VI.
Early the next morning, while the dew was still sparkling on the leaves and in the grass, Simonides’ daughter, Myrtale, a girl of seventeen, came out of the women’s apartment into the garden. She had thrown over her head a red scarf with small white stars, from beneath which fell her thick dark-brown locks. Her figure, though not tall, was well developed, and its delicately-rounded outlines were fully displayed by the red robe she wore. The little Methonian bore no resemblance to the stately marble caryatides which as images of the Attic virgins adorned the vestibule of the Erechtheum; but her whole figure was so instinct with life and youth that no eye could help lingering on it with pleasure. Even the swine-herd, Conops, turned his clumsy head to watch her as she passed and among the slaves, who half neglected and half admired her, she was never called anything but hē pais, “the child.”
Myrtale, however, was a child who had a will of her own and a very determined one. Having early lost her mother, she had had no female companionship except her nurse, who indulged her in everything. She had been educated in a much freer manner than was usually the case with Hellenic maidens. She took her meals with her father, even when his friend Polycles, the wine-dealer, visited him. When Polycles noticed that the young girl did not lack intelligence he often asked her opinion, and this pleased Simonides, who spoiled his only child and treated her more like a son and heir than like a daughter.
Nay, when Simonides, during his days of health, read aloud the plays of Magnes, the Icarian, Myrtale, at that time a girl of thirteen or fourteen, was usually present and stimulated by the unbridled laughter of the two friends, understood much that had been previously incomprehensible, and caught many an allusion which the two men did not suspect that she could comprehend. In this way Myrtale had learned to know more of the world and life than other young girls who spent their days in a virgin chamber.[T]
[T] Part of the women’s apartment.
The slaves’ negligence, the only thing that could have shadowed her youth, disturbed her far less than it troubled her father, since she always had her faithful nurse with her and—thanks to the freedom granted her—enjoyed her life like a careless child, to whom the present moment is everything.
When Myrtale came out into the garden early that morning, she stood still for a time irresolute but, woman-like, not idle. Seeing how dark and wet the ground was and what big drops glittered in the grass, she instantly set to work to fasten up her dress that it might not be soiled by dampness. Then she tripped on through maples, ivy, and vines twined around poles which rested on stout posts, towards the most secluded part of the garden. When she reached the bee-hives and heard the buzzing of the insects, she paused a moment, laughed softly, and said to herself with a mischievous little smile:
“Now I know what to do—he shall be forced to confess everything.” Seeing some superb white lilies, she left her silver-embroidered sandals in the garden-path and skipped on her little bare feet into the wet grass. While gathering the flowers she felt as though ants were crawling on her and, raising her dress a little, looked over her shoulder at her ankles, carefully examining each. The pretty girl thought herself alone and unobserved, and there was something so bewitching in her whole appearance that it would have been a pity not to have had a witness.
But there was a witness.
Lycon, who had been unable to sleep all night, because each passing day brought the decision of his fate nearer, had gone out into the garden early and seated himself on a bench in the nearest thicket. From his green ambush not one of Myrtale’s movements escaped his notice. Had he been familiar with Homer, he would have thought that she resembled Danae, Acrisius’ daughter, and deserved the name of Callisphyrus, the maid with the beautiful calves. But Lycon knew nothing of Homer, so he contented himself with muttering:
“Is that Myrtale? How pretty she has grown.”
Yet he did not go to meet her. Of course she would have been frightened by the sight of a strange man. And what should he talk about? He had nothing to say to her.
While Myrtale was putting on her silver-wrought sandals, a black and white goat, with trailing tether, came running towards her. She glanced at the wet, rough-coated animal, then at her light dress and, drawing back, clapped her hands violently to frighten the creature away. But the goat did not understand. It merely stopped in its run and approached slowly, holding its head very high, evidently supposing the movement of her hands a challenge to play. With the mischievousness natural to this animal it suddenly made a couple of short, frolicsome leaps, lowered its head and sharp horns, and darted towards the young girl.
Without hesitation Myrtale pulled up the nearest flower-stake and defended herself against the goat. But the animal, now it was once in fighting mood, constantly renewed the attack and the young girl found it more and more difficult to keep the creature at bay. She was therefore more pleased than alarmed when the bushes rustled and Lycon sprang out and seized the goat’s tether.
Myrtale silently put back the flower-stake, and busied herself in tying up the plant.
For some time neither spoke.
“Are you Myrtale, Simonides’ daughter?” asked Lycon, as he watched the pretty Methonian with a pleasure he had never felt before.
Myrtale nodded assent.
“Are you Lycon, the Athenian, my father’s guest?” she inquired, without raising her eyes to the stranger’s face.
Lycon had scarcely time to reply, for the goat now renewed its attack upon him. He laughed:
“Come, my kid. You shall learn that I am not called Lycon with the big hand for nothing.”
Seizing one of the goat’s horns with one hand, and its little tail with the other, he lifted the mischievous animal from the ground so that its four legs hung loosely down. When he set it on the earth again the creature was thoroughly cowed. Bleating feebly, it unresistingly allowed itself to be dragged back to the grass-plot from which it had escaped.
At the beehives Myrtale managed to have Lycon pass tolerably near them. While the insects were buzzing most thickly around him, she suddenly exclaimed:
“A bee, a bee!” and laying her hand on Lycon’s neck added: “Don’t you feel any pain? It must have stung you. I saw it creep out from under your robe.”
Lycon denied feeling any hurt.
“Let me see your shoulder!” continued Myrtale. “An old woman from Hypata taught me two magic words with which the stings of wasps and bees can be instantly cured.”
“It is unnecessary,” replied Lycon curtly.
“Do as I beg you,” urged Myrtale.
“Girl!” cried Lycon impatiently, “you ask foolish things.... I will not do it.”
Myrtale’s eyes flashed, the color in her cheeks deepened, and she suddenly stopped.
“Zenon,” she said, raising her voice, “I, the daughter of your master Simonides, command you to do it.”
If the earth had opened at Lycon’s feet he could not have been more surprised and horrified than by these words.
“Merciful Gods!” he exclaimed, turning pale and clasping his hands, “how do you know?—Who has told you?”
“Silence!” said Myrtale sternly. “Neither my father nor the slaves recognized you, but I knew you at the first sound of your voice, though you now speak the Attic dialect. You are Zenon, do not deny it. Shall I call Conops and the others, and have your robe torn off? There is a kappa on your shoulder; I know it.”
“Oh, miserable man that I am!” exclaimed Lycon, wringing his hands, while his eyes filled with tears. “I have seen you to my destruction.” And falling at Myrtale’s feet, he clasped her knees, adding: “How shall I answer? What am I to say?”
“The truth.”
“Ah, I will conceal nothing, but tell you a secret which is the key of my soul. Know that I am not, as you suppose, slave-born. My parents were free and lived in Carystus at Eubœa. My father was overseer of the slaves in the marble quarries. During my childhood he lived comfortably; but afterwards he began to drink, became involved in debt, and with his wife and child was sold into slavery. Yet, with my free birth, I had obtained a different temper from that of a slave. The scourge humbled far more than it hurt me, and I could not laugh with the rest when the pain was over. Day and night I plotted to gain my freedom and, as I could not purchase it, I resolved to steal it. To be free I could have robbed the gods themselves. The first time I failed—I was caught and branded. The next I was more successful.... There—now you know my crime.”
And he then told her about his happy life in Athens, his deep repentance at Phorion’s description of Simonides’ illness, and his determination to restore the discipline of the household in order to obtain forgiveness.
Myrtale did not lose a single word, but while Lycon was kneeling before her she noticed that his tearful eyes were very handsome, and that a delicate odor of ointment rose from his hair. The power of trifles has always been great, especially with women. This perfume made a strange impression upon her. For a moment she forgot that Lycon was a slave, and compared him in her mind with the son of their neighbor the baker, who after having spent ten days in Athens went as foppishly clad and moved as stiffly as the Athenian dandies. She looked at Lycon’s broad shoulders and sinewy arms—and whatever the cause, she felt more kindly disposed.
“You are a strange person,” she said, gazing into Lycon’s eyes. “Who and what are you?... Half Athenian and half Methonian, half citizen and half slave, half Lycon and half Zenon. I will do as my father once did: I will trust you, though perhaps I am unwise.”
With these words she was hurrying towards the house, but Lycon seized a fold of her robe.
“Myrtale,” he said, “believe me, a good emotion induced me to return. Consider how free from care my life was in Athens, and what I have risked. Do not make me miserable—do not prematurely reveal my secret, so that your father will refuse me his forgiveness! He who has once been free is of no value as a slave.”
Myrtale noticed the shudder that ran through his limbs, and felt strangely moved. She read in Lycon’s eyes the anguish he was suffering and to console him said:
“Have no fear! Myrtale does not hate Lycon.... I have never forgotten how kind you were to me when I was a child. I still have the little cart you made for me.”
“And I,” said Lycon, deeply moved as he seized her arm and kissed it, “I did not suppose that little Myrtale would become such a girl—so good and so beautiful!”
Myrtale smiled.
“Now Lycon is forgetting Zenon!” she replied, and raising her light dress, ran off towards the house.
But Lycon was by no means cheerful. On the contrary he was very anxious at knowing his secret was in a woman’s keeping. “The sooner I speak to Simonides the better,” he thought.