Woman and Puppet 11

Woman and Puppet 11

The courtesans were outside their dwellings like a display of flowers.

There was no less diversity in their attitudes and costumes than in

their ages, types and nationalities. The most beautiful, according

to the tradition of Phryne, only leaving the oval of their faces

uncovered, were clad from their hair to their heels in great robes

of fine wool. Others had adopted the fashion of transparent robes,

through which their beauty could be distinguished in a mysterious way,

as through limpid water one can see the patches of green weeds at the

bottom of the river. Those whose only charm was their youth remained

naked to the waist, and displayed the firmness of their breasts. But

the older women, knowing how much more quickly a woman’s face grows old

than does the skin of the body, sat quite naked, holding their breasts.

 

Demetrios passed very slowly in front of them without allowing himself

to admire them.

 

He could never view a woman’s nakedness without intense emotion. He

could not realize any feeling of disgust in the presence of the dead,

or of insensibility with very young girls. That evening every woman

could have charmed him. Provided she kept silence and did not display

any more ardour than the minimum demanded by politeness her beauty did

not matter. He preferred, also, that she should have a “coarse” body,

for the more his thoughts were fixed upon perfect shapes the further

away from them did his desire depart. The trouble, which the impression

of living beauty gave to him, was of an exclusively cerebral sensuality

which reduced to naught other excitation. He recollected with agony

that he had remained for an hour like an old man by the side of the

most admirable woman he had ever held in his arms. Since that night he

had learned to select less pure mistresses.

 

“Friend,” a voice said, “do you not know me?”

 

He turned, shook his head and went on his way, for he never visited

the same girl twice. That was the only principle he carried out in his

visits to the gardens.

 

“Clonarion!”

 

“Gnathene!”

 

“Plango!”

 

“Mnaïs!”

 

“Crobyle!”

 

“Iœsa!”

 

They called out their names as he passed, and some added, as a further

inducement, a phrase upon their own ardent nature. Demetrios continued

his walk; he was inclined, as his usual custom was, to pick out one of

them haphazard, when a little girl dressed in blue spoke to him softly.

 

“Open the door for me,” he said. “I wish to speak to you.”

 

The little girl jumped gaily to her feet and knocked twice with the

knocker. An old slave opened the door.

 

“Gorgo,” the girl said, “bring some wine and cakes.”

 

She led the way into her chamber, which was very plain, like that of

all very young courtesans. Two large beds, a little tapestry and a few

chairs comprised the furniture, but through a large open bay could be

seen the gardens, the sea, and the roadstead of Alexandria. Demetrios

remained standing looking at the distant city.

 

The sun sinking behind the harbour, that incomparable glory of a coast

town, the calm sky, the purple waters, were they not enough to bring

silence to any soul bursting with joy or sorrow! What footsteps would

they not stay, what pleasure suspend and what voice they not hush?

Demetrios watched: a swell of torrent-like flame seemed to leap out

from the sun which had half sunk into the sea and to flow straight to

the curved edge of the wood of Aphrodite. From one to another of the

two horizons the rich purple tone overran the Mediterranean in zones

of shades without transition from golden red to pale purple. Between

the moving splendour and the green mirror of the Mareotis lake the

white mass of the city was clothed in reddish violet reflections. The

different aspects of its twenty thousand flat houses marvellously

speckled it with twenty thousand patches of colour perpetually changing

with the decreasing phasis of the rays in the west. Now it was rapid

and fiery; then the sun was engulfed with almost startling suddenness

and the first approach of the night caused a tremor throughout the

earth and a hidden breeze.

 

“Here are figs, sweets, honey and wine. You must eat the figs before it

is dark.”

 

The girl came in with a laugh. She made the young man sit down and took

up her position upon his knees, refastening, as she did so, a rose in

her hair which was in danger of falling out.

 

Demetrios uttered an exclamation of surprise, she looked so young and

childish that he felt full of pity for her.

 

“But you are not a woman!” he cried.

 

“I am not a woman! By the two Goddesses what am I then? a Thracian, a

porter or an old philosopher?”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Ten years and a half. Eleven years. You can say eleven. I was born in

the gardens. My mother is a Milesian, her name is Pythias, nicknamed

the ’Goat.’ Shall I send for her if you think I am too young? She has a

soft skin and is very beautiful.”

 

“You have been to the Didascalion?”

 

“I am still there in the sixth class. I shall finish there next year;

it will not be any too soon.”

 

“What don’t you like then?”

 

“Ah! if you only knew how hard to please the mistresses are. They

make you begin the same lesson twenty-five times, and it is all about

useless things which the men never desire. Then one tires oneself for

nothing, and I do not like that. Come, have a fig; not that one, it is

not ripe. I will show you a new way to eat them--look.”

 

“I know it. It takes longer, but it is not a better way. I believe you

are a good pupil.”

 

“Oh! what I know I have learned by myself. The mistresses try to make

out they are stronger than we are. They are more experienced, but they

have not invented anything.”

 

“Have you many lovers?”

 

“They are all too old; it is inevitable. The young are so foolish! They

only care for women of forty. I sometimes see one pass as good-looking

as Eros, and you ought to see the woman he picks out--a hateful

hippopotamus! It makes one turn pale. I hope I shall not live to be the

age of those women; I should be ashamed to undress. That is why I am so

glad that I am young. But let me kiss you. I like you very much.”

 

Here the conversation took a turn, and Demetrios soon saw that his

scruples were unnecessary in the case of such a well-informed young

woman.

 

“What is your name?” he asked her presently.

 

“Melitta. Did you not see the name over the door?”

 

“I did not look at it.”

 

“You could see it in the room. It has been written on the walls. I

shall soon have to have them repainted.”

 

Demetrios raised his head. The four walls of the room were covered with

inscriptions.

 

“Well, that is very curious,” he said. “May I read them?”

 

“Yes, if you like. I have no secrets.”

 

He read them. The name of Melitta was there several times, coupled with

various men’s names and strange designs. There were tender and comic

phrases. Lovers detailed the charms of the little courtesan, or made

jokes upon her. All that was not very interesting; but when he was

near the end of his reading he gave a start of surprise.

 

“What is this? What is it? Tell me.”

 

“What? Where? What is the matter?”

 

“Here. This name. Who wrote that?” His finger was pointing to the name

of Chrysis.

 

“Ah,” she replied, “I wrote that.”

 

“But who is Chrysis?”

 

“She is my great friend.”

 

“I don’t doubt that. That is not what I am asking you. Which Chrysis is

it? There are so many.”

 

“Mine is the most beautiful Chrysis of Galilee.”

 

“You know her, then! Tell me about her! Where was her home? Where does

she live? Who is her lover? Tell me all about her.”

 

He sat down upon the bed and took the girl upon his knees.

 

“Are you in love with her?” she said.

 

“What does it matter? Tell me what you know about her; I am anxious to

hear.”

 

“Oh! I know nothing at all about her--very little indeed. She has been

twice to see me, and you can imagine that I did not ask her questions

about her relations. I was too pleased to see her to waste time in idle

conversation.”

 

“What is she like?”

 

“She is like a pretty girl; what do you want me to say? Must I name all

the parts of her body and say that they are all beautiful? Ah! she is a

real woman.”

 

“You know nothing about her, then?” Demetrios asked.

 

“I know she comes from Galilee; that she is nearly twenty, and lives in

the Jews’ quarter, on the east of the city, near the gardens. That is

all.”

 

“Can you tell me nothing of her life or tastes?”

 

“The first night she came here she came with her lover. Then she came

by herself, and she has promised to come and see me again.”

 

“Do you know any other friend of hers in the gardens?”

  “Yes; a woman from her country----Chimairis, a poor woman.”