“You’re right, my dear; no happiness will be his if he strives to achieve that which nobody else has ever been able to. You are worried… And I know why, you’re afraid for Thessa, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not afraid, my daughter is proud and brave. Still I feel that her love for Pandion may bring her sorrow. It’s a bad thing for a man to be afflicted, like Pandion, with the passion of the seeker — not even love will heal his eternal yearning…”
“As it healed me.” The sculptor smiled fondly at his wife. “I suppose I was like Pandion, once…”
“Oh, no, you were always stronger and more balanced,” said his wife, stroking Agenor’s greying head.
The artist gazed into the distance beyond the pines amidst which Thessa had disappeared.
The girl hurried on to the sea, frequently glancing back, although she knew that so early on the morning of a holiday nobody would go to the sacred grove.
Waves of heat were already surging from the white stones of the barren hills. At first the path led across flat land covered with thorn bushes and Thessa walked warily so as not to tear the skirts of her best chiton of fine, almost transparent material brought from overseas. Farther on, the ground rose in a low, rounded hill covered with brilliant red flowers, blazing in the bright sunlight like a mass of dark flames. Here there were no thorns and the girl took up the folds of her chiton, lifted it high and ran on.
Thessa passed quickly by the isolated trees and soon found herself in the grove. The straight trunks of the pines shone like purple wax, their wide crowns rustled noisily in the wind and their spreading branches, bristling with needles as long as a man’s hand, were turned to golden dust in the sun’s rays.
An odour of hot resin and pine needles mingled with the breath of the sea filled the whole grove.
The girl slackened her pace, unconsciously submitting to the solemn calm of the grove.
To her right a grey rock sprinkled with fallen pine needles rose up amongst the trees.
A shaft of sunlight slanted down into a small glade turning the surrounding trees into columns of red gold. Here the rumbling roar of the sea could be more clearly heard; although it could not be seen the sea made its presence felt by the low, measured chords of its music.
Pandion ran out from behind the rock to meet Thessa, caught her by her outstretched arms and pulled her towards him, then, pushing her a little way back, gazed intently at her as though he were trying to absorb her image to the full.
Locks of her shining black hair quivered on her smooth forehead, her thin eyebrows, slightly arched, rose towards her temples; the shape of her brows gave her big dark blue eyes an elusive expression of mocking pride.
With a gentle movement Thessa escaped the youth.
“Make haste, people will be coming here soon!’’ she said, looking fondly at Pandion.
“I’m ready,” he said, going towards the rock in which was a narrow vertical crevice.
On a block of limestone stood an unfinished statue of kneaded clay about three feet high. Beside it the sculptor’s wooden tools were laid out — curved saws, knives and trowels.
The girl threw off her himation and slowly raised her hands to the brooch which fastened the folds of the flimsy chiton on her shoulder.
Pandion watched her, smiling and selecting his tools, but when he turned towards the statue the triumphant smile gradually vanished. That crude figure was still far from possessing Thessa’s ravishing beauty. Still the clay had already assumed the proportions of her body. Today must decide everything. At long last he would give the piece of dead clay the charm of living lines.
With a frown of determination Pandion turned towards Thessa. She glanced sideways at him and nodded her head. With downcast eyes the girl leaned against the trunk of a pine-tree with one arm behind her head. Immersed in his work Pandion did not speak. The youth’s penetrating gaze shifted from the body of his model to the clay and back again, changing, measuring, comparing. This struggle between the dead clay, indifferent to the form it was given, and the creative hands of the artist who strove to give it the beauty of the living girl, had been going on for many days.
Time passed and the youth’s attentive ear had on several occasions caught the suppressed sighs of the tired girl.
Pandion stopped work, stepped back from the statue and Thessa gave an involuntary shudder as she heard the bitter groan of disappointment that escaped him. The clay figure had grown much worse. There had been life in it, hinted at by scarcely perceptible lines, but now that these had been made prominent the statue was dead. It had become nothing more than a crude semblance of Thessa’s swarthy body standing before the trunk of a huge pine-tree the colour of old gold.
Biting his lips the youth compared the statue with Thessa, making a desperate effort to find out what was wrong. Actually there was nothing that could be called wrong, it was simply his failure to breathe life into his work, to catch the changing forms of the living body. He had thought that the strength of his love, his frank admiration of Thessa’s beauty would enable him to rise to great heights, to a tremendous feat of creation that would give the world a statue such as it had never before seen… He had thought so yesterday, half an hour ago, even!… But he could not, he had not the ability, it was beyond his powers… Not even for Thessa, whom he loved so well! What should he do? The whole world had grown dark to Pandion, the tools fell from his hands, the blood rushed to his head. In despair at the realization of his impotence, the youth rushed to the girl and fell on his knees before her.
The girl, embarrassed and perplexed, placed her hands on Pandion’s hot, upturned face.
With the intuition of a woman she suddenly realized the struggle that was going on in the soul of the artist. With maternal love she bent over the youth, whispered consoling words to him, pressed his head to her bosom and ran her fingers through his short curls.
The youth’s burst of despair was slowly ebbing away.
Voices came from the distance. Pandion looked round; his passion had gone and with it went his proud hopes. He felt that his youthful dreams would never come true. The sculptor went up to his statue and stood before it wrapped in thought. Thessa laid her tiny hand on the crook of his arm.
“Don’t you dare, you foolish boy,” whispered the girl.
“I can’t, I dare not, Thessa,” agreed Pandion, never once taking his eyes off the statue. “If that. .” the youth stammered, “if that had not been modelled from you, if it were not you, I would destroy it on the spot. The thing is so crude-and ugly that it has no right to exist and somehow resemble you.” With those words the youth pushed the block of stone together with the statue back into the crevice in the rock and closed the narrow entrance with stones and a few handfuls of dry pine needles.
Pandion and Thessa set off in the direction of the sea. For a long time they walked on in silence. Then Pandion spoke, he wanted his beloved to share his grief and disappointment. The girl tried to persuade Pandion not to give up trying, she told him how confident she was of him and of his ability to carry out his plans. Pandion, however, was implacable. For the first time that day he had realized how far he was from real virtuosity, that the road to real art lay through many years of dogged toil.
“No, Thessa, only now have I at last understood that I can’t embody you in a statue!’’’ he exclaimed passionately. “I’m too poor here and here,” he touched his heart and his eyes, “to be able to depict your beauty.”
“Is it not all yours, Pandion?” The girl threw her arms impetuously round the artist’s neck.
“Yes, Thessa, but how I sometimes suffer on account of it! I’ll never cease to adore you, Thessa, and at the same time I can’t make a statue of you. I must embody you in clay, in stone. I must understand why it’s so difficult to depict life; if I cannot understand this myself how can I ever hope to make my creations live?”