APHRODITÉ
A negro boy, the ugliest of his kind, and probably all the more prized for
that reason, was shifting uneasily from knee to knee, in an attitude of
constraint that showed how long and tiresome he felt his office, and how
wearied he was of Valeria’s own apartment. Such a child, for the urchin
seemed of the tenderest age, might be initiated without impropriety into
the mysteries of a lady’s toilet; and, indeed, the office it was his duty
to undertake, formed the most indispensable part of the whole performance.
With a skill and steadiness beyond his years, though with a rueful face,
he was propping up an enormous mirror, in which his mistress might
contemplate the whole galaxy of her charms—a mirror formed of one broad
plate of silver, burnished to the brightness and lucidity of glass, set in
an oval frame of richly chased gold, wrought into fantastic patterns and
studded with emeralds, rubies, and other precious stones. Not a speck was
to be discerned on the polish of its dazzling surface; and, indeed, the
time of one maiden was devoted to the task alone of preserving it from the
lightest breath that might dim its brightness, and cloud the reflection of
the stately form that now sat before it, undergoing, at the hands of her
attendants, the pleasing tortures of an elaborate toilet.
The reflection was that of a large handsome woman in the very prime and
noontide of her beauty—a woman whose every movement and gesture bespoke
physical organisation of a vigorous nature and perfect health. While the
strong white neck gave grace and dignity to her carriage—while the deep
bosom and somewhat massive shoulders partook more of Juno’s majestic frame
than Hebe’s pliant youth—while the full sweep and outline of her figure
denoted maturity and completeness in every part—the long round limbs, the
shapely hands and feet, might have belonged to Diana, so perfect was their
symmetry; the warm flush that tinted them, the voluptuous ease of her
attitude, the gentle languor of her whole bearing, would have done no
discredit to the goddess, hanging over the mountain‐tops in the golden
summer nights to look down upon Endymion, and bathe her sleeping favourite
in floods of light and love.
Too fastidious a critic might have objected to Valeria’s form that it
expressed more of physical strength than is compatible with perfect
womanly beauty, that the muscles were developed overmuch, and the whole
frame, despite its flowing outlines, partook somewhat of a man’s
organisation, and a man’s redundant strength. The same fault might have
been found in a less degree with her countenance. There was a little too
much resolution in the small aquiline nose, something of manly audacity
and energy in the large well‐formed mouth, with its broad white teeth that
the fullest and reddest of lips could not conceal—a shade of masculine
sternness on the low wide brow, smooth and white, but somewhat prominent,
and scarcely softened by the arch of the marked eyebrows, or the dark
sweep of the lashes that fringed the long laughing eyes.
And yet it was a face that a man, and still more a boy, could hardly have
looked on without misgivings that he might too soon learn to long for its
glances, its smiles, its approval, and its love. There was such a glow of
health on the soft transparent skin, such a freshness and vitality in the
colour of those blooming cheeks, such a sparkle in the grey eyes, that
flashed so meaningly when she smiled, that gleamed so clear and bright and
cold when the features resumed their natural expression, grave, scornful,
almost stern in their repose; and then such womanly softness in the masses
of rich nut‐brown hair that showered down neck and shoulders, to form a
framework for this lovely, dangerous, and too alluring picture. Even the
little negro, wearied as he was, peeped at intervals from the back of the
mirror he upheld, fawning like a dog for some sign of approval from his
haughty, careless mistress. At length she bade him keep still, with a
half‐scornful smile at his antics; and the sharp white teeth gleamed from
ear to ear of the dusky little face, as it grinned with pleasure, while
the boy settled himself once more in an attitude of patience and steady
submission.
Nor was Valeria’s apartment unworthy of the noble beauty who devoted it to
the mysterious rites of dress and decoration. Everything that luxury could
imagine for bodily ease, everything that science had as yet discovered for
the preservation or the production of feminine attractions, was there to
be found in its handsomest and costliest form. In one recess, shrouded by
transparent curtains of the softest pink, was the bath that could be
heated at will to any temperature, and the marble steps of which that
shapely form was accustomed to descend twice and thrice a day. In another
stood the ivory couch with its quilted crimson silks and ornamental
pillars of solid gold, in which Valeria slept, and dreamed such dreams as
hover round the rest of those whose life is luxury, and whose business is
a ceaseless career of pleasure. On a table of cedar‐wood, fashioned like a
palm‐leaf opening out from a pedestal that terminated in a single claw of
grotesque shape, stood her silver night‐lamp, exhaling odours of perfumed
oil, and near it lay the waxen tablets, on which she made her memorandums,
or composed her love‐letters, and from which, as from an unfinished task,
the sharp‐pointed steel pencil had rolled away upon the shining floor.
Through the whole court—for court it might be called, with its many
entrances and recesses, its cool and shady nooks, its lofty ceiling and
its tesselated pavement—choice vases, jewelled cups, burnished chalices,
and exquisite little statues, were scattered in systematic irregularity
and graceful profusion. Even the very water in the bath flowed through the
mouth of a marble Cupid; and two more winged urchins wrought in bronze,
supported a stand on which was set a formidable array of perfumes,
essences, cosmetics, and such material for offensive and defensive
warfare.
The walls, too, of this seductive arsenal, were delicately tinted of a
light rose‐colour, that should throw the most becoming shade over its
inmates, relieved at intervals by oval wreaths wrought out in bas‐relief,
enclosing diverse mythological subjects, in which the figure of Venus,
goddess of love and laughter, predominated. Round the cornices stretched a
frieze representing, also in relief, the fabulous contests of the Amazons
with every description of monster, amongst which the most conspicuous foe
was the well‐known gryphon, or griffin, an abnormal quadruped, with the
head and neck of a bird of prey. It was curious to trace in the female
warriors thus delineated, something of the imperious beauty, the vigorous
symmetry, and the dauntless bearing that distinguished Valeria herself,
though their energetic and spirited attitudes afforded, at the same time,
a marked contrast to the pleasing languor that seemed to pervade every
movement of that luxurious lady reclining before her mirror, and
submitting indolently to the attentions of her maid‐servants.
These were five in number, and constituted the principal slaves of her
household; the most important among them seemed to be a tall matronly
woman, considerably older than her comrades, who filled the responsible
office of housekeeper in the establishment—a dignity which did not,
however, exempt her from insult, and even blows, when she failed to
satisfy the caprices of a somewhat exacting mistress; the others, comely
laughing girls, with the sparkling eyes and white teeth of their
countrywomen, seemed principally occupied with the various matters that
constituted their lady’s toilet—a daily penance, in which, notwithstanding
the rigour of its discipline, and the severities that were sure to follow
the most trifling act of negligence, they took an inexplicable and
essentially feminine delight.
Of these it was obvious that Myrrhina was the first in place as in favour.
She it was who brought her mistress the warm towels for her bath; who was
ready with her slippers when she emerged; who handed every article of
clothing as it was required; whose taste was invariably consulted, and
whose decision was considered final, on such important points as the
position of a jewel, the studied negligence of a curl, or the exact
adjustment of a fold.
This girl possessed, with an Italian exterior, the pliant cunning and
plausible fluency of the Greek. Born a slave on one of Valeria’s estates
in the country, she had been reared a mere peasant, on a simple country
diet, and amidst healthful country occupations, till a freak of her
mistress brought her to Rome. With a woman’s versatility—with a woman’s
quickness in adapting herself to a strange phase of life and a total
change of circumstances—the country girl had not been a year in her new
situation, ere she became the acutest and cleverest waiting‐maid in the
capital, with what benefit to her own morals and character, it is needless
to inquire. Who so quick as Myrrhina to prepare the unguents, the
perfumes, or the cosmetics that repaired the injuries of climate, and
effaced the marks of dissipation? Who so delicate a sempstress; who had
such taste in colours; who could convey a note or a message with half such
precision, simplicity, and tact? In short, who was ever so ready, in an
emergency, with brush, crisping‐iron, needle, hand, eye, or tongue?
Intrigue was her native element. To lie on her mistress’s behalf, seemed
as natural as on her own. He who would advance in Valeria’s goodwill, must
begin by bribing her maid; and many a Roman gallant had ere this
discovered that even that royal road to success was as tedious as it was
costly, and might lead eventually to discomfiture and disgrace.
As she took the pouncet‐box from one of the girls, and proceeded to
sprinkle gold‐dust in Valeria’s hair, Myrrhina’s eye was caught by the
gift of Placidus, lying neglected at her feet, the casket open, the jewels
scattered on the floor. Such as it was, the waiting‐maid owned a
conscience. It warned her that she had not as yet worked out the value of
the costly chain thrown round her neck by the tribune. Showering the gold‐
dust liberally about her lady’s head, Myrrhina felt her way cautiously to
the delicate theme.
“There’s a new fashion coming in for headgear when the weather gets
cooler,” said she. “It’s truth I tell you, madam, for I heard it direct
from Selina, who was told by the Empress’s first tirewoman, though even
Cæsar himself cannot think Galeria looks well, with that yellow mop stuck
all over her head. But it’s to be the fashion, nevertheless, and right
sorry I am to hear it; nor am I the only one for that matter.”
“Why so?” asked Valeria languidly; “is it more troublesome than the
present?”
Myrrhina had done with the gold‐dust now, and, holding the comb in her
mouth, was throwing a rich brown curl across her wrist, while she laid a
plat carefully beneath it. Notwithstanding the impediment between her
lips, however, she was able to reply with great volubility.
“The trouble counts for nothing, madam, when a lady has got such hair as
yours. It’s a pleasure to run your hands through it, let alone dressing
and crisping it, and plaiting it up into a crown that’s fit for a queen.
But this new fashion will make us all alike, whether we’re as bald as old
Lyce, or wear our curls down to our ankles, like Neæra. Still, to hide
such hair as _yours_;—as my lord said, only this morning”—
“What lord? this morning!” interrupted Valeria, a dawn of interest waking
on her handsome features; “not Licinius, my noble kinsman? His approval is
indeed worth having.”
“Better worth than his gifts,” answered Myrrhina pertly; pointing to the
filigree basket which occupied a place of honour on the toilet‐table.
“Such a birthday present I never saw! A few late roses and a bunch or two
of figs to the richest lady in Rome! To be sure, he sent a messenger with
them, who might have come direct from Jove, and the properest man I ever
set eyes on.”
And Myrrhina moved to one side, that her lady might not observe the blush
that rose, even to her shameless brow, as she recalled the impression made
on her by the handsome slave. Valeria liked to hear of proper men; she
woke up a little out of her languor, and flung the hair back from her
face.
“Go on,” said she, as Myrrhina hesitated, half eager and half loth to
pursue the pleasing topic.
But the waiting‐maid felt the chain round her neck, and acknowledged in
her heart the equivalent it demanded.
“It was the tribune, madam,” said she, “who spoke about your hair—Julius
Placidus, who values every curl you wear, more than a whole mine of gold.
Ah! there’s not a lord in Rome has such a taste in dress. Only to see him
this morning, with his violet mantle and his jewels sparkling in the sun,
with the handsomest chariot and the four whitest horses in the town. Well!
if I was a lady, and wooed by such a man as that”—
“_Man_ call you him?” interrupted her mistress, with a scornful smile.
“Nay, when these curled, perfumed, close‐shaven things are called men,
’tis time for us women to bestir ourselves, lest strength and courage die
out in Rome altogether. And you, too, Myrrhina, who know Licinius and
Hippias, and saw with your own eyes two hundred gladiators in the circus
only yesterday, you ought to be a better judge. Man, forsooth! Why, you
will be calling smooth‐faced Paris a man next!”
Here maid and mistress burst out laughing, for thereby hung a tale of
which Valeria was not a little proud. This Paris, a young Egyptian, of
beautiful but effeminate appearance, had lately come to Italy to figure
with no small success on the Roman stage. His delicate features, his
symmetrical shape, and the girlish graces of his pantomimic gestures, had
made sad havoc in the hearts of the Roman ladies, at all times too
susceptible to histrionic charms. He lost nothing, either, of public
attention, by bearing the name of Nero’s ill‐fated favourite, and embarked
at once, unhesitatingly, on the same brilliant and dangerous career. But
although it was the fashion to be in love with Paris, Valeria alone never
yielded to the mode, but treated him with all the placid indifference she
felt for attractions that found no favour in her sight. Stung by such
neglect, the petted actor paid devoted court to the woman who despised
him, and succeeded, after much importunity, in prevailing on her to accord
him an interview in her own house. Of this he had the bad taste to make no
small boast in anticipation; and Myrrhina, who found out most things, lost
no time in informing her mistress that her condescension was already as
much misrepresented as it was misplaced. The two laid their plans
accordingly; and when Paris, attired in the utmost splendour, arrived
panting to the promised interview, he found himself seized by some half‐
dozen hideous old negresses, who smothered him with caresses, stripped him
from head to foot, forced him into the bath, and persisted in treating him
as if he were a delicate young lady, but with a quiet violence the while,
that it was useless to resist. The same swarthy tirewomen then dressed him
in female garments; and despite of threats, struggles, outcries, and
entreaties, placed him in Valeria’s litter, and so carried him home to his
own door. The ready wit of the play‐actor put upon his metamorphosis the
construction least favourable to the character of its originator; but he
vowed a summary vengeance, we may be sure, nevertheless.
“I think Paris knows what you think of him only too well,” resumed
Myrrhina; “not but that he has a fair face of his own, and a lovely shape
for dancing, though, to be sure, Placidus is a finer figure of a man. Oh!
if you could have seen him this morning, madam, when he lay back so
graceful in his chariot, and chid that pert lad of his for striking with
his whip at the tall slave, who to be sure vanished like a flash of
lightning, you would have said there wasn’t such another patrician in the
whole city of Rome!”
“Enough of Placidus!” interrupted her mistress impatiently; “the subject
wearies me. What of this tall slave, Myrrhina, who seems to have attracted
your attention? Did he look like one of the barbarians my kinsman Licinius
cries up so mightily? Is he handsome enough to step with my Liburnians,
think you, under the day‐litter?”
The waiting‐maid’s eyes sparkled as she thought how pleasant it would be
to have him in the same household as herself; and any little restraint she
might have experienced in running over the personal advantages that had
captivated her fancy disappeared before this agreeable prospect.
“Handsome enough, madam!” she exclaimed, removing the comb from her mouth,
dropping her lady’s hair, and flourishing her hands with true Italian
emphasis and rapidity,—“handsome enough! why he would make the Liburnians
look like bald‐headed vultures beside a golden eagle! Barbarian, like
enough, he may be, Cimbrian, Frisian, Ansibarian, or what not, for I
caught the foreign accent tripping on his tongue, and we have few men in
Rome of stature equal to his. A neck like a tower of marble; arms and
shoulders like the statue of Hercules yonder in the vestibule; a face, ay,
twice as beautiful as Pericles on your medallion, with the golden curls
clustering round a forehead as white as milk and eyes”—
Here Myrrhina stopped, a little at a loss for a simile, and a good deal
out of breath besides.
“Go on,” said Valeria, who had been listening in an attitude of languid
attention, her eyes half closed, her lips parted, and the colour deepening
on her cheek. “What were his eyes like, Myrrhina?”
“Well, they were like the blue sky of Campania in the vintage; they were
like the stones round the boss of your state‐mantle; they were like the
sea at noonday from the long walls of Ostia. And yet they flashed into
sparks of fire when he looked at poor little Automedon. I wonder the boy
wasn’t frightened! I am sure I should have been; only nothing frightens
those impudent young charioteers.”
“Was he my kinsman’s slave; are you sure, Myrrhina?” said her mistress, in
an accent of studied unconcern, and never moving a finger from her
listless and comfortable attitude.
“No doubt of it, madam,” replied the waiting‐maid; and would probably have
continued to enlarge on the congenial subject, had she not been
interrupted by the entrance of one of the damsels who had been summoned
from the apartment, and returned to announce that Hippias, the retired
gladiator, was in waiting—“Would Valeria take her fencing‐lesson?”
But Valeria declined at once, and sat on before her mirror, without even
raising her eyes to the tempting picture it displayed. Whatever was the
subject of her thoughts, it must have been very engrossing, she seemed so
loth to be disturbed.