“Why are your eyes staring at me as if they wanted to pierce me?” I asked him, slyly.
“I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at your grace, and I’m also gazing, wonderstruck, at the soft violence with which your breasts are repelling the peplos that covers them.”
He said that, and the, with a feverish hand, he removed my strophion and unfastened my girdle, only leaving me with the delicate and supple crocotos that flowed like a sheet of water all the way to my feet.
Then my flesh became mysteriously transparent through the light fabric, and the tunic seemed to be a mirror in which my body was reflected.
“Your beautiful lines animate amorous covetousness, my love,” Athenagoras exclaimed. “You are as taut as the dryness of the earth opening avidly to the dew.”
In fact, I was weak with desire, and that mad run, during which I experienced the sweet and intoxicating sensation of being a prey and belonging to a master, had aroused and alarmed me.
That is why, instead of replying, I squeezed the fingers that were still knotted around mine for a long time. Then, applying the palms of my hands, closely to his, I lifted them up gently, breathing in the odor of the flesh.
Then he drew me to him, and, without yielding, with the strange smile that I have in sensuality, I held myself against him rigidly, in such a way that our lips met abruptly and our cool, sharp teeth collided.
I sought then to unfasten his lips, swollen by the tension of desire, and gently communicated my breath to him, perfumed with helenium.
And what shall I say now about the end of our day, except that the earth was varied and splendid in its vegetation, the flowers blooming, and the sky affable and limpid. We felt a delicious innocence weigh upon our hearts. The pleasure, equal to death, that abolished all anxiety had renewed and restored serenity to our souls.
The gardens were immense. There, pomegranate trees were sagging under the weight of their split and bloody fruits; here, apple trees were prospering, so bushy that one might have thought that we were in an orchard consecrated to the Nymphs.
I remember that we wandered in a long pathway shaded by pepper trees and invaded by vine ceps. The vine was the frolicsome and capricious queen of the place. No audacity arrested or intimidated her. Extended, eccentric and lascivious, she climbed everywhere, suspending her grape-clusters like an offering to the branches of the trees, or, even more recklessly, crowned the high summits with her unfurling branches. At the bottom of that vale snaked an arm of the river Cephise, and we resolved to eat there very agreeably, while dipping our bare feet in the coolness of the running water.
We contented ourselves with a few new figs, picked by our slave, a little goat’s cheese and ripe olives. And imagine our surprise and joy when, after the meal, when we were thirsty, we saw two wooden cups, following the current of the stream and coming toward us, bobbing like little Phoenician ships. It was Herpyllis who had thought of sending us Samos wine without troubling us with her presence. She had taken the precaution of diluting the wine with warm water, calculating the cooling that the journey ought to produce. And in fact, the noble beverage reached us at a just and agreeable temperate.
We both drank from the same cup, careful to place the lips at the place where others had posed, in such a way that we kissed many times via the wine. Afterwards, Athenagoras went to pick apples and playfully put them between my breasts, alternately biting and squeezing the carnal fruits and those of the trees.
But our approaches, innocent until then, were suddenly enfevered by ardor and somber desire, at the moment when we leaned distractedly over the stream and saw our coupled image flowing, dark and fluid, at the whim of the waves. We knew then that we were ephemera, wretched and perishable, unconscious playthings of a mysterious destiny. Then fear, the sentiment of death and the image in the water, as fleeting and fluid as life, united us almost involuntarily in a hectic and brief caress, full of joy and distress. Thus sadness came to add itself to that day, already prodigal in so many sensualities.
When we thought about returning, pressed by the violet light that announced the advent of night, Athenagoras said to me: “Do you not think, Naïs, that we have savored today the sweetest moment of life? For myself, nature has never been so graciously welcoming, and voluptuousness has never filled me with so many enchanting gifts.”
“You’re right. I too experienced the same joy. But let’s not talk about it, for fear that Adrasteia, the jealous goddess, might hear our reckless words. It’s necessary to receive happiness with prudence and modesty, in order that the gods are not offended by it.”
“I’ve heard Epicurus say,” Athenagoras continued, “that it’s a custom among the Scythians to open their quiver before going to bed every night, and to throw a white pellet into it if they judge that they have spent a happy day, or a black one if they estimate the contrary. When they die, the relatives surrounding them have only to count the contents of the quiver and, if the white pellets outnumber the black ones, they call the man who has died happy. But I think that in acting thus they are behaving dully, like true Scythians. For, in sum, Naïs, don’t you think that one day like the one I’ve just spent with you, is sufficient on its own to compensate and counterbalance entire years of misfortune?”
I did not reply to my friend, feeling that I was assailed and conquered by the softness of the surrounding things. The splendor and the crimson of the setting sun penetrated all the way to my soul, which buckled in a delicious weakness.
In my perpetual mobility, I then experienced a vague chagrin, a fugitive distress in knowing that Athenagoras was about to depart, and thinking about uncertain returns, the risk of shipwreck, the danger of pirates, the omnipresence of death that lies in wait over all things and unfailingly ends up attaining them and swallowing them...
V
Today I went along the chariot route that descends from the height of the Acropolis to Pireaeus. I went to the port to wave farewell from a distance to Athenagoras, whom I could not accompany overtly because of the presence of his father.
Herpyllis and another slave went with me. We were mounted on three donkeys led by a single drover, and as it was the day of the public assembly we were shoved and pawed by the people who were crowding the road. The wretched Philetas, the old athlete, a naturally malevolent man, even tried to take advantage of that flood of people to insult me. Perhaps he thought he was dealing with one of those fearful dicteriades who only go out at night and give themselves meanly for the price of a few dates or a measure of wine.
He arrived, fat and thickset, coming from Phalera, when he was obliged to stop because of our donkeys, which were blocking the path. Instead of standing aside or being patient he burst into vociferations and abused our donkey-drover.
“Know,” he cried, “that if you don’t bestir yourself and hurry along your paltry donkeys and the she-asses that are riding them, I’ll lay your entire company on the ground and walk over them.”
The donkey-drover seemed nonplussed, but I, unmoved by such braggadocio, intervened in the argument without delay, addressed myself to the old graybeard and shouted: “It’s a long time ago that you forgot how to lay a woman down, wretched Cecrops! I doubt very much that you’re capable of such an exploit.”
The crowd started to laugh at those words, and our lamentable braggart judged it prudent to make himself scarce, muttering vague insults. As for us, we passed on through a rumor of triumph and approval.
I had promised Athenagoras to place myself near the tomb of Themistocles, facing the Bay of Salamina, in order that I could be the last to salute him, as the departing ship skirted the coast.
The sea was calm. In the distance, the isle of Aegina was visible, crowned by the acroteria of the temple of Minerva. An even mist, rosy and tender, married the sky to the sea, while light clouds, scarcely fringed with crimson, announced the approach of sunset. Finally, I saw the Egyptian ship set forth with the aid of oars, the sails still undulating slackly in the feeble wind. But it passed by qui
te a long way from the coast and I could scarcely make out Athenagoras sitting in the prow and agitating the flap of his cloak with my intention.
As the sun declined, the water suddenly seems to be strewn with faded violets, and the ship, which was heading westwards, seemed to be going toward an apotheosis. The waves played around its flanks like Panope and Galatea, girdling it with foam.
For a moment, I experienced the desire to be on that curved wood myself, venturing toward strange lands, but it was sufficient for me to dart a single glance at the Acropolis to recognize the sentiment of the homeland vivacious and imperious within me. There is no hope that I could find such a splendid city as Athens anywhere else, entirely clad in glory, all sculpted in marble: Athens, where the men are intoxicated by thought and voluptuousness is a privilege common to the mind and the body. My city, my dear city, is the source of all the essential beauties, the lighthouse of the world, and one cannot take a step therein without encountering an ornate intelligence or a great memory.
In thinking about Athens I turned my head and piously caressed with my gaze the monument near to which I was standing, erected to perpetuate the memory of the conqueror of the Persians, the greatest among the Greeks. The land of the Magnesians jealously retains the ashes of Themistocles, but his real tomb is here, near the Salamina that recalls the proudest pomp of his glorious life and before the Saronica that saw his victory, every wave of which awakens the remembrance of his triumphs.
As I reentered the city, however, I felt sad, because I lacked Athenagoras and Stagonium was at the festival of Megara. I wandered therefore, somewhat randomly, through the deserted Ceramicus, and then went listlessly into the quart of Scyros where I live.
For a few minutes I had understood that a man was following me, but I was entirely absorbed by the thought of Athenagoras. As I went past Melitta’s house, I saw her sitting outside her door and making engaging signs, fruitlessly, to the young sophist Agathon, who was crossing the street.
“Melitta guarded the grape jealously when it was gilded and appetizing,” I said to the sophist, ironically, as I caught up with him. “Now that it’s dried up, she doesn’t hesitate to lavish the pips on all comers.”
“She’s mistaken, in any case, in addressing herself to me,” he replied. “Even young and fresh I’d still have disdained her. I’m wearied and disappointed by amour.”
He was leaning on his staff and speaking to me indifferently.
“What! You claim to be blind henceforth to the charms of the goddess?” I asked the young man, very surprised.
“What do you expect, Beauty?” he said. “Courtesans give nothing but chagrins and only engage expenses. If one approaches the bed of a young woman, one is obliged to share one’s fate eternally, unless one wants to become a perjurer, not to mention the distaste of the obligatory caresses that a husband gives to his wife. There remains adultery, but I don’t want to climb up to windows by night, giving myself to the larcenies of amour. I prefer, therefore, to follow the example of Diogenes, who sang the nuptial song to himself alone.”
I only replied with a scornful glance, and I continued on my way.
As I was about to cross the threshold of my house, the unknown man who persisted patiently in following me became bolder and approached me.
“Good day.”
“Good day to you also.”
“What’s your name?”
“What’s yours? You’ll know mine later if I want to give it to you.”
“You seem to be in a hurry.”
“So do you.”
“Is someone expecting you in your house?”
I hesitated or a moment, recalling Athenagoras, and then I said, proudly: “The man who loves me is always expecting me.”
“Proud woman! I’ll give you anything you demand as the price of the least of your favors.”
“Would you like a single kiss in exchange for a mina?” I proposed, arrogantly. “I can’t give you a longer caress this evening.” I knew that he would never accord such a large sum for such a brief sensuality.
But he approached, trembling and joyful, and he held out his lips and the silver. I saw then that I was dealing with a passionate individual at the emergence from childhood. I took pity on him. Offering him my lips, therefore, I drew his mouth, which no down offended, toward me. clasped my hands on the nape of his neck, and leaned toward him like a thirsty hind inclining over a spring.
“Your kiss has the scent of nectar and am intoxicated by amour merely for having touched your lips,” he stammered. And he circled my tunic with his arms, like a supplicant.
Then I took pity on his young desire, his tender novelty. I did not want to imagine him lying in a cold and solitary bed. That is why I permitted him to pass over the threshold of my house.
VI
I am happy, without alarm, and yet full of anxiety. That is because I can foresee the exhaustion of the quarry of my desires. The other day, while the depilatress was polishing my body, I examined myself in the mirror of Paphos, seeking my skin in vain for the slightest wintry imperfection, the smallest sign of frost and withering, any suspicion of a wrinkle.
What frightens and disquiets me is perhaps the excess of happiness, the accomplishment of all my wishes. Yesterday, the supreme day, surely the most glorious of my life, I savored all the intoxications of victory and even drank the cup of triumph.
What a keen amusement, what a frank delight, and how unforgettable that night will remain for me! On the Acropolis, at the Parthenon, in the violated sanctuary of the Protectress, Demetrius Poliorcetes gave a banquet. The Athenians, who had ceded to him the temple of Phidias, where the Virgin alone had her dwelling, also paid the expenses of his table. In addition to the habitual commensals of Demetrius, we were ten courtesans, the ornament of the city: Lamia, the tyrant’s mistress; Glycera, who accompanied her lover Menander the actor; Laena, the lover of the great Epicurus; and then Mnais, Stenelais, Plangon, Ioessa, Myrtale, Parthenis and me. Demetrius had also invited the cynic Crates, with his disciple, the young Hipparchia, a strange couple who live conjugally in the public square, before everyone’s eyes, for amour is, in their eyes, merely a legitimate and innocent natural function.21
Athens will retain the memory of that banquet for a long time.
Crowns of rare and various had been placed on our heads. Lamia had one of roses of Emathia, those that the nymphs offered to Ion in the vicinity of Pisa. They have sixty petals. Glycera’s lot was a crown of very singular lilies known as “the joy of Venus” because of their indecently arboreal pistil. Stenelais was crowned with roses of Tenedos known as “white eyebrows” and Plangon with ambroisia, a tender floret that, it is said, was born on the head of a statue of Alexander. And there were also crowns of asphodels, cosmosandales, wild mint and spring anemones.22 As for me, I was offered one woven with the violets that Proserpine rendered darker than all other flowers, and which exhale and insistent and sweet spirit.
Of the variety of perfumes I renounce giving an exact idea. As soon as we went in we were enveloped by a flood of nard of Tarsus and saffron. And after the first course the doors opened of their own accord unexpectedly and a flock of doves, saturated and steaming with even rarer essences, flew into the hall and sprinkled us with rose of Capua, magalion of Ephesus and panathenaica.
The service was so well extended and the dishes succeeded one another with such perfection that, toward the end, Demetrius summoned his cooks. There was Agis of Rhodes, who only knows how to fry fish, but fries them inimitably, Nereus of Chios, who deigns to prepare conger eel, Cuthinus, who has the modest specialty of lentil purées, and the glorious Cariade, nicknamed “the transformer of the pig.”
We had awarded them a silver crown; they were worthy of it. Among their masterpieces I still remember a dish composed of the bellies of piglets that had been aborted to render their flesh more delicate. We were also served white swans macerated for forty-eight hours in warm water in order that their color would not change, suckling pigs garn
ished with pheasants, and peacocks that still preserved their splendid plumage.
After the appeasement of hunger we engaged in conversation. It was fluent and full of enthusiasm. I retain, however, a disordered and confused memory of it, so much did all those eloquent guests sustain, as was their habit, contrary opinions, cursing and extolling amour by turns, spreading sarcasm over courtesans or deifying them, pronouncing alternately for ataraxia and passion, for the just and the unjust, for the Academy and the Portico. I only collected rare disconnected fragments, strayed by hazard to my ears, which only gave a pale image of all that effervescence of wit, all that vain but agreeable human birdsong. Thus, I recall that at one moment, the glorious Menander decided to speak in the midst of a general respectful silence.
He had curly hair mingled with gold strips, which was elegantly draped over his mantle. The staff with which he sustains his majestic stride was reposed by his side. He spoke to us about destiny and chance in charming words, pronounced through the veil of a soft and studied melancholy.
“There is no philosophy of happiness,” he affirmed. “I consider as the happiest of men the one who, having contemplated placidly the august and essential things of the world—the sun that shines, the stars, water, clouds and fire—returns quickly whence he came; it is futile that he live any longer, since he can see nothing better henceforth. The most enviable good, in my eyes, is a beautiful death visiting a young body.”
And as everyone remained silent, he went on: “If you wish to know who we are, look, in passing through the Ceramicus, at the tombs that border the road. There are the bones and the vain dust of kings, of the powerful, of sages—in sum, all of those who rejoiced in fortune, greatness, renown and beauty. But see that time had taken everything away from them, and that all of them are presently confined in a narrow subterranean dwelling.”
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