Penelope's Secret

by Nicolas Ségur

  “She does indeed conserve a sovereign ascendancy over him,” I replied

  “Yes, my darling, but let us hope that it won’t be for long. I don’t hold it against her that she’s rich and favored by a king—those strokes of luck scarcely touch me, having been the lover of Demosthenes and received the first amorous fruits of Menander and Philemon, our greatest poets. If I detest her it’s because she has vulgar manners, the opprobrium of which falls back on us all.”

  “She has shown the depths of her ordinary nature again recently,” said the parasite. “You know that Demetrius spent ten talents buying ellanion for his mistress. Well, it appears that Lamia does not appreciate that rare perfume and welcomed it poorly. It’s not her fault. She’s getting old without being able to overcome vulgarity. To gratify her with ellanion was as absurd as offering the tragedies of Euripides to the estimation of a Scythian. Nevertheless, Demetrius was offended by that lack of taste and shamed Lamia publicly for it in the middle of a banquet...”

  “What a humiliation for us all!” exclaimed Barathra, scandalized. “In my day, such insults would not have been permitted, even to a king. But since you’re warmed up, Thrasys, tell us again about the recent adventures of Gnathenion, who took advantage of the absence of her lover Andronicus to deceive him with a boilermaker. You don’t know, Naïs, how amusing this man is in his narrations.”

  “Recount, Thrasys,” I said in my turn. “If the story pleases me I’ll ask Barathra to grant you a kiss.”

  “Why won’t you give me your lips?”

  “Because I think it’s the same with kisses as with wines; one prefers those to which one is already habituated.”

  Then Thrasys, who has a round mouth and a well-planted tongue, became inexhaustible in malicious gossip. His stories only amused me temporarily, however. When he finally left, and I was alone with Barathra, I could not hide my pensive disposition, my corporeal disorder and the foolish doors that were traversing me.

  “You’re going astray, my girl,” she told me. “Desires are taking too strong a hold within you. That’s bad luck for a courtesan who has such an amorous constitution. I shiver at the thought that you might progress from weaknesses to go as far as attaching yourself to a man. For myself, I’ve never felt these obsessions, which you’ve mentioned to me before and which you say you’re still experiencing. On reflection, I can only think of one decent remedy, one palliative for your illness, and that’s not to remain alone any longer. Solitude excites. Why don’t you find a friend who can distract you?”

  “I have Stagonium.”

  “You chose her hastily,” Barathra replied, shaking her head. “Stagonium is still young and weak in comprehension. Her natural vivacity, little inclined to delicacy, can scarcely suit you. But I’ll do something for you. You don’t know my auletrides. At the moment, they’re amusing a Phoenician ship-owner, Arabon, in the garden, who is disposing of the money of an entire cargo of Tyrian purple. Come and see them. I believe that you’ll have an agreeable surprise.

  Taking me by the hand, she led me into the gardens. I thought I had been transported into a place reserved for Hamadryads, and stood there dazzled, so brilliant and gracious was the spectacle offered to my eyes.

  The moonlight was amorously spread over everything. Through that bright veil I saw seven young women who were lying here and there in corporeal ease and perfect nonchalance. They were variously grouped in the lawn, and their beauties seemed as many strange living flowers blossoming under the lunar enchantment. One, leaning over an enormous lily, appeared to be mirroring herself therein, revealing an alabaster breast with tenderly colored nipples like rosebuds. Another was unfastening her girdle, allowing her hips to protrude, while a third, completely naked, was swaying gently like a reed caressed by the breeze. The whiteness of her body was so immaculate, so vivid, that it was as if it were aureoled by a vaporous and phosphorescent light. Finally, two Lydians with silky hair were dancing, twirling and then falling back on to the flower-bed, imprisoning clumps of violet and saffron between their legs.

  Shadow and light disputed those moving bodies, and their harmonious competition exalted the mystery of delicate skin tones, transfiguring those mortal forms by means of I know not what ideal touch.

  While reposing the eyes, that garden of aloes delighted the senses by its odorous emanations. As if warmed by the proximity of human life, the flowers emitted heady spirits, and the scent of marjoram, the fragrant caress of irises accorded in troubling concert with the secret perfume of desirous flesh.

  I enjoyed the spectacle for a few moments, carefully avoiding looking at the obese Phoenician. The wine had plunged him into a drooling and slack bliss. Lying on Persian cushions, he was staring dazedly and admiringly at the distribution of the groups.

  “Coronis!” my friend called, eventually, in a soft voice.

  One of the Lydian dancers turned round on hearing her name and ran to her mistress. She had a neatly compassed figures and showed a great deal of presence. Had it not been for the whiteness of her skin one might have thought her a bronze statue, so smooth and polished did her limbs seem, with a masculine texture. The dance had imprinted a slight redness on her face, and her blonde hair, falling in compact masses, oppressed her shoulders with an opulent burden.

  “You see here Naïs, who is my friend,” said her mistress. “She is sad and her body is burning without respite or appeasement. Would you like to be her companion and amuse her with your wit and the stories you tell so well? She is as good as you see that she is beautiful.”

  Coronis approached me and put her hand on my shoulder affectionately. She said: “Be welcome, friend. I don’t know why you’re sad, but I’ll do my best to distract your mind from ennui and to pacify your flesh, for you please me.”

  So saying, she kissed me, and I, who know kisses, found hers soft and caressant.

  Barathra permitted me to take her home with me, and Coronis charmed me all evening, so loving and curious was her soul and so agile, inventive and unexpected her mind..

  She talked to me about her childhood, the vast meadows of her homeland, and then her awakening to amour. A muleteer had abducted her when she was in her first youth. He had initiated her into the dolor of love. Then her mother had sold her to an inhabitant of Alexandria, and there she had learned the insolent games of Asiatics. She sang tender Ionian cantilenas for my amusement; she knew several of them. There were some that appeared to me to be very beautiful. A naïve song of Ibicus delighted me in particular. I learned it in my turn, in order to record it on a sheet of papyrus:

  “It is in spring that the quince trees watered by the Two Rivers resume their vigor in the gardens of virgins. Then the vines also give birth to flowers and are garnished by lush grapes. But the passion that possesses me does not know the movement of the seasons, for it never knows repose, and like divine lightning, it burns with an inexhaustible fire. Precipitated upon me by the hand of his mother Venus, Eros himself would be alarmed by my devouring fever. He continues, however, pitilessly, to hold me in his cruel iron grip.”

  For a long time we chatted about the most various things. Then we delivered ourselves to games that carried us through until dawn.

  But how could I enumerate Coronis’ qualities? After having charmed me with her stories, after having cheered me up by the folly and originality of her speech, she ended up amazing me and almost frightening me by her metamorphoses. For she had the gift of changing like water illuminated by the tints of the setting sun, and being mutable and undulating.

  Incessantly offering me the emotion of the unexpected, she made me think of the imitators who are invited to banquets and mimic in turn the masks of fashionable actors, celebrated courtesans, old philosophers, victorious generals and tortured criminals. In the same way, in a matter of hours, Coronis changed before me her attitude, her expressions, her age and her métier. At one moment, as I was becoming drowsy, she feigned a male voice, counterfeited masculine gestures and appeared to change sex. My illusion w
as so great that I believed that my lover Athenagoras had returned from Naucrates.

  I could not extract her secrets from Coronis and discover how she succeeded in changing the order of things and natural laws so strangely.

  She only told me in the morning that she had as a lover the tanner Kerdon. I know him. Kerdon possesses completely the art of tanning, which is, to tell the truth, an art that is akin to sculpture. He knows how to work the most delicate leathers and manipulate the softest. An artist in his creations, he has an immense science and invention and succeeds, like Phidias, in communicating a masculine smoothness to all the lines of his works...

  Henceforth, when I am melancholy or unsatisfied with life, I shall summon Coronis, for her resources are immense, and in her company I can extract a great distraction against ennui.

  X

  I went up the Acropolis at the hour when the cicadas were falling silent. Demetrius had sent word that he wanted to see me. He had recently returned from Patras, where the famous Cratesipolis, the widow of Alexander, the son of Polyperchon, had charmed him with her tender beauty and kept him enslaved for long months.25 He only thought about her. Obliged to return to Athens, he could not accustom himself to the torments of that separation and spent his days morose and lackluster.

  “I have summoned you, Naïs, in order for you to give me a kiss similar to the one you put in the corner of Epicurus’ mouth during our last night of feasting. The morning dew is pearling on your lips and their caress is supple and amiable. I therefore desire one of your kisses, but I also want to ask you for another favor.”

  “Speak, O King.”

  “First look at this golden bowl. It is very ancient and the great Theodorus sculpted it. I obtained it among the booty after my victory over Seleucus.”

  “It appears admirable to me.”

  “Now look at this painting by Protogenes, It represents Ialyssus, the sun of the Sun, and the nymph Rhoda. The Rhodans begged me expressly to save it from the pillage. Tell me now, Naïs, which is your preference? Is it the painting or the bowl that attracts you more?”

  “Both are splendid, Demetrius, but I appreciate the cup more.”

  “Well, Naïs, I will give you the bowl if you will only help me confound the philosopher Polemon. Do you know him?”

  “I encountered him here during the feast that you gave us.”

  “He is dear to me, I esteem him and I like him, but I cannot support his arrogant and rigid virtue. More continent than Epicurus, more chaste than Plato, he seems to hold pleasure in great scorn and offends Venus and the Amours. The other day he sustained once again before everyone that no woman was capable of provoking a single frisson in him or giving birth to the slightest desire in his flesh. He is, however, in the prime of life and his youth was stormy. Would you like to tempt him, Naïs?”

  “I don’t understand, Demetrius.”

  “I ought to say that it’s Lamia who had the idea. While you were carrying off the prize, unveiling your corporeal delights before us, Polemon, it appears, was covering you with his smoldering gaze. And after the games, in praising you, he said that, except for Phryne, no other woman could show such a perfection of form. You alone, therefore, are capable of awakening his flesh. Strive to humiliate his virtue. If he succumbs to you, I shall feel as much pleasure therein as if I had won another victory. Would you like to set a carnal trap for him, to bend, soften and vanquish him? Your body is noble and polished, your mind full of resources. Will you consent to risk the adventure? My gratitude will be royal, for I shall owe you a keen enjoyment. As Polemon has known lust before, he is capable of remembering it. It is only a matter of knowing how to plunge the spur deeply into his flesh...”

  “But I don’t feel capable, O King...”

  “Don’t refuse, Naïs. I won’t admit it, all the more so as I believe that you can succeed. In any case, I’ll give you three days, and I’ll expect you at nightfall on the fourth in order for you to announce your own victory or our common humiliation. Now, sit on my knees in order for me to taste your lips...”

  I remain perplexed before that new caprice on the part of Demetrius, and I truly do not know how to go about it. I hardly know Polemon. I fear him, like all the sophists who roam around the Academy and the Lyceum, speaking abundantly and trafficking their mind. Fortunately, that one is still young. The idea of lying by his side does not revolt me, especially when I consider that he is believed to be inaccessible to amour. It is pleasant to vanquish in all contests and to collect all laurels.

  I am, in any case, athirst by virtue of the memory of that divinely sculpted bowl, which might belong to me tomorrow. I know in advance where I shall place it in case of success. It will be between the two candlesticks in the middle of the bronze table, under the mirror that shines in the hand of a silver Astarte. Every time someone admires it I shall say: “Demetrius made me a gift of it, honoring the victory of amour over sagacity.”

  XI

  When the reverberation of the sun attenuated and the evening breeze began to blow from the Phalerian sea, I put on my most beautiful attire, enlivened my complexion and my eyebrows, drank a little saffroned wine, which dilutes the eyes by communicating an indolent humidity to them, and then I headed for the Lyceum, hoping to discover Polemon among the other philosophers who gather in such places.

  The sunset was glorious. The sky was softened by a pale nacreous reflection, which lent the marble figures an appearance of supernatural life. But beyond Hymetta the countryside was still enameled by gleams of emerald and gold, reminiscent of a distant Garden of the Hesperides.

  There was, as always, a great flock of sophists in the enclosure. Alongside bearded old men who were carrying the beggar’s wallet of the cynics, young disciples could be seen, well-dressed and elegant, each holding a sculpted staff. For the most part they had carefully curled hair, and wore a white cloak and a soft hat.

  The Epicureans formed the greatest assembly. Standing near the master, they were avidly drinking in his words. The son of Neocles was talking about the voluptuousness of the body with his habitual mildness. Without looking at anyone he kept his eyes lowered and traced arabesques with the end of his staff in the dust of the pathway.

  I recognized around him Athenaeus, Timocrates and two young men who had just arrived expressly from Lampsacus in order to be initiated in Epicureanism. Then there was Leontes with his wife Themista, whom is it said that he shares with the master and the ephebe Phylocles, who Epicurus ordered to cut his beautiful hair out of jealousy.

  In another group there was Menander, Apollodorus and further away and apart, under the plane trees, the cynic Crates, Hipparchia and her brother Metrocles and Theodorus the God.26 I also perceive the bizarre Pyrrho, who has a mind so distracted and so blindly attached to puerilities and stupidities that his friends are obliged to restrain him and lead him by the hand in order that he does not fall down a well or into an open ditch.

  All those men, who are judged to be eminent but who appear to me to be mad, had respectful listeners in abundance and superabundance, who were bathing delightedly in their rubbish.

  “There is no argument to which one cannot oppose another argument, and nothing really exists in the world,” Pyrrho was saying at the moment when I passed by. “Pleasure and dolor are vain words, entirely relative, since there are animals that prosper in the burning of fire, like the phoenix of Arabia, and other that, on the contrary, perish there. Nor are there opinions common to everyone. It is sufficient to be convinced of that to think that Demophon, the steward of Alexander, was warm in the shade and cold in the sunlight. And what can one say of morality when we see that the Persians permit marriage between a father and a daughter, something of which the Greeks have a horror, and that the Massagetae practice the community of women, which we consider as a supreme immortality. The Egyptians embalm the dead, the Romans burn them, and the Paeonians throw them in pools. Everything, therefore, is illusion. Purple appears to be a different color depending on whether it is seen in sunl
ight, by moonlight or by candlelight; and the same stone that two men have difficulty transporting in the air, a child can move when it is floating on the surface of water.”

  “Nothing exists, everything is absurd,” replied a young man nearby, who appeared to be nourishing a great sadness within him. “I can demonstrate it for every particular case. In saying something, something necessarily passes through your mouth. However, when you speak about a cart, can it be said that a cart passes through your mouth?”

  “Indeed,” sad another, encouraged. “What you have not thrown away, one can sustain that you still have. Now, you have not thrown away horns, so you still have horns...”

  I drew away, irritated by all that cackle, and I approached Hipparchia, who was standing next to Theodorus. That philosopher flatters and worships himself to the extent of claiming that he is God.

  “Why, then, Hipparchia, have you abandoned the shuttle by the loom and have begun to interest yourself in the sovereign god?” I heard him say as I drew near.

  “Do you not think that I have made the better choice, Theodorus?”

  “I would have preferred you to continue to weave fine nightcaps.”

  “However, anything that Theodorus can do without attracting reproach, Hipparchia can also do without meriting criticism...”

  And as the God looked at her, mockingly and without making any response, she went on: “I can take my reasoning further. If Theodorus strikes himself, he is not doing injustice to anyone and cannot be punished. Now, since Hipparchia can permit herself what Theodorus permits himself. Hipparchia can strike Theodorus without committing an injustice.”