Acknowledgements
First and foremost, thanks goes to my editor, Philip Sidnell. He has dealt with my adapted time frames with support and good humour. His meticulous readings of various drafts have offered useful suggestions for refinement and more in-depth explanations. Indeed, if it was not for Phil, this book would never have come to light. Originally this book began as a section for my previous publication, Great Battles of the Classical Greek World, but from the moment Phil saw that heading in my prospective chapter list he shot me down. How could we waste an opportunity for a follow up book? I was apprehensive at first, but Phil’s support encouraged me to jump in with both feet, the result of which is this book.
I am indebted to the community of academics, historians, and historical enthusiasts who I have used time and again to bounce ideas off, discuss narratives with, or ultimately lean on for motivation when the need arose. In particular, special thanks go to Dr Jason Crowley, who has put up with this book consuming much of my attention!
I am greatly appreciative of the enthusiastic support of David Bowen, who has vigilantly read over the drafts of this book and offered advice on edits. While military history is a passion of mine, my nautical experience is just a little more than zero. David’s vast knowledge base has certainly refined this book accordingly. As always, any mistake and errors that are present here are mine and mine alone.
Finally, and most importantly, my thanks as always go to my wife Carly, and children Matilda and Henry. They have put up with me working from home to finish this book and have offered me nothing but love and support.
Introduction
The evocative and tranquil sight of the Mediterranean Sea is an intoxicating tableau of serenity to all who have witnessed it. But behind the calm, lapping waves and peaceful quiet, hides a story of bloody warfare and inhumane carnage. While the blood-soaked battlefields of the Greek mainland are so hard to ignore, the rouged-tint of the naval battle is quickly washed away by human memory almost as fast as it is by the waters.
To the ancient Greeks, naval battle was ubiquitous in war. The creak of the oars and the crack of a filling sail were as much noises of comfort and dread as the sound of thousands of armed men on the march. For some, the blistered hands of the rower was as much a mark of duty, and worthy of respect, as any battle-scar. Yet modern commentary on Greek warfare often leaves this vital part of the ancient Greek military ethos, and identity, on the side-lines, replaced by the more-glamorous land battles. I defy most enthusiasts to name as many sea battles from the Classical period as they can land battles. So the aim of this work is to bring the multitude of naval engagements, which pervade the ancient sources, into a broader modern awareness. By exploring the naval narrative it can reveal that Greek armies rarely, if ever, acted alone, and if we remove these naval narratives from our history we are removing a vital element of Greek military practice.
Triremes
By the time our ancient sources provide adequate accounts of specific naval battles (the earliest that is possible to reconstruct being Lade in 495 BC), there was one ship which ruled the waves: the trieres or, in its more common Latin form, the trireme. But the trireme was not an isolated invention, and must be understood as part of a logical evolution from its predecessor, the penteconter. The penteconter was a ship originally powered by fifty rowers on a single rowing level, before it was adapted in the later eighth century BC to arrange
the oars over two levels, thereby shortening the length of the ship without compromising its power. This ship is often referred to as a bireme, referring to these two levels, creating a neat parallel with the trireme, but it was not a terminology the Greeks used. In fact, this seemingly revolutionary design did not even warrant a name change so it was still referred to as a penteconter. The shortening of the length marked a change in emphasis for the penteconter; moving away from ‘boarding’ tactics which demanded more deck space to carry marines, this ship was better suited to concentrate its power on a single point – it was designed to ram.
The trireme was developed by adding a third ‘layer’ of rowers to the modified penteconter, and increasing the ship’s length to about 35 metres to accommodate an increase in numbers on all levels. The trireme had two sails which were primarily used during general seafaring. When battle was imminent, the sails were removed and the rowers propelled the vessel by use of oars that measured just over 4 metres. By the fourth century we have evidence that the trireme was powered by a maximum of 170 oars: 62 rowers (called thranites) sat above the hull, sheltered by a removable cover or deck, with 31 rowers per side; inset from them sat 54 rowers (called zygioi) and below them all, towards the bottom of the ship, were the final 54 rowers (called thalamoi). These men gave the trireme thrice the oar power of the penteconter, and this powered the ram, a long wooden block protruding from the bow at the waterline. It was encased in bronze and edged with cutting blades out front, the impact of which could crush an enemy vessel or at the very least ensnare it.
The origins of the trireme are relatively obscure, with a general consensus pointing towards the Phoenicians as the creators, but this is not certain. The earliest images that can be reliably dated depict Phoenician triremes taking part in the evacuation of Tyre in 701 BC, whereas the clearest written reference we have for their appearance in Greece comes from Thucydides, who states that the Corinthians were the first to build them around 700 BC (dates given by scholars range from 721-654 BC). Interestingly, the two forms of trireme were not identical in design, with the Phoenician ship considered smaller and faster. The Alexandrian theologian Clement, writing in the second half of the second century AD, references a third century BC Greek writer called Philostephanus of Cyrene who attributed the ship’s invention to the Phoenicians (Stromateis, 1.16.76) - specifically the Sidonians, who were described by Herodotus as
having the fastest of all of the ships in the Persian fleet. But other sources, such as Plutarch and Diodorus, gave credit to the Corinthians. For this project, the obscure origins of the trireme simply show that there was a long tradition for their usage both in Greece and in the Near East.
Manning the Trireme
The make-up of Greek trireme crews is contentious, especially when it comes to the Athenian fleet. What I present here could be described as the orthodox consensus amongst scholars; however for those interested, I advise the titles listed under ‘General’ in the bibliography, many of which articulate the various scholarly interpretations of the evidence.
At full capacity, the trireme was said to have been manned by 200 men. We have already met the majority of this crew, the 170 rowers set over three layers within the ship. Of these, only the top layer, the thranites, could actually see out of the ship. While this was the most comfortable of the positions, it was also the most dangerous as they sat in a position exposed to missiles, merely protected by side screens hung down from the deck, but even these were not always used. The thranites seem to have been paid more than the other rowers, or at least so toward the end of the Ionian War (413-404 BC) when experienced crewmen were at a premium. The rowers consisted of citizens, slaves and mercenaries, and were highly prized by those poleis who held maritime power. This was especially true of Athens, who freed all of the slaves that rowed for them in the Battle of Arginusae (406 BC).
In addition to these rowers, the trireme was manned by marines. Conventionally the number is thought to have been fourteen per ship, ten hoplites and four archers, but as becomes evident in the early naval battles of the Peloponnesian War, different poleis manned their ships differently depending on the tactics intended. For instance, Athenian ships were smaller, lighter and faster than their counterparts, so the number of marines needed to be kept low to support these attributes, and maximize their tactical strengths of manoeuvring and ramming. The Corinthians, however, specialized in boarding their enemies’ vessels and fighting on the decks, so they would have to have used more marines to facilitate this.
The trireme was commanded by a trierarch, the captain of the ship and often its owner. Being a trierarch was considered a civic obligation, for the richer
Great Naval Battles of the Ancient Greek World
elements of Athenian society in particular, and formed part of their liturgy. But, as naval warfare evolved and took on such importance in Athens, many a rich citizen paid for an experienced captain to take his place on the ship. The trierarch was joined by a helmsman (kybernetes), a rowing master (keleustes), a purser in charge of pay (pentecontarchos), a bow officer, a carpenter, and a flute player. In addition to these, there will have been extra men to handle the sails and so on.
The importance of the crew requires no explanation, but the reputation of a crewmember was not protected by this. The Greek philosopher Plato, in his work Laws, put in the words of his fictional Athenian a damning summary of a military sailor’s character:
[Sailors] are frequently jumping ashore, and then running back at full speed to their ships, and they consider no shame in not dying boldly at their posts when the enemy attack . . . what they describe as ‘nondishonourable flight.’ These exploits are the usual result of employing naval soldiery, and are not worthy of frequent, infinite praise but precisely the opposite.1
Naval Tactics
In preparation for battle, a ship would remove much of its dead weight, including the main sails and mast, and leave them on the shore; where they became a viable target for the enemy. The ship would then row out with the fleet, which usually formed up line abreast, in other words side by side, with enough room for all of the ships to be able to turn around. Depending on the size of the fleet, and the surrounding geography, this would usually be a single line, but there are instances of a series of lines being used behind each other. As opposed to line ahead, which had the ships following one behind another, line abreast protected the flanks of each ship, which were vulnerable in the pre-gunpowder era (later ships, armed with a ‘broadside’ of cannon along each side, could protect their own flanks but were conversely vulnerable to attacks from the bow and stern).
As has been previously mentioned, and will become apparent throughout this book, different navies used different tactics. The Athenians built their tactics around their modified triremes. Unlike their Greek counterparts, the Athenians purposefully designed their triremes to be smaller, lighter and,
therefore, faster. This pace and agility enabled the Athenians to use their mobility and exploit the space in the line abreast formation, and literally row circles around their enemy. Their preferred tactic was the diekplous (translation: sail through and out), in which a trireme would pass through the gaps in an enemy line and, when it came out the other side, the ship would turn around and ram the stern or the flank of an enemy target:
Fig. 1: The diekplous: One trireme breaks through the enemy lines and turns to attack the rear or flank of an enemy ship.
There is some debate between scholars about how many ships performed the diekplous: was it one ship on its own or did it lead a small squadron of ships in a line ahead formation? While our sources are never clear, in fact the diekplous is rarely mentioned other than to explain why it was not used, it seems unlikely that we are to envisage squadrons passing through the enemy lines. If for the simple reason that this would remove all military competence from the enemy ships. Surely those triremes being passed would not have stayed still, but instead engaged the triremes toward the rear of the offensive line, and attacked their vulnerable flanks. A long diekplous line removes the speed and surprise needed to exploit the gap available, so it should be thought of as a tactic for individual ships.
There were two methods for defending against the diekplous. The first is not regularly attested but can be seen in the Battle of Arginusae. Instead of deploying in a single line, the defending fleet formed some of its vessels into at least one reserve line, so that an attacking trireme which broke through would face yet more ships in front of him, nullifying its element of speed and surprise. Interestingly, this is a tactic that the Athenians adopted at the end of the Ionian War as a way of dealing with the now-superior Peloponnesian fleet. The second method was to adopt a circular formation:
Fig. 2: The kyklos (translation: circle): All of the ships form a circle, with their sterns pointed inwards and their rams outward.
The first time we hear of this formation is at the Battle of Artemisium (480 BC), when the Greeks were facing the Persian fleet. While it was an essentially defensive tactic, the Greek ships were still able, on a prearranged signal, to surge forward in attacks radiating outward from their position. This signal would have come in the form of flags, and crews may even have sung a paean as recognition that the signal had been received. This circle formation could work very well but it did have, however, one major flaw in its execution. If the enemy decided to circle around it, contracting their circle more and more, they would force the defensive position to tighten and the ships to start banging into each other. This effect can be seen in the battle of the Corinthian Gulf (429 BC),
when the Athenian admiral Phormio sailed his fleet around a Peloponnesian circle in just this way. He also utilised his knowledge of the weather patterns so that defending ships were closest together when the wind began to blow, causing havoc for the formation and the defending fleet as a whole.
The second offensive manoeuvre that the Athenians mastered was the periplous. The term, given to us by Thucydides and described as a naval tactic, is frustratingly vague. It translates as ‘sail around’ which was used in as general a sense as one can imagine: one sailed around the Aegean Sea, and one sailed around a kuklos formation. It is a term that would also appropriately describe the end manoeuvre of a diekplous, in which the ship turns around to attack the enemy from behind. But there is one instance, seen again in the Battle of the Corinthian Gulf, which perhaps illustrates another technical sense for this term. An Athenian trireme was being chased by an enemy ship; when the enemy ship had been enticed far enough away from his own fleet, the fleeing trireme wheeled around a small merchant vessel and struck its pursuer in the flank:
Fig.3: The periplous: The trireme purposefully wheels around, positioning itself to the flank of an enemy ship that was behind, and ramming it.
It seems unlikely that these offensive tactics were solely the remit of the Athenians, but it is the Athenian fleet who are most often described as performing them. The other, dominant form of tactic described in the sources was the purposeful binding of your ship to that of the enemy by grappling irons. This was easily achieved, because the impact of the original ramming often made it hard to separate the vessels anyway. Navies that did not want to fight in the old-fashioned way, according to Thucydides, needed to back water before the grappling irons were thrown. Once the ships were connected, the aggressors would board the enemy ship and fight it out hand-to-hand. This tactic neutralized the speed or agility of a superior vessel and enabled the battle to be fought out by marines and archers, rather than by helmsmen.
Great Battles
Naval conflict is rife throughout the works of the three main Greek historians – Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon – so in theory the choice of great battles should be made difficult by what should be omitted, but this is not the case. Naval warfare was omnipresent in Greek conflict, but for that reason it was rarely described in detail by contemporary writers, and very rarely given enough space for a modern writer to use the ancient testimony to try to reconstruct even a single battle. Fortunately, naval engagements were rarely solitary affairs. They were usually part of a larger campaign which saw the opposing fleets posturing and engaging again and again. Alternatively, a fleet was not just used to fight other fleets, but would also be used in conjunction with land forces. One example would be the Battle of Artemisium, which was fought at the exact same time as the famous land battle of Thermopylae by the two supporting naval forces. We also see the importance of a fleet during many sieges; either in a bid to control a major harbour, such as at Syracuse (415413 BC), or as part of a joint force assault on the position by land and sea. As a result, in this work a greater emphasis has been placed on the context of the naval battle, and the strategic movements beforehand. The battles that I have chosen follow a simple chronology through the classical period, beginning with the Persian Conflicts (499-489 BC), through the Archidamian War (the first part of the Peloponnesian War, 431-421 BC), and then the Ionian War (the second part of the Peloponnesian War, 413-404 BC). The Ionian War is also referred to as the Decelean War by many scholars,
named after the fort at Decelea in Attica which the Spartans took control of and used as a base from which to raid the Athenian countryside. I have stayed with the term Ionian War because all of the naval conflict took place along the Ionian coast of Asia Minor, or the Hellespont further north, and very little actually happened on mainland Greece other than these Spartan raids.
A natural, and final, section to this book would have been the period of the Hegemonies and the naval battles therein. However, we do not have very much in the way of source material to reconstruct many naval battles from that period. Interestingly, our main source, Xenophon, either chose to not dwell on the naval engagements from that time, or else there ceased to be the naval campaigns that were so prevalent during the Peloponnesian War. This may be an oversight by the author, or may just reflect the growing powers of Sparta and Thebes, both of whom used land warfare to dominate their enemies. The final section here covers the Hegemony period, but you will find little continuity between the narratives. The Battle of Catane deals with the Syracusans and their conflict with the Carthaginians, and the Battle of Cnidus deals with a Persian fleet fighting against a Spartan one. Perhaps of the two, the most important is Catane, which shows the next evolution of naval warfare, and the design of a new ship which would shift the balance of control in the Mediterranean – the penteres, now known by its Latinized name, quinquereme.
Finally, as much as I may have wished to write this book without using the Latin name of trireme and quinquereme, I decided against making some pretentious stand and chose to use the term people are more familiar with. I have similarly transliterated Greek names into their Latinized forms. However, some tactical terms have been rendered as transliterations from the original Greek (see Glossary).
Glossary
aspides – a shield bearer.
diekplous – a naval tactic, sailing through the enemy lines.
ephors – a group of five Spartans who were elected on an annual basis to ‘oversee’ Sparta and her two kings.
Gerousia – the Spartan council of elders. harmost – military governor.
hoplite – Greek infantryman, primarily armed with a large shield and spear.
karanon – commander-in-chief of the Persian armed forces in Asia Minor.
kyklos – naval tactic, to form a defensive circle with all of the rams pointing outwards.
Long Walls – giant parallel walls running from Athens to the Piraeus. The ability to indefinitely protect the road, for supplies to enter the city, turned Athens into a land based island.
medizer – to support the Persians, used to describe Greek poleis
minae – currency, equal to 100 drachmae.
nauarch – naval commander.
paean – A type of chant that varied between Greek communities. It was used in naval warfare to communicate between ships, seemingly to confirm an order.
penteconters – a secondary warship that was superseded by the trireme, but was still in use throughout the classical period.
xxii Great Naval Battles of the Ancient Greek World
penteres – The Greek name for the quinquereme, see below.
periplous – naval tactic, circling around to attack the enemy ship from an unexpected angle.
Piraeus
– the harbour of Athens, connected to the city by the Long Walls.
polis/eis – Greek city-state.
Pythia
– the oracle at Delphi.
quadrireme – larger than a trireme, but smaller than a quinquereme, this warship is poorly understood by modern scholars. This is the Latinized name; the Greeks called it a tetreres. quinquereme
– the largest warship from this period, its exact design is disputed but it is thought to have had five men to every oar. This is the Latinized name. The Greeks knew it as a penteres.
satrap
– a governor of a Persian satrapy.
satrapy – a province within the Persian Empire. stades (singular stadion) – unit of distance equal to approximately 607ft or 184m.
strategos
– a general. The title was used by the Athenians to also designate an admiral, unlike the Spartans who had the official position of nauarch. talents
– unit of weight and largest unit of currency, equal to 60 minae or 6,000 drachmae.
tetreres – The Greek name for a quadrireme. triaconters – the smallest military ship described during this period. Little is known about it and it seems to have been used more for transportation than fighting.
trierarch
– captain of a trireme. In Athens this title could also mean that you were the financier of the trireme. trieres/trireme
– the primary warship of the classical Greek world.
THE PERSIAN CONFLICTS
At the turn of the sixth century BC, a vacuum of power had come into being, due to the catastrophic demise of the great Assyrian Empire. An alliance between the Babylonians and the Medes enabled the destruction of the ancient capital of Assyria, Nineveh, in 612 BC, leaving the Near East bereft of a single dominant power. By the 550s, the innocuous rise of one man would soon see an end to this vacuum.
Cyrus the Great was the architect for the Persian Empire, putting his Achaemenid Dynasty in a position of power to rule over this vast realm for over 200 years. In 550 BC , Cyrus won a great victory over the Medes, giving him control over the Iranian peoples; a tie that was so intrinsic to Persian power that Greek authors would regularly switch between the using the terms ‘Persians’ and ‘Medes’ when describing them. From here, Cyrus expanded west into the lands of Lydia, which at this time was almost all of Asia Minor.
The Lydian King, Croesus, was famous throughout the Greek-speaking world for his wealth, his opulence and, indeed, his arrogance. His failed resistance to Cyrus soon petered out and the expanding Persian Empire now contained the lands of Lydia. A failed uprising by another Lydian was quickly suppressed, but the rebel leader fled to the Greek cities in Ionia, taking with him the ire of Cyrus himself. The Persians were ruthless in their systematic punishment of the Ionian Greeks for the perceived support of the uprising, and Persia now held control over Greek cities. By the time Cyrus died, his empire stretched from the Aegean Sea in the west, to the northwestern border of India and included Babylon; already at this point, this was the largest empire ever seen in the Near East.
Cyrus’ successors showed very little interest in the Greek mainland as a place for expansion. It held little value in the way of resources or even food supplies, compared to the lands of Thrace for example. But in 507 BC the growing polis of Athens sent word to the Persian King Darius I for help and support against the growing aggression of many stronger poleis in Greece. Darius agreed to support them, in exchange for a symbolic offer of subjugation in the form of earth and water. The Athenians complied and, perhaps unwittingly, placed themselves under the imperial authority of Persia. This submission amounted to nothing in real terms, Athens was a tiny prize worthy of little attention for Darius, who had greater interest in consolidating his advances in Thrace, and on many of the islands in the Aegean. However, the relevance of this symbolic subjugation came to the fore in 499 BC when the Ionian Greeks revolted against the Persians and looked to Athens for support. Athens sent a small military force to aid the uprising and in so doing broke a diplomatic agreement and solemn oath as a subject of the Great King – whether or not Athens saw it in such a way.
The failed Ionian Revolt ended and Darius began to show more of an interest in the Greek mainland. In 490 BC Darius sent a fleet to secure the south Aegean, with particular attention paid to the Cycladic Islands. Once this was secure, the commanders of the fleet had a secondary objective of punishing the Athenians for their betrayal. The Persians landed at Marathon, to the northeast of Athens, and were defeated in an epic land battle by the Athenians and their allies. For Persia this was barely a setback, they had achieved their main objectives and the added bonus of punishing Athens would just have to wait. Unfortunately for Darius, he never got his chance to try again. He died in 486 BC and the mantle was taken up by his son, Xerxes I.
Once Xerxes had subdued numerous rebellions in his empire, mainly in Egypt and Babylon, he was finally able to resurrect Darius’ plans to attack Athens once again. Xerxes headed a gigantic army, the likes of which had never been seen in Greece. His brutal campaign lasted all of 480 BC, at the end of which he left to return to his capital, having fulfilled the expectation that he would lead the invasion for the first year. He left his forces in the capable hands of his general Mardonius, who continued the campaign into 490 BC when he was finally defeated and the Persian army was removed from Greece.
The Greek states, especially Athens, learned a great deal from their battles with the Persians. And the iconic naval victory at Salamis in 480 BC gave rise
to Athens’ reputation as a strong naval power. The Persian navy contained the greatest of naval forces in the Mediterranean, the Phoenicians. They also had access to Greek ships and sailors as well, through Ionia, so the fact that the Persians were defeated at Salamis tells us a great deal about the naval capabilities of the Greek resistance.
During the Persian Wars, there were three major naval battles covering a fourteen-year period. The first was the Battle of Lade (494 BC), during the Ionian revolt. This is the first recorded naval battle between the Persians and the Greeks. In fact it is the first Greek naval battle that can be reconstructed with any confidence. The battle highlights the poor state of Greek military discipline, and shows that even with good tactics and a strong fleet, a naval battle is often decided by the will of the crewmen. It also reveals a major weakness with inter-Greek alliances, their propensity to be undermined by the enemy.
The second battle was during the invasion of Xerxes, at the Battle of Artemisium (480 BC). The naval battle was fought at the same time as the famous land battle at Thermopylae. The battle was a huge undertaking, and forced the Greeks to face a numerically superior force head on. The Greeks planned a defensive strategy which worked well, forming a tight circle and also showing an ability to counterattack from this formation, which shocked the Persians no end. The battle ended in a stalemate, but the Greeks took a lot more from the day than the Persians did.
The third and final battle is, possibly, one of the most famous sea battles in world history. The Battle of Salamis (480 BC) was a last throw of the dice for the Athenians and their allies, but the Athenians especially. They had lost their city and, unless they could turn the tide of Persian success, they would be homeless. The battle is difficult to reconstruct due to the contradictory accounts. Salamis would be the battle that would epitomize Athenian resilience and resolve, as well as cement their place as the superior naval power in the Aegean. Thus our Athenian sources offer some very biased accounts of the day, but that is not to take away from the overall achievement. Vastly outnumbered and facing an elite Persian fleet with a strong Phoenician contingent, the Greeks, led by Athens, were able to force a battle in a narrow seascape and win a monumental victory. In terms of the wider campaign it did not push back the Persians, nor undermine their position in Greece. Yet the victory brought with it two important benefits: it prevented the Persian navy from having free reign
around the Greek shoreline, and it uplifted Greek morale to ultimately face the Persians the following year and win the final land battle at Plataea.
Defeat of the Persians gave rise to a new sense of Greek identity; they had united against a common enemy and shown that together they stood strongest. The resistance formalized its existence into a Hellenic league, which was led by the great heroes of the Persian Wars, the Athenians. As time passed, Athens took a more aggressive line against the Persians and made greater and greater demands for men and ships from their allies. Soon it became possible for members to send money instead of men, enabling the Athenians to fund a ship-building project that would provide them with the largest of all the Greek fleets. The Hellenic League morphed into the Delian League, with Athens well and truly in charge. In essence, Athens had created its own mini-empire through the league, but it was not until cities tried to renege on their obligations that they discovered they were not donating funds to a panhellenic cause, but were paying tribute to the Athenians themselves. Athenian rule was harsh and demanding, but it gave them access to enough funds so that they could cement themselves as one of the two most powerful poleis in all of Greece, alongside Sparta.
Chapter 1
Battle of Lade (494 BC)
Background (Herodotus, V.30-55; 97-VI.6)
By the turn of the fifth century Persia ruled over an empire which stretched from the Indus River to the Danube, and from the Red Sea to the Ural Mountains. With an empire as large as this, the Great Kings of Persia chose to support local rulers in many of the more distant cities under their control, rather than impose their own ruling infrastructure. Inside the great cities of Greek Ionia, on the western coast of Asia Minor, this meant supporting local tyrants who were thus indebted to the Persians for their authority.1
For a time this arrangement suited both the Ionians and the Persians, with the Greek cities beginning to flourish under foreign auspices.2 But, as affluence within certain Ionian cities began to outstretch their neighbours, one tyrant in particular became enamoured with the idea of extending his power outside of the city walls: Aristagoras of Miletus.3
Miletus sat on the southwesterly coast of Asia Minor and was by far the most prosperous city in Ionia. In the year 500 BC, Aristagoras, as tyrant, received a group of exiled aristocrats from the island of Naxos asking for military support to return to their homeland. Naxos was one of a group of south Aegean islands, called the Cycladic Islands, which had not yet been taken under the control of the Persians. Naxos was by far the most affluent island amongst them, so Aristagoras designed a plan to support the exiles, with the help of Persian man-power, and take control of the island for himself.
One small obstacle in Aristagoras’ way was that Naxos would be a powerful enemy; it called upon a defending army of up to 8,000 hoplites and a great many long boats, which made it a formidable defensive position to attack.4 However, there was a Greek social contract within the equation which forced Aristagoras to act.
Aristagoras was not the official tyrant of Miletus, he was an interim for his father-in-law, Histiaeus. Histiaeus had been a faithful servant of the Persians, but his loyalty had been called into question by the satrap Megabazus and so the Great King, Darius I, ‘invited’ the tyrant to stay with him in Susa indefinitely.5 In fact, the only reason why the Naxian exiles had fled to Miletus was to meet with Histiaeus who was their former guest-friend.6 This put Aristagoras in an interesting position. He was duty bound to uphold the exiles’ guest-friend agreement with his superior and was obliged to help them in their endeavour. So he offered to go to the powerful satrap Artaphernes, who ruled over most of the west coast of Asia Minor, and gather support.
Aristagoras went to Artaphernes’ capital in Sardis and presented the expedition to him as a way of making money; the exiles were offering to pay for the force’s upkeep and Naxos was itself a very affluent island. The Ionian also speculated on the benefit of taking control of the Cyclades, which would enable the Persians to have a platform from which to push their influence into Greece. At Aristagoras’ reckoning, the Persians needed to commit 100 ships. Artaphernes was convinced that the venture would be fruitful, but decided that 200 ships was a more realistic level of necessary forces.7
Word was sent to Darius for approval of the expedition, and with his approval Artaphernes supplied and equipped 200 triremes, while manning them with a vast mix of Persians and allies, and appointing Megabates to lead the fleet.8 The fleet sailed to Miletus to pick up Aristagoras, the exiles, and a small Ionian army that would assist in the expedition, before heading north to Chios. Once they reached the southern side of the island the fleet pulled in to harbour, waiting so that they could use the north wind to head south to Naxos.
While in harbour tension began to rise between the Ionians and the Persian commander. Megabates was only acquainted with the Persian military system and was not prepared for the Greek approach to discipline, or lack thereof. As the Persian made his rounds, inspecting the boats, he found that one belonging to the Ionian city of Myndos did not have anyone guarding it. In a fury, Megabates ordered his bodyguard to hunt down the lax commander of the vessel, a man named Scylax, and tie him up so that his head would protrude out of an oar-hole while his body remained inside the boat. When Scylax was secured a close friend implored Aristagoras to intervene.
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her the sooner she may get over this silly phase of always wanting to differ from everybody else.”
“Couldn’t I point out to her that it might give you something of a rest if they were both away for a little while?” asked Minnie mournfully.
“I’d really rather you didn’t, dear old Minnie. I know how nicely you’d put it,” said Bertha untruthfully, “but I don’t want to give her any excuses for trumping up a grievance—thinking one wanted to get rid of her, or anything of that sort. Oh no, my dear—I shall jog along all right. There’s plenty of life in the old dog yet!”
“There’s no rest for the wicked,” groaned Miss Blandflower, with no uncomplimentary intent.
“Not this side of the grave,” agreed Bertha cheerfully. “But—well, I will own to you, Minnie, that I sometimes wish those two were rather more like other people. It seems so extraordinary that they can’t lead the normal lives of ordinary girls—but one of them must take a week’s silly flirtation as though it were a tragedy, and the other gives me no rest because she wants ‘the intellectual discipline of the Catholic Church’!”
She laughed as she spoke, but Minnie exclaimed almost tearfully:
“Dear Mrs. Tregaskis, it does seem hard, when you’ve been so unutterably good to them. If only they’d been your own daughters they would have turned out very differently, I feel sure.”
This rather infelicitous example drove Mrs. Tregaskis silently from the room.
A week later saw Frances’ departure from Porthlew.
“I wish you were coming too, Rosamund,” she said, unaware how cordially her guardian was endorsing the wish.
Rosamund said: “Write and tell me all about everything. Good-bye, darling.”
Not even to her sister would she admit the mixture of defiance and sentimentality which had prompted her refusal to visit the Wye Valley.
“Not until I go there for good,” she told herself dreamily It was the expression of a perfectly unconscious egotism.
XFRANCES and her hostess found themselves in perfect harmony. It did not occur to Frances that the eight years which had transformed her from a child to a young girl had changed Lady Argent a great deal more. Discursive she had always been, but her talk had now become almost wandering, and her always gentle volubility had increased surprisingly. The amusement, tempered by slight dismay, with which Ludovic listened to his parent’s verbal flights, was quite unshared by Frances. Lady Argent talked about the Catholic Church, about which Frances wanted to learn all that she could, and each was serenely content.
“I haven’t any scruples, dear, about telling you all that you want to know,” Lady Argent unnecessarily informed her guest, “because dear Bertie is so broad-minded and honest herself that I know she wouldn’t mind. And it seems only fair to counteract all those dreadful years that you’ve spent with Protestants, poor child, who have such very strange ideas about the Faith. Like Indulgences, you know—so terribly misunderstood, I always think—paid permission to commit sin for a hundred days, I’ve even heard people suggest—ignorant Protestants, you know.”
“They are not all as ignorant as that,” justice compelled Frances to observe.
“I never can remember that you are still a Protestant, poor child. You don’t mind being called so, I hope?”
Frances was much too embarrassed to reply, but fortunately Lady Argent did not wait for a disclaimer.
“To think that I once held those shocking notions myself, dear. I really can hardly believe it now.”
“How long is it since you became a Catholic?”
“Six years, dear child. It all seems like a dream—the time before one had the Faith, you know. It all happened in such a wonderful way. I was staying at the seaside with a poor old Catholic aunt of mine who was dying, and she had a great friend who was a nun in a convent there. So she used to ask me to go and give this old nun news of her from time to time, and I went. Mother Serafina her name was, and I always think it’s such a beautiful name, though I dare say that’s just association, since, of course, one couldn’t exactly call one’s daughter Serafina, and in any case I don’t think nuns are allowed to be godmothers even if one asked her to—— Where was I, dear?”
“You were telling me how you went to the convent to give the nun news of your aunt.”
“Oh yes, and the little parlour was so dreadfully bare and cold, as it seemed to me then,” mysteriously interpolated Lady Argent as though some concealed source of heat in the little fireless room had since been revealed to her; “but there she sat, always smiling away, and that great brown rosary at her side. So sympathetic always, and the whole community praying every day for my poor aunt; and I remember one day she told me that she would pray every day for me, too, because of the anxiety and everything, you know, dear. So charitable and broad-minded, I always think, because I hadn’t any idea of being a Catholic at all then. But the Church always prays for those outside the Fold in the most touching way.”
“I always like when we say the prayer for Jews and Roman Catholics, once a year,” said Frances thoughtfully.
Lady Argent flushed in a most agitated way.
“Pray don’t talk of it, my dear. It makes me very angry indeed. The idea of their praying for us as heretics! and calling us Roman Catholics, too! Such impertinence, I always think.”
Frances wisely forbore to say anything further. “Tell me some more about Mother Serafina,” she pacifically suggested.
“Well, dear, I went to see her very frequently, and quite as much for my own sake as for poor Aunt Charlotte’s, who was quite past understanding things by that time—a sort of senile paralysis the
doctor said it was, though I think myself it was only second childhood, as they call it; and of course she was very weak, and sinking a little every day. Nothing but beef-tea and milk, dear, and her rosary always in her hand, though I’m sure she couldn’t say a bead. She was a most devout Catholic, and the priest used to come and see her every day—and I remember I couldn’t bear him, which shows what a dreadful thing prejudice is. He was an Irishman, and very stout—I remember the stairs were such a trial to him—and really I could hardly understand a word he said, he spoke with such a brogue. I am afraid,” said Lady Argent with unutterable melancholy, “that I was far from looking upon him as I should have done, with the reverence due to a priest. He always used snuff, which seemed to me such a disgusting habit, and his hair wanted cutting so dreadfully. I am afraid I was most dreadfully narrow-minded about him, and I’m sure he was a very holy man.”
“It was a pity he was—untidy,” said Frances delicately.
“Yes, dear, but one is especially taught by the Church not to make rash judgments. I dare say I missed many graces by not talking to poor old Father O’Leary
“However, poor Aunt Charlotte died, and I had to stay on after the funeral, sorting her things—such a collection, my dear! and I found so many references in her old letters and papers to my dear husband and myself, and wishing so much we might become Catholics. Not that dear Ludovic’s father would ever have dreamed of such a thing, though, of course, God can do anything he pleases; but dear Fergus was a Scotchman, and if he had one prejudice stronger than any other, it was against Romanists, as he always called them. Of course, if the Lord had willed it....” said Lady Argent very doubtfully, and shaking her head at the memory of the late Sir Fergus Argent’s determination, as opposed to Divine Omnipotence.
“But dear Fergus had been dead a long while, even then, and no doubt he views things very differently now It’s such a comfort to feel that he must thoroughly approve, now, whereas if he’d been alive I’m very much afraid, dear, shocking though it is to say so, that he would
have disliked my becoming a Catholic quite dreadfully—in fact, I really don’t know what might have happened.”
Lady Argent devoted a moment to the consideration of her spouse’s probable attitude towards her adoption of the Catholic faith, and hastily abandoned the tableau thus conjured up with a slight shudder.
“God certainly knows what He is about, dear,” she said thankfully.
“Did you go on seeing Mother Serafina at the Convent?”
“Oh yes. I had grown very fond of her by that time—and talked to her a great deal, and I shall never forget what a shock it was when I found I couldn’t ask her to stay with me here. She told me the nuns had all made vows of perpetual enclosure, you know, dear, and couldn’t move a yard out of the grounds except for the most serious reasons and with a dispensation from the Holy Father himself. And it wasn’t at all like the sort of old convent gardens one reads about, with alleys and box-hedges and cedars and things, but quite a tiny little gravel court at the back of the house, and only a plane-tree in one corner. In fact, I don’t know how all the community and the plane-tree and everything ever fitted into it at all, when they were out there for the midday recreation, though some of them did walk backwards, but I think that was only so as to see the Superior and hear what she was saying. But I’m sure they must all have bumped into the plane-tree a number of times. However, they all seemed very happy, and Mother Serafina always told me she had never known what happiness was until she became a nun.”
“It must be wonderful,” breathed Frances.
“Yes, dear, quite wonderful, but that’s what the grace of a vocation is. Quite supernatural, I always think, to leave one’s home and everything and live such a life—detachment, you know, dear.”
“Of course,” ventured Frances, “it must be rather sad for the father and mother of a nun—to let her go, I mean.”
“Dreadful, my dear. But one would always feel so glad and thankful, though so dreadfully sorry—you know what I mean,” lucidly returned Lady Argent. “I really don’t know what one would do if one had a
daughter a nun—say one’s only child—though, of course, even as a girl, I can hardly imagine dear Ludovic a nun, but one never knows ——” Lady Argent looked distractedly into the fire.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, “I am afraid that I idolize Ludovic. I lie awake at night, you know, dear, wondering what I should do if he were ever to be burnt to death.”
“But why should he be burnt to death?” said the literal Frances fixing horrified eyes on her hostess.
“At the stake, you know, dear, just as so many martyrs have been, even in England—you know what Tyburn is, dear: so dreadful, I always think; and though one ought not to look upon any soul as being outside the pale of God’s grace, that terrible Queen Elizabeth, with Mary Stuart’s blood upon her head and everything—— So that if persecution should begin again—and, after all, dear, look at France, and all those poor good Dominicans turned out of their holy monastery—and if Ludovic was by that time a Catholic, as one prays and hopes, should I be able to let him go? Let alone being like the Mother of the Maccabees, though I always felt certain, even when I was a Protestant, that that was a sort of miracle, because one knows what one would feel about one, let alone seven—though really I dare say by the time those frightful tortures had begun on the youngest she had almost ceased to feel anything at all, except thankfulness that there were no more to come. But when I think how often I have wickedly rebelled at my poor Ludovic’s being lame——”
“Was he always?” gently inquired Frances.
“From the time he was a few weeks old, dear, and I’ve often thought that if I’d been a Catholic then, and put a pair of scapulars round my poor little darling’s neck, the accident would never have happened.”
On this melancholy reflection the door opened, and Lady Argent’s poor little darling came into the room.
“Don’t you want the lights, mother? It’s nearly dark, and I’ve brought you the second post.”
Ludovic turned on the light as he spoke, and gave a small packet of letters and newspapers into his mother’s hands, shaking his head
reproachfully as he did so.
She looked up guiltily.
“There’s nothing much, darling—only a little magazine called Beads, and The Catholic Fireside and a—a few letters.”
Ludovic laughed gently.
“And how many of those are begging letters, dear?”
Lady Argent looked through the little heap, appearing rather distraught.
“This is a receipt,” she declared triumphantly, waving a sheet of cheap glazed notepaper closely covered with neat, angular writing.
“It’s a very long one,” said Ludovic suspiciously
“Those poor French sisters at Coleham-on-Sea! The Superior has actually taken the trouble to write herself, and I only sent them the most dreadful old things: not clothes only, Francie, dear—though some of Ludovic’s old vests, not fit to give to the poor people here— but hair-brushes without any bristles—and even that seems a mockery, since their hair is all cut off when they take their first vows, I believe—so unwise not to wait till the final ones, I always think, though no doubt the Church has her reasons; and books with half the leaves torn out; and even a dreadful little half-empty pot of rouge, which my maid actually put in though she never told me till afterwards. No, Ludovic, you really shouldn’t laugh. I can’t think where such a thing came from, for I’ve certainly never used it in my life, and I can’t bear to think of the scandal it may have given those dear good Sisters of the Poor.”
“Do they make any allusion to it?” asked Ludovic, with boyish amusement in his laughing eyes.
Lady Argent scanned the closely-written sheets.
“No, dear. ‘Those good and useful gifts, such joy for poor people’— that can’t be the hair-brush, can it?—‘we can never thank you enough for your generosity to us’—dear, dear, it does make one feel so dreadfully mean. ‘We shall have the wherewithal to decorate a
Christmas-tree for our little ones’—Ludovic! they can’t give the poor children my broken air-cushion or that torn mackintosh of yours—or the old dog-collar. ‘You will certainly be rewarded for this great generosity and our poor prayers....’ Oh dear, dear, this is very touching,” said poor Lady Argent, folding up her letter with an air of remorse.
“Perhaps they can get money by selling the things after they’ve mended them up,” whispered Frances consolingly. Ludovic heard her, and looked at her very kindly, but he only said:
“Now, mother, tell me what your next correspondent means by putting ‘Sag’ in the corner of the envelope? Is it the same sort of thing as Mizpah or Swastika, or whatever the thing is that housemaids have on their brooches?”
“No, dear,” said Lady Argent with an air of great reserve. “Quite different. It isn’t ‘Sag’ at all.”
Ludovic held out a corner of the envelope to Frances.
“I appeal to you. If that isn’t ‘Sag,’ what is it?”
She looked, half-laughing, towards Lady Argent.
“Ludovic, dear, pray don’t be so ridiculous. It’s S.A.G., my dear boy, and stands for ‘St. Anthony guide,’ just to make sure the letter doesn’t go astray. I don’t say I put it on my own letters but it’s a very pious little custom—and letters might get lost, you know.”
“I do not think that this one would have been any great loss,” rather grimly replied her son. “It’s a begging-letter, isn’t it?”
Lady Argent took out sundry enclosures, glanced through them and exclaimed triumphantly:
“Not at all! In fact it’s just the contrary. It’s from those Sisters in Dublin, offering me tickets in their great charity lottery, and with a list of the prizes. It’s really quite wonderful—a wonderful opportunity,” repeated Lady Argent, with more wistfulness than conviction in her tone.
Ludovic took the badly typewritten strip of paper from her hand.
“A live pig, six months old. A harmonium in perfect repair A tablecentre for the parlour—I should certainly have a try for that, mother, it would improve the drawing-room; coloured statue of St. Joseph standing four feet high, etc., etc. Tickets sixpence, ninepence, or a shilling.”
“It’s to pay off the debt on their new church, dear,” replied his mother. “You remember the account of the opening ceremony that I read you from The Tablet the other day? So very nice and edifying, but I’m afraid they spent rather more than they meant to. At any rate they are some eight hundred pounds in debt over it, I believe, and no doubt this charity bazaar is to clear some of it off.”
“Raffles are illegal,” quoth Ludovic severely, “and I don’t think you should encourage them, mother. Please help me to persuade my mother that charity begins at home, Miss Frances.”
The modern fashion by which any man becomes entitled to use the Christian name of any girl spending a week in his mother’s house, failed altogether to commend itself to Ludovic Argent.
“The Canon is always in difficulties here, and would be very glad of money for some of the poor people.”
“Oh, my dear,” cried Lady Argent. “I am torn in two as you very well know, and the Canon has been a friend of ours for a number of years, but how can I encourage the spread of Protestantism?”
“You need not, darling. I don’t care a bit about their spiritual welfare, only their temporal,” coolly observed Ludovic, “and I’ve sent him a small cheque for the District Nursing Fund, from both of us.”
“Oh, my dear boy, how can you say such a thing—he doesn’t mean it, Frances—but I’m really very glad you’ve done it, and it will show the poor Canon that one isn’t narrow-minded, and perhaps bring him to see things in another light.” Lady Argent mused thoughtfully over the imaginary portrait, than which nothing could have appeared further from probability to an impartial observer, of a suddenly Catholicized Canon inspiring his flock with views similar to his own, and Ludovic glanced thoughtfully at Frances Grantham.
No hint of humour had disturbed the placid purity of her intent gaze while listening to Lady Argent and plying her with gentle questions. She was manifestly absorbed in the subject, and her natural reverence was in no way shocked or checked by demonstrations which Ludovic in his own mind could only qualify as absurd. “She is a born mystic,” he thought with a sudden conviction that was almost physical in its intensity, “the stuff to make an ideal lady-abbess. If she becomes a Catholic, I believe she will be a nun.”
He felt vaguely compassionate at the idea, and said later to his mother:
“Wouldn’t it be better to say rather less about religion to that little girl? She is very impressionable.”
“That’s just why I like talking to her, darling,” returned Lady Argent ingenuously. “One feels that it is sowing seed in ground which is all ready for it.”
Ludovic remained silent for a moment, pondering this excellent reason for the conversion of his mother’s youthful guest.
“I love having her here,” said his mother, “she is so sweet. I’m only afraid it’s dull for her. Would she like her sister to come for a few days, or a friend?”
“Ask her.”
Frances frankly disavowed any wish for companionship other than that of her hostess, but a few days later she said to Lady Argent: “Mrs. Severing is staying near here, at the Towers. I should like to see her, if I may She has written me such a kind little note suggesting that I should go over there, and I am very fond of her.”
“I know you are, my dear,” kindly replied Lady Argent, who had heard many of Nina’s spiritual upliftings from her admiring echo. “I should like you to see her, and I should like to meet her myself. But the fact is—it is a little awkward—I have never called on the people at the Towers.”
“Who are they?” said Frances wonderingly.
“Sir Giles and Lady Cotton, dear He is the original founder of Cotton and Sons—the big ironmongers in the City. That is really why—not the shop, dear, of course, but the shocking way they treated the poor dear Fathers. I never could bear to go near them, and I had to give up the shop altogether, though I’d always dealt there for nearly twenty years. So I never called on Lady Cotton.”
“What did they do to the Fathers?” asked Frances with a curiosity unspoilt by the previous recital of many similar outrages.
“Oh, my dear child, it was all about some garden seats that the Prior ordered for the grounds of their house at Twickenham—for visitors, you know, because they naturally have no time to sit on garden seats themselves, as you can imagine, however tired they may get with all that manual labour, and getting up at four o’clock in the morning and everything; and there seems to have been some terrible misunderstanding—with the shop-people, you know, dear, and whether the seats were on approval or not. Anyway, they got left out in the rain all one night, and the paint was spoilt, and the Prior sent them back and said they couldn’t take them after all. But the shop-people were thoroughly unpleasant, and said the seats must be paid for just the same—most grasping and disagreeable, even though the letter of the law may have been on their side. I never quite understood the ins and outs of it all, but as the Prior, who was the most simple soul on earth—a Breton, dear, such a nice man— asked me himself: how they could tell whether they liked the benches or not until they had seen the effect of bad weather on them? Which sounds very reasonable indeed, but Cotton and Sons behaved quite shockingly, and even threatened to go to law about it. All very well for them, you know, dear—it would have been an advertisement in a way, but most unpleasant for the poor Fathers.”
“What was the end of it?”
“They had to pay for the garden seats, dear, and I never could sit on one with any pleasure, though they are strewn all over the garden at Twickenham. That is to say,” said Lady Argent, colouring faintly, “it was—friends—who actually paid for them, but I never said much to
Ludovic about them. To this day he does not know why I have left off going to Cotton and Sons.”
Frances did not dare to make any further suggestion for a rapprochement between Lady Argent and the quondam proprietor of Cotton and Sons. She only looked wistfully and undecidedly at the letter in her hand.
“To be sure, my dear, I was forgetting about your friend. Of course, I do not suppose she has any idea of all this,” said Lady Argent generously, “since it is not a story that tells well for Cottons, and I do not suppose Sir Giles cares to dwell upon it. I really cannot make up my mind to call upon them—in fact, after all this time I don’t quite see how I could—but I shall be delighted if Mrs. Severing cares to come over any day next week. Ludovic could drive you over to fetch her in time for luncheon. Do write and suggest it, my dear.”
“Thank you so much. I know you will like her, and she would love to see you and the garden—and the chapel,” said Frances rather shyly.
“You know she is thinking of becoming a Catholic.”
“How very delightful. But what can she be waiting for, dear? She is a widow, and her son, you tell me, is quite a boy. No doubt she will bring him into the Church too, later on. By all means, Francie, ask her to come over on Friday, or whichever afternoon suits her best.”
Frances wrote the invitation gladly.
She was curiously devoid of insight, and it did not occur to her that any two people of whom she was fond could fail to like and admire one another.
“Isn’t Mrs. Severing the ‘Nina Severing’ who composes?” asked Ludovic, as he drove Frances to fetch her friend.
“Yes. Her music is my favourite modern music. Don’t you like the ‘Kismet’ songs?”
“I once heard her play,” said Ludovic, avoiding, clumsily, as he felt, a reply. “Her execution was very brilliant.”
“Meretricious,” was the adjective he had applied to the popular musician’s talent, at the time.
Ludovic wished that the recollection had not occurred to him so opportunely.
PERHAPS it was reaction from the materialistic atmosphere that undoubtedly prevailed at the modern and opulent mansion of Cotton that was responsible for the extreme spirituality which marked Mrs. Severing’s conversation that Friday afternoon. Her golden hair shone against darkly splendid furs, and her luminous gaze strayed continually to some far horizon and was continually recalled with a start that just contrived not to be imperceptible.
“It is too delightful to be in an atmosphere like this one,” she murmured to Lady Argent in the hall, and bent over her plate at luncheon for a long moment with a reverence which far surpassed the gentle murmur in which her hostess indulged.
When curried eggs were succeeded by cutlets Nina cast a gravely wondering look around her.
“Friday?” she murmured gently. “I wonder if I might ask—ah! I see you, too, fast on Fridays.”
“Oh no,” said Lady Argent gently, “I only abstain from meat—really no privation at all—I’m not very fond of meat, and it’s so much better for one to have fish and eggs and vegetables and things, quite apart from what one always feels to be the cruelty of it, though I’m afraid one doesn’t think about it very often, except just when one actually sees the lambs playing about in the fields, or the chickens being killed in that dreadfully cruel way, poor things.”
“We should all be infinitely better physically and mentally if we only had one meal a day. Just,” said Nina with poignant simplicity, “a little fruit or uncooked nuts, and a draught of water. I’ve always said that I should like to live as the old hermits did.”
Frances was aware that Nina had always said so, and wondered vaguely why she was for the first time rendered slightly
uncomfortable by the aspiration.
“May I give you some fish, Mrs. Severing?” asked Ludovic matter-offactly
“Please do,” she smiled. “I don’t actually belong to your beautiful Faith, but I love to live up to all the dear old symbols.”
“You couldn’t call turbot a symbol, exactly,” said Lady Argent rather doubtfully, “and I do hope you’ll give Mrs. Severing a respectable slice, my dear boy, for she must be very hungry after such a long drive.”
“No,” said Nina, looking as though a breath would blow her away altogether. “No.” Her smile repudiated the mere suggestion of hunger with a delicate completeness.
“I hear you have the most lovely little chapel,” she said softly, turning to her hostess. “It would be a great pleasure to me to see it. What a boon one’s little solitary corner for meditation is! Francie may have told you that I am rather a wanderer on the face of the earth, and so can appreciate it doubly.”
Frances, who had always looked upon Mrs. Severing as the prosperous chatelaine of Pensevern and its adjoining acres, looked so naïvely astonished that Ludovic felt strongly inclined to laugh. Instead, however, he charitably engaged her in a long conversation which enabled Nina to carry out the skilled presentment of herself which she evidently had in mind, unhampered by the startled gaze of her earlier acquaintance.
“Ludovic had the chapel built for me, as a surprise while I was away once,” Lady Argent told her proudly. “So very dear and kind of him, and I shall never forget my astonishment, especially as I thought at first that it was a new bathroom. Not when I went inside, you know, but we’d talked about having one for a long time, and when I saw the remains of the workmen outside, I felt sure it must be that. Ladders and tools and things, you know, and a great bucket of whitewash, such as one naturally associates with a bathroom, especially if one has it already in one’s mind, you know. But that was just because Ludovic thought it would make it lighter.”
“White walls,” murmured Nina symbolically “I do so agree. Do you hold your own little services there?”
“The Bishop most kindly lets his own chaplain come over twice a week and say Mass. You see, the nearest Catholic Church is some miles away, and going in early isn’t always possible, although I can always manage Sundays, but of course it’s the greatest possible blessing to have the Chaplain. Such a nice man—and not an Irishman,” said Lady Argent rather thankfully.
“I’m afraid my prejudices are rather against parsons of any denomination,” Nina said with the air of one making a candid admission. “I always fancy—perhaps it’s just a fancy peculiar to myself—that one is so much more easily in tune with the Infinite, without any human intervention. But then I’m afraid I’m a dreadfully individual person.”
“Of course,” said Lady Argent quietly, “a Catholic looks at that quite differently.”
“Ah, but don’t speak as though I were not one of you in heart, in mind,” cried Nina quickly. “I adore the Catholic Church, and when I go to Church in London, I always go to Farm Street or one of your places of worship. I always say that there is an atmosphere in a Catholic Church which one finds nowhere else.”
Ludovic caught the words and glanced hastily at his mother, aware that this well-worn sentiment is as a red rag to a bull to the devout Catholic. For the remainder of the meal he firmly directed and maintained the conversation in undenominational channels.
But after luncheon was over and Nina had smoked two cigarettes, with an air of detachment that made the act seem almost saintly, Ludovic left Lady Argent and Frances to entertain their guest unaided.
“Talk to me,” said Nina gently, turning her enormous eyes on her hostess, “talk to me a little of your wonderful Faith. I have heard so much of you—and of it—from my little Francie, and I feel she must have told you that I, too, am a seeker after truth; things of this world mean so little—oh, so little!—in comparison with the eternal quest.”
Receiving no immediate response but the slight bewilderment slowly becoming apparent on Lady Argent’s face, Nina glided on her conversational way with much discretion:
“Such things are not to be talked about, are they? They go too deep. One understands. My own reserve has always been rather a proverb; but somehow in this sort of atmosphere—well, it’s deep calling to deep, isn’t it, rather?”
She laughed a very little, with a perceptible undercurrent of agitation.
“You’ll let me talk to you quite frankly, won’t you?” she asked, with an appealing look at Lady Argent. “It’s so seldom one has the impulse— and my life has been a very lonely one. Oh, I have my boy, of course —but, then, what does the younger generation give? Nothing. They can give us nothing—in the nature of things. It’s all taking on their side, and sacrifice on ours. One would hardly have it otherwise—but
—— Little Frances knows that I don’t mean her—she is my little comfort.” Nina tendered a reassuring, if rather absentminded, hand to her little comfort, who received it rather perfunctorily, and released it a good deal sooner than its owner expected.
“My son has always been a companion to me since he was a child,” said Lady Argent firmly; “and as for sacrifices, I’ve always felt them to be on his side, if there were any, since he might have been so much more in touch with things, living in London—he writes, you know—only my tiresome asthma is so troublesome there, and he won’t hear of leaving me. Not that it is a sacrifice, since he would much rather be with me here, than without me anywhere else,” she concluded simply.
“How very, very wonderful and beautiful such a relationship is,” breathed Nina reverently. “Morris and I are all the world to one another, but he is very, very young—young for his age, as well—and perhaps the very young shrink a little from an atmosphere of sadness. You see I have been all alone for a number of years now. I married very, very young—a child—and then I was left, with——”
Before Nina had reached the looming allusion to a child with only a star to guide her, Frances rose quickly and glided from the room,
rather to the relief of Mrs. Severing, who was becoming increasingly aware of her protégée’s startled eyes at various new aspects of a recital which she had supposed she knew by heart.
“That is a very pure, sweet little soul,” said Nina as the door shut, after the invariable rule which causes minds of a certain calibre instantly to adopt as subject of conversation whoever has most recently left the room.
The custom not being one which recommended itself to Lady Argent, she merely replied with a vague, kind murmur indicative of goodwill, but of nothing else.
“One does so dislike the idea of discussing les absents,” said the responsive Nina, with an atrocious accent of which she was sufficiently conscious to make her slur the words over rather rapidly, “but I have somehow felt that perhaps between us we could find out what it is that the child really needs. I don’t know that beloved Bertha Tregaskis altogether understands her, though I wouldn’t say so for the world.”
“Bertie has been very good to them both,” said Lady Argent loyally. “So wonderful of her, I always think, and all that dairy work and the Mothers’ Union and everything as well—simply marvellous.”
“Indeed, yes,” cried Nina, “quite the most practical woman I know, and my dearest friend in the world. Attraction of opposites, I suppose. I always think that she and I are the two types—Martha and Mary—active and contemplative, you know.”
Lady Argent, to whom Nina’s favourite mot was naturally new, looked more than a little doubtful.
“Dear Bertie is very wonderful altogether,” she murmured. “Her insight and sympathy, you know, and then her humility—it’s really quite touching to hear her blame or ridicule herself, when one is so full of admiration—all her gifts, you know, intellectual as well as practical.”
“Ah, those clever dialect imitations!” cried Nina, with an enthusiasm that strove subtly to confine Bertha’s mental attainments to dialect imitations. “She’s so original, isn’t she? And at one time she used to
scribble a little, you know—just trifles for the magazines, but quite clever. I remember going through one or two of the proof-sheets for her—Bertie is always so ridiculously determined to think that I can write myself, you know, and wanted me to polish up some of her descriptions of travel—not, of course, that I’m really much good, though I’ve always thought I should like to write, if I could find the time.”
“Music, of course, has taken up most of your time.”
“Ah yes—my art. It’s been everything, of course.”
“It would be the greatest possible pleasure if you would play to us a little this afternoon. Ludovic loves music, and really knows a great deal about it,” said Lady Argent, believing herself to be stating a fact.
“One can always play to a true lover of music,” murmured Nina. “I often feel that with little Francie—child though she is.”
“Mrs. Grantham was so very musical, poor thing!” ejaculated Lady Argent, who would have felt it almost an irreverence to omit the epithet in the case of one deceased. “It is a pity the girls have not inherited her gift. They neither of them play, do they, or is Rosamund musical?”
“Not in the very least,” replied Nina, who rather disliked Rosamund. “She does not know the meaning of the word. Between ourselves, dear Lady Argent, Rosamund is not a very taking sort of girl, although she’s prettier than Frances—in fact,” she added, with the easy generosity of an extremely and maturely attractive woman, “she is quite unusually pretty. But that’s all.”
“I thought she was clever.”
Nina shrugged her shoulders.
“It’s not the sort of cleverness that attracts,” she said shrewdly. “Hazel Tregaskis, before she married, had twice the success that Rosamund had. Now, of course, with money and clothes and things, and that romantic story about her marriage, Hazel is too popular for words, though she’s really not pretty in the least—only very bright and attractive.”
