Eros knelt before her as if to receive her blessing.
Verily, no Phidias, or Praxiteles, among the ancients, could have worshiped by means of the sacred art of their day, and found a better subject to crystallize in form for the good of future generations, than this, an Olympian Madonna, a son at his mother’s knee. Maternal love and the responsive trust and veneration of Youth.
The nearer approach of Eros naturally brought his torch in closer proximity. Its brilliancy became dazzling, in fact blinding to eyes long since unused to its power.
Aphrodite, conscious only of the physical inconvenience, placed her hand before her face as if to shade the eyes. This was enough for Eros, he placed his torch upon a tripod at greater distance, where it remained, so near and yet so far; so subtle are the adverse influences when the physical becomes dominant over the spiritual.
And instantly the natural consequence:
Eros separated from his torch was no longer the same. He had entered the shadows; his aspect at once changed. His form, still exquisite to behold, was like sculptured marble, faultless in outline, yet without the flesh tint, the warmth of color; complete except the illuminating flame which Zeus had given him.
Aphrodite still gazed with admiration, but, alas! strange to say, his aspect having become more familiar to present conditions and himself speechless, she also said nothing; and Eros continued to manifest the beauty of form alone.
And again the natural consequence:
Aphrodite had called him for a purpose, and must talk with him; must cause the exquisite form to manifest life, the statue must respond. And she called him anew:
“Eros! Oh, Eros! why not speak? Come to me from amid those shadows! Eros! answer!”