Afterglow/The Courtesan
THE COURTESAN
"Il ne restait plus devant l'Idole qu'une enfant tout rougissante qui s'etait mise le dernière."
Pierre Louys
APHRODITE
If thou wouldst drink, I will sing thee a song of Anacreon's while thy gaze idles through wine glowing in a cup of crystal. Thy spirit will awake; happiness will envelop thee. While thou drainest the cup, the song will rise and beat to the beating of thine own madness and thy joy.
Or perhaps thou wouldst rest where the fresh air of the night may touch thee. Thou wouldst know the stars above thee, the soft rustlings in the trees, perhaps the distant call of some bird. Thus, I would sing thee, gently, a song of Sappho's, deep with longing, blending with the shadows and the silence.
If these, even, are not all thou wishest, then I will sing thee other songs. Voluptuousness will overwhelm thee; thou wilt forget the purpled night; even the wine cup will fall unheeded to the ground.
Iris cast herself, face down, upon the soft grass at the foot of a great tree, rested her eyes upon her crossed arms and, at last, burst into sobs. For many days she had been sheltered only by the trees which lifted about her like columns, their interlaced branches softening the glare of day to a twilight and deepening the night into impenetrable darkness. For two days she had even tasted no food except a cake of wheat she had begged at the Temple, and a little fruit she had found on one of the forest paths. Her last ragged garment had fallen from her; she had only a coarse linen scarf, too small to cover the half of her body. She had not even a pin or ribbon with which to fasten the dark hair which fell in tangled ringlets over her shoulders.
The men had turned from her; the women avoided her. She was alone, scorned, buffeted by the elements. Her skin was marked by the grasses and twigs which had formed her savage bed.
Night was creeping over the world. In the west, a narrow ribbon of scarlet between dark clouds glowed with the dying fire of the sun. The air was very still; even the twittering of the birds was subdued and timorous.
Iris, her heart beating upon the earth, could feel the spreading silence. Gradually her weeping ceased; the pangs of hunger became less intense, softening to a dull, heavy ache which was easier to bear. A lumbering beetle, all purple and gold, fumbled through the grass, climbed upon her thigh, and scraped over her body, unmolested. She dreamed with terrible clarity of the hopeless agony into which she had fallen; and, as she lay, the scenes of her life peopled her visions with the luxuries of years gone by.
** She recalled the day, fifteen years before, when she had entered the Temple of the Goddess, a child of twelve and, stripping herself of her robes before the statue of the Aphrodite, had offered her childish body for the service of the goddess and the labors of love. She was surrounded by beautiful courtesans in costumes of bright colors; the perfume of incense rose about her in clouds through which murmured soft words of devotion and the voices of harps and reeds. She remembered, too, her surprise and delight, the heap of offerings—doves, cakes of honey, veils, jewels—she had seen lying at the feet of the goddess, placed there, one by one, by the suppliants upon that day of festival. And she remembered the old, gentle-eyed priest who had placed his arm about her and led her away.
Nor had she forgotten her first love . . . She trembled now, against the warm earth, as this returned to her memory.
Her breasts had become rounded and firm, her eyes clear, her lips full and red, tremulous with the eagerness of youth. Each day she was filled with an intoxicating presage, half daring, half fearful; until at last overwhelming desire, the call of the goddess, had seized her. That day, she had told of her desire; and her life as a devotee of the Immortal had begun.
The man she had chosen (or who had chosen her; she had never quite known which) was a Greek, tall, clean-limbed, soft and beautiful as a god. His ardent gaze had pierced her like an arrow and she had quivered in terror beneath the caress of his hands . . . The goddess had given her a little white house; and there, for two whole days, they had shut out the world, eating fruits and cakes of honey, drinking soft wines, playing and laughing like two children. The Greek had spilled gold like water . . . Then, still smiling, he had bestowed a parting caress—and gone away. She had never been able to find him again.
For three days after that, she had remained alone, refusing admittance to all, although her beauty, her naïve charm, had already been rumored among the wealthy young Greeks, and her threshold was continually buried under innumerable fruits, flowers and passionate letters . . . Outstretched and motionless upon her couch, her eyes unseeing, her heart throbbing in remembrance, she had felt her little soul unfolding to a new world.
Then, at last, with a trembling sigh, she had opened her door and had caused her name to be written there in Greek and in Egyptian. And lovers had come, curious at first, then supplicating, demanding, intoxicated with her lithe freshness, the wistful smile which trembled at the corners of her childish mouth. As she was beautiful and much desired, she had selected her lovers daintily, choosing only those who were fair and who pleased her, refusing herself to the others. And her fame had spread for a day, even over Alexandria where beauty was seen on every hand and over which the perfume of love hovered like a luminous cloud, as the poets had said.
Even the philosophers had come to her, and she had received them with a little laugh, proud of her triumph over them, and had pulled their grey beards and ruffled their hair, mimicking their ponderous attempts to retain a profound dignity. But these men had pleased her but little, for she soon perceived their hypocrisy and listened with secret contempt to the weighty arguments and involved phrases by which they sought to include their passion in their philosophy. All men had written their names upon the walls of her chamber; there were epigrams, ardent and obscene, written by city dignitaries and scholars, and sketches by artists whose fame had spread over the antique world.
The life had been care-free and happy; all the wonders of the world were brought before her door.
So the years had flown, unnoticed, over her head. A life of unceasing pleasure had shortened the hours. Her body had become harder, the contours more pronounced; her breasts had softened.
Then, one by one, her lovers had turned from her. Guests who had made merry at her banquets, bathing their bodies in her choicest wines, left her for rivals less beautiful, less accomplished, but more youthful. Even the young men passed quickly by her door . . . She knew she was still beautiful. She had doubled her offerings to the goddess; she had spent long hours over her toilette; she had appeared on the streets in her most beautiful vestments and jewels.
But misfortune, having found her, remained always near . . . At last she had been obliged to sell her jewels in order to buy food. The walls of her house, which had echoed music and laughter, became strangely silent. Poverty overwhelmed her. She became thinner; a delicate pallor settled over her cheeks. Weeping, uncomprehending, she had at last parted with her house and had entered the wood to dwell among the courtesans who were old or suffering from misfortune like herself.
***
The tremble of a step upon the earth roused her. Languidly, she raised her head and saw a man, one of the poor Egyptians, standing near her.
Two days before, she would have welcomed one of these men who sometimes entered the wood, paying a few oboli for the favors of the poor courtesans. But, this night, she felt that her life was over; she felt that she was going to die. The thought of love sickened her.
She shook her head wearily and dropped it once more upon her arms. But the man, with a rough laugh, bent down and clasped her. She struggled weakly for a moment, but had no strength. Her subdued cry awoke the echo of a laugh among the trees . . .
***
Awkwardly, the man thrust three coppers into her hand, and shambled away into the darkness.
For a long time she lay silent, overwhelmed with lassitude. Her flesh appeared greenish-white in the gloom. A perfumed breeze of the night, slipping among the trees, gently fanned her outstretched body.
Then, gradually, the weight of the coins in her palm penetrated to her numbed thought. A new hope awoke within her; her mind slowly cleared; in spite of herself she realized, little by little, that she could buy food . . . With an inarticulate cry, which was half a sob, she staggered to her feet and stumbled away among the trees . . .