The Tales of Ancient Egypt (10 Historical Novels). Georg Ebers
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noble-minded champions must be very cautious, though,” said Rhodopis, “lest they become contentious, and quarrelsome. Do you see those melons lying on the black soil yonder, like golden balls? Not one would have come to perfection if the sower had been too lavish with his seed. The fruit would have been choked by too luxuriant tendrils and leaves. Man is born to struggle and to work, but in this, as in everything else, he must know how to be moderate if his efforts are to succeed. The art of true wisdom is to keep within limits.”
“Oh, if Cambyses could only hear you!” exclaimed Croesus. “Instead of being contented with his immense conquests, and now thinking for the welfare of his subjects, he has all sorts of distant plans in his head. He wishes to conquer the entire world, and yet, since Phanes left, scarcely a day has passed in which he has not been conquered himself by the Div of drunkenness.”
“Has his mother no influence over him?” asked Rhodopis. “She is a noble woman.”
“She could not even move his resolution to marry Atossa, and was forced to be present at the marriage feast.”
“Poor Atossa!” murmured Sappho.
“She does not pass a very happy life as Queen of Persia,” answered Croesus; “and her own naturally impetuous disposition makes it all the more difficult or her to live contentedly with this husband and mother; I am sorry to hear it said that Cambyses neglects her sadly, and treats her like a child. But the marriage does not seem to have astonished the Egyptians, as brothers and sisters often marry here.”
“In Persia too,” said Darius, putting on an appearance of the most perfect composure, “marriages with very near relations are thought to be the best.”
“But to return to the king,” said Croesus, turning the conversation for Darius’ sake. “I can assure you, Rhodopis, that he may really be called a noble man. His violent and hasty deeds are repented of almost as soon as committed, and the resolution to be a just and merciful ruler has never forsaken him. At supper, for instance, lately, before his mind was clouded by the influence of wine, he asked us what the Persians thought of him in comparison with his father.”
“And what was the answer?” said Rhodopis. “Intaphernes got us out of the trap cleverly enough,” answered Zopyrus, laughing. “He exclaimed: ‘We are of opinion that you deserve the preference, inasmuch as you have not only preserved intact the inheritance bequeathed you by Cyrus, but have extended his dominion beyond the seas by your conquest of Egypt.’ This answer did not seem to please the king, however, and poor Intaphernes was not a little horrified to hear him strike his fist on the table and cry, ‘Flatterer, miserable flatterer!’ He then turned to Croesus and asked his opinion. Our wise friend answered at once: ‘My opinion is that you have not attained to the greatness of your father; for,’ added he in a pacifying tone, ‘one thing is wanting to you—a son such as Cyrus bequeathed us in yourself.”
“First-rate, first-rate,” cried Rhodopis clapping her hands and laughing. “An answer that would have done honor to the ready-witted Odysseus himself. And how did the king take your honeyed pill?”
“He was very much pleased, thanked Croesus, and called him his friend.”
“And I,” said Croesus taking up the conversation, “used the favorable opportunity to dissuade him from the campaigns he has been planning against the long lived Ethiopians, the Ammonians and the Carthaginians. Of the first of these three nations we know scarcely anything but through fabulous tales; by attacking them we should lose much and gain little. The oasis of Ammon is scarcely accessible to a large army, on account of the desert by which it is surrounded; besides which, it seems to me sacrilegious to make war upon a god in the hope of obtaining possession of his treasures, whether we be his worshippers or not. As to the Carthaginians, facts have already justified my predictions. Our fleet is manned principally by Syrians and Phoenicians, and they have, as might be expected, refused to go to war against their brethren. Cambyses laughed at my reasons, and ended by swearing, when he was already somewhat intoxicated, that he could carry out difficult undertakings and subdue powerful nations, even without the help of Bartja and Phanes.”
“What could that allusion to you mean, my son?” asked Rhodopis.
“He won the battle of Pelusiam,” cried Zopyrus, before his friend could answer. “He and no one else!”
“Yes,” added Croesus, “and you might have been more prudent, and have remembered that it is a dangerous thing to excite the jealousy of a man like Cambyses. You all of you forget that his heart is sore, and that the slightest vexation pains him. He has lost the woman he really loved; his dearest friend is gone; and now you want to disparage the last thing in this world that he still cares for,—his military glory.”
“Don’t blame him,” said Bartja, grasping the old man’s hand. “My brother has never been unjust, and is far from envying me what I must call my good fortune, for that my attack arrived just at the right time can hardly be reckoned as a merit on my part. You know he gave me this splendid sabre, a hundred thorough-bred horses, and a golden hand-mill as rewards of my bravery.”
Croesus’ words had caused Sappho a little anxiety at first; but this vanished on hearing her husband speak so confidently, and by the time Zopyrus had finished his wreath and placed it on Rhodopis’ head, all her fears were forgotten.
Gyges had prepared his for the young mother. It was made of snow-white water-lilies, and, when she placed it among her brown curls, she looked so wonderfully lovely in the simple ornament, that Bartja could not help kissing her on the forehead, though so many witnesses were present. This little episode gave a merry turn to the conversation; every one did his best to enliven the others, refreshments of all kinds were handed round, and even Darius lost his gravity for a time and joined in the jests that were passing among his friends.
When the sun had set, the slaves set elegantly-carved chairs, footstools, and little tables on the open part of the deck. Our cheerful party now repaired thither and beheld a sight so marvellously beautiful as to be quite beyond their expectations.
The feast of Neith, called in Egyptian “the lamp-burning,” was celebrated by a universal illumination, which began at the rising of the moon. The shores of the Nile looked like two long lines of fire. Every temple, house and but was ornamented with lamps according to the means of its possessors. The porches of the country-houses and the little towers on the larger buildings were all lighted up by brilliant flames, burning in pans of pitch and sending up clouds of smoke, in which the flags and pennons waved gently backwards and forwards. The palm-trees and sycamores were silvered by the moonlight and threw strange fantastic reflections on the red waters of the Nile-red from the fiery glow of the houses on their shores. But strong and glowing as was the light of the illumination, its rays had not power to reach the middle of the giant river, where the boat was making its course, and the pleasure-party felt as if they were sailing in dark night between two brilliant days. Now and then a brightly-lighted boat would come swiftly across the river and seem, as it neared the shore, to be cutting its way through a glowing stream of molten iron.
Lotus-blossoms, white as snow, lay on the surface of the river, rising and falling with the waves, and looking like eyes in the water. Not a sound could be heard from either shore. The echoes were carried away by the north-wind, and the measured stroke of the oars and monotonous song of the rowers were the only sounds that broke the stillness of this strange night—a night robbed of its darkness.
For a long time the friends gazed without speaking at the wonderful sight, which seemed to glide past them. Zopyrus was the first to break the silence by saying, as he drew a long breath: “I really envy you, Bartja. If things were as they should be, every one of us would have his dearest wife at his side on such a night as this.”
“And who forbade you to bring one of your wives?” answered the happy husband.
“The other five,” said the youth with a sigh. “If I had allowed Oroetes’ little daughter Parysatis, my youngest favorite, to come out alone with me to-night, this wonderful sight would have been my last; tomorrow there would have been one pair of eyes less in the world.”
Bartja