by George Moore
The sea and its salt breezes restored me to health, and soon I began to write; but I burnt as much as I wrote, and when you came to see me before leaving London for a holiday, I told you that I had given up all hope of writing Aphrodite in Aulis. The words won’t stick together! I cried, with doleful accent. My gift of writing, such as it was, has left me. I am strong in health, but mentally paralysed. The poison of Uroemia, you answered, affects the creative parts of the brain for at least six months. Another three months of empty phrases! I mailed, and you went away to Scotland, leaving me to continue to write and to burn. But every month the burning diminished, and now I am dedicating Aphrodite in Aulis to you, for it comes to you by right — Manet’s words to me when he gave me a portrait of a Polish lady, inscribing his name along one of the sticks of her fan.
Sincerely yours: George Moore.
121 Ebury Street, London, S.W. 1, November 1929
CHAPTER I
ABOUT AN HOUR after midnight Kebren was roused from his sleep by a voice crying in his ear: To Aulis! To Aulis! Why to Aulis? he asked, as he lay between sleeping and waking, certain that he must obey the voice, but uncertain whether he should wait till morning or begin the journey now. By walking all night I shall arrive at Aulis in the afternoon, Aulis? In Boeotia, he muttered, and lying on his side he strove to associate the name with some great event; but he groped in vain till his eyes fell on the quires of the Iliad which he had laid on a stool by his bedside. The Greek fleet sailed from the bay of Aulis for Troy! he said, and dozed a while longer, foreseeing the journey that lay before him, losing sight of the road in the hills, sleep closing it to him; and then, awakening a little, he sat up in his bed so that he might hear better. But the voice that had spoken did not speak again. All the same, I am bidden by a God — there can be no doubt of that, he cried, springing from his bed naked and shapely as the sculpture of his time, an Athenian of the time of Pericles, a young man in the early twenties, a figure that the Gods bring to birth in their own likeness, with a head and shoulders that a sculptor had said were the finest in Athens.
A fair sight he was as he sought his clothes, finding them instinctively, like a somnambulist; and after knotting his sandals several times, as if aware of the length of the journey he was about to undertake, and having strapped his knapsack on his back without asking why he should burden himself with the quires of the Iliad, he stumbled out of the house repeating the words: To Aulis! To Aulis! to himself and afterwards to the soldiers at the Acharnian Gate when challenged by them, adding his name, though they had not asked for it, saying: Kebren, an actor from the theatre, on his way to Aulis. A pleasant moonlight stroll! a soldier cried as he shook the dice-box, but the implied warning of the length of the journey passed unheeded, and almost before the rattle of the dice had passed out of his ears he was walking like an animal, without a thought in his head, his brain benumbed. On arriving at the bridge-head the murmur of the water roused him a little. A mysterious sound is that of water running, he said. All the same, I cannot spend the night listening to the warble of the Kephisos under its oleanders! And he continued his journey thinking that perhaps the Gods, having knowledge of many things and being responsible for many happenings in the battles before Troy, were anxious that their expounder should be learned in history and able to answer any questions that might be put to him. Should a caviller ask me if the bay of Aulis be large enough to contain the entire Greek fleet it might throw discredit upon me, and indeed upon the Gods themselves, if I were not ready with an answer. Or it may be that I shall return from Aulis with the quires of the Iliad on my back, to take my passage in the next ship that looses for Cnidus and pursue my calling as a rhapsodist, dying without having ever understood the design of the Gods in sending me on this long journey. The power of the Gods over men is not stinted to one generation, and it may be that this journey to Aulis lies beyond the scope and business of my life, that I am but an instrument, to be thrown aside when that which is decreed is on its way to fulfilment.... He stopped, frightened by the mystery, and might have returned to Athens if he had not been startled by the strangeness of the country around him.
Where am I? he cried, and left the road for the climbing of a hill, from the top of which he could survey the country better. But when he reached the top there was little to be seen, no more than a grey-green tone stretching up to the pines of the foot-hills as far as Dekeleai; and asking himself if he should dare a short cut through the olive garths, he descended the hillside and stepped across the road into a darkness of downward-sweeping boughs, to pick his way through a cumber of sharp stones and moss-grown rocks, stopping at last to select a stout reed from the stacks piled against the trees with which the olive-gatherers whipped the branches. I can now defend myself against a dog, he said. As if in answer to his thought a fierce barking began, and he climbed into the branches of an old olive to wait till the God that had bidden him to Aulis should seal the nostrils of the dogs to his scent or drift it out of their reach. One or the other the God certainly must have accomplished, he thought, for after snuffing about not far from the bough on which he was seated the dogs returned to their kennels; and when he issued from the garth he vowed to keep to the track, which he could see ascending a hillside, to drop into a valley ——
A track that I must follow without attempting any more short cuts till it brings me to the foot-hills. And forgetful of how nearly he had been torn to pieces he trudged on, arriving at the foot-hills at the setting of the moon.
Had it not been for the time I wasted in that garth outwitting the dogs I should have been here whilst there was light. Now I must wait by the roots of this great ilex till the world lightens again, which I can do without danger of oversleeping — rooks are the worthiest of watchers, going away at daybreak with noisy cawings to search for food for their young. Faithful watchers, I commit myself to your care! he muttered as he laid himself down amid the roots of the tree to sleep if he could. I... must... go... to... sleep! I... must... go... to... sleep! But neither the spell in the words nor the counting of imaginary sheep availed him, for the rooks continued softly cawing in the branches, keeping him awake, till at last a bird flew away with a loud caw. He expected the others to follow, but this did not happen, and cursing the dreaming rookery overhead he walked into the forest asking himself if the early rook had left her nest at the instance of a noisy chick that had broken its shell during the night. The dawn is not yet, he said, but I shall not come to harm in these woods unless I meet with wolves hunting deer; even so, they will hardly turn aside from the deer to snap at me. If I escape from wolves for another quarter of a league, I shall be walking up and down the long streets of Dekeleia searching for the sign of an inn, and should that welcome sign come to mine eyes Dekeleia will be a charming village; but should it not, every house and gable-end, every cock that crows and every dog that barks, will be hateful to me, and I shall wander over the top into Bœotia without seeing anything or hearing anything, the world no more than a dim blur to me — such is the power of food to make or to mar us poor mortals! But it is not wise, he continued, for the traveller to dwell on the pork or mutton that he’ll find at the end of his journey or midway in it; thought increases hunger and begets disappointment; and it will be wiser to keep my eyes on the path and avoid the ruts than to peer among the tree-tops for the dawn, which will come in its own time. And so he fared on till the grey walls of Dekeleia came into view, bringing with them visionary flames of kitchen fires.
The hunting of the boar is frequent in these woods and his cheek may have come into the larder, a rare delicacy at this time of morning — for morning cannot be far off; I believe it to be showing above the hills. And having quoted the Homeric tag to himself, he continued to seek the inn up and down the long streets, looking through gateways into mysterious courtyards, and finding it nowhere, became possessed of the belief that he had come upon a village without a tavern. A sad discovery indeed! he muttered, one in which philosophy finds no root-hold and hope dies, admonishi
ng the traveller to sit on a doorstep. But it profits no man to despair. Fare on, traveller, fare on, and sooner or later a brown slice from the spit will fall to thy lot! Before the slice comes my thirst, which I must quench, if not with wine at least with water, and I hear the sound of water running; somewhere in all this tangled undergrowth there must be a spring-head. And whilst seeking it the smell of goats came to his nostrils. The goatherd will be able to direct me; and passing over the ridge he found the herd browsing on myrtles in the charge of a small man with the tawny skin of a he-goat over his shoulders and sandals of twisted grass on his feet. Friend, canst direct me to the spring-head? I can indeed! the goatherd answered, and calling to his son to keep the herd on the myrtles till he returned, he led Kebren up the hillside, and bade him drink from a trickle of water amid tall grasses, which Kebren was loth to do, for he had looked forward to rocks with water spouting cheerily from them. Kneel and drink without fear, said the goatherd; and on rising from his knees Kebren declared the water to be the purest he had ever tasted. Sweeter than the wine I have in my gourd, said the goatherd, which I was ashamed to offer thee! He spoke of the inn at Dekeleia, and Kebren said he had not been able to find it. Nothing strange in that, the goatherd answered. The sign was blown away in a storm of wind some nights ago and not hung again, the innkeeper being a lazy fellow who thinks more about drinking himself than serving customers. So there is good wine at Dekeleia, said Kebren. Now, if thou wert to go thither and buy me a jar — I can get thee wine without going as far as Dekeleia. My wife hath always a jar of good wine to sell for a bit of silver — she is from Chios. The strangers that pass this way drink it for their money; she drinks it for her pleasure with a shepherd, who beats me at her bidding when I am drunk. The goatherd began to strip to show last week’s bruises, but Kebren bade him hasten to his wife, saying: The sooner we eat the sooner the day will become hopeful to us. And wondering what sort of food the goatherd would bring back, he lay admiring the great plain showing through the gnarled trees and the timbers of the old mill spanning the river Asopos. More than once he muttered: His wife is from Chios! and whilst trying to recall the exact flavour of the wine she represented, place and time began to fade, and he was aware of the bright spring morning only as the birds and plants are, scent and sound merging into one, till the arrival of the goatherd with a sack over his shoulder roused him.
Two flagons of wine as good as any that ever were offered to a thirsty traveller, sir, and a cheese, too, with butter and bread and a honey cake. And whilst considering some salted stock-fish brought out from the very bottom of the sack Kebren asked the goatherd how it was that his wife had allowed him so much, to which the goatherd answered: All I had to do was to show her the drachmae. She is generous enough at the sight of silver, surly at that of copper, folds her hands and goes about her business when there’s neither silver nor copper. Rail not at the wife the Gods have given thee, cried Kebren, but thank them for the wine we are about to drink, if it be Chian. My wife is from Chios, as I have said, the goatherd answered, and the wine thou’rt drinking is from her father’s vine. He cut the cheese and the bread, and when these were eaten he pressed the honey cake upon Kebren, telling that his wife had said: The traveller must have it. And so firm was she that thou shouldst eat of her cake that I guessed her to have quarrelled with the shepherd — a greedy lout who will love her less this evening for the missing of it. With thy stout olive staff thou shouldst be able to deal him an evil blow, said Kebren. Drink, and find courage! The goatherd needed no pressing to return to the flagon; but for every cup he drank he would have Kebren drink another, which Kebren feigned to do, certain that were he to drink another cup a goatherd coming by might open his knapsack and take from it money and manuscript.
My goatherd nods! he said to himself, and unable to suppress the apprehensions, fears and alarms that crowded upon him, he rose to his feet, and was halfway down the hillside when a woman coming up the path cried: My husband — where is he? Asleep under the plane-trees on the hillside, Kebren answered. And the goats nibbling in Biton’s garth — he shall know of this when I come upon him! He is not to blame, said Kebren, hoping to save his late companion from some of the blows that awaited him; and he would have excused him further, but a wayfarer asked to be directed to the oracle of Trophonios. An oracle well reported in all the countries I have visited, he added, a good oracle for dreams, and if thou hast been dreaming of late and needest an interpretation of thy dreams, we might journey on together. I am bidden by a God to Aulis, Kebren replied, and must hasten. Thou’lt find the oracle of Trophonios between Mount Helikon and Lake Kopais. My good wishes to thee. And descending the winding road, with a blue strait of sea bordered by a white line of coast before his eyes, he crossed the river Asopos and made his way into Aulis, saying: A poor little town, with some trade, for there are wharves, and I’ll warrant no more than six men and women who will give ear to a reading of the Iliad, or understand it if they do.... Words failing him suddenly, he staggered towards some white sand between rocks, on which he could sleep soft, and lay down.
CHAPTER II
HOW LONG HE slept he did not know, but he must have slept deeply, for when he opened his eyes he gazed about him unable to remember how he had come among unknown rocks in front of a narrow strait of sea. At last he said: The quires of the Iliad are in my knapsack. I am in Aulis. I lay down among these rocks and fell asleep. The wharves were empty when I came, and now they are thronged with wharfingers busy unloading a great galley, come up with the tide, no doubt, and beyond the strait is the white-topped pyramid of Dirphys above Chalkis. It was in front of me all the way from Dekeleia, but I was thinking — A man going by cried:
If thou wouldst earn a few coins go to Otanes, the tall man yonder talking with his daughter.... The wharfinger runs on, thinking he hath conferred a benefit on an outcast! Kebren muttered; so travel-stained am I that he takes me for one. From another wharfinger he learned that Otanes was a great trader and the owner of many ships: And if it be a passage thou’rt seeking, address thyself to him. Whereupon Kebren thanked him, and presenting himself to Otanes as an Athenian come that day to Aulis, he begged to be directed to a house where he could get a lodging for the night ——
To-morrow I am returning to Athens, he added. And Otanes told him that when the ship had finished unloading he would lead him to a house where he could sleep in safety. But why keep the traveller waiting for his bed, father? Biote —
Otanes began, and the name seemed to Kebren well suited to the small girl standing by him. Thy daughter, he said, speaks kindly on behalf of a stranger, but I beg that thy courtesy shall not come between thee and thy business. Otanes answered that the unloading of the last bales did not need his watchfulness, and after bidding the captain and the crew a good night’s rest, he returned to Kebren and Biote.
Our stranger hath not told thee, father, that he came from Athens to see the bay of Aulis. A long and fatiguing journey, Otanes answered, for so small a thing as our bay, or more correctly, our two bays or coves; and already disappointed thou’rt regretting thy journey? he asked, turning to Kebren. It was not from the Piraeus that the Greek fleet sailed for Troy! Kebren replied. So it was a memory of a fleet that sailed more than four hundred years ago that brought thee hither? I am about to start on a long itinerary, sir, reading the Iliad and explaining it, and the months that I spent in Athens playing messengers in the theatre will make my reading acceptable and interesting wherever I go — such is my hope. An actor! said Otanes. Father, the young man hath walked twelve leagues to-day and cannot relate his whole life to thee on the way to “The Golden Fell.” We are at the door of the inn, and if thou wouldst hear his story lead him no further — But offer him a room in our house, Otanes interjected; there are many empty; and turning to Kebren he added: We shall be pleased and honoured if thou’lt accept our hospitality. And leaving “The Golden Fell” they returned the way they had come.
Thou’lt tell us thy story this evening, said Otanes. Unless
thou wouldst prefer, sir, to hear the greatest of all stories, the Iliad. Here we are, Otanes continued, at the head of the lane, or rather alley, leading into a little square; over it my house abuts. We shall pass through yonder gateway. And when we do, Biote said to Kebren, look up, for above the gateway is my pigeon-cote, with many bright heads craning out of their little doorways to welcome their mistress’s return. A porter opened to their knocking, and as they passed through a courtyard in which casks, bales and sacks were thrown about and piled in heaps, Otanes stopped to tell Kebren that it was here they had lived in his father’s time, but since his own fortunate purchase of ships, and the crews to man them, he had built over what was once the garden, leaving the old buildings to be used as warehouses. Buyers leave their purchases on my hands longer than they should, he added, and when three or four ships arrive together — But come this way.
