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With tidings, with tidings we come,
We bring you a new and blessed song!
Receive, O master, the guest we bring,
Welcome her into your father’s hall—
Iresione,
Iresione!
Thus sang the household servants in unison. Then a single, clear female voice rose above the chorus, continuing in a different melody:
Iresione brings you bread and purple figs,
She brings you sharp honey and fragrant oil of Pallas,
And also a cup of wine, that she may long slumber
In sweet drowsiness.
And once more the song changed. Several voices took up the strain:
Accept the new joy into your home,
Accept life and health!
From the goddess we bring them to you,
From our beloved goddess.
And finally, the full chorus of servants repeated the opening lines:
With tidings, with tidings we come,
We bring you a new and blessed song!
Receive, O master, the guest we bring,
Welcome her into your father’s hall—
Iresione,
Iresione!
The master, to whom the song was addressed, had already stepped out to meet the singers at the first words. Before him, at the head of the servants, stood a handsome boy crowned with sheaves of grain from which ribbons fluttered; in his hands he held a large olive branch, wrapped with woolen bands and laden with all the fruits of bountiful autumn mentioned in the song—and many others besides. Gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the master led him to the wall of his house, where, in the full sun, hung another olive branch—dry, last year’s. He carefully unfastened it and in its place affixed the new one. Then stepping back several paces, he raised his right hand in prayer:
—Iresione, guard my household in health, abundance, and prosperity until the next harvest!
Thereupon he entered his courtyard with the old Iresione and approached the hearth, where a faint flame smoldered beneath a thick layer of ash. He stirred the embers, then stretched the dry branch into the fire:
—Iresione, I thank you for guarding my household in health, abundance, and prosperity until this year’s harvest. Fly now, honored one, to the gracious goddess who sent you, and carry to her also my gratitude!
With these words, he cast the branch into the flames. Dried by many suns, it flared up instantly, illuminating the courtyard with a sudden white brilliance—then vanished just as swiftly.
He returned once more to the servants, who in the meantime had settled themselves comfortably upon a bed of empty husks and ivy, prepared in advance. The boy, given two handfuls of sweetmeats, was sent home. For the adults, the master ordered a cask of wine brought up from the cellar, along with a krater, ladle, and cups. He himself mixed the first krater, while the clear-voiced singer performed the paeon required by custom. Then, pouring a few drops as an offering to Zeus Olympios, he commanded that each be given a cup.
—Drink, my dear ones. And may Demeter grant us to celebrate the next Iresione festival in good health.
—Long live the master and mistress!—came the reply.
—Long live Polycast and Metrotima!
All took several sips of wine. The master thanked them with a kind nod.
—Long live the Stone Field!—cried the head laborer, raising his cup. But no one echoed his toast, and Polycast pretended not to have heard. Soon afterward, he rose from his place.
—My dear servants and laborers! You know that for me today’s festival of Iresione coincides with another celebration—the tenth day since the birth of our firstborn daughter. My house is full of kin and neighbors. That is why the mistress did not come out to you. Drink here to the newborn’s health, while I return to my guests.
—We knew this, master,—replied the senior servant,—and we have pooled our gifts to offer a small token, which we would like to present to her, for good fortune in her life to come.
Polycast clasped his hand and entered the house with him.
2
They mixed the second krater in the master’s absence.
—In honor of the heroes and the souls of the departed!—said the head laborer, making his libation. Then he added: —But tell me, respected ones, why did you all fall silent when I toasted the Stone Field? It is not right to shame an old man!
—We did not mean offense, father,—replied a middle-aged servant. —You are working with us for the first time, so you have not yet learned why Polycast’s farm is called the Stone Field, and why this name displeases him.
—I didn’t know. Well, if you do, tell us.
—Tell us, tell us!—several voices chimed in. —I don’t quite know either. I know there’s something terrible about it, but I’ve never heard what.
The storyteller took a sip of wine.
—Hail to you, gracious one!—he said. —You are kind and merciful mother of all mortals, yet you also punish those whom you have exalted, if they abuse your gifts and mock the humble. Listen, then!
It was long ago: Polycast’s farm belonged then to his great-grandfather. But that great-grandfather was far poorer than Polycast. He owned only the land at Corydallus, stretching down to the cliff above the sea…
—But nothing grows there!—interjected an older servant woman, puzzled.
The storyteller gave her a scornful look. —If you, Aunt Critilla, understand nothing, then sit and drink in silence, and do not interfere with those wiser than you. I know what I say.
—So I said: only the land at Corydallus belonged to Alcisphen (that was Polycast’s great-grandfather), while all his present holdings in the fertile Eleusinian plain were parcels belonging to small landowners, among whom was my own great-grandfather.
—And mine! And mine!—several voices cried. —Yes, those were better times. And now we, their great-grandchildren, work for a stranger!
—So it was,—continued the storyteller—that one summer, in the wrath of Demeter, rain fell without end. All the grain in the plain lay flattened and rotted in the fields. But Alcisphen’s upland barley, on the contrary, sprang up luxuriantly and yielded a harvest richer than he had ever known. We of the plain somehow survived that dreadful year—some on old stores, some on odd jobs, but mostly by borrowing from Alcisphen himself. But then came sowing time—and we had no seed.
So we went to him again. He lent us freely, as much as each needed. Yet moon followed moon, his upland field turned green, while our land remained black and barren. We thought: surely the wrath of Demeter again—but for what? Only later did we learn the true reason.
—And what was it?
—You shall see. We waited. His barley had already headed out; ours had not sprouted. We gathered in a crowd and went to Eleusis for prayer. By evening, all were back home, waiting to see what would happen. And we saw—yes, our great-grandfathers saw it clearly by moonlight—a venerable woman, taller than mortal height, ascending the path to Corydallus, her head covered with a dark veil…
—Just like that one?
All turned toward the direction indicated. Indeed, a woman of the described appearance was approaching Polycast’s house with majestic steps. Instinctively, all rose and raised their right hands in greeting. She nodded graciously and passed on. It seemed to them that the house door opened of its own accord to admit her.
They stood in silence for a time. Then the door opened again, the mysterious woman emerged, passed by the servants, greeting them with the same gracious nod, and soon, continuing toward Eleusis, vanished into the evening gloom.
It took a long time before the people recovered. —Children,—said an old woman, —shall we not go home?
—No indeed!—others replied. —Let us hear the tale to the end.
—And let us pour the third krater, in honor of Zeus Soter, as Dionysus commanded. To depart without this would be sacrilege.
—Very well!
—But first, let us make a libation to this goddess.
—Who is she?
—Who? Surely Demeter!
—I am not so sure.
—Then who, in your view?
—More likely our mistress’s local goddess—Nemesis of Rhamnous.
—Since she did not reveal herself, it is idle to guess. Old woman, recite the prayer!
—Goddess, whoever you are—Demeter, or Nemesis, or another—be gracious to us, and grant that your coming may bring not sorrow, but joy—to us, our families, our homes, our herds, our fields, and all the people of Eleusis and Corydallus!
Only then did they sit. The third krater was filled; once more, wine sparkled in the cups beneath the rising moon.
3
—Now listen. So my great-grandfather told my father, and my father told me—we saw by moonlight the goddess ascending Corydallus. And at once a thick, black mist enveloped the hill—nothing could be seen, and it grew colder and colder, as if midsummer had suddenly turned to winter. We spent the night without sleep, standing below the hill, our teeth chattering—both from fear and cold. Suddenly—the earth seemed to tremble. We thought it an earthquake; we prayed to Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker. But nothing happened. At dawn, the mist lifted; the dawn, the sun, the warmth—everything as usual. We climbed the hill, to Corydallus. And what do you think? Alcisphen’s entire green field had hardened, turned white, become stone. You could still see how yesterday it had been a field—rippling waves with clear outlines of grain ears—now all dead and motionless. Since then, it has been called the Stone Field.
We stared in wonder. Suddenly Alcisphen ran toward us. He saw—and burst into tears, fell to his knees! —Ruined, ruined!—he cried. —The goddess’s judgment is just! Forgive me, fellow villagers! I have sinned against the goddess and against you. When I lent you grain, I gave you dried seeds, so I might sell you fresh bread at a higher price.
Then a cry rose among us. —Murderer! Wretch! You sought to starve us! Stone him! But the elders intervened: —Do not touch him! Man does not judge where the gods have already judged! Go, unfortunate one, and atone before the goddess! Thus they let him go.
But Alcisphen was a man of action and enterprise. He turned to trade, grew rich, erected in Eleusis a cult statue to Demeter-Nemesis (so he named her), and built us a gathering hall. They forgave him. In old age, he returned to his farm at Corydallus. His son, Polycast—our grandfather—was even more enterprising, and thus our land passed into their hands. All were stern men—cold, calculating, and self-serving. And they chose wives like themselves. So arose among us the saying: “The Stone Field—stone hearts.”
—The Stone Field—stone hearts,—mused the old laborer. —One follows the other. True enough. But how long will the field remain stone?
—The goddess said nothing of that.
—Who would dare ask the goddess? There are exegetes in Eleusis, and prophets who now and then reveal the will of the gods.
—So they all remained silent.
—No, not all,—interjected one of the women workers. —My grandmother told me of the prophecy of Bacis.
—You’ve found a prophet! To repeat the ravings of that half-mad vagabond!
But now the women servants rose in protest.
—Not a vagabond, but a holy man! Beloved of the mighty nymphs! May your tongue rot!
—Quiet, don’t quarrel!—pleaded the old laborer. —And if you know Bacis’s prophecy, Aunt Mestra, tell it to us.
—I should know it well enough,—replied the woman. She took a sip of wine and began to chant, as if in prayer:
Demeter sealed the green field with stone.
The wrath of justice has struck the stony malice of hearts.
The seal of stone shall melt in the fervor of life—
She who on a bed of stones shall bloom as the rose of love.
—Well spoken!—praised the old man.
—Well spoken indeed!—mocked the storyteller. —“Stone, stone, stone”—as if we haven’t enough of them already!
—No, I believe Bacis,—said the old man. —But who is it about? Until now, you say, they’ve all been cut from the same cloth?
—You cannot say that of Metrotima!—the woman worker retorted hotly.
—No, not of her—that is true,—agreed the storyteller. —But she is the only one.
—And where did he find her?—asked the old laborer.
—In Rhamnous, father, at the festival of Nemesis. Did you notice his pleasant, musical voice? He loved to charm young women—and still seems to. So in Rhamnous. And he found his chance—right under the eyes of Nemesis, you might say! He was staying with a tenant—feasting, as usual. The daughter appears, sings a paeon, and retires to her chamber. He, with his sambuke—sneaks into the alley, plays, and sings, the rogue—well, you know: “Open your door, beauty,” and so on. And he got what he wanted.
—She ran away with him?
—Yes, she did.
—And what of your laws on such matters?
—Of course strict—this is not Sparta. But what could be done? Better to avoid scandal. They accepted it, and didn’t even demand a fine.
—And do they live happily?
—So far, so good. But time will tell. He never wanted a daughter—this is his first misfortune.
—By the way, uncle,—someone asked the senior servant, the one who delivered the gift,—what name did he give his daughter?
—In honor of today’s festival—he named her I r e s i o n e.
—A fine name, but isn’t it too lofty for a mortal? After all, Iresione is sacred. I don’t recall a woman ever bearing that name.
—Metrotima said the same. But can you change his mind? “I will,” he said. Again, then, he provokes Nemesis!
—Uncle, wasn’t it surely she? Tell us, what was she doing in the red chamber?
—Ah, children, it was both fearful and wondrous, solemn—like the mysteries of our goddess. They sat together, passing the child back and forth, chatting—well, women do. Suddenly she entered. All fell silent. She approached the mother, kissed her on the forehead: “You do not yet know me, my daughter, but soon you will.” Then she took the child in her arms. The babe had been crying—overwhelmed by aunts, no doubt—but now suddenly smiled and reached her tiny hands toward her—think of it, a ten-day-old infant! She held her a while, gazed at her sadly, and whispered only: “Iresione.” “Gracious one!”—pleaded Metrotima. “Grant that she be happy!” “I will give her my happiness,” replied the goddess, kissed the child, stroked her head, and returned her to the mother. And it was plain to see how the child blossomed from the goddess’s kiss.
—And then?
—Then she left as she came. All sat as if enchanted. I saw they had no thought for me. I had already delivered the gift—without farewell, I left.
—And what was the gift?—asked the laborer.
—A trifle—a small silver lyre.
—Better to give a spindle for a girl.
—We thought so too, but the Eleusinian craftsman had none. Still, Metrotima was pleased. “Thank you,” she said. “I love songs myself.”
Someone laughed. —Better a lyre than a sambuke, at least!
—Children, children, the moon stands high above the hill. Let us sing a hymn to Night, then go home!
4
Many years passed. The elders descended beneath the earth, the fathers grew old—youth bloomed for the children.
The Eleusinians prepared to celebrate their autumn festival of the Mysteries with special solemnity. Young King Theseus of Athens, joyfully welcomed from Cithaeron to Sunium, had resolved to unite all Attica, making Athens a common homeland for all her sons. In accordance with this plan, the Eleusinia were to become not merely a local festival, but a Pan-Attic celebration, with a second center in Athens. The Eleusinians anticipated from this transformation a rise in the glory of their goddess and strained every effort to display her temple and meadow in full splendor before the Athenian guests.
First and foremost was the sacred rite within the mysterious Hall of Initiation. Second, the all-night choral dances preceding it on the “radiant meadow” before the temple. These preparations were shrouded in deep secrecy—not only from outsiders, but even from the initiates themselves: they were known only to the close circle of Eumolpid priests. Yet all initiates were to participate in the dances—not as spectators, but as performers. And since rivalry was not only permitted but expected in this performance, groups formed—of men, youths, women, and maidens—each striving to secure a singer. This would surely have led, amid general ambition, to a bidding war for singers, escalating rewards, and ruinous expenses, destroying one of the festival’s chief virtues—its accessibility. Therefore, the Eumolpids decreed that the only prize for the winning singer would be a wreath, and that assignment to a group would be determined by the will of the goddess—that is, by lot.
Many singers answered Demeter’s call that year, but none attracted more attention than Theramen of Rhamnous. Born and raised under the stern gaze of Rhamnusian Nemesis, he considered his art her gift and thus dedicated it to glorifying her and her kin. That his native Nemesia festivals never lacked his presence went without saying; but among other gods and goddesses, he most revered Eleusinian Demeter, the just recompenser not only in this life, but in the next. Thus Eleusis became his second homeland; he was a welcome guest among the Eumolpids—especially welcome now, as crucial negotiations with Athens over the future of the Eleusinian festival were underway.
His group consisted of young Eleusinian women. Long before the festival in early autumn, in the month of Boedromion, he began their training. His pupils gathered in a suburban grove near the shrine of the hero Hippophoon, not far from the Sacred Way. A priestess of the Eumolpid line taught them the precise movements of the choral dance; Theramen himself instructed them in the song he had composed in honor of the goddess. But he understood his task more deeply. He wished them to sing not merely with lips, but with heart; to give their whole soul to Demeter, and in mystical communion with her, draw strength and inspiration for their song. So he told them—not revealing the sacred drama—of the deep myth of Kore’s abduction, of Demeter’s wanderings, of their blessed reunion, of the founding of the Mysteries, and the conditions of initiation. He insisted that outward rites alone were insufficient, that those who imagine a selfish or wicked initiate will gain a “better fate” in the afterlife than an uninitiated righteous man are deeply mistaken. One must live a life devoted to the goddess, to her truth, beauty, and goodness; above all, one must care not for oneself, nor for one’s own better fate. Did Demeter think of herself when she wandered and grieved? No, she longed for reunion with her daughter. Only he who seeks reunion with the beloved dead in the afterlife truly understands Demeter and walks in her footsteps. Love—the gatekeeper of immortality…
Among his pupils was one who wept bitterly and joyfully during his words; lowering her head upon her friend’s shoulder, she whispered to herself: “My mother, my mother!” But he, carried away by his speech, did not notice her. He saw Demeter in the heavens, entrusted his young initiates to her. And only when it seemed she blessed him did he take up his kithara, played a brief prelude, and sang his “Song of Demeter”:
O hearken to your goddess’s call!
To me on the meadow where brooks play,
Where the fragrant breeze brings cooling shade,
Where sorrow, nor evil, nor wrong is made!
There only—joy, love, peace abide:
There gather the souls, enlightened and bright;
There all I assemble who knew not hate;
There you shall meet again those lost in fate.
He paused a moment—he thought he heard a muffled sob; but it did not repeat, so he continued his inspired song—of bliss in Demeter’s company, of reunion, of love that conquers death…
5
“Hail to the singer Theramen, from his pupil Iresione. O, do not be angry, inspired teacher, that I dare to write to you! What am I to you? As a blade of grass to the sun. Yet the sun does not anger that even a blade longs to be warmed and caressed by it. I am so alone! When you spoke of Demeter, I felt I was not alone in this ceaseless, maddening whirl—that there is a great, kind mother who will not abandon me, an orphan. Thank you, my radiant teacher. The flame you kindled in me will never be extinguished. And I thought: how blessed are those who hear your warm, inspiring words not in a crowd, not among many, but alone, face to face! How blessed I would be if I could know that I am something to you—not as one of your many pupils, but as myself, as Iresione. Are you not angry with me? Today, when the shadows are six feet long, I shall stand by the Rock of the Unsmiling One. And if only… ah, dreams, dreams!…”
Theramen found this letter in his chamber, in the palace of the Eumolpids on the Eleusinian acropolis—someone had evidently slipped it through the open shutters. “Iresione!” The name meant nothing to him; he was not an Eleusinian and did not know his pupils’ names. “By the Rock of the Unsmiling One…” O distant youth, O blissful walks together beneath whispering boughs! You return to trouble me, sweet dreams of days gone by!
But what if it is a trap? What if a rival seeks to tempt him, to undermine his charm, to ruin his work? He instantly rejected the thought, and later felt ashamed even to have entertained it, however briefly. No, too much sincerity lay in those awkward words, in that clumsy, almost childlike script.
But that did not change the fact. Impossible, impossible. He could not come, nor warn her. Poor girl, you will have to wait alone by the gloomy rock, sealed by the sorrow of Mother-Demeter.
Next time, he had to rehearse the song more thoroughly with his pupils—speaking to each, correcting errors, asking questions, resolving doubts. And against his will, one question arose in his mind for each: “Are you Iresione?” And the question remained unanswered. There were beautiful girls among them, intelligent ones, friendly ones—but none who burned with that bright, fervent fire.
The answer came days later in another letter, delivered by the same mysterious means. The first thing he noticed was the traces of abundant tears that had soaked the page. The contents matched its appearance. All was over; the single ray of sunlight had faded into darkness. She was forbidden to join the maidens’ chorus; her father was ill, her stepmother had come to take her back to her mountain village. “Answer me, dear teacher! Just a few lines to me, to one of the initiated! Leave them in the northern cleft of the Rock of the Unsmiling One; my friend Chrysis will find them and bring them to me.”
What to do, Demeter, what to do? Again remain strictly silent? No, gracious one, you will not condemn me. I do not even know her face—I have never knowingly seen her, and certainly will never see her. Never… now it saddened him to think he would truly never see her.
He wrote her a letter of comfort; reminded her of the fire he had, as she said, kindled in her heart. “Do not consider it your private treasure—Demeter commands that you share it with all who need it. However deaf your village may be, you will find boys and girls there who will gratefully receive from you the word of Demeter and her message. Give of yourself, and you yourself will become fuller, richer, happier.” He wrote much else in this spirit—sincerely, warmly, with fervent desire to help her in her loneliness.
He did not err. The next letter he received from her was a song of joy and exultation. Yes, she had followed his advice, gathered village children around her, taught them to understand and love Demeter. And the letter ended with a modest yet fervent plea: not to forsake her with counsel and companionship, not to forget the northern cleft of the Rock of the Unsmiling One.
Theramen vowed he would not forget. But he had many cares: the festival on the radiant meadow drew near; the hot month of Metageitnion was waning, the waning moon heralded the swift arrival of the sacred Boedromion. He must train the girls daily, so they would not disgrace themselves or him in the dances. And on the other hand, the matter of uniting Eleusis with Athens demanded his active involvement. Delphi had blessed the idea and pointed directly to him, a citizen of Nemesis, as the best mediator. Mornings in Hippophoon’s grove, the rest of the day in talks—now with the Eumolpids, now with envoys of King Theseus, sometimes with the king himself.
By the end of Metageitnion, a new letter arrived—gentle and sad, complaining of silence, filled with sorrowful memories of her poor mother, lost among stony hearts. Theramen again vowed to reply—and again postponed it day after day.
6
Boedromion arrived. Now the waxing young moon heightened Theramen’s unease. The girls grew even more anxious; some even fell ill from tension, and each time Theramen felt the hope of success rested on the very one who had fallen ill.
On the eve of the Eleusinia, a new letter from Iresione—this time filled with despair. She was forgotten, forgotten; life had lost all value. She loved only him and had never loved anyone else. And he had forgotten her—this was the end.
No, he must reply now—but certainly not today. The next day was the beginning of the great Eleusinian festival. In the evening—dances and songs of the maidens on the radiant meadow. Chorus after chorus performed; now the herald called for Theramen’s chorus. Hail to Demeter! All the girls were united in one spirit; one soul sang through all voices—his soul. And enchantment grew, spread everywhere—ah, even in Demeter’s meadows, it could not be better! Yes, the wreath was assured… Not in the wreath lies the power: the main thing was that all performers, all present, had felt Demeter, felt her as never before in their lives. He would gladly have withdrawn, but they found him; the entire meadow resounded with applause. O, sweet intoxication of success, fame, universal love!… Yes, even there it could not be better.
And tomorrow—the day of the sacred rite in the Telesterion; those who had felt Demeter yesterday would see her today, see her in the dawn of her majesty and joy. And he saw her, and once more sealed his unshakable bond with her, the mistress of his life.
Theseus himself was among the initiates. Preparing to leave Eleusis, he asked Theramen to accompany him and be his guest in the house of Erechtheus, so that the treaty with Eleusis might be concluded in his presence.
They had to hurry. Gathering his belongings swiftly, he climbed into the chariot with the king. The driver urged the horses down the Sacred Way. But they had to proceed slowly: all the people of Eleusis had come out to bid farewell to the departing guests—both of them, no one knew which more. “Hail to Theseus!” “Hail to Theramen!”—both cries rang from the crowd, no one knew which more frequent.
Theramen’s gaze turned backward. There—Demeter’s sacred precinct, full of mysterious enchantments, with the acropolis rising above it, home of the royal priests, the Eumolpids. There—the stern outlines of Cithaeron, famed nurturer of Dionysus’s orgies. There—the blue waves of the Eleusinian Gulf, the gentle hills of Salamis. Farewell, farewell to you all!… They passed through the gates onto the lush plain of Phrygia, Demeter’s beloved field. They crossed the Eleusinian Cephissus, drew level with Hippophoon’s grove. Farewell, mighty dryads, farewell, blessed hero—you kindly nurtured my victory! And there—the rock—the Rock of the Unsmiling One…
Joy vanished from Theramen’s heart. That rock pressed upon him with its weight. Poor, poor girl… She still waits, still waits, and he…
—Will you forgive me, great king? Here is the Rock of the Unsmiling One, so named because upon its ledge sat grieving Demeter, weary from searching for her daughter. Before leaving her land, I must fulfill a vow known only to her.
He leapt from the chariot, drew from beneath his chiton a folded wax tablet—singers always carried such—and hastily wrote Iresione a message, brief yet heartfelt. Placing the tablet in the cleft, he returned to the chariot with a much lighter heart, to the waiting Theseus.
The driver swiftly urged the horses onward. Now they passed the twin flowing lakes, that marvel of nature on the threshold of Demeter’s realm. Then they rounded the spurs of the Painted Mountain, nearly closing the coastal road, and at the next turn left the shore—the ascent began. To the left—the Painted Mountain; to the right—Corydallus. Higher, higher beneath the fragrant pines. Gradually, the view of Eleusis and its land faded. A breath of laurel—Apollo Pythios’ grove welcomed the pilgrims. Here, a rest; then—the joyful tremor of the heart greets the Athenian plain and the towering rock of Pallas.
7
Nemeseia! A solemn festival of remembrance for the dead and a time for the living to reflect upon the limits of human happiness.
The temple of Nemesis at Rhamnous stood upon a hill, perched at the very edge of a ravine descending toward the sea and the lower city. Though small in size, it was ancient, built in the old polygonal masonry. Through its open doors could be seen the statue of the revered goddess, holding in her left hand a branch of apple tree and in her right a chalice. Ordinarily, this image—carved long ago by Daedalus from grey limestone—did not immediately stand out from the surrounding dimness. But today it was bathed entirely in light. By custom, on her festival Nemesis was offered amphiphontes: round cakes adorned with wax candles. And this year, worshippers were especially numerous. Mysterious oracles spoke of a fateful gift that Nemesis was preparing—not merely for Rhamnous or Attica, but for all of Hellas—a gift that would send many brave heroes’ souls down to the halls of Hades, their bodies left as prey for dogs and birds.
At the Nemeseia games, Phorbas, preoccupied with Eleusinian affairs, did not take part; he was replaced by his long-standing and most beloved pupil, Amphiannax—and replaced with honor. The glory of his song was further heightened by his nobility: through a herald, he proclaimed himself “disciple of Phorbas” and shared his first victory with his master. Yet the demarch of Rhamnous—the same man who always hosted Phorbas during his brief visits home—insisted that the offering of Phorbas’s Eleusinian wreath to Nemesis be made solemnly during these very Nemeseia. This pleased the citizens of Rhamnous as well. They poured forth to meet him, nearly all the way to Tricorynthus, and in solemn procession led him into their city and his native land along the narrow valley that connected it to Tetrapolis.
And now he stood before the goddess who had nurtured his youth, beholding her illuminated in white radiance, in all her majesty and splendor. Would she be pleased with him?
The demarch deemed the moment fitting for a brief address to the assembled citizens and citizen-women who filled the temple and its forecourt. He recalled Phorbas’s past victories, which had brought glory not only to himself but to Rhamnous and its goddess. “Behold,” he said, “here upon the wall hangs his first Eleusinian wreath—marked with the twentieth year of the priesthood of Antigone, who still serves to this day. And how many others have followed since! Here are the Eleusinian, the Parian, the Dotian, the Andanian—wherever choruses dance in honor of Demeter throughout Hellas, there the song of our famed townsman has spread. Everywhere, Phorbas of Rhamnous, nurtured by Rhamnous’s Nemesis, is praised. Accept then, O stern maiden, this newest wreath of your beloved: bless him, and through him, bless us—your faithful people of Rhamnous!”
With these words, he handed the wreath to the neokoros to hang beside last year’s. The nail had already been driven in by his order, and beneath it gleamed the inscription:
“Phorbas, son of Phradmon, from the Eleusinia, in the forty-third year of the priesthood of Antigone.”
The crowd fell silent; all wished to witness the poet’s new glory. Suddenly, a woman’s cry rang out: “Alas, woe!” Neighbors recoiled with their amphiphontes; one of the cakes was within the neokoros’s reach. He tried to pull it away—but too late. The wreath caught fire and, dropped from the neokoros’s hands, burned entirely to ash in an instant.
Horror seized the crowd. They had already been stirred by rumors of Nemesis’s wrath—this dreadful omen seemed to confirm their darkest fears. The demarch felt he must somehow avert the ill omen, but he himself was shaken, and no convincing words came to mind.
“What an unfortunate accident! Well, these amphiphontes always cause some trouble—someone gets burned, someone’s chiton catches fire, and there’s always more fright than harm. But still, it’s a pity, a great pity! Of course, the neokoros is to blame; but who could have expected the wreath to burn up entirely from a single touch of flame—so suddenly, so suddenly…”
“As Iresione did,” murmured a quiet voice.
Phorbas shuddered. For a moment, he thought the voice came from the goddess herself. No—it was only Antigone, her aged priestess, standing at the base of the statue, gazing at Phorbas with eyes full of sorrowful reproach.
The crowd dispersed to their homes.
8
The modest dwelling of Antigone stood at the far end of the temple terrace. It was a wondrous place. Ancient oaks proudly raised their leafy crowns above the lush thicket of thorn bushes that gave Rhamnous its name. From here, one could see the proud acropolis, suspended over the cliff like an eagle’s nest, the blue waves of the strait, and the misty outlines of the mountains of Euboea.
But Phorbas did not admire this familiar, beloved view this time. With head bowed and heart heavy, he knocked at the priestess’s single-paneled door. An old woman, Antigone’s peer, opened it. Without a word, she led him inside. Clearly, he was expected.
“I have come to ask you, Mother-Priestess,” he began softly, “can you tell me why the goddess refused to accept my new wreath?”
“I can, my son. But first, I must give you a gift. Perhaps it will tell you something itself.”
And she handed him a silver trinket—a tiny lyre entwined with a lock of beautiful, golden hair.
Phorbas’s heart leapt. “From whom?” he whispered.
“From my late granddaughter, your pupil—Iresione of the Stone Field in Corydallus.”
“Late, you said? When did she die? And how?”
“I will tell you all. But let us go outside, sit upon the grass beneath those thorns—those very thorns with which Nemesis covers the path of hapless mortals… Listen.
My daughter Metrotima, seduced by Polycastus, lord of the Stone Field, did not long enjoy her illusory happiness. He could not forgive her for bearing him a daughter instead of the son he desired. Even before, he had shown little regard for her womanly feelings; now, he wholly transferred his sambyke, his songs, and his fleeting love to other households. And the poor, unwanted child did not long enjoy her mother’s tenderness—Metrotima grew weaker and weaker, fading like a dying flame. She did not wish to leave her daughter an orphan, but her heart could endure no more. They buried her by the cliff, amid the furrows of the Stone Field.
Polycastus then took a second wife to match his nature—and his wish was fulfilled: swiftly, one after another, she bore him two sons. Then poor Iresione felt herself cast even further aside. She nursed her younger brothers and loved them; but as they grew, they easily saw how their sister was scorned by their parents, and they too began to despise her. Their favorite pastime was to seize her splendid golden braids and chase her about like a horse. So passed her youth—on the Stone Field, among hearts of stone.
How much effort it cost her to persuade her parents to allow her to join the choruses of Demeter at Eleusis! The journey was long; she had to stay in the home of an Eleusinian settler, and soon became close friends with her daughter, Chrysis. But Polycastus, who had himself seduced her mother, feared a similar fate for his daughter. Illness only deepened his distrust. And so, just as a new, unexpected paradise bloomed for Iresione beneath the sound of your song—her stepmother arrived, seized her, and took her back to that cold parental home.
After such light, the darkness seemed doubly black. Once—only once—did it brighten with the golden sun of Eleusis…”
“I know,” Phorbas muttered hoarsely.
“And then even that light faded. Not at once. She clung desperately to every hope. But everything Chrysis told her of your triumphs only proved that she was nothing to you, that you had forgotten her utterly. And yet—her soul was always with you; she prayed constantly to Demeter that you might win the wreath. Her prayer was answered. And when she learned of it—she decided that you, now lifted so high, would never notice her again. And for her, that meant there was nothing left for her in this world. ‘My mother loved but once,’ she said, ‘and so do I.’”
I see, my son, you are shaken by my tale. But gather all your strength—for what you will hear now is even sadder.
9
“The Eleusinia ended,” Antigone continued, “and the waning days of the sacred month began. Iresione remained silent; her household, infinitely distant from her, left her in peace.
But one morning, her stepmother caught a strange, suspicious odor in the chamber. She realized it was drifting down the stairs from her stepdaughter’s room. She opened the door—inside it was dark, shutters tightly closed—and the air was thick with a heavy, poisonous vapour. She flung the shutters open; near the bed she saw a brazier with smoldering embers, and upon the bed—motionless, pale—the girl.
Without telling the household, she rushed to the village of Corydallus—there lived an old, experienced woman skilled in charms against bleeding and remedies for many ills.
Soon after her departure, Chrysis burst into the chamber, radiant:
‘Iresione! A letter for you! A letter from Phorbas!’
‘Too late!’ Phorbas groaned.
“Yes, too late. Chrysis could only place it in the coffin beside her, along with another letter she found beneath her pillow. There she also saw a third, sealed one—with these words: ‘To Chrysis—she knows.’ This letter—here it is.”
She handed Phorbas the sealed scroll. He took it with a trembling hand, quickly broke the seal, began to read—but soon the letters blurred beneath a mist that filled his eyes. He sank to his knees before the priestess, weeping. She laid her hand upon his head in silent compassion.
He wept and wept. Ah, these were not the blessed, youthful tears that ease the soul; he felt as though, with each passing moment, some warm veil that had until now enveloped him was peeling away and drifting off—each moment colder, colder.
“Why, O gods, why? What have I done to deserve this—what have I done to you, or to her? I never even knew her face… Hear me, Mother—yes, it is too late now, grief cannot be undone; but hear me, tell me, what is my guilt?”
He told her everything he knew. She listened in silence, taking her time before answering.
“What is my guilt?” he insisted.
“O my son, as a man, as one among many, you are entirely blameless. No stern judge would dare condemn you.
But do you now understand why Nemesis looks with such severity upon those to whom a portion greater than human has been given? You, O singers, are not mere mortals; your gift is akin to prophecy. Yes, you did not know Iresione; yes, her clumsy, childlike letters could not fully reveal her soul—this pure, tender spirit, this heavenly fragrance lost in the desert of the Stone Field. Yes, with mortal understanding you could not grasp her; but why then did your poetic, your prophetic gift fail you? From the height upon which you stood, you could dazzle this wondrous soul with the brilliance of your rays—but you could not warm her with your warmth. And therein, my friend, lies your guilt before Nemesis.
And thus it is that Nemesis rejected your wreath. She heard the people’s joy, stirred by your song; but she also heard the quiet, solitary weeping of her who paid for that song with her young life. And this—this is a price far exceeding what any mortal may rightfully demand.
You did not know what a pure and tender soul she was; nor did you know how utterly devoted she was to you. Believe me, my friend: never before has one human belonged so wholly to another as she belonged to you. The death she embraced in despair, feeling abandoned by you—she would have embraced it with joy for your sake, if only to add one more rose to your path of life.
“You have not yet read her letter—read it now.”
Brushing the tears from his lashes, Phorbas returned to Iresione’s letter—to her tender, loving words of reconciliation and love triumphant over death.
“Yes, Mother, you are right. I possessed the most precious treasure in the world—and I understood it only when I had lost it.”
10
Antigone was right in another thing as well.
That victory of Phorbas was his last. Seeking solace in fervent service to Demeter, he again led the chorus at the next Eleusinia with a hymn in her honor. This time, for the first time in his life, he tasted the bitterness of defeat. The wreath was awarded not to him, but to Amphiannax.
The Eumolpids remained kind and gracious to him, as to the celebrated singer of Demeter. But the more they tried to show that he had not fallen in their eyes, the more their efforts seemed forced to him. Under a polite pretext, he took his leave, avoiding the celebratory feast. He wished to bid farewell to Amphiannax, to assure him of his unchanging friendship; but after a moment’s thought, he abandoned even that. Why burden the young victor’s happiness with a sorrowful conversation? And what was friendship worth now from Phorbas—a friendship from a shattered, broken lyre?
To leave, to flee from these places—only quickly, only unseen!
He descended the acropolis and walked eastward along the Sacred Way. There—Eleusinian Cephissus; there—the grove of Hippophonus… but no! Each step pierced his heart with memory of his triumph in last year’s Eleusinia. And there—the Rock of Nesmeian… Past it, past it!
And now—where? The road to Rhamnous led through Phrygia; he would have to leave the Sacred Way behind. To Rhamnous? What to do there? Endure the congratulations of fellow citizens, certain of his victory?
Onward along the Sacred Way! Here the sea murmurs, sympathetically echoing the dead swell within his soul. There—bright lagoons; there—the ascent to the pass of Pythian Apollo, the road to Athens… Athens? There were Theseus and other Athenian friends; to appear before them, before triumphant Pallas, with head bowed?
Further along the shore! There is no road, only a path. Where does it lead?—What does it matter? To unknown lands—the better. A night’s lodging can always be found. Strange, though—this path, yet so many people on it. Ah, yes, of course—it leads to the Salaminian ferry. Theseus has established excellent order; now a path, soon a road carved into the cliffs. If only there were fewer people! There, to the left, another path, higher up; the sea is well seen and heard from there. Even more pleasant: the sea’s freshness is seasoned with the vital, resinous scent of mountain pine.
Pines, cliffs, and sea—and solitude. At last! Complete solitude.
And the path climbs ever higher; to the right—sheer drop. The sea lies far below, yet the sound of breaking waves still carries. The surface seems frozen; the little sailboats appear motionless. To the left—pines and cliffs. No, the pines fade; only bare rocks remain. And the ascent ends: a plateau above the cliff. The rocks… they are strange—lying in white ridges, like petrified waves of a lake… or rather, like fields.
The pass is reached; time to rest. The sun no longer beats so fiercely—shadows will soon stretch six feet. To sit upon one of these stone waves and lose oneself gazing at the sea? Even better: here is a bench, semicircular, carved into the rock. So human dwellings cannot be far. And indeed, voices carry on the wind—something being sung. Even the words are clear:
With tidings, with tidings we come,
We bring you a message, a song.
Receive, O master, the maiden,
Welcome her to your home—
Iresione,
Iresione!
Phorbas drifted into reverie. The joyful harvest festival—yes, it is celebrated just now. Now the master of this farmstead will unfasten the old Iresione, affix the new, and burn the old upon his hearth, so her soul may carry his thanks to Demeter. A dear, beautiful, profound rite. Yes, the new Iresione replaces the old—just as now Amphiannax has replaced Phorbas. What use are complaints? It is so natural, so right. To fly himself to his goddess—with a soul grateful, unresisting!
“Ah, gods, gods! Why are we more compassionate toward your creations than you are toward us? The old Iresione will burn with a light, bright, beautiful flame—we honor Demeter in her, and will not let her lie in a corner, scorned and trampled. But why have you condemned us to this long, joyless withering? Better that I too had burned with a light flame, like Iresione…” He shuddered. “Like Iresione! Iresione of the Stone Field!”
11
The pain of defeat had only temporarily silenced the older, incurable grief for her whom he had loved so passionately, without knowing it. Iresione! Yes, she had known how to flare suddenly and vanish, how to send her soul to Demeter in a light flame. So decided that young head, framed by golden curls. Could his own, now greying, not make such a decision?
The sun, which had hidden behind a long bank of clouds, now dipped into the green gap between them and the heights of Salamis, bathing in crimson light the bench where Phorbas sat and the entire landscape. He turned—and only then noticed behind the bench an object he had earlier mistaken for a strangely shaped rock outcrop. No—it was a crudely carved loutrophoros, a large stone vessel symbolizing the pre-nuptial bath, traditionally placed upon the graves of youths and maidens who died before marriage. Now, in this side light, it was clearly visible—so too the carved image of a weeping Siren upon it. And the inscription beneath the Siren, though not cut by an Eleusinian hand: “Iresione, daughter of Polycastus.” And beneath it, in another, clearly unskilled hand, scratched: “Good, unrequited, forgive.”
And then it became clear to him—the meaning of all he had experienced since his talk with Antigone, since reading Iresione’s final letter. Yes, he, without realizing it, had all along been drawn by a mysterious pull toward her eternal dwelling; everything he seemed to consciously pursue—these were but phantom masks hiding that deeper longing. What brought him to Eleusis? The victory wreath? No: Iresione. What led him along the path toward the Stone Field? Thoughts of Rhamnous, Athens, Salamis? No: Iresione. What made him forget lodging at evening? She: Iresione.
Here—this is the end, he thought. From here I shall not depart. A defeated life is of no use to any of the living; it is needed only by her who gave hers, to earn the right to it.
Glory to Demeter! She has guided all to fulfillment, according to her truth and inscrutable wisdom. May she then be praised with the dying singer’s final hymn!
He took up his kithara—and paused. No, not today’s song, not the defeated one, shall he offer to the goddess; he shall offer her his most glorious, his most triumphant—the song for which Iresione paid a price beyond what Nemesis allows.
And over the still waves of the evening air floated the joyful notes of the kithara—notes of the blessed initiates in Demeter’s paradise. The weary singer strained his last strength to pour his soul into these sounds he had created. And when he finished his melody… what was this? Was he alone on this lonely height? A sound, a distinct sound—like the murmur of a many-headed, many-voiced crowd; a sound like that which once greeted these very inspired tones before the temple of the goddess of mysteries, in those blessed Eleusinia.
He turned—no, it was not men. It was the evening wind playing through the golden, fruit-laden field. All was alive, moving; wave followed wave, all rushing toward him, nuzzling at his feet; stalks bent, heads nodded, and through the joyful rustle of the grain flickered the bright, merry laughter of poppies and cornflowers. Where were the rocks, the white ridges? The stone seal was lifted from the enchanted field! Everywhere—ears of grain, ears of grain, ears of grain.
“The goddess is here! The goddess is here!”
She had lifted the stone seal from the enchanted field—lifted it for her whose passionate soul had found peace here, amid the stony rows of this very field—lifted it now, to grant the singer the otherworldly forgiveness of his unwitting victim, to remind him of the great meaning of the sacred Eleusinian symbol. No more cold, no more death: with eternal life, eternal joy, the reborn field of souls, Demeter’s field, sways upon the blessed meadow—everywhere ears of grain, ears of grain, ears of grain…
An unearthly feeling filled Phorbas’s breast; now, forgiven by Iresione, he once more felt the goddess in his heart. The golden rustling grew stronger and stronger. Yes, they were speaking—all of them—he heard clearly, understood clearly what they said:
“Thank you, singer! It was your faith that won us awakening; for you, the goddess has lifted the seal of eternal silence from us. We are all your children: we are the life-giving thoughts and feelings of generations to come, growing from the seeds you sowed. O, do not grieve: even when you are gone, even when your name is forgotten on earth—even then will the sounds of your lyre not perish, nor will the song of Demeter fall silent among men. No more cold, no more silence, no more death…”
Rebirth! Rebirth! Everywhere ears of grain, ears of grain, ears of grain…
Glory to Demeter! Phorbas raised his lyre once more, wishing to begin his Eleusinian hymn in her honor—ah, but this was the last surge of failing strength. His hand fell helplessly; he felt his weakness would not let him sing.
But scarcely had he thought this when he was enveloped by a wave of unearthly fragrance—and a gentle, quiet voice began to sing:
O, heed the call of your goddess!
To me, to the meadow where the brook plays,
Where the fragrant breeze pours coolness,
Where there is no sorrow, no evil, no wrong!
There—only joy, love, and peace:
There, the bright host of enlightened souls;
There I gather all who have known no hate;
There you shall meet anew whom you lost here.
He lifted his heavy eyelids. O, hail to you both! One—majestic, with a blue veil over her bowed head; she lovingly enfolds with her mighty arm the slender singer, whose face barely shines through the veil of golden hair that surrounds her. Now she drew near the bard—and in a deep voice repeated:
There you shall meet anew whom you lost here.
She unfastened her veil—and gentle night descended upon his eyes.