Ivan Efremov. The Land of Foam --------------------------------------------------------------- TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY GEORGE H.HANNA FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE Moscow OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/ http://home.freeuk.com/russica2/ The title of the original: ojkumena.txt _____________________________________________________ In 1922, when Ivan Yefremov, at the age of 16, passed his matriculation examination in Petrograd, it is doubtful whether he even thought that one day he might become a writer. He had been early left an orphan and went through the Civil War as the protege of a Red Army Regiment. He had read many books, but the one with the wonderful pictures and descriptions of strange animals had always attracted him more than any other. ... Academician Sushkin's study opened its doors to him without any letters of recommendation - the Academician devoted the youngster the hours torn from the days already packed tight with work; it was something of great significance, something they both had in common, that brought the fifty-five-year-old scholar and the sixteen-year-old boy together. In 1927 Ivan Yefremov published his first scientific paper A Description of the Habitats of Ancient Amphibians. Other scholarly papers followed one after another and in 1935 their author was granted the degree of Candidate of Science. Five years later he earned the degree of Doctor. His constant search for extinct animals had taken him to the Far North, Eastern Siberia, Yakutia, the Urals, the Far East, Central and Inner Asia, Mongolia and Western China -- always following untrodden paths. In 1943 the scholar launched out as a writer of popular science-fiction; among his books are the romances Stellar Ships and Baurjed's Travels. The romance The Land of Foam appeared in 1949; it is a story of the art and culture of ancient Greece and ancient Egypt, of the people inhabiting the world of those days; the varying landscape of Africa is shown in all its awe-inspiring grandeur. A young Hellene, Pandion, is enslaved by the Egyptians, escapes and on his way back home has many thrilling adventures. With his friends, the Negro Kidogo, and Etruscan Cavius, he crosses the African continent and on reaching the sea carves a wonderful cameo, a symbol of friendship and loyalty. In 1954 Yefremov finished his book The Road of the Winds, describing a 16, 000-mile journey in search of extinct animals in the windswept steppes of Mongolia. In 1957 he published a new popular-scientific romance The Galaxy of Andromeda the action of which takes place 2,500 years from now. Yefremov's is a twin talent, that of the scientist who strives for knowledge and the writer who must speak. Had he not been a scholar he would probably not have been such a writer, and if the scholar had not been an artist he would certainly not have been such a scholar. CONTENTS PROLOGUE CHAPTER I. THE SCULPTOR'S APPRENTICE CHAPTER II. THE LAND OF FOAM CHAPTER III. THE SLAVE OF PHARAOH CHAPTER IV. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM CHAPTER V. THE GOLDEN PLAIN CHAPTER VI. THE ROAD OF DARKNESS CHAPTER VII. THE MIGHT OF THE FOREST CHAPTER VIII. THE SONS OF THE WIND PROLOGUE A fresh autumn breeze swept over the ruffled surface of the Neva. In the bright sunshine the tall, slim spire on the Fortress of Peter and Paul was a streak of gold piercing the blue canopy of the sky. Below it Palace Bridge gracefully curved its broad back over rising and falling waves that sparkled and splashed against the granite steps of the embankment. A young sailor sitting on a bench glanced at his watch, jumped up and walked off rapidly along the embankment past the Admiralty building whose yellow walls reared their crown of white columns high into the transparent autumn air. He walked quickly, paying no attention to the holiday atmosphere that surrounded him. He strode along with a light and confident step, the exercise warmed him, and he pushed his sailor cap on to the back of his head. He crossed a garden whose trees were aflame with autumn tints, passed along one side of an open space and for a moment stood before the entrance to the Hermitage Museum where two polished granite giants supported a massive balcony raised over a humped pavement. Scars made by German bombs were still to be seen on the giant bodies. The young man entered the heavy doors, took off his greatcoat and hurried towards a white marble staircase leading from the semi-gloom of the vestibule to a brightly-lit colonnade surrounded by a row of marble statues. A tall, slim girl, smiling with pleasure, came to meet him. Her attentive eyes, set wide apart, seemed to grow darker and warmer. The sailor looked at the girl in some embarrassment but when he saw that she was just putting her cloak-room check into her open bag he knew that he was not late. His face lit up and he confidently proposed starting their tour of the museum with the Gallery of Antiquities. The young people passed through the crowd of visitors, making their way along rows of columns supporting a brightly painted ceiling. After looking at the remains of vases and stone slabs bearing inscriptions in 'unknown languages, dismal, black statues from ancient Egypt, sarcophagi, mummies and other funereal appurtenances that seemed even more depressing in the gloomy galleries of the lower story, they felt the need for bright colours and sunshine. The youth and the girl hurried to reach the upper rooms. Passing through two more rooms they made their way to a side staircase that led to the upper galleries from a small room with tall, narrow windows through which gleamed a pale sky. A number of conical octagonal show-cases stood between the white columns but the small items of ancient art exhibited in them did not seem to attract the attention of visitors. Suddenly the girl's eyes caught a patch of marvellous blue-green light in the third show-case; it was so brilliant that it seemed to be a source of light in itself. The girl led her companion to the show-case. A flat stone with round edges lay on a sloping bed of silver-coloured velvet. The stone was extraordinarily pure and translucent, its glowing blue-green colour was unexpectedly joyous, brilliant and deep. On the upper surface, obviously polished by the hand of man, cleanly-cut human figures, no bigger than one's little finger, stood out in sharp relief. The colour, brilliance and light emanating from the transparent stone formed a striking contrast to the dull severity of the gallery and the pale tones of the autumn sky. The girl heard her companion heave a deep sigh and noticed in his eyes a dreamy look that bespoke memories evoked by the stone. "That's just like the southern sea on a fine afternoon," said the young sailor slowly; the absolute confidence of one who has seen things resounded in his words. "That's something I've never seen," replied the girl, "only I feel some sort of depth in that stone, some sort of light and joy... . I can't exactly explain... . Where do people find stones like this?" Neither the general heading over the four show-cases: Antae Burials: 7th Century, Middle Dnieper, River Ros, nor the label on the show-case itself: Grebenets Burial Mound, Ancient Clan Shrine-told the young people anything. The other objects that surrounded the wonderful stone were equally incomprehensible: broken knives and spearheads so ugly and damaged by rust as to be unrecognisable, flat bowls, and some sort of pendants of blackened bronze and silver in the form of a trapezium. "All this was dug up in Kiev Region," the young man hazarded a guess, "but I've never heard that stones like that are found anywhere in the Ukraine. . . . Who could we ask?" And the young man looked round the big gallery. It was just their bad luck that there was not a single museum guide anywhere within sight, nobody but the woman caretaker on her chair near the staircase. From the staircase came the sound of footsteps and a tall man in a carefully pressed black suit came down into the gallery. From the way the caretaker got up and greeted him with deference the girl guessed rightly that he was a man of importance in the museum. She gave her companion a quiet nudge but he was already on his way to meet the newcomer; standing to attention, sailor-fashion, he began: "May I ask you something?" "Certainly. What is it you want to know?" said the scientist, screwing up his near-sighted eyes to examine the young couple. The sailor told him what had interested them. The scientist laughed. "You have a nose for good things, young man!" he exclaimed approvingly. "You've lighted on one of the most interesting exhibits in our museum! Did you examine the carving closely? No? Too small? And what do you think this thing is for? Look!" He reached up and took hold of a wooden frame hinged to the upper edge of the show-case and lowered it over the glass. A big magnifying glass came into position exactly opposite the stone. He pressed a switch and a bright light was thrown on its surface. More interested than ever the young couple peered through the magnifying glass. The enlarged carving seemed to come to life. On one edge of the transparent, blue-green stone, fine but scanty lines traced the nude figure of a girl standing with her right hand raised to her cheek. Rolls of thick, curly hair lay on her delicately moulded shoulders. The face had been carved with great attention to detail. The remaining part of the stone was filled by three male figures, their arms round each other's shoulders; these figures were drawn with far greater skill than that of the girl. The shapely muscular figures had been caught in motion. There was something dynamic in the turn of the bodies, strong, urgent and at the same time restrained. The big man in the centre, taller than those on either side of him, had thrown his mighty arms round their shoulders. The side figures, armed with spears, stood with their heads bent attentively. The poses expressed the tense vigilance of warriors ready at any moment to repulse the attack of an enemy. The three tiny figures were the work of a great artist. The basic idea-fraternity, friendship and the common struggle-was expressed with extraordinary force. The charm of the bright, transparent stone, that served both as material and as background, greatly enhanced the beauty of the cameo. A limpid, warm tint that seemed to emanate from the depths of the cold transparent stone tinged the bodies of the three embracing men with the golden joy of sunshine. . . . Under the figures and on the smooth, lower edge some incomprehensible marks had been hurriedly and irregularly scratched. "Have you had a good look? I can see you're thrilled with it." The voice of the archaeologist gave the young people a start. "Good. If you like, I'll tell you something about that stone? It is one of the riddles that we sometimes meet in the historical documents of the past. Listen while I tell you just what the riddle is. That stone is a beryl, in general not a particularly rare mineral, although blue-green beryls of such pure water are rare enough; they are found in South Africa and nowhere else in the world. That's the first point. The carving on the stone is a cameo and ornaments of this type were greatly admired in Greece when ancient Hellenic art was at its best. Now the beryl is a very hard stone and such a carving could only have been made with a diamond which the Greek sculptors did not have. That's the second point. Next, take the three male figures-the central one is undoubtedly a Negro, the one on the right a Hellene, and that on the left, one of the Mediterranean peoples, probably a Cretan or an Etruscan. Lastly, the quality and technique indicate that the work belongs to the most flourishing period in the history of Greece; nevertheless there are a number of features that show that it was made at a much earlier date. And then, the spears are of a peculiar shape unknown in either Greece or Egypt. . . . So you see there are several contradictions, a number of incompatible indicants ... but despite them the cameo exists, it's before your eyes. . . ." The archaeologist paused and then continued in the same abrupt way: "There are many more historical riddles. All of them tell us one thing: how little we know. We have very little knowledge of how the ancient peoples lived. Amongst the Scythian works of art in our gold repository, for example, we have a gold buckle. It is two thousand six hundred years old and carries the image of the extinct sabre-toothed tiger in all its details. Yes, yes, and the palaeontologists will tell you that the sabre-toothed tiger became extinct three hundred thousand years ago. . . . Ha! And in Egyptian tombs you will see frescoes on which every kind of animal found in Egypt is drawn with amazing accuracy. Amongst them is an unknown animal of tremendous size that looks like a giant hyena-such an animal is unknown in Egypt, in all Africa, in fact. And then, in the Cairo Museum, there is a statue of a girl found in the ruins of the city of Akhetaton, built in the 14th century B.C.-she is not an Egyptian and the work is not Egyptian, it is like something from another world. My colleagues will tell you that it is con-ven-tion-al-ized," drawled the archaeologist with a touch of sarcasm. "In connection with this I always like to recall another story. On those same Egyptian wall paintings you often come across a little fish. Just a tiny fish with nothing special about it except that it is always drawn upside down, belly upwards. How could the Egyptians, whose drawings are always so precise, draw such an unnatural fish. Explanations, of course, were forthcoming: it was explained away by conventionalism, by religion, by the influence of the cult of the god Amon. The conclusions were quite convincing and everybody was satisfied. Then it was discovered that there is a fish in the Nile today exactly like the one in the paintings-it swims belly upwards! Very instructive. But I'm running away with myself! Good-bye, you'll find the riddles of history interesting. . . ." "Just a minute, Professor!" exclaimed the girl. "Excuse me, but can't you explain this riddle yourself. . . . Tell us what you think about the stone. . . ." The girl stopped in embarrassment. The archaeologist smiled. "There's no getting away from you. All that I can tell you is sheer guesswork, that's all. One thing is certain: real art reflects life, art itself is living and can only rise to new heights in the struggle against the old. In the distant past, when that cameo was carved, slavery, oppression and lawlessness reigned supreme. Many people lived out their lives in perpetual misery. There were slaves, however, who fought for their emancipation, and oppressed people who rose up in arms against their oppressors. And when one looks at this cameo one feels that the friendship of the three warriors arose out of the fight for liberty... . Perhaps they fled from 'slavery to their own countries. . . . I think that cameo is further evidence of a struggle waged in a distant epoch and hidden from us by time. It is even possible that the unknown artist also took part in the fight. . . . Yes, he must certainly have been there, otherwise his work could not have been so perfect. And look how both of you fixed your attention on the cameo." The young man and woman, overwhelmed by the mass of information they had been given, again pressed close to the magnifying glass. The stone seemed even more mysterious and incomprehensible to them. The pure, clear and deep colour of the sea ... and on it the figures of three men linked in fraternal embrace. The brilliant, scintillating stone and the golden tinge on the perfect, undraped bodies stood out with even greater force in the cold, dull gallery of the museum. . . . The young girl, full of life and feminine charm, seemed to be standing on the seashore. With a sigh the young sailor straightened his aching back. The girl still kept her eyes on the stone. The shuffling of feet and the noise of an approaching excursion group resounded down the corridors. Only then did the girl tear herself away from the case. The switch clicked, the frame was lifted and the blue-green crystal lay sparkling on its velvet bed. "We'll come here again, won't we?" asked the sailor. "Of course we shall," answered the girl. The young man took her gently by the arm and they walked down the white marble staircase deep in thought. I. THE SCULPTOR'S APPRENTICE The flat rock jutted far out into the sea. It had retained the warmth of day and the youth sitting there was not in the least disturbed by the fresh gusts of wind that found their way between the cliffs. The sea, invisible in the darkness of night, splashed faintly against the foot of the rock. The young man stared into the distance, contemplating the point at which the end of that silver band called the Milky Way disappeared into the darkness. He was watching the falling stars; a cluster of them had flashed up to pierce the sky with their fiery needles, and disappear behind the horizon, fading like burning arrows falling into the water. Again the fiery arrows flashed across the heavens, flying into the unknown, to the fabled lands that lay beyond the sea on the very borders of Oicumene. ( Oicumene-the name given by the ancient Greeks to the inhabited world which was surrounded by water, Oceanos.) "I will ask grandad where they fall," decided the youth and thought how wonderful it would be to fly like that through the sky direct to some unknown destination. But then he was no longer a youth--a few more days and he would attain the age of a warrior. He would never be a warrior, however, but would become a famous artist, a sculptor of renown. His innate ability to see true forms in nature, to sense and remember them, made him different from most people... Or so his teacher, the sculptor Agenor, had told him. And so it was, for there, where others passed indifferently by, he would halt in sheer amazement, seeing that which he could neither comprehend nor explain. The countless manifestations of nature charmed him by their constant mutations. Later his vision grew clearer and he learned to distinguish the beautiful and retain it in his memory. There was elusive beauty in all things, in the curve of the crest of a running wave, in the locks of Thessa's hair when the wind played in them, in the stately columns of the pine trunks and in the menacing rocks that rose proudly over the seashore. From the moment he first became conscious of this he had made the creation of beautiful forms his aim in life. He wanted to show beauty to those unable to perceive it for themselves. And what could be more beautiful than the human body! To mould it, however, was the most difficult of all the arts. . . . 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." Pandion, following the custom, bowed low to Agenor's wife and she covered his head with the corner of her mantle and then pressed him fondly to her bosom. The girl gave a little shout of joy and then, with signs of embarrassment, disappeared into the house, followed by her father's smile. Agenor sat down by the entrance to his workshop for a quiet rest. A grove of ancient olive-trees grew right outside the house; their huge, angular trunks were intertwined in the most fantastic manner that to the contemplative eye of the artist resembled people and animals. One of the trees was like a kneeling giant whose arms were held wide apart above his head. The rugged irregularities of another tree-trunk formed an ugly body, distorted by suffering. It seemed as though all the trees were bent under the effort to raise upward the heavy weight of their countless branches covered with tiny silvery leaves. The figure of a woman in a bright blue holiday himation with gold ornaments slipped out of the other side of the house. As she disappeared behind the slope of the hill the sculptor recognized his daughter. Treading softly with her bare feet, Agenor's wife came and sat down beside her husband. "Thessa has gone to Pandion in the pine grove again," said the sculptor and then added: "The children think we don't know their little secret!" His wife laughed gaily but turned suddenly serious as she asked: - "What do you think of Pandion now that he's been with us a year?" "I like him more than ever," answered Agenor and his wife nodded her head in agreeme