BOOK THE THIRD
4. Chapter IV
THE STREAM OF LOVE RUNS ON. WHITHER?
DAYS are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, no obstacle, is
between their hearts--when the sun shines, and the course runs smooth--when
their love is prosperous and confessed. Ione no longer concealed from
Glaucus the attachment she felt for him, and their talk now was only of
their love. Over the rapture of the present the hopes of the future glowed
like the heaven above the gardens of spring. They went in their trustful
thoughts far down the stream of time: they laid out the chart of their
destiny to come; they suffered the light of to-day to suffuse the morrow.
In the youth of their hearts it seemed as if care, and change, and death,
were as things unknown. Perhaps they loved each other the more because the
condition of the world left to Glaucus no aim and no wish but love; because
the distractions common in free states to men's affections existed not for
the Athenian; because his country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life;
because ambition furnished no counterpoise to love: and, therefore, over
their schemes and projects, love only reigned. In the iron age they
imagined themselves of the golden, doomed only to live and to love.
To the superficial observer, who interests himself only in characters
strongly marked and broadly colored, both the lovers may seem of too slight
and commonplace a mould: in the delineation of characters purposely subdued,
the reader sometimes imagines that there is a want of character; perhaps,
indeed, I wrong the real nature of these two lovers by not painting more
impressively their stronger individualities. But in dwelling so much on
their bright and birdlike existence, I am influenced almost insensibly by
the forethought of the changes that await them, and for which they were so
ill prepared. It was this very softness and gaiety of life that contrasted
most strongly the vicissitudes of their coming fate. For the oak without
fruit or blossom, whose hard and rugged heart is fitted for the storm, there
is less fear than for the delicate branches of the myrtle, and the laughing
clusters of the vine.