Bryaxis, in the midst of our exultation, lifted merely his eyebrows, and so gave to his face the fine old lines that denoted surprise.
“She proved that she is not less witty than impudent,” said he. “The whole story is very curious; but why do you seem to be so proud of or pleased with its hero? It seems to me that the part played by the model is a very important one.”
“If the Queen had dared,” said Ophelion, “she would have pursued Clesides even to the far-off seas, and there have had him killed as one might kill a dog. But then, through all the violet land of Greece she would have been considered none other than a barbarian woman—she who wishes to be thought a thorough Athenian. Stratonice holds Asia in her hand as though it were a fly, and she has drawn back before a man who has for weapon only a tablet and stylus.... Hereafter the Artist is the king of kings, the sole inviolable being living under the sun. Now you see why it is that we are so proud!”
The elder man made a very disdainful movement of the mouth.
“Thou art young,” he replied. “In my time we said the same thing, and perhaps with greater reason. When Alexander timidly tried to explain why such and such a picture seemed to be fine, my friend Apelles caused him to be silent by saying that he was making the boys laugh who ground up the colours; and Alexander made his excuses! Ah, well! I do not believe that such tales really repay one for telling them. Whatever may be the attitude—the respect or arrogance—of the King towards contemporary painters, the pictures are not any the better, or any the worse, for it all. It is a matter of indifference. On the other hand, it may be good, and even noble, for an artist to dare and to be able to put himself not above the King marching with an army near the walls of his home, but above all human laws, or even divine laws, when the Muses, his inspiring spirits, sway him.”
Bryaxis was now standing. We murmured in wonder—
“But who has done that? Of whom do you speak?”
“None, perhaps,” came the answer of the older man, and there was in his eyes the hazy look of the dreamer, “unless the great Parrhasius.... Did he do wisely, I wonder? I used to believe so, but to-day I doubt and know not what to think about it.”
Ophelion flung me an astonished look, but I could not enlighten him in any way as to the meaning behind the words of the aged artist.
“We do not understand you, Bryaxis,” he said.