A Thorny Path

Thorny Path [Per Aspera],
Complete, by Georg Ebers

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Title: A Thorny Path [Per Aspera], Complete
Author: Georg Ebers
Release Date: October 17, 2006 [EBook #5542]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A THORNY
PATH [PER ASPERA], ***

Produced by David Widger

A THORNY PATH
By Georg Ebers
Volume 1.

CHAPTER I.
The green screen slowly rose, covering the lower portion of the broad
studio window where Heron, the gem-cutter, was at work. It was
Melissa, the artist's daughter, who had pulled it up, with bended knees
and outstretched arms, panting for breath.
"That is enough!" cried her father's impatient voice. He glanced up at
the flood of light which the blinding sun of Alexandria was pouring
into the room, as it did every autumn afternoon; but as soon as the
shadow fell on his work-table the old man's busy fingers were at work
again, and he heeded his daughter no more.
An hour later Melissa again, and without any bidding, pulled up the
screen as before, but it was so much too heavy for her that the effort
brought the blood into her calm, fair face, as the deep, rough "That is
enough" was again heard from the work-table.
Then silence reigned once more. Only the artist's low whistling as he
worked, or the patter and pipe of the birds in their cages by the window,
broke the stillness of the spacious room, till the voice and step of a man
were presently heard in the anteroom.
Heron laid by his graver and Melissa her gold embroidery, and the eyes
of father and daughter met for the first time for some hours. The very
birds seemed excited, and a starling, which had sat moping since the
screen had shut the sun out, now cried out, "Olympias!" Melissa rose,
and after a swift glance round the room she went to the door, come who
might.
Ay, even if the brother she was expecting should bring a companion, or
a patron of art who desired her father's work, the room need not fear a
critical eye; and she was so well assured of the faultless neatness of her
own person, that she only passed a hand over her brown hair, and with
an involuntary movement pulled her simple white robe more tightly
through her girdle.
Heron's studio was as clean and as simple as his daughter's attire,

though it seemed larger than enough for the purpose it served, for only
a very small part of it was occupied by the artist, who sat as if in exile
behind the work-table on which his belongings were laid out: a set of
small instruments in a case, a tray filled with shells and bits of onyx
and other agates, a yellow ball of Cyrenian modeling-wax,
pumice-stone, bottles, boxes, and bowls.
Melissa had no sooner crossed the threshold, than the sculptor drew up
his broad shoulders and brawny person, and raised his hand to fling
away the slender stylus he had been using; however, he thought better
of it, and laid it carefully aside with the other tools. But this act of
self-control must have cost the hot-headed, powerful man a great effort;
for he shot a fierce look at the instrument which had had so narrow an
escape, and gave it a push of vexation with the back of his hand.
Then he turned towards the door, his sunburnt face looking surly
enough, in its frame of tangled gray hair and beard; and, as he waited
for the visitor whom Melissa was greeting outside, he tossed back his
big head, and threw out his broad, deep chest, as though preparing to
wrestle.
Melissa presently returned, and the youth whose hand she still held was,
as might be seen in every feature, none other than the sculptor's son.
Both were dark-eyed, with noble and splendid heads, and in stature
perfectly equal; but while the son's countenance beamed with hearty
enjoyment, and seemed by its peculiar attractiveness to be made--and to
be accustomed--to charm men and women alike, his father's face was
expressive of disgust and misanthropy. It seemed, indeed, as though the
newcomer had roused his ire, for Heron answered his son's cheerful
greeting with no word but a reproachful "At last!" and paid no heed to
the hand the youth held out to him.
Alexander was no doubt inured to such a reception; he did not disturb
himself about the old