The Ancient Clairvoyant

Many centuries ago, in the mild climate of Ionia, a child named Hermotimus was born. From infancy, he seemed barely attached to earthly life. He was a delicate, frail blossom, as if refined by living rays, a trembler of the wind, a spiritual flower sentient of breeze and shower.

But the slender thread that bound him to mortal existence did not break. As a baby, he crawled from his cradle and toddled into the fields, where he would sit motionless for hours beside a flower he loved. A grave smile would light up his face if a butterfly rested on it or a passing bird brushed it with her wing. He always expected to see the flower fly too, and so he watched it patiently as it swayed under their light touch. Even in early childhood, he was remarkable for the keenness of his senses and the vividness of his dreams. He heard distant sounds that even his playmate, the hound, could not hear. The perfume of a rose made him faint before he was old enough to explain why he turned so pale. At vintage time, when processions in honor of Bacchus passed through the village, his mother dared not take him to the show where other children danced and capered.

Once, when she carried him to the rustic festival, he fell into violent fits at the sound of the shrill pipes and clashing cymbals. His dreams became a topic for all the neighborhood gossips, for the scenes he saw in sleep impressed him so vividly that nothing could persuade him he had not actually seen them. Sometimes, when they gave him his little bowl of goat's milk for supper, he would cry for the lamb with beautiful rose-colored wool that had eaten part of his milk the night before. It was useless to tell him there was no such creature as a rose-colored lamb. To all their protests, he would answer with lively persistence, "I did see him! I did see him; and he did drink from my bowl." As he grew older, he sometimes hummed snatches of tunes that he said were sung to him by maidens in white robes with garlands on their heads, melodies unlike any known in the neighborhood.

Several times, as he walked along the road, he would start suddenly at the approach of a stranger and run away shuddering. When his companions asked why, he would answer, "Ah, that was a very bad man. He made me feel all over cold."

It was no wonder that the simple villagers became superstitious about such a singular child. Some remembered that before he was born, his mother had carried offerings into a consecrated grotto where stood a statue of Apollo, and that, overcome by the warmth of the day, she had fallen asleep there. This gave rise to the story that in her dreams she had heard the god playing on his golden lyre, and that the divine sounds had filled her being, endowing her child with Apollo's gift of prophecy. Others declared that the altar in the sacred grotto had for years been loaded with her devout offerings, and that she had been heard to say the statue sometimes smiled upon her. Such tokens of approval from celestial beings were not deemed incredible; they implied that the worshipper was a favorite of the deity she served.

From this belief it was easy to infer that the extraordinary child, who saw and heard things invisible and inaudible to other mortals, might be a true son of Apollo. Some old crones shook their heads mournfully, saying that children with special gifts from the gods generally died young.

But the little Hermotimus wandered about with his father's shepherds and was gradually strengthened by air and exercise. He no longer fainted at perfumes or shared his supper with rose-colored lambs. His mother still noticed a peculiar dreaminess in his eyes, and when he was alone, she sometimes heard him singing melodies that came from some mysterious source. She kept her thoughts to herself, but she believed that his remarkable boyhood was the forerunner of something extraordinary in manhood. As his health improved, the neighborhood gossip gradually subsided, revived only occasionally by some eccentricity in his manners. The change pleased his father, who wanted a son to help him acquire wealth and had no wish for a poet or prophet. He told his wife never to talk to the boy about his childish dreams and was annoyed by any mention of her sleep in Apollo's grotto.

Of course, the lad knew that things had been said about him that his mother believed and his father disliked. This mystery made him think more about himself than he otherwise would have, increasing his tendency to lonely wanderings and deep reveries. His father did his best to draw him into merry gatherings with young people, thinking that a sharp shot from Cupid's bow might wake him up thoroughly. But the timid youth scarcely raised his eyes in the presence of maidens and seemed to take even less notice of their charms than of flowers, birds, and other beautiful things.

His father thought that a mate as unlike himself as possible would counteract his peculiar tendencies. So he chose Praxinoë, a plump, merry-hearted lass so healthy that she had only one dream in her whole life—that she was at a vintage festival, pelting young men with grape clusters until the wine ran down their chins and she woke laughing. Certainly, she would have chosen a very different sort of husband than Hermotimus with his soft voice and dreamy eyes. But in those days—and it has kept its ground well since—women were not thought to have a right to their own opinion. So the parents arranged the match, and the passive young couple were married.

Praxinoë was energetic and ambitious. She prided herself on the excellent cheeses she made and the quantity of grapes she dried for the market. She was always talking of these, and Hermotimus tried to listen patiently, though she tormented him more than his thrifty father ever had. Sometimes he praised her industry and smiled in his absent way, for he took a kind of pleasure in the company of his pretty young bride, as he did in the presence of a lively twittering bird. Had a modern caricaturist drawn their marriage, he might have shown a solemn young owl wed to a chattering wren. Hermotimus was often bewildered by her volubility, and her ceaseless activity made him feel weary, as if he had been hard at work.

He loved to sit for hours in silent thought, meditating on the nature of the soul, wondering whether the gods ever did unite with mortals, and whether those philosophers were right who said that something divine within the body would one day lay aside its garment of flesh, resume its native wings, and return to a celestial home among the immortals. While he was lost in such meditations, Praxinoë would often come to ask whether he remembered how many cheeses she had sent to market or how many bushels of grapes were ready. When he forgot the number, as he usually did, her cheerful temper clouded over with the feeling that her energy and industry were not appreciated. It was a hard disappointment, for she loved luxury and was born to bask in the pleasures of this world. Hermotimus would have pitied her if he could, but he never entered the region where she lived and did not know what people enjoyed or suffered there.

Praxinoë had as little idea of the worlds through which he wandered, and the glimpses she caught from his occasional remarks were not attractive to her. She had far less desire for celestial wings than for fine woolens and glossy silks, and the shadow-land of disembodied souls held no pleasant pictures of comfortable housekeeping. Her favorite talk was of embroidered mantles and robes of Tyrian dye; and if her husband tried to check her by saying such expensive things were beyond their means, she answered impatiently, "Why not? People can have what they will. The Greeks got into Troy, didn't they?" Sometimes she would add in an undertone of vexation, "But they were not such Greeks as thou art."

Undoubtedly, he was a vexation to an earth-born woman—that mild, dreamy, saintly man! The distance between them inevitably grew wider, and the process was hastened by changes in Hermotimus's condition. Though he had become healthier in youth than in infancy, there had never been a complete union between his soul and body. The inner and outer circles of his being, instead of clasping each other, touched only at one point and remained nearly strangers. At the time of his marriage, he was thought to have outgrown his childhood weakness and lost his power of prophecy. But two years later, one day he fell asleep in the same grotto of Apollo where his mother had once made offerings. He came out pale and chill, and that night was seized with a strange kind of fits, which grew more and more frequent. The old gossip revived. Neighbors said his father, the divine Apollo, had kissed him in his sleep, and he would never be like other men.

Praxinoë nursed him carefully, for she had a kind heart. But when the fits were on him, he inspired awe bordering on terror, for his looks and words convinced her he was some sort of spirit, not a mortal man. At times, he told her the most secret thoughts of her heart and repeated word for word what had been said to her when he was out of hearing. He often described magnificent cities, gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers she had never seen or heard of. But what made her shudder most was his familiar talk of relatives and friends long dead. If she was alone with him during these strange visitations, he never answered her or gave any sign he knew she was there. But there was one person to whose questions he always replied. In the neighboring city of Clazomenæ lived a Pythagorean philosopher named Prytanes.

He heard rumors of Hermotimus's singular childhood and the extraordinary fits that had come upon him in manhood, and he wanted to find out how much was true. When he first visited the one called the Sleeping Prophet, he found him lying on a couch motionless and senseless. He took his hand and found it cold and rigid. But a change passed over the face, like light driving shadows across fields, and Hermotimus said, "I am glad you have come again; for above all things, I have enjoyed our walks together in the groves, talking of the wings of the soul." This seemed marvelous to Prytanes, for never, to his knowledge, had he spoken with Hermotimus. But when he asked about their conversations, the sleeper revealed many thoughts that Prytanes remembered passing through his own mind at various times—thoughts that had seemed not his own but as if from some unknown source, perhaps from supernal beings.

When Prytanes returned to Clazomenæ, he told of this wonderful experience in public discourses to his disciples, and Hermotimus's fame spread widely. Priests and philosophers came to listen to his conversations with Prytanes; some went away incredulous, others deeply awed. From far and near, people brought the sick to him, begging him to cure them, and rumor spread that sometimes, when he merely passed his hands over them, their pains departed. In those days he would have been called a clairvoyant, but what we call animal magnetism had never been mentioned then, though its phenomena occasionally appeared, as they always have where the spiritual and physical circles of human existence are partially disjoined. Scientific causes were little investigated then. Health, beauty, eloquence, poetry, and all else were considered direct gifts from some god.

No wonder many believed Hermotimus was truly a son of Apollo, receiving the gift of healing and prophecy through constant communion with his divine father.

If the wise were puzzled, imagine how the busy little Praxinoë felt, as if walking among shadows in a fog. Her ambition was somewhat gratified by her husband's fame and the important visitors who came to see him. But in private she complained that these visitors interrupted her work, brought dust into the house, and asked for fresh wine more often than was convenient. "I admire hospitality," she would say, "and I wish I were rich enough to feast all Ionia every week and send each guest away with a golden bracelet. But the truth is, Hermotimus's dreams, full of palaces and fountains though they are, do not help build such things, and he brings home no wine from the beautiful vineyards he describes. And sometimes I can't help thinking it would be pleasant to know for certain whether one's husband were really dead or alive."

One thing became clear to her and to all who saw him: the endless questions and the demands to visit far-off places drained his little bodily strength. The priests at the neighboring temple of Æsculapius said he needed quiet and should drink a strong decoction of vervain gathered in moonlight. He himself, when questioned during his trances, declared that the valley air did him no good. So his friends moved him to a dwelling among the hills. Praxinoë did not object, for though her spiritualized husband failed to stir all the warmth of her loving nature, she had a friendly feeling for him and would gladly have done anything for his health. But the change was not to her liking. She enjoyed living where she could see festive processions with garlands and gaily dressed youths and maidens dancing to cymbals and flutes.

News from the city became rarer, for Hermotimus recovered his health and with it lost what was called his gift of prophecy; visitors came less and less. Urged by Praxinoë, he sometimes tried to be practically useful. But his heart was even less in such tasks than before. Companionship with philosophers had excited his intellect and taught him to watch his own soul with intense interest. He was absorbed in reverie most of the time, and Prytanes, who came occasionally, was the only one he talked with freely. Their conversation was more wearisome to Praxinoë than his dreamy silence. She said they might be as wise as owls, for all she knew, but she could see no more sense in their talk than in the hooting of those solemn birds of darkness. In another way, Hermotimus seemed to her like an owl: his eyes became so nervously sensitive to light that he blinked in the sunshine and sought the shelter of grottoes and shady groves.

His childish dreams returned, and explaining them occupied his thoughts. One morning he told Praxinoë he had dreamed that she held a crystal globe reflecting all things in the universe; she threw it into the flames, it cracked, and a radiant Spirit with large white wings rose from it. She laughed and said if she had such a globe, she would not break it until she had peeked at Corinth to see the embroidered silks and golden girdles the women wore there. He was thinking of the winged Spirit, and her remark passed through his ears without reaching his mind. Had he listened, it would have seemed to him like looking through the universe to watch a butterfly. Nothing interested him but growing wings for his soul. He ate sparingly and fasted often. When he spoke, he talked of mortifying the senses so the soul might rise to the ethereal spheres from which it had fallen. Praxinoë was impatient.

"To think of his talking of mortifying the senses!" she said. "Why, he never had any senses to mortify. Since I've known him, he hasn't eaten enough to keep a nightingale alive. For my part, I think it's a blessing to have plenty of good food and an excellent appetite for it."

In her present situation, she lacked the support she had near Clazomenæ, where her husband was revered. Their dwelling was isolated, and in the nearest village were many scoffers and skeptics. She formed a friendship with a wealthy dame named Eucoline, and from her she heard that people said Hermotimus neglected his family because he was too lazy to work; that he harmed his health with fasting and drove himself crazy with thinking, just to be stared at by common people; and that his visions and prophecies were certainly frauds. Praxinoë, who always looked outward for her standard of behavior, was influenced by these remarks. She had sometimes wept in secret over her cheerless fate, but her discontent had been held in check by a reverence for being tied to some solemn mystery others respected. Now she began to wonder if his oddities might be put on, as the neighbors suggested.

This tendency grew under the influence of Eratus, the gay, luxurious husband of Eucoline. He called himself a disciple of Epicurus, but he was one of those who had corrupted the original teachings, for while he thought happiness was the only good, he believed no enjoyment higher than that of the senses. To his frivolous mind, everything was a joke. If he met Praxinoë on her way to his wife's rooms, he would say, "How is good Hermotimus today? Has he gone to talk with the gods, and left his body on the couch till he returns?" These taunts were unpleasant, and comparing her lot with Eucoline's increased her discontent. The handsome, healthy Eratus was growing richer by his own energy. "Such robes as he buys for his wife!" she thought. "I can make better wine and weave finer cloth, and I think the gods gave me more beauty, but I can never hope to wear such robes. Ah, if only my good Hermotimus were more alive!"

This secret comparison did no great harm until her friend Eucoline suddenly died. Then the thought came: "If I could marry Eratus, what a fine pair we'd make! We might ride in our own chariot inlaid with ivory and gold. Perhaps it may happen someday. Who knows? Didn't the Greeks get into Troy?" She tried to push the vision away, but it kept returning. And worse, the handsome Eratus often came in person to bring choice grapes and figs in the prettiest vases and baskets. He was always friendly with Hermotimus, and if Hermotimus's soul wandered off, leaving his body, the Epicurean would say jokingly, "Where is the good Hermotimus, pretty one? Has he gone to chat with the gods? If Venus had given me such a lovely companion at home, all Olympus wouldn't tempt me away from her." The gay, flattering man! He was a dangerous contrast to her pale, silent husband hiding in groves and grottoes, thinking only of wings for his soul.

Eratus knew his power and showed it in the expressive glances of his large dark eyes. Sparks fell from them into the neglected wife's heart and kindled a fire that glowed in her cheeks. Her eyelids drooped under his gaze, and she avoided looking at him when he spoke, but she could not shut out the melting tenderness of his voice. It was a hard trial for poor Praxinoë. Her nature was so tropical, so full of love for splendor and capacity for joy! And the cruel Fates had placed her in such cold, shady places. Her pride had sometimes been a bad companion, but now it proved a friend in need. If she could not be Eratus's wife, she decided not to give Cupid more chances. When she saw him coming, she retreated and left an old servant to greet him and thank him for the grapes he brought for Hermotimus.

Eratus smiled at her attempt to hide, and to thwart her, he sent her a golden bracelet and earrings, which she could not thank him for in her husband's name. She returned the gift, though vanity and love of elegance tempted her to keep it. She was a brave woman. The local prudes who shook their heads and said she laughed and talked too much never knew half how brave she was.

This prudent reserve made her even more interesting to the enamored widower. The more he thought, the more it vexed him that such a lively creature, with glowing cheeks, laughing eyes, and springing step, should belong to a pale devotee who noticed none of her charms and even despised the most beautiful body as a prison for the soul. At last he openly wished to marry her and proposed to ask Hermotimus to divorce her, which the laws allowed. Praxinoë, with bashful frankness, confessed she was willing, saying she didn't think Hermotimus would notice whether she was there or not. "If he understands my proposition," said Eratus with a laugh, "he'll give me a grave lecture about how his soul's wings are growing by withdrawing from worldly pleasures. Let them grow!"

But the sudden, alarming illness of Hermotimus interrupted their plans; Praxinoë's kind heart overcame all else, and she said she would not leave him to hirelings. He recovered slowly and wandered again into the groves with weak steps. Eratus watched impatiently, and when Hermotimus seemed well enough to talk, he sought an interview. He found him lying on the ground in a favorite grove, cold and stiff as a corpse. He called servants to carry him home. Praxinoë showed no surprise; she said she hadn't seen him like that for two years, but in earlier times he would often lie senseless for a long while and then wake to tell of wonderful lands he'd visited. Day after day passed, and he did not wake. Skeptical philosophers' disciples came, stared at him, and left laughing at the tales of his visions and cures. They concluded, "It can do no harm to burn his body, whether he's dead or not. The soul he believed in always wanted out of prison.

We'd be doing him a favor to give his wings a try."

Hermotimus's parents were dead. Eratus called the priests of Æsculapius, who pronounced it the sleep of death. Praxinoë's relatives urged the funeral, but she hesitated and insisted on sending for the Pythagorean philosopher, whom Hermotimus had always answered during his trances. The messenger returned saying he had gone to Athens. The funeral pyre was built, and the good-hearted widow wept to find that his certain death brought relief. That thought was especially troubling, for she told herself, "If he is in one of his trances, he knows every thought I'm thinking." When they lifted him from the couch, she shuddered and cried, "Surely he is not quite so pale as he was!" But they reasoned, "He looks just as he has for days." She saw his body on the pile, and when the flames began to curl around it, she listened for any sound of life. But all was still except the crackling wood, and soon only ashes remained.

That night she dreamed she held a crystal globe and threw it into the flames. The globe cracked, and a radiant Spirit with white wings rose and soared high. He smiled as he passed her and said, "I foretold this." The face looked like Hermotimus in his trances when he told Prytanes of listening to white-robed maidens playing golden harps, but far more glorious. Did memory cause that dream? Or was it sent from some other source? She woke trembling, with a strong sense she had seen Hermotimus. She dared not tell anyone for fear of gossip, but secretly confessed to Eratus that she feared her husband was not dead when they burned him. He replied, "It's foolish to worry about a dream, my lovely one. Everyone who saw him thought he was dead. You know it often puzzled wiser people than us to tell whether he was alive or not. Whatever phantom sailed through the ivory gate of dreams, he smiled and seemed happy. So why be troubled?

Life is for enjoyment, dearest." He laughed and began to sing, "I'll crown my love with myrtle," and his looks and voice drove the phantoms away.

She soon became his wife, and her ambitious hopes were more than fulfilled. Eratus valued worldly goods and knew well how to get them. She never again had to remind him that the Greeks entered Troy.

But where there is sunshine, there is always shadow. Her prosperity stirred envy. Some said, "If everyone could burn a poor husband to marry a rich one, others could wear silk mantles too." Such remarks reached those who still believed in The Sleeping Prophet's inspiration. They asked anxious questions about his death, and envious women answered: "Praxinoë was always a good neighbor. We have nothing against her, though some thought she was a bit forward and vain. The old nurse says Eratus was always sending her presents long before her husband died, and some do think it was very obliging of poor Hermotimus to die just when he was in the way." These whispers grew into accusations that the rich Epicurean had bribed the priests of Æsculapius to declare the sleeper dead. Of course, some kindly repeated these rumors to the pair. Finding their protestations met with knowing silence or sly hints, they decided to move away.

Praxinoë had always longed to see Corinth, and to please her, Eratus chose it as their new home. In that gay, luxurious city, her love of splendor was fully satisfied with grand processions and showy equipage. Her beauty drew attention whenever she appeared, and her husband took pride in dressing her in rich embroidery and costly jewels. In such an atmosphere, her soul's wings had little chance to grow, but she never gave it a thought.

It was widely believed in Clazomenæ and the area that Hermotimus was not dead when his wasted body was burned. This idea stirred excitement among those he had cured or startled by revealing their hidden thoughts. His conversations with spirits had convinced them that a god spoke through him, and no skeptical jokes could shake their faith. They built a temple to his memory, placed his ashes in a golden urn, and because his wife had allowed his body to be burned while his soul was away, no woman was ever permitted inside the sacred precincts.