Aphrodite by Pierre Louÿs (readera ebook reader .txt) 📕
er twentieth year, when from a young girl she became a woman, ambition suddenly awoke in her with maturity.
And one morning as she came out of a deep sleep, two hours past mid-day, quite tired from having slept too much, she turned over on her breast across the bed, her feet apart, rested her cheek in her hand and with a long golden pin pierced with little symmetrical holes her pillow of green linen.
She reflected profoundly.
There were at first four little points which made a square and a point in the middle. Then four other points to make a larger square. Then she tried to make a circle--but that was a little difficult.
Then she pierced points at random and began to call, "Djala! Djala!"
Djala was her Hindu slave whose name was Djalantachtchandrapchapala, which means: "Changeful-as-the-image-of-the-moon-upon-the-water." Chrysis was too lazy to say the entire name.
The slave entered and stood near the door without quite shutting it.
"Djala, who came yesterday?
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The seven slaves of Bacchis, all well grown and admirably disciplined, were such a source of pride for her that she never went out without having them in her train, at the risk of leaving her house empty. It was through this imprudence that Demetrios entered the house so easily; but she was still ignorant of her misfortune when she gave the festival to which Chrysis was invited.
This evening, Chrysis was the first to arrive.
She was dressed in a green robe, embroidered with enormous rose branches which flowered upon her bosom.
Arete opened the door for her before she had time to knock and, following the Greek custom, conducted her into a little room, took off her red shoes and gently washed her bare feet; then she perfumed her wherever it was necessary, for the guests were spared every trouble, even that of making their toilette before going in to dinner. Then she presented her a comb and pins to order her headdress, as well as unguent and dry tints for her lips and cheeks.
When Chrysis was finally ready, she asked the slave, “Who are the shades?”
Thus were called all the guests save one alone who was the invited. This one, in whose honor the repast was given, brought with him whom he pleased, and the “shades” had no care other than to bring their couch-cushion and to be well behaved.
To Chrysis’s question, Arete replied:
“Naucrates has asked Philodemos with his mistress Faustina whom he brought from Italy. He has also asked Phrasilas and Timon, and thy friend Seso of Knidos.”
At that very moment Seso entered. “Chrysis!”
“My dear!”
The two women embraced and overflowed with exclamations at the happy chance which brought them together again.
“I feared I would be late,” said Seso. “Poor Archytas delayed me….”
“What, still he?”
“It is always the same thing. Whenever I go to dine in the town he imagines that everybody is going to paw me. Then he must be consoled beforehand, and that takes time! Ah! my dear! If he only knew me better! I scarcely wish to deceive him. He is jealous enough, as it is!”
“And his child? Has anybody seen it yet, that thou knowest?”
“I should hope not! The third month—the little wretch! But it does not annoy me yet. When it does—it will leave quickly.”
“I know how you feel,” said Chrysis. “Do not let it disfigure you. Children age women. Yesterday I saw Philemation, our little friend of former times who has been living for three years at
[paragraph continues] Bubastis with a grain-merchant’s family. Dost thou know what she said to me, the first thing? ‘Ah! If thou couldst see what it has done to me!’ And she had tears in her eyes. I told her that she was still pretty, but she repeated: ‘If thou couldst see! If thou couldst remember!’ weeping like another Byblis. Then I saw she almost wanted me to agree with her, and I asked her to show me what she meant. My dear—her skin—like leather! And thou knowest how beautiful it was. One could not bear to look at the knuckles, they were so red. Do not ruin thine, Seso. Keep young and white as you are. A woman’s complexion is more precious than her jewels.”
While speaking thus, the two women finished their toilettes. Then they entered, together, the banquet hall where Bacchis stood waiting, her waist clasped by apodesmes and her neck laden with golden necklaces which graduated up to her chin.
“Ah! pretty dears, what a good idea of Naucrates’ it was to invite you both this evening.”
“We congratulate ourselves that it occurs here,” replied Chrysis, without appearing to understand the allusion. And, in order to say something spiteful at once, she added: “How is Doryclos?”
That was a very rich young lover who had just left Bacchis to marry a Sicilian.
“… I have sent him away,” said Bacchis, brazenly.
“You don’t say!”
“Yes. They say he is going to marry out of spite. But I expect him the morrow of his wedding. He is mad about me.”
While asking, “Where is Doryclos?” Chrysis had thought: “Where is thy mirror?” but Bacchis’s eyes did not look at her directly and she could read nothing in them except vague and meaningless trouble. However, Chrysis had time to clear up this question and, in spite of her impatience, she could resign herself to await a more favorable occasion.
She was about to continue the conversation when she was prevented by the arrival of Philodemos, Faustina and Naucrates, who constrained Bacchis to fresh politenesses. They fell into ecstasies over the poet’s embroidered garment and over the diaphanous robe of his Roman mistress. This young girl, little conversant with Alexandrian customs, had thought to Hellenize herself thus, not knowing that such a costume was incorrect at a feast where hired dancers, similarly half clothed, were to appear. Bacchis gave no sign of noticing this error, and she found amiable phrases to compliment Faustina upon her heavy, brilliant, blue-black hair drowned in striking perfumes. This she wore held up with a golden pin over the nape of her neck, to avoid spots of perfume upon her light silken garment.
They were about to take places at the table when the seventh guest entered; it was Timon, a young man whose absence of principle was a natural gift, but who had found, in the teachings of the philosophers of his time, some superior reasons approving his character.
“I have brought someone,” he said, laughing.
“Who is it?” demanded Bacchis.
“A certain Demo, who is from Mendes.”
“Demo! you don’t mean it, my friend! She is a girl of the cheapest sort!”
“Oh, very well. I will not insist on it,” said the young man.
“I just made her acquaintance at the corner of the Canopic way.
She asked me to give her a dinner and I brought her to thee. If thou wilt not…”
“This Timon is incredible,” declared Bacchis.
She called a slave. “Heliope, go tell thy sister that she will find a woman at the door and that she is to drive her away with a beating. Go.”
She turned, looking for someone.
“Phrasilas has not come?”
AT these words an insignificant little man, with a gray forehead, gray eyes and a small gray beard, advanced with little steps and said, smiling:
“I was here.”
Phrasilas was an esteemed writer on various subjects, yet one could not say exactly whether he was a philosopher, a grammarian, an historian or a mythologist, so much did he touch upon the gravest studies with a timid ardor and a fickle curiosity. He dared not write a treatise, he could not construct a drama. His style had something hypocritical, meticulous and vain. For thinkers he was a poet; for poets a sage; for society a great man.
“Well, let us go to the table,” said Bacchis. And she laid herself upon the couch which presided over the feast. At her right lay Philodemos with Faustina and Phrasilas. At the left of Naucrates, Seso, then Chrysis and young Timon. Each of the guests reclined diagonally, resting the elbow on a silken cushion, their heads wreathed with flowers. A slave brought the crowns of red roses and blue lotus. Then the repast commenced.
Timon felt that his prank had thrown a slight coolness over the women. Therefore, not speaking to them at first, but addressing himself to Philodemos, he said gravely, “They say that thou art a very devoted friend of Cicero. What dost thou think of him, Philodemos? Is he an enlightened philosopher or merely a compiler without discernment or taste? For I have heard both opinions sustained.”
“Precisely because I am his friend, I cannot answer thee,” said Philodemos. “I have known him too well; therefore I know him ill. Question Phrasilas who, having read him but little, will judge him correctly.”
“Well, what does Phrasilas think of him?”
“He is an admirable writer,” said the little man.
“How dost thou mean that?”
“In the sense that all writers, Timon, are admirable in something, like all countries and all souls. Yet, to me, the spectacle of the sea is no more preferable than the dullest plain. And so I could not class a treatise of Cicero, an ode of Pindar and a letter of Chrysis in the order of my sympathies even if I knew the style of our excellent friend at thy side. When I close a book I am satisfied if I carry away the memory of one line which has made me think. Until now, all those I have opened contained this line. But not one has given me a second. Perhaps we each have but a single thing to say in our life, and those who attempt to speak at greater length are too ambitious. How much more I regret the irreparable silence of the millions of souls who have not spoken.”
“I do not agree with thee,” said Naucrates, without raising his eyes. “The universe was created that three truths might be said and it is our misfortune that their certainty should have been proved five centuries before this evening. Heraclitos has comprehended the world; Parmenides has unmasked the soul; Pythagoras has measured God; nothing is left us but to be silent. I find the chick-pea very impudent.”
Seso tapped the table with the handle of her fan. “Timon,” she said, “my friend.”
“What is it?”
“Why dost thou ask questions which have no interest either for me, who know no Latin, or for thee who wishest to forget it? Art thou trying to dazzle Faustina with thy cosmopolitan erudition? My poor friend, thou wilt not deceive me with words. I disrobed thy great soul yesterday evening under my coverlets and I know, Timon, the chick-pea about which it is concerned.”
“Dost thou think so?” said the young man, simply.
But Phrasilas commenced a second little speech in an ironic and softened voice: “Seso, when we have the pleasure of hearing thee judge Timon, whether it be to applaud him as he merits or to blame him—which we cannot do—remember that he is an invisible being with a singular soul. It does not exist by itself, or at least we cannot know that it does, but it reflects those which mirror in it and changes in aspect with its changes in place. Last night, it was quite like thee: I am not surprised that it pleased thee. Just now it has taken the image of Philodemos: that is why thou didst just say that it belied itself. But it does not intend to be contradictory since it affirms nothing. Thou seest, my dear, thou must refrain from thoughtless judgments.”
Timon cast an irritated look in the direction of Phrasilas, but he reserved his reply.
“However that may be,” continued Seso, “here we are, four courtesans, and we intend to direct the conversation in order nor to resemble pink children who only open their mouths to drink milk. Faustina, as thou art the newcomer, commence.”
“Very good,” said Naucrates, “choose for us, Faustina. Of what shall we speak?”
The young Roman turned her head, raised her eyes, blushed and, with an undulation of her whole body, sighed: “Of love.”
“A very pretty subject,” said Seso, suppressing a laugh.
But no one took up the word.
The table was covered with wreaths, greens, cups and ewers. Slaves brought woven baskets filled with bread light as snow. Fat eels sprinkled with seasonings, wax-colored alphests and sacred callichthys were brought in upon platters of painted earthenware.
Thus too were served a pompilos, a purple fish believed to be born of the same foam as Aphrodite, boops and bed-radones, a
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