Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  CHAPTER VII

  A FAVOURITE WITH the Gods surely! the townsfolk said, as they watched Otanes go by on his way to his counting-house, his hand laid in affection rather than for support on his son-in-law’s shoulder; and when Biote came hastening after the twain the wives of the wharfingers began to reckon, saying: Her carrying days are well-nigh over. One gave her a fortnight, another a week, and this last forecast was nearly fulfilled.

  Three days later, on the birth night, Otanes sat reading, his thoughts distracted from the manuscript by his anxiety. He rose to his feet, but did not withdraw to another room, for he was afraid to miss the first cry of the new generation. At last the cry came. The child is born, he said; a daughter or a son, which? He hoped for a boy, but he pledged himself to be satisfied with the child the Gods had sent him. A grandson hath been born to thee, Aglaia said, and he went at her bidding to Kebren with the good news. Hast seen the boy? Kebren asked. No, Aglaia held the door against me, saying that Biote must not be disturbed in her first sleep after the pains, and the child must sleep too. And father and grandfather turned into their beds with the name Rhesos in their thoughts.

  The name had been of Biote’s choosing, and when Aglaia handed her the baby, saying: Here is thy Rhesos, she lay like one possessed, certain that the Gods had given her a child different from all others, and that the meaning of her life lay within her arms. A thick shock of reddish hair covered the little round head. Very little darker than thine own, said Aglaia; it will change colour. Becoming darker or fairer? Biote asked. There’s no knowing, Aglaia answered; and his eyes will change too. But for years he will keep my eyes, Aglaia! and Biote lay sullen, resentful, angry, her straying thoughts recalling a cow that had hidden her calf in a patch of long grass. The cow grazed at the other end of the field, seemingly forgetful of her calf, but should anybody approach the patch of grass, with tail up and horns down she prepared to charge. Why should she remember that cow? Was it because the cow was very pretty? And increasingly resentful, she dreamed of a thicket in the woods, too weak even to reprove Aglaia, whom she would have liked to order from the room. At last she summoned enough strength to say: Somebody knocks.... I knew thy knock, Kebren. Come, sit by my bed. Aglaia, leave us. And to distract her thoughts from Aglaia, out of favour for the moment, Kebren related his anxiety in the counting-house. It was thy wish that I should know nothing of thy labour, Biote; Otanes brought the news to me. His talk flowed on, stopping and beginning again, without claiming her attention by questions, or his paternity by asking her to lift Rhesos up for him to discover traces of himself in his son. The word son had not once passed his lips, and it was not until his restraint began to seem unnatural that she said: Thou’lt see Rhesos next time, if he is awake; and to keep her secret truly from Kebren she complained that he seemed to have no thought for Rhesos. A game of mutual deception they played, Kebren answering that a mother’s love is a miracle, something beyond reason, a gift from the Gods — Whereas a father learns to love his offspring; a very different thing, she added, her humour being merciless. But of Otanes she was not jealous, mayhap for that he was of her own flesh and blood, and a few days later she held Rhesos up for his admiration and criticism.

  A poet’s head, Biote! and in answer to her question for a visible sign of poetry, he said: The brow rises and rounds above the temples. A poet’s head, if the flesh does not give the he to the spirit, which it never does, not really. She dared to ask him in what art Rhesos’s genius would show itself. Be satisfied with the knowledge that thy son’s head is a poet’s, he answered. I am satisfied, father! and unloosing her peplos and laying Rhesos to her breast, she remembered that her father had brought Kebren from “The Golden Fell” to their house to read Homer. She had listened night after night to the Iliad whilst carrying, and it was pleasant to her to think that she was a sort of spiritual as well as a material mother to her child. Wherefore she was content to sit apart, hearing dimly her father and Kebren, his associate in his trade, talking the business whilst she suckled future greatness. Of their plans and projects she knew nothing and cared nothing; to sit apart with Rhesos was enough for her content; and her face darkened only when she was asked whether she foresaw a lyric or a dramatic poet in Rhesos. Which wouldst thou choose if thou wert bidden to choose? Otanes asked. A good soothsayer hath no need to put questions, she answered; enough for him to behold the child’s brow to tell whether his gift be dramatic or lyrical. Rhesos is but a year old and we need not be alarmed at his silence. Not a cry nor a scream hath he uttered, said Kebren, and with the thought of a dumb child written on their faces they resorted to the shabby trick of a pinch, to be rewarded by a lusty scream; and having discovered the use of the scream, Rhesos screamed whenever he needed to impose his will, which was often. But a poor speaker he was at two years, mangling only a few words, and again his parents were apprehensive, Otanes saying that Biote had spoken at eighteen months. Mayhap I did, she answered. But Rhesos is no early babbler; his words will come later. At present his energy displays itself in his love of noise, racing the chairs up and down the room, always up to some little game of his own. Look round, but not too suddenly. And raising their eyes they saw the two-year-old child imitating his father reading a manuscript, looking up one page and down the next. Delighted with his joke, he cried: Papa! Grandpapa! Bright eyes, said Biote, a darling little red head, poet or painter, sculptor or flute-player, I care not which — thy mother’s child! And it was during these parental debates that she began to speak of a brother for Rhesos.

  We may get him a sister, Biote. There is always that danger, she replied. A boy and a girl! Kebren murmured. Thrasillos will be a name for him, she continued. Rhesos and Thrasillos — we shall not think of anything more harmonious. For a year I shall be without thy waist, Biote! Am I no more than a waist for thee, Kebren? Thou wouldst not have me ignore it? he asked. Life is a long while, she answered, and after Thrasillos is born I shall return to my waist till old age takes it from me for good and all. Thou’lt never be old, Biote, not in my eyes. We are all growing old, Kebren; even Thrasillos, not yet conceived, is older than he was yesterday. The ante-natal Thrasillos! Kebren replied, with a faint, sad smile that Biote resented, a resentment that quickly passed away in admiration of his handsome face; and during the long months of waiting, waistless and bodeful, her thoughts often returned to the whiteness of the woollen fleece on which they had lain together, for there are moments that time cannot efface or remove. Another of these unfading moments was when she raised up Thrasillos to Otanes, confident that the child’s head would foreshow a great future for him. Hast nothing to say, father? she asked, following Otanes with the child in her arms, without getting any special prophecy from him. I can discover no greatness, he answered, admitting at last that Thrasillos’s head was not a good one. He’ll always be behind Rhesos, always a laggard, without instincts; and in a voice full of condolence, Otanes added: He may improve. But thou hast given no time to the study of his head! Biote cried, and her temper rising quickly she discarded her father’s judgment as worthless, vowing that Thrasillos should prove the exception to the rule — if there was such a rule in nature; and her joy was great when Thrasillos began to mutter words, enough to give the lie to his grandfather’s cruel reading of his brow. A child that can speak at eighteen months and read at two (and she was determined that Thrasillos should read at two) is no laggard! So did she often speak to herself, and during the next few years a great part of her time was passed with Thrasillos; much of it was taken from Rhesos to give to him, with such surprising result that Thrasillos could read fluently at six, whilst Rhesos could do no more than spell out the long words syllable by syllable. Still more widely were the brothers divided a few years later, Thrasillos at twelve coming to Biote to ask her to tell him why the Gods were unwilling that Odysseus should return home and had hidden him beyond human ken.

  There are many stories in the Odyssey, my dear child (the Odyssey is itself a story), and thou must listen to the beginning of the s
tory, how suitors from all sides came to Ithaca in the hope of getting Odysseus’s wife for bride. Was he dead, then? Thrasillos asked. No, but he had been away so long that he was given out as dead, and all the suitors were eating up the flocks of sheep and the herds of cattle, the heritage of Telemachus, Odysseus’s son, who was much grieved. Penelope (that is, the wife of Odysseus) was also grieved, and sought to escape from an answer, her say being always: — As soon as I finish the tapestry I am weaving I will choose one of you, but not before; and every night she ripped what she had done in the daytime. And there seeming to be no end to all this, and the suitors eating and drinking their fill every day, Telemachus prayed and Athene came to his help and told him to embark in a ship, and he went away in this ship in search of his father. Mother, said Rhesos, may I skip the story of Telemachus? It will take a long time to tell; I foresee it already in my mind — its length, I mean, and — Now, Rhesos, what excuse art thou devising to escape thy lesson in the Odyssey? No excuse, mother, but I have promised Photius, the old waterman, to go fishing with him; we shall have no fish for dinner if I go not. Thrasillos will tell me the story of Telemachus when I come back. Thou art idle, Rhesos, and a laggard, unwilling to give thy mind to anything for long and heedless of what I say, that without the story of Telemachus the story of Odysseus is without meaning. But go to thy fishing; we shall be happier without thee, for the telling of stories is no pleasant task if one listener be indifferent. In an hour I shall be back, mother, ready to hear a story. But I may not be ready to tell one; away to thy fishing!

  Why was Rhesos sent away? Thrasillos asked, and there being an accent of reproach in his voice, Biote answered: He hath no care for stories. Maybe Rhesos is too clever for stories, mother. Thou hast come under the spell of Rhesos, Biote replied, and her thoughts turning to the child’s instinct, she sought to find a cause for it. Of what art thou thinking? Thrasillos asked, and after a little hesitation she answered: It was a terrible moment for Odysseus when Polyphemus passed his hands over the backs of the sheep as he let them out of the cavern in the morning. Rhesos would have liked to hear, mother, how Odysseus burnt out the single eye of the ogre, and he’d like to hear the story of the woman who turned her lovers into swine, all but Odysseus. Thou hast never told me how he managed to escape from her. He filled his ears with wax, darling — No, mother, thou’rt telling me wrong! It was to escape from the sirens that he filled his ears with wax. I was never told why he wished to escape from the sirens. Did they turn their lovers into pigs, like Circe, and keep them for seven years, rooting about the house? Circe must have been glad to turn them back into men and get her house clean. Which story wouldst thou hear, Thrasillos? The story of the making of the raft on Calypso’s island? I’d like to hear that again, but another time; I’d sooner hear now why father left us to sail about islands filled with ogres and sirens and Circes. Polyphemus is dead, Thrasillos, and so is Galatea — she is the woman that the ogre was in love with. I’d like to hear about her, mother, but not to-day. Tell me why father left us.

  Thou knowest, dear child, that we are traders; our ships go up the Hellespont into the Euxine, and they cross the middle sea to Egypt, calling at all the ports, and it was in the hope of capturing our trade that some merchants of Salamis began to build faster ships than ours, with great sails to be hoisted whenever the wind favoured them; and they would have captured it if they had had a head man with as good a knowledge of the seas and the ports as Cleobis. Thou hast heard us say very often that our money depended upon Cleobis as much as upon the ships. Well, Cleobis’s knowledge must have come to the ears of the merchants of Salamis, and for a long time they were offering him bigger and bigger sums of money to leave us. We heard of these things and laughed. It was thy grandfather who had raised Cleobis out of squalor and ignorance and put him in command of our fleet, and for this reason and for the ten years of good service he had given to us we believed him to be trustworthy. But if there be enough money every man is to be bought and sold, and about six months ago Cleobis left our service and assumed direction of the enemy’s fleet, and then it was we began to feel that if we did not get a head man on whose honesty we could depend we should find ourselves in Aulis without a ship to our name. And that is why father left us? Thou hast guessed well, Thrasillos. He went to look after the trade in the middle sea. In the Euxine we have a great captain who does very well and whom we can trust. But father hath no knowledge of the rocks and the currents and may run into a whirlpool, said Thrasillos. There are many in Aulis itself with full knowledge of the seas, she replied, many we can tally on our fingers, but none with a head for business like thy father. Father, then, will be able to outwit Cleobis? Cleobis, fortunately for us, outwitted himself by falling overboard; a shark came to our rescue — And took him by the legs, mother? Or was it by the belly? We don’t know which was the first bite it had from him, but the news of his death was brought hither by a ship on its way to take in cargo. And will father return as soon as he hears of the shark? Not at once, Thrasillos; he hath business at many ports in Sicily and Gaul and along Spain. Some time he may spend in Italy, and between us and Italy there are the islands, and after the islands, there’s the Hellespont and the Euxine — O, mother, I don’t want to hear the names! But is it really true that father will be in danger of being eaten by the Cyclops or changed into the shape of a pig by Circe? Thrasillos, forget sharks and Polyphemus, and fetch thy hat. A fair day invites us to Marathon, if our legs will bear us so far. Our legs will bear us to Marathon, mother, but will they carry us back? It is indeed a long way, she answered; we would do well to tell the mule-cart to come to fetch us.

  I am glad we are going to Marathon, cried Rhesos, just returned from the Euripos with a basket of fish. I am glad we are going to Marathon, he repeated, for I have business with a shepherd. And what may thy business be, Rhesos? Thou wouldst say it is naught, mother; there’s a satyr who comes down at night and milks his yoes. Is a satyr an ogre? Thrasillos inquired. Satyrs carry women away sometimes into the woods, Rhesos answered, but they don’t eat them. Being half-goats, they like milk, and to get it they steal about the sheepfolds at night, waiting till the shepherds are lying, their mouths wide open, snoring at the moon, before climbing into the fold to milk the yoes, which they do so well that the lambs go hungry. The last time I was at Marathon I asked Oaxus what they were going to do to make an end of the satyr’s thefts. His mate answered: — We must try to keep awake; at which Oaxus laughed. We have been trying to keep awake every night for the last month, he said, but overcome by the heat of the fire we doze. Ye might set a trap, I said. He is too sly to fall into a trap, said Oaxus. He is more cunning than a wolf, and we have been thinking that to catch him we must employ all the wolf’s cunning and something more. We might milk the yoes and leave the milk-pans in his path. A wolf if he came across them would lap a little and be after the lambs, but the satyr would drink deeply, and if the milk were mixed with wine he might drink till he couldn’t stand on his cloven hooves. Our house at Aulis is full of wine, I said, and — So thou hast been stealing my wine to make satyrs drunk! cried Biote. The shepherds said, mother, that a dozen flagons would be enough to drowze a single satyr. And did the shepherds or the satyr drink the wine? The satyr drank it, of course, Rhesos answered, and at midnight he was firmly in their hands. But being without cords to bind him, they said: — We’ll let him lie, going away at daybreak to fetch cords, and help — for satyrs are very strong, mother. And when Oaxus opened his eyes in the grey light he saw no satyr? Biote asked. Yes, he did, mother; he saw the satyr being helped away by his wife into the woods. So the end of it all was that the satyr and the shepherds drank a dozen flagons of my best wine between them! A great deal more hath come of it, mother, for I’ve put the whole story into clay; come and see it. And when Rhesos threw his arm round her shoulders and led her to the shed in which was his group, she remembered Otanes’s words: He hath the brow of a poet!