IRÉNÉ

I spent the whole harvest season at Tyringham, and when it was over I went with Chairo to New York in order to get some ocular understanding of their factory system. It was there that I understood one of the reasons that made Lydia hesitate, for I met there another woman—a Demetrian also—whose history had been intimately interwoven with Chairo's.

Lydia had decided, much to Chairo's disappointment, that she would spend October in the Demetrian cloister attached to the temple. She said she felt the need of seclusion. It was one of the functions of the cloistered to attend the daily rite at the altar, and I often went at the sacred hour to attend the service, doubtless drawn by the desire to see Lydia engaged in her ministration. One afternoon, as I sat in the shadow of a pillar, I was struck by the singular majesty of one of the ministrants. She headed the procession of women who carried the censers, and it was she who offered the incense at the altar.

I was living with Chairo and Ariston in bachelor quarters and described the priestess to the latter on my return home. Ariston's face flushed as he answered: "That must be IrÉnÉ of Tania; she is a Demetrian and is the mother of a boy by Chairo."

Noticing that my question had moved Ariston I was unwilling to push my inquiries; but after a few moments of silence Ariston, who after his laconic answer had lowered his eyes to the book he was reading, looked up and seeing the question in my eyes that I had refrained from putting into words, added:

"Her story is a sad one. She was selected by Demeter not on account of any special gifts, but because of her splendid combination of qualities; she was a type; she represented a standard it was useful to reproduce. Chairo for similar reasons was selected as her bridegroom; she chose to know him and became deeply enamored. How should she not? He remained devoted to her until her boy was weaned and then did not renew his vows. She bore his decision with dignity; indeed, so well did she disguise her disappointment that for a long time no one knew whether it was Chairo or herself who had decided to separate. But when Chairo began to show his love for Lydia, IrÉnÉ sickened; there was no apparent reason for it and no acute disease; her appetite failed and she lost strength and color."

Ariston paused, as though he were going over it all in his mind, unwilling to give it utterance. Finally, he arose and walked to the window, and after looking out a little, turned to me and said:

"The fact is, I was consumedly in love with her myself; her illness gave me an excuse for being a great deal with her, and at last in a moment of folly—for I might have guessed—I told her of my love. I shall never forget her face when I did so: the sadness on it deepened; she held out her hand to me and said: 'I am fond of you, Ariston—and am grateful! But I love Chairo and shall never love anyone but him.'" Ariston's voice became hoarse as he repeated IrÉnÉ's words. But he paused, cleared his throat, and went on.

"Since then she has made a great effort over herself. She was told that she was allowing sorrow to unfit her for her duty to her child, and that she was suffering from no malady beyond that most pernicious of all maladies—the malady of the will. She collected herself, regained control, and has now recovered her health—and all her beauty. Was there ever beauty greater than her's?"

"She is very beautiful—more than beautiful—she filled me with a kind of wonder. But tell me, won't she object to your having told me her secret?"

"It is not a secret; these things are not regarded as secrets; we hold it unworthy to blab of such things, but we never make an effort to conceal them. Often since then IrÉnÉ has spoken of Chairo in such a manner as to leave no doubt as to her feelings for him; and yet she has probably never in terms admitted it to anyone but me. In confiding to you my love for her, she would not complain at my also confiding to you her love for him."

Ariston's simplicity filled my heart with tenderness for him.

I went to him, put my hands on his shoulders, and said:

"I am sorry for you."

For a moment he seemed taken aback by this expression of sympathy; but when our eyes met his were dimmed. In a moment, however, he had recovered control, and said:

"It doesn't make any difference in one way. I see her still; and one of these days she will be sorry for me and become my wife; she will then end by loving me. I mean to work to this end; the hope of attaining all this gives me courage."

It seemed all the worse to me that Ariston, with his gayety and humor, should be in his heart so sad. And yet, if it was to be, better that it should come to one who had a fund of joyousness within himself, on which he could draw.

The next day Lydia sent word to Ariston that she would like to see him, and Ariston suggested that I should go with him to the cloister. "I shall, of course," he said, "wish to see Lydia alone for a little, but you will have an opportunity of seeing the cloister and what they do there."

The cloister of Demeter and all the institutions which clustered around it were situated in the neighborhood of what was in my time Madison Square. All the buildings between Twentieth Street and Thirty-fourth Street, north and south, and between Sixth Avenue and Fourth Avenue, east and west, had been cleared away; and upon the cleared space had been constructed a building dedicated to the cult. The temple of Demeter, closely resembling the Pantheon, was surrounded by a grove of ilex trees. At a short distance from the temple and connected with it by a columned arcade, was the cloister, built also of white marble, around a court carpeted with lawn; this cloister was the dwelling place of the priestesses of Demeter and of all those women who were either in retreat or in novitiate. A short distance from the cloister was a large building, similar to the other large buildings of which New York now mainly consisted. Twenty stories in height, covering acres of ground and built around a large open court, these buildings were no longer open to the objection alleged against them in my time, owing to the fact that they were now removed from one another by large spaces planted with trees. This particular building was devoted to the education of youth, and particularly all children who, for any reason, became what was termed "children of the state." The building was so large that it permitted of a running track within the court of four laps to the mile. New York had been transformed by the construction of these enormous buildings, each one of which constituted practically a city of itself. Some of them, such as the one in which I was living with Ariston, were devoted exclusively to bachelors and childless widowers; others were entirely for unmarried women and childless widows; others, on the contrary, were set aside for the use of families and consisted of apartments of different sizes.

Although the inmates of these buildings constantly met after the fulfillment of their daily task, every family had as separate a home as in my day. Almost every building had a dramatic corps of its own, a musical choir of its own, a football club, a tennis club, and other athletic, amusement, and educational clubs of its own, and all these clubs contributed to the amusement one of the other, each colony contributing its share to the enjoyment of the whole community.

Lydia was in the hospital ward of the state children's building, where at last we found her, for though in retreat she was by no means idle. She was not discountenanced when she saw us; nor would she even allow me to leave them, but told Ariston what she had to say simply and in a few words. It was this: She had come to the cloister, she said, very largely for the purpose of seeing IrÉnÉ there; she took it for granted that IrÉnÉ's duties at the temple would bring them together. Lydia feared, however, that IrÉnÉ was avoiding her, and wanted Ariston to arrange a meeting between them.

Ariston promised to do this, and then we all three walked through the buildings, Lydia taking great pride in her share of the work there.

Ariston did not find it easy to arrange this meeting. IrÉnÉ freely confessed that she did not want to speak to Lydia at this moment; she was unwilling to give her reasons, but we both easily guessed them. IrÉnÉ, however, did not refuse to see Lydia and promised to go to her on the following day.

The following day was the first of the Eleusinian festival. In the daily rite, incense was offered to the goddess as a token of sacrifice, but at the Eleusinian festival there was added a note of thanksgiving to the rite, which substituted perfumes and flowers in lieu of incense. It was the privilege of IrÉnÉ to select from among the ministrants the one who was to hand her the gifts brought by the rest, and it was from the hand of the chosen one that IrÉnÉ took the gifts and laid them upon the altar.

On this opening day IrÉnÉ selected Lydia for this privilege, for she meant this joint ministration at the altar to serve as prelude and preparation for their meeting. The temple was crowded.

Lydia trembled a little as she followed IrÉnÉ to the altar; a priest stood on either side as the priestesses, postulants, and novices of the Demetrian procession went up the steps to it. Arrived at the foot of the altar they formed a group about it, dividing one-half on one side, the other half on the other; between the altar and the body of the temple stood only IrÉnÉ and Lydia.

Lydia took the perfumes and handed them to IrÉnÉ, who sprinkled them first upon the altar, then upon the priests, and then toward the congregation; then she took the flowers, some of them in vases, others in wreaths, and handed them to IrÉnÉ, who arranged them upon the altar; when the last gift had been taken there IrÉnÉ kneeled and Lydia kneeled by her side. There was a deep silence in the temple. At this point in the ritual there was a pause, during which it was the privilege of the postulants and novices to have a prayer offered in case of special anxiety. IrÉnÉ, though unsolicited, at this moment offered the following prayer:

There was a word in this prayer which did not fail to strike the attention of every worshipper in the temple that day. The words of the ritual were "Grant that she may neither accept the mission unworthily." IrÉnÉ had substituted "hastily" for the word "unworthily." She had paused at this word and given it special emphasis. It was usual for the Demetrian procession to remain kneeling after the service was over and the congregation dismissed; and it happened that the procession and the priests left the temple, leaving IrÉnÉ and Lydia alone there. For IrÉnÉ did not rise with the other Demetrians, and Lydia, feeling that she had been chosen as ministrant for a purpose, remained beside IrÉnÉ. The two knelt alone in the temple, IrÉnÉ praying and Lydia waiting on her. At last IrÉnÉ arose and Lydia also, and they both walked out into the covered way.

Neither spoke until they were in the seclusion of the cloistered court. Then IrÉnÉ said: "You wanted to speak to me, Lydia."

"And you have been avoiding me," said Lydia.

"Yes," answered IrÉnÉ. "You have a matter to decide regarding which you have already guessed I am not altogether unconcerned."

Lydia lowered her voice as she said: "You still love Chairo?"

IrÉnÉ answered in a voice still lower, but firm, "I do."

For a few minutes they paced the cloister. Lydia was trying to decide how to confess her own secret, but she did not find the words. At last IrÉnÉ said:

"When the mission of Demeter was first tendered to me I was eighteen, and, although I had often preferred certain of my playmates to others, I had not known love. The honor of the mission made a great impression, and as it slowly came upon me that I was chosen to make of myself a sacrifice, the beauty of it filled my heart with happiness. It hardly occurred to me possible to refuse the mission; I was absorbed by one single desire—to make myself worthy of it. I thought very little about the sacrifice itself. I had the legend of Eros and Psyche in my mind; one day I should hear heavenly music and be approached as it were by an unknown god. And passing from the pagan to the Christian myth, I saw the Immaculate Conception of Murillo—that of the young maiden at the Prado in Madrid—and I felt lifted into the ecstasy of a mystic motherhood. So until I accepted the mission at the Eleusinian festival I lived in a rapture—the days passing in the studies and ministrations of our novitiate, the nights in dreamless sleep. But once the vows taken and the bridal night fixed, there came upon me a revulsion as it were from the outside and took control of my entire being so as to make me understand what the ancients meant when they described certain persons as 'possessed by an evil spirit.' The thought of the approaching crisis was a pure horror to me. I lost my appetite and sleep; or, if I slept, it was to dream a nightmare. Neither our priest nor priestess could console me, the legend of Eros and Psyche became abominable, the Immaculate Conception absurd, and, believe me, Lydia, nothing but pride kept me to my word. It was a bad pride, the pride that could not look forward to the humiliation of refusing a sacrifice I had once accepted. That pride held me in a vice and accomplished what religion itself would never have accomplished."

IrÉnÉ paused—and Lydia passed her arm around IrÉnÉ's waist as they continued to pace the solitary cloister, whispering "Go on" in IrÉnÉ's ear.

"You know the rest," continued IrÉnÉ. "The unknown god came to me in my terror and converted my terror into love; and as I look back at it now I am struck by two things: One, how unaccountable and unfounded the terror was; the other, how little my pride would have sufficed to overcome it had the terror been enforced by love."

Lydia looked at IrÉnÉ askance.

"I mean," said IrÉnÉ, "love for some one else!"

A sigh broke from Lydia. This was what she had been waiting for.

"And you think," said Lydia, "that a woman should not accept the mission if she already loves?"

"I don't think it; I know it!"

Lydia felt a burden taken from her—the burden of doubt as well as the burden of sacrifice. But suddenly she remembered that IrÉnÉ in advising the refusal of the mission was making a sacrifice of her own love, and she said very low in IrÉnÉ's ear:

"But, IrÉnÉ, it's Chairo——"

"I know," answered IrÉnÉ, "and this is all the greater reason for refusing. Had you loved a lesser man you might have doubted the trueness of your love, but having loved Chairo once you can never cease to love him. I speak who know"; and IrÉnÉ turned on Lydia a look of immortal sorrow.

But the tumult of emotion in Lydia's heart could no longer be restrained. Her own great love for Chairo, her inability to sacrifice it, contrasted with the dignity of IrÉnÉ's renunciation, started a torrent of tears. She fell on IrÉnÉ's neck and sobbed there. IrÉnÉ's strong heart beat against her's as they stood in close embrace under the cloister, and calmed Lydia. She slowly disengaged herself, and looking into IrÉnÉ's face, said:

"And so you tell me to refuse the mission?"

"You cannot do otherwise."

Then Lydia kissed IrÉnÉ and withdrew.

Lydia went to her chamber and sat in the window seat, looking across the lawn to the temple of Demeter.

What did it all mean? She had felt the beauty of the mission; had glowed at the thought of sacrifice; had taken pride in it. But such was the strength of her love for Chairo that so long as he was in her mind the mission seemed a sacrilege and her heart had responded to IrÉnÉ's advice with a bound of gratitude and delight. And yet now as she looked at the white columns of the temple at which she would never again be worthy to minister, an unutterable sadness came over her, as though she were parting from the dearest and most precious thing in her existence.

She was unwilling to mingle that night with the other novices, and retired without seeing them. The night was filled with conflicting dreams and she woke up next morning with the guilty conviction that she had committed a crime.