Dionys could find no reply, for he sensed, through the burning of his desire, the justice of those words.
She went on: “You haven’t seen all of me. Look: my gestures are as beautiful as my figure and my hair.”
She covered herself with the palla again. She mimed things and beings with the sacred rhythm of the art. She was an agile oread, a Diana with deadly arrows, a naiad shivering on the rocks, a sylvan fleeing in the vast silence, a virgin tormented by Aphrodite, a passing cloud, rustling branches, and a Nereid rising and descending with the agitation of the waves. Then, stopping in a hieratic pose, she appeared as the lascivious Cytherean, stimulant of lust.
Then he prostrated himself before her and cried: “Don’t cast me into despair! I know your power now. It will be complete if you consent to intercourse!”
She did not reply. She looked at him with languid eyes, and smiled at him with a troubled expression. Her bosom seemed to be panting with desire. He thought that his wish was granted. He seized her with all his force.
She stood up to him and pushed him away by the shoulders, weaker than him but too strong to submit to violence. In any case, violence would have seemed odious to the young man. So much beauty could not be tender without consent. He struggled, however, in order to feel the resistance of that quivering bosom. But the Umbrian woman became angry, and her voice became harsh.
“I don’t want to!”
He let her go.
He looked at her, very humbly.
“Don’t speak,” she said. “Make the Syrinx speak.”
He raised the reed flute slowly and related the legend of his heart. He narrated his disturbance, his uncertainty, his vast surprise, everything that the Umbrian woman had thrown of enchantment into the night. He related his intolerable desire, the fury of Eros, the triumph of eternal beauty.
Any when the euphony expired on his lips, when the pathetic plaint vanished, lost in the echoes of the Volturne, he saw the emerald eyes brilliant with tears.
“Your speech is full of force,” she said. Then, recovering her laughter, she added: “I also want you to make me hear the song that you often repeat for Tarao’s daughter.”
But that request revolted Dionys. He replied: “I will make, if you wish, a song for you alone; but I have consecrated that one.”
She drew nearer. She darted a dominating and tender gaze at him. “It’s Dehva’s song that I desire. I’m not jealous; I know that you will love that virgin invincibly; there is room in the heart of a man for two women. I ask for nothing that she cannot claim as well, but I want as much as her.”
He felt full of weakness. He said, in a whisper: “Will you at least put an end to my suffering?”
“Not tonight, Dionys. My beauty is not profound enough within you.”
“Will you give me a kiss with your mouth?”
“I will not give you a kiss with my mouth.” She seemed thoughtful; then she added, in an ironic voice: “But you can have my bare foot.
He played the hymn that he had consecrated to his beloved, resignedly, but nevertheless full of a singular joy for having submitted to the victory of the woman.
The Umbrian woman cried: “Be blessed, son of Sicily! You have given me a very profound pleasure, for I know how infatuated your soul is with the old Etruscan’s granddaughter. You have been my slave for a moment, and with the sacrifice that gives the greatest price to that slavery.”
Having said that, she sat down on the promontory. She undid the laces of her shoe. Her small bare foot shone on the green grass.
Dionys prostrated himself.
On that foot, high and arched like the prow of a galley, the moon could be glimpsed, so fine was the skin, and the network of veins. The Syracusan placed his lips upon it with a cry of lust. He kissed it frantically on the sole and on the nails of supple onyx.
And toes embalmed with myrrh and incense clenched against his mouth, responding to the kisses, and penetrated Dionys with the unslaked desire for that woman.
PART TWO
I. The Adventure
It was after nightfall on the eve of the kalends of August, The great Kiln of Veila had been lit; the red fire projected a palpitating twilight over the darkness, punctuated by mobile shadows.
The ceremony was still imprinted with mystical solemnity, a memory of prodigious epochs when humans were bewildered by having conquered the subtle and formidable element. The fire was taken from the temple of Diana Etrusca, transported in a lamp from the times of Porsenna and transmitted to an oaken cross to the sound of great harps, which played in unison three notes of a chant as sad as the plaint of wolves in winter.
As soon as the light had sprung forth, the watchers uttered a cry of joy and deliverance: the cry of the ancestor, vanquisher of the monstrous night. But it was necessary that the flame was not extinguished; that was a baneful sign, scarcely compensated by sacrifices, and the furnace remained cold for days. Never would the man who had failed be allowed to transport the divine fire again.
The master-potter was delighted to see the oven full of a vivacious light. He said to Dionys: “No other kiln as well conceived exists in all Campania. The man who constructed it, under the reign of Claudius, merits never seeing his name perish; he knew all the virtues of stone and clay, and the curves that concentrate or moderate the heat. So, vases of different sizes can be cooked in a perfect manner, in accordance with the place assigned to them. And it is an admirable thing to guide the most ferocious element like a submissive horse.”
Thus spoke Tarao, indefatigable in marveling at his art. Dionys was not listening. His soul was savage, scattered and diverse. The little shadow of Dehva, reddened by the flame, was mingled with the memory of the terrible Umbrian woman. There was an incessant war within his breast; it was a battlefield, where everything struggled except his will—it was the captive of Ananke, like the hero of old Aeschylus.12
In contemplating Dehva, he experienced a sort of unfathomable regret. She seemed to him to be younger, more fragile, and it was as if he had offended her. He did not analyze that melancholy; he could feel it, but not understand it. On reflection, he might rather have rejoiced for his friend, for he had sensed, fearfully, through the sensuality of their last encounter, the homicidal menace of the mortal fury of Diana; he had perceived the field of execution where those who braved the goddess had to perish.
The Umbrian woman appeared like a savior—a messenger of favorable gods turning him away from temptation—and whose presence he ardently implored. Dionys’ soul was softer for the granddaughter of the master-potter, but while his roaring desire bounded toward the other, the virgin was closer at hand, more delicately intimate.
Anxiety was gnawing at him. Since the night by the Volturne—two days ago—he had sought the Umbrian woman, prowling at dusk or by night around the Villa Licinius, but he had not been able to perceive the flexible silhouette.
Meanwhile, Tarao continued his discourse, his gestures echoed in the distance by this shadow, elongated on the square in the dancing light.
“It isn’t the fire,” he said, “that is submissive to man, but rather man who has consented to nourish the fire. In savage lands where flame is little used, the woods light up of their own accord, and the plains are consumed. See, on the contrary, that in civilized lands where forests are burned every season, the conflagration hardly ever spreads. Who can count what flame demands in a single city like Rome? I contend, therefore, that conflagration is warded off by the custom of lighting numerous fires, and if it bursts forth among us, it is, above all, in the years when man has been most miserly with the flame.”
A man approached Dionys and said to him, in a low voice: “Let us move away into that shadow; I have a message for you.”
Dionys recognized the old wanderer who had sold him the rose-water and given an oracle. He followed him to the rear of the kiln, where the darkness fell in dense masses, in a rain of ash and bitumen. From that black island the flame seemed more vehement; the holm-oaks, the olive trees and the vines anima
ted their illuminate foliage.
The old man spoke in a mysterious voice.
“I have been charged with a message for you, young man. But know first that old Somnius, if he is a skillful merchant, as is appropriate when one practices the art of Hermes, is faithful to his word and never betrays a secret. May the somber Hades summon him this very moment if that is not the truth. The one who sent me to you knows that no choice could be preferable. That is Flavia, the Umbrian woman with the lion’s mane. She consents to see you and has sent me to lead you. The road by which we shall go is not exempt from perils...”
The old man suspended his speech, and then resumed in a sibylline mode: “It is nevertheless les perilous than the wrath of Diana Etrusca.”
Dionys only heard the final words vaguely. A quiver of adventure and desire was agitating his entire body. He turned toward the shadow and the stars, and sniffed the air like Diomedes and Ulysses on the evening when they took possession of the horses of Rhesus.
In a low voice he replied: “I’ll follow you, Somnius, even if it’s necessary to cross a marsh full of hydras.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said the other, “within half an hour, behind Raso’s field, in which there is a figure of Saturn.”
He disappeared over the pale ground, among the holm-oaks.
The kiln had just been closed. The starry darkness fell over Veila again. The indefatigable cicadas, crickets and frogs spoke across the plain and the waters.
Dionys went back down with Tarao and Dehva to their dwelling. The old man said: “Everything done well gives happiness. There is a veritable joy in the man who has woven three strands of osier properly. That is a profound law, Dionys, that must go back to the origins of art. I’ve observed it even in beasts and the birds of the woods. And I feel that my soul is content because the kiln has been lit irreproachably, from the moment that the lamp touched the oaken cross...”
Dionys listened emotionally. His soul had never been more faithful to the grand old man and Dehva. He felt indefinably culpable toward the two of them, although his reason dictated to him, for the security of his hosts, that he should go to the Umbrian woman.
He did not go into the house. Neither Tarao nor Dehva was astonished by that, for he was subject to caprices. He watched the silhouettes of his friends disappear under the large awning; he responded in a troubled voice when they shouted the evening salutation at him.
Dionys marched rapidly through the vines. The leaves struck him gently in the face; a thousand invisible little creatures fled in the silvery darkness. In accordance with the distance, ponds reflected the stars of the zenith or those of the horizon. The breeze rose up in small gusts, like a swarm of insects, and immediately died down. There was an anxiety in the depths of the firmament; here and there, a constellation was veiled, and then reappeared, moist and more scintillating. Nervous dogs called to one another across distances.
The Syracusan submitted to the frisson of the troubled night, but he did not perceive its details: the image of the Umbrian woman was shining within him more brightly than the star of Osiris in the sky. He slid behind the farms, crossing streams. He finally reached Raso’s orchard, near the figure of Saturn. The gray silhouette of Somnius advanced toward him.
“Is that you, Syracusan?”
“It’s me.”
“Are you ready to follow me?”
“I’m ready.”
The old man did not add another word. He set forth, at a brisk, agile pace, which faltered at times. They emerged from the village and came to the cliffs where the tombs were. There, Somnius paused to catch his breath, and said: “Let’s breathe before climbing those cliffs, young man, for it’s necessary to climb them; they lead to the brilliant fleece.”
He sniggered. “I like to look into the past,” he continued, “because my days were dearly bought. Everything would have seemed insipid and sad to me, if it did not carry risks. I lost three fortunes, acquired with great effort, but I don’t regret them. I also loved, young man with the keen eyes, the adventure that is offered to you. It’s agreeable to me to participate in it. It makes me remember joyous nights when we deceived the surveillance of the agents of Rome, and cruises when our boat slipped between the triremes of pirates. So, you can count on my faith; those who have run great perils have learned the virtue of oaths. Know that it’s necessary for us to enter the gardens of Licinius; they are guarded by Thessalian mastiffs, three of which are sufficient to kill a lion. They’ve even been trained not to give voice, and to devour in silence anyone who crosses the enclosure.”
He sniggered again. Dionys looked at the vague face in the shadow; he did not experience any fear, only annoyance that obstacles might prevent him from meeting the Umbrian woman.
“That’s a danger that we can counter,” said the old man. “Flavia knows how to take measures. But something unexpected might occur in these well-guarded gardens; that’s the peril we’re running. You can still avoid it.”
“And what happiness would I merit,” replied Dionys, “if I recoiled before that which an old man braves?”
“You wouldn’t merit any, above all what a woman more beautiful than Cleopatra is offering you,” said the prowler, with a hint of bitterness. “At your age I’d gladly have burned a city and endured torture for her. Any man who can’t show the fig to death, is only worth slavery. But let’s resume our course; I’ve got my breath back.”
They took a little goat-path in the cliff. They marched between two walls of stone, which the firmament only dominated with a narrow strip of spangled dark blue. They turned into a kind of great triangular well that was the crest of the route, and went downhill again.
Soon, they reached the edge of Licinius’ gardens. Those gardens were vast; they poured the odor of suave plants, amorously assembled, over all of their surroundings.
Somnius circled the enclosing wall for some time, feeling the hanging branches. In the end, he stopped. He lifted up two dark garments that were hanging next to a postern; they were hooded cloaks, left there by a complicit hand.
Somnius whispered: “Thus precautions turn against those who take them. Licinius has trained his mastiffs not to attack those who wear these cloaks, impregnated with a special odor, known to him alone, scarcely perceptible to human nostrils. His foresight will serve us to penetrate into the gardens. Follow me; walk quietly—in addition to the dogs, two guardian slaves are on watch, in the entrance and on the peristyle.”
“How will we deceive their vigilance and penetrate into the dwelling?”
“It’s not the dwelling that we’re going to penetrate.”
He had opened the postern silently, with the aid of mysterious implements. He went into the gardens. Dionys followed him without hesitation.
Three massive forms loomed up before them.
“The mastiffs!” said Somnius. “Walk without flinching; the dogs mistrust men who hesitate, with reason.”
The formidable beasts had come forward. They sniffed in an anxious fashion; their huge heads touched the two men. They seemed surprised, uncertain. The largest uttered a dull growl; then, pushed back by the firm stride of the two men, it allowed itself to be bypassed. But they followed, ready to pounce.
Dionys, with a prickling in his ankles and his back, held at the ready a knife forged in Agrigento, which could pierce a bronze plate.
They advanced in the shadow of bushes and trees at a brisk, furtive pace that could not be heard, for a thousand voices filled the darkness, all the little naiads of the springs, fountains and streams hidden under the branches and the grass.
They were approaching the large while dwelling, which appeared behind a grove of pines and plane trees, when Somnius murmured: “Stop!”
They were near the edge of a lawn. The light of the stars drew a slight scintillation from the lustrous plats and whitened a small stream. They saw a dark silhouette advancing slowly.
“One of the watchmen,” murmured Somnius. “That’s unforeseen, young man. One movement of the do
gs, and we’re denounced.”
He had seized Dionys’ arm; his clenched fingers marked the peril. Everything, in fact, depended on the attitude of the animals. If they continued to follow tranquilly, the watchman might not perceive anything. The shadow of the trees rendered the two invaders invisible; the rumor of the waters covered the sound of their footsteps.
“We have scarcely a stade to go” said Somnius. “Let’s go. It’s immobility that is most likely to trouble the mastiffs.”
The digs were agitated. The presence of the slave watchman reawoke their vigilance and they stopped, uncertain. One of them made a decision and bounded across the lawn with a dull growl.
“What’s up, Leo?” asked the slave.
The enormous beast pawed the ground, and leapt. The man divined a danger, but did not decide to take immediate action.
“Quickly,” said Somnius. “The slave’s hesitating. He knows that the dogs are inaccessible to fear—at least to that which results from the presence of men or beasts. He fears something mysterious, more terrible.”
At that moment the watchman uttered a guttural cry, which echoed in the distance.
“The alarm call,” said Somnius. “Faster!”
A rumor went up in the distance from the white dwelling visible through the pines. They sensed the awakening of people who would soon become visible, by the light of torches flickering among the colonnades, over the grass and over the waters. Somnius and Dionys saw forms stirring under the peristyle.
“We’ve arrived,” said the old wanderer. “And the dogs, attracted by the noise, are no longer following us.”
As he spoke, a whistle rang out; the dogs launched forward, picking up the abandoned trail with great bounds. Already, the fugitives had reached a small isolated construction. With a groping hand, Somnius found the door and introduced a key. The lock resisted. The dogs appeared, fifty paces away. Throwing open the door, however, and shoving Dionys through the gaping opening, the old man began laughing sardonically.
“Only blind Destiny knows whether we’re saved or doomed.”
Pan's Flute Page 8
