XV.
Hipyllos’ letter was a joy and comfort to Clytie, but it did not soothe her. Five days was so short a time! Amid tears and caresses she confided in her mother, and described Hipyllos with such loving eloquence that Maira (her mother) was won over to her wishes. Though Clytie had little faith in her intercession, she went to her and by entreaties and persuasions induced her to promise to tell her story to Xenocles. Two of the five days had already passed, so there was no time to lose.
The next evening, when the husband and wife were supping together, the husband comfortably extended on a couch and the wife sitting humbly on its outer edge, Maira—not without a secret tremor—ventured to mention the subject; but the hot-tempered little man scarcely understood what she was talking about, ere he started up and repulsed her in such a way that she dared not revert to the matter again. Every hope of Maira’s assistance was thus cut off, and to speak to her father herself did not even enter the young girl’s mind. She could do nothing but fix her last faint hope on Hipyllos.
Yet, when the day before the wedding arrived without any prospect of deliverance, Clytie ceased to weep and fell into a state of dull insensibility, like a person who is utterly hopeless. “What is the use of pretending to be ill?” she thought. They will say: “It is nothing—it will pass off! Can I oppose them all? Can I keep the bridal procession waiting? No, even if I complain of sickness, they will lift me into the chariot and let that man carry me to his house.”
From that moment she felt as though she had no will in anything.
When evening came, the last evening she was to spend under her parents’ roof, her mother and a few female slaves were busied about her in her maiden-bower. It was a small room with reddish-brown walls, lighted by a clay lamp which stood on a brass tripod. Clytie sat on a low chair, with her face turned from the lamp, and Doris stood behind her in the act of fastening her hair into a knot. At the back of the room Maira and a middle-aged slave, who had been Clytie’s nurse, were busied in examining robes, kerchiefs, girdles, and over-garments, which they spread out on the young girl’s bed, a small maple-wood couch, covered with embroidered pillows and coverlets.
A sorrowful, troubled mood prevailed. Even the atmosphere of the little room was heavy, as though saturated with the peculiar damp freshness of women’s clean garments, mingled with a penetrating odor of ointments and Median apples, the latter being laid between the stuffs to perfume them. Now and then Clytie’s mother and the nurse exchanged a few words, but as softly as if they were trying not to disturb some sick person. Clytie resigned herself in perfect silence to the care of her favorite attendant, and even the latter’s nimble tongue was still.
Suddenly a girl’s merry voice was heard outside. According to ancient custom the bride, on her marriage eve, bathed in water brought from the Fountain of Enneacrunus.
This water must be brought by a virgin, and a young neighbor, Coronis, the daughter of a rich basket-maker, who from childhood had been Clytie’s friend and looked up to her with admiration, had gone with her slaves to the fountain to fetch the water.
As she entered, a breath of gayety and life seemed to come into the silent room. Coronis was a merry little maid, with a childish face, whose dark eyes, lips, cheeks, dimples—all laughed. She was dressed entirely in white, and carried the laurel branch used for purification. This she instantly put down by the door, as if to say: “Stay there, you useless, solemn thing.”
She had so much to tell that she scarcely took time to greet Clytie and her mother. She had met at the fountain two other bride-maids; they had talked together, and Coronis therefore knew all about the weddings which were to take place the next day; she knew the fathers, mothers, brides, and bridegrooms, and had a great deal to say about the marriage garments, bridesmen, and nuptial banquets.
When her story was ended, preparations were made for a ceremony which the art of those days has represented upon many a vase.
Doris placed a bath-tub shaped like a mussel-shell in the middle of the floor, and set the full hydria beside it. Then, kneeling before her mistress, she loosed her girdle and unfastened the clasps on her shoulders. Two slight pulls were sufficient to make the garments fall around the hips, and from a cloud of white folds appeared the whole upper portion of the maiden’s slender form, whose fairness, seen against the brown wall, became doubly dazzling and seemed created to ensnare both eyes and hearts.
Now began the familiar talk that always takes place among women on such occasions.
“How beautiful you are, dear!” exclaimed little Coronis, pressing a light kiss on her friend’s shoulder. “What a complexion—what is the finest Syrian stuff compared with its smoothness!”
“Yes,” said the middle-aged nurse, with as much self-satisfaction as though she considered Clytie her own work, “I know that even Leda’s bosom was not more beautiful, ... no breast-band is needed here.”
Doris glanced with a smile at Coronis and the nurse.
“What you praise deserves the highest compliments,” she said, “but it is not what I value most.” With a look of earnest affection she knelt before Clytie, took her hand, and kissed it. “What I value most is my beautiful mistress’ goodness. I have served her daily ever since she was a little child—and never in that long time has she uttered a single unkind word.”
“Believe me, my Clytie,” the mother added, not without a certain pride, though her eyes were full of tears, “you will be fortunate and happy. What husband can fail to love you—so good and so beautiful!”
Coronis now took her friend by the hand. As Clytie rose, the garments slipped lower and remained lying around her on the floor like a broad white linen garland. An instant, but only an instant, the young girl, faintly illumined by the lamp, stood in the white beauty of her snowy limbs in the dusky room; then, with a swift movement, she stepped out of the folds of her robes into the bath-tub.
Coronis, with a mischievous expression, raised the full hydria.
“Prepare to shiver, Clytie,” she said laughing. “I’m going to do what is written in Lamprus’ bath-song.” And holding it so that the water trickled down over the shining, supple body, she chanted in a low tone:
“Slowly pour the fountain’s water
O’er the white neck of the bride;
Brow and bosom let it moisten,
Hand, and foot, and back, and side!
Soon the fair one will perceive the
Cooling freshness of the bath,
As her fair limbs’ marble whiteness
The pink bloom of roses hath.”
While Doris was wiping her mistress’ back with a soft woollen cloth, the latter’s eyes followed the quivering drops of water that chased and mingled with each other on her white neck before trickling in waving streams over the smooth skin. Clytie was not vain of her beauty; but when, as now, she looked down over the soft slope of her shoulders and the chaste curves of her bosom she could not help receiving an impression of something uncommonly pretty. The water had not only strengthened her body, but given fresh vigor to her mind. A multitude of thoughts darted through her brain. Did not Homer himself tell the story of a bloody war waged for a fair woman’s sake? So woman’s beauty must be something precious. And for whom was she destined?
She saw in imagination her bridegroom Acestor—stately and boastful, but without a trace of Attic refinement, heavy and dull. She had only cast one hasty, timid glance at him, but a woman’s glance is like a flash of lightning, and she had caught him fixing his eyes on her with an expression she had never seen. She felt that it was monstrous, a desecration, to be given to this man, and secretly vowed to shun no means of escaping so bitter a fate.
This resolve was soon to be tested.