by Georg Ebers
CHAPTER IV.
The house facing the garden of the Paneum, where Barine lived, wasthe property of her mother, who had inherited it from her parents. Theartist Leonax, the young beauty's father, son of the old philosopherDidymus, had died long before.
After Barine's unhappy marriage with Philostratus was dissolved, she hadreturned to her mother, who managed the affairs of the household. Shetoo, belonged to a family of scholars and had a brother who had wonhigh repute as a philosopher, and had directed the studies of theyoung Octavianus. This had occurred long before the commencement of thehostility which separated the heirs of Caesar and Mark Antony. But evenafter the latter had deserted Octavia, the sister of Octavianus, toreturn to Cleopatra, the object of his love, and there was an openbreach between the two rivals for the sovereignty of the world, Antonyhad been friendly to Arius and borne him no grudge for his closerelations to his rival. The generous Roman had even given his enemy'sformer tutor a fine house, to show him that he was glad to have him inAlexandria and near his person.
The widow Berenike, Barine's mother, was warmly attached to her onlybrother, who often joined her daughter's guests. She was a quiet,modest woman whose happiest days had been passed in superintending theeducation of her children, Barine, the fiery Hippias, and the quietHelena, who for several years had lived with her grandparents and, withfaithful devotion, assumed the duty of caring for them. She had beenmore easily guided than the two older children; for the boy's aspiringspirit had often drawn him beyond his mother's control, and thebeautiful, vivacious girl had early possessed charms so unusual that shecould not remain unnoticed.
Hippias had studied oratory, first in Alexandria and later in Athens andRhodes. Three years before, his uncle Arius had sent him with excellentletters of introduction to Rome to become acquainted with the life ofthe capital and try whether, in spite of his origin, his brilliant giftsof eloquence would forward his fortunes there.
Two miserable years with an infamous, unloved husband had changed thewild spirits of Barine's childhood into the sunny cheerfulness now oneof her special charms. Her mother was conscious of having desired onlyher best good in uniting the girl of sixteen to Philostratus, whom thegrandfather Didymus then considered a very promising young man, andwhose advancement, in addition to his own talents, his brother Alexas,Antony's favourite, promised to aid. She had believed that this stepwould afford the gay, beautiful girl the best protection from the perilsof the corrupt capital; but the worthless husband had caused bothmother and daughter much care and sorrow, while his brother Alexas, whoconstantly pursued his young sister-in-law with insulting attentions,was the source of almost equal trouble. Berenike often gazed insilent astonishment at the child, who, spite of such sore grief andhumiliation, had preserved the innocent light-heartedness which made herseem as if life had offered her only thornless roses.
Her father, Leonax, had been one of the most distinguished artistsof the day, and Barine had inherited from him the elastic artisttemperament which speedily rebounds from the heaviest pressure. To himalso she owed the rare gift of song, which had been carefully cultivatedand had already secured her the first position in the woman's chorus atthe festival of the great goddesses of the city. Every one was full ofher praises, and after she had sung the Yalemos in the palace over thewaxen image of the favourite of the gods, slain by the boar, her namewas eagerly applauded. To have heard her was esteemed a privilege, forshe sang only in her own house or at religious ceremonials "for thehonour of the gods."
The Queen, too, had heard her, and, after the Adonis festival, her uncleArius had presented her to Antony, who expressed his admiration withall the fervour of his frank nature, and afterwards came to her housea second time, accompanied by his son Antyllus. Doubtless he would havecalled on her frequently and tested upon her heart his peculiar powerover women, had he not been compelled to leave the city on the day afterhis last visit.
Berenike had reproved her brother for bringing the Queen's lover toBarine, for her anxiety was increased by the repeated visits of Antony'sson, and still more aroused by that of Caesarion, who was presented byAntyllus.
These youths were not numbered among the guests whose presence shewelcomed and whose conversation afforded her pleasure. It was flatteringthat they should honour her simple home by their visits, but she knewthat Caesarion came without his tutor's knowledge, and perceived, bythe expression of his eyes, what drew him to her daughter. Besides,Berenike, in rearing the two children, who had been the source of somuch anxiety had lost the joyous confidence which had characterized herown youth. Whenever life presented any new phase, she saw the darkside first. If a burning candle stood before her, the shadow of thecandlestick caught her eye before the light. Her whole mental existencebecame a chain of fears, but the kind-hearted woman loved her childrentoo tenderly to permit them to see it. Only it was a relief to her heartwhen some of her evil forebodings were realized, to say that she hadforeseen it all.
No trace of this was legible in her face, a countenance still pretty andpleasing in its unruffled placidity. She talked very little, but whatshe did say was sensible, and proved how attentively she understoodhow to listen. So she was welcome among Barine's guests. Even the mostdistinguished received something from her, because he felt that thequiet woman understood him.
Before Barine had returned that evening, something had occurred whichmade her mother doubly regret the accident to her brother Arius theday before. On his way home from his sister's he had been run over bya chariot darting recklessly along the Street of the King, and wascarried, severely injured, to his home, where he now lay helpless andfevered. Nor did it lessen his sufferings to hear his two sons threatento take vengeance on the reckless fellow who had wrought their fatherthis mischief, for he had reason to believe Antyllus the perpetrator ofthe deed, and a collision between the youths and the son of Antony couldonly result in fresh disaster to him and his, especially as the youngRoman seemed to have inherited little of his father's magnanimousgenerosity. Yet Arius could not be vexed with his sons for stigmatizing,in the harshest terms, the conduct of the man who had gone on withoutheeding the accident. He had cautioned his sister against the utterlyunbridled youth whose father he had himself brought to her house. Withwhat good reason he had raised his voice in warning was now evident. Atsunset that very day several guests had arrived as usual, followed byAntyllus, a youth of nineteen. When the door-keeper refused to admithim, he had rudely demanded to see Barine, thrust aside the prudentold porter, who endeavoured to detain him, and, in spite of hisprotestations, forced his way into his dead master's work-room, wherethe ladies usually received their visitors. Not until he found it emptywould he retire, and then he first fastened a bouquet of flowers he hadbrought to a statue of Eros in burnt clay, which stood there. Both theporter and Barine's waiting-maid declared that he was drunk; they saw itwhen he staggered away with the companions who had waited for him in thegarden outside.
This unseemly and insulting conduct filled Berenike with the deepestindignation. It must not remain unpunished, and, while waiting for herdaughter, she imagined what evil consequences might ensue if Antylluswere forbidden the house and accused to his tutor, and how unbearable,on the other hand, he might become if they omitted to do so.
She was full of sad presentiments, and as, with such good reason, shefeared the worst, she cherished a faint hope that her daughter mightperhaps bring home some pleasant tidings; for she had had the experiencethat events which had filled her with the utmost anxiety sometimesresulted in good fortune.
At last Barine appeared, and it was indeed long since she had claspedher mother in her arms with such joyous cheerfulness.
The widow's troubled heart grew lighter. Her daughter must have met withsomething unusually gratifying, she looked so happy, although she hadsurely heard what had happened here; for her cloak was laid aside andher hair newly arranged, so she must have been to her chamber, whereshe was dressed by her loquacious Cyprian slave, who certainly could notkeep to herself anything t
hat was worth mentioning. The nimble maid hadshown her skill that day.
"Any stranger would take her for nineteen," thought her mother. "Howbecoming the white robe and blue-bordered peplum are to her; how softlythe azure bombyx ribbon is wound around the thick waves of her hair! Whowould believe that no curling-irons had touched the little golden locksthat rest so gracefully on her brow, that no paint-brush had any sharein producing the rose and white hues on her cheek, or the alabasterglimmer of her arms? Such beauty easily becomes a Danae dower; but itis a magnificent gift of the gods! Yet why did she put on the braceletwhich Antony gave her after his last visit? Scarcely on my account. Shecan hardly expect Dion at so late an hour. Even while I am rejoicing inthe sight of her beauty, some new misfortune may be impending."
So ran the current of her thoughts while her daughter was gailydescribing what she had witnessed at her grandfather's. Meanwhile shehad nestled comfortably among the cushions of a lounge; and whenshe mentioned Antyllus's unseemly conduct, she spoke of it, with acarelessness that startled Berenike, as a vexatious piece of rudenesswhich must not occur again.
"But who is to prevent it?" asked the mother anxiously.
"Who, save ourselves?" replied Barine. "He will not be admitted."
"And if he forced his way in?"
Barine's big blue eyes flashed angrily, and there was no lack ofdecision in her voice as she exclaimed, "Let him try it!"
"But what power have we to restrain the son of Antony?" asked Berenike."I do not know."
"I do," replied her daughter. "I will be brief, for a visitor iscoming."
"So late?" asked the mother anxiously.
"Archibius wishes to discuss an important matter with us."
The lines on the brow of the older woman smoothed, but it contractedagain as she exclaimed inquiringly: "Important business at so unusual anhour! Ah, I have expected nothing good since early morning! On my wayto my brother's a raven flew up before me and fluttered towards the leftinto the garden."
"But I," replied Barine, after receiving, in reply to her inquiry, afavourable report concerning her uncle's health-"I met seven--therewere neither more nor less; for seven is the best of numbers--sevensnow-white doves, which all flew swiftly towards the right. The fairestof all came first, bearing in its beak a little basket which containedthe power that will keep Antony's son away from us. Don't look at me insuch amazement, you dear receptacle of every terror."
"But, child, you said that Archibius was coming so late to discuss animportant matter," rejoined the mother.
"He must be here soon."
"Then cease this talking in riddles; I do not guess them quickly."
"You will solve this one," returned Barine; "but we really have no timeto lose. So-my beautiful dove was a good, wise thought, and what itcarried in its basket you shall hear presently. You see, mother, manywill blame us, though here and there some one may pity; but this stateof things must not continue. I feel it more and more plainly with eachpassing day; and several years must yet elapse ere this scruple becomeswholly needless. I am too young to welcome as a guest every one whomthis or that man presents to me. True, our reception-hall was myfather's work-room and you, my own estimable, blameless mother, are thehostess here; but though superior to me in every respect, you are somodest that you shield yourself behind your daughter until the gueststhink of you only when you are absent. So those who seek us both merelysay, 'I am going to visit Barine'--and there are too many who saythis--I can no longer choose, and this thought--"
"Child! child!" interrupted her mother joyfully, "what god met you asyou went out this morning?"
"Surely you know," she answered gaily; "it was seven doves, and, when Itook the little basket from the bill of the first and prettiest one, ittold me a story. Do you want to hear it?"
"Yes, yes; but be quick, or we shall be interrupted."
Then Barine leaned farther back among the cushions, lowered her longlashes, and began: "Once upon a time there was a woman who had a gardenin the most aristocratic quarter of the city--here near the Paneum, ifyou please. In the autumn, when the fruit was ripening, she left thegate open, though all her neighbours did the opposite. To keep awayunbidden lovers of her nice figs and dates, she fastened on the gate atablet bearing the inscription: 'All may enter and enjoy the sight ofthe garden; but the dogs will bite any one who breaks a flower, treadsupon the grass, or steals the fruit.'
"The woman had nothing but a lap-dog, and that did not always obey her.But the tablet fulfilled its purpose; for at first none came excepther neighbours in the aristocratic quarter. They read the threat, andprobably without it would have respected the property of the woman whoso kindly opened the door to them. Thus matters went on for a time,until first a beggar came, and then a Phoenician sailor, and a thievishEgyptian from the Rhakotis--neither of whom could read. So the tablettold them nothing; and as, moreover, they distinguished less carefullybetween mine and thine, one trampled the turf and another snatched fromthe boughs a flower or fruit. More and more of the rabble came, and youcan imagine what followed. No one punished them for the crime, for theydid not fear the barking of the lap-dog, and this gave even those whocould read, courage not to heed the warning. So the woman's prettygarden soon lost its peculiar charm; and the fruit, too, was stolen.When the rain at last washed the inscription from the tablet, and saucyboys scrawled on it, there was no harm done; for the garden no longeroffered any attractions, and no one who looked into it cared to enter.Then the owner closed her gate like the neighbours, and the next yearshe again enjoyed the green grass and the bright hues of the flowers.She ate her fruit herself, and the lap-dog no longer disturbed her byits barking."
"That is," said her mother, "if everybody was as courteous and as wellbred as Gorgias, Lysias, and the others, we would gladly continue toreceive them. But since there are rude fellows like Antyllus--"
"You have understood the story correctly," Barine interrupted. "We arecertainly at liberty to invite to our house those who have learned toread our inscription. To-morrow visitors will be informed that we can nolonger receive them as before."
"Antyllus's conduct affords an excellent pretext," her mother added."Every fair-minded person must understand--"
"Certainly," said Barine, "and if you, shrewdest of women, will do yourpart--
"Then for the first time we can act as we please in our own home.Believe me, child--if you only do not--"
"No ifs!--not this time!" cried the young beauty, raising her handbeseechingly. "It gives me such delight to think of the new life, and ifmatters come to pass as I hope and wish--then--do not you also believe,mother, that the gods owe me reparation?"
"For what?" asked the deep voice of Archibius, who had enteredunannounced, and was now first noticed by the widow and her daughter.
Barine hastily rose and held out both hands to her old friend,exclaiming, "Since they bring you to us, they are already beginning thepayment."