reconcile Christ and Demeter? And there swung through my mind theterrible invocation of the poet: "Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean!The world has grown gray from thy breath."

  When the cult of Demeter had first been hinted to me I had assumed thatthe reign of the Galilean was over, and that the old gods had resumedtheir sway. The possibility of this had admitted a note of latenttriumph in the hymn to Proserpine.

  Will thou yet take all, Galilean? Yet th
ese things thou shalt not take: The laurel, the palm and the paean; the breast of the nymph in the brake.

  Could it be that we could keep these things and yet remain loyal to thereligion of sacrifice? Could we worship as well at the voluptuous altarof Cytherea and at the mystic shrine of the Holy Grail?

  My mind was in a tumult of inquiry as Chairo arose from his knee andengaged in conversation with the group; and though they did not point orlook at me I knew that it was of me they were talking. Presently, Chairocame to me and held out his hand:

  "You are a traveller from the Past, I hear! Dropped down among us insome unaccountable way." He looked me squarely in the eye as he held myhand a moment, with a frank scrutiny that I had already noticed inLydia. Then he added:

  "You were returning to the Hall; if you don't mind, I shall accompanyyou; it is too late for me to begin work before lunch; besides, there isno scythe for me." And waving his hand to Lydia and the others, hewalked away with me toward the Hall.