Arachne | Page 4

and good will.
Bias had managed to lure many a young beauty in Alexandria, in whom

the sculptor had seen a desirable model, to his studio, even under the
most difficult circumstances; but he was vexed to find that his master
had cast his eye upon the daughter of one of the most distinguished
families among his own people. He knew, too, that the Biamites
jealously guarded the honour of their women, and had represented to
Hermon what a dangerous game he was playing when he began to offer
vows of love to Ledscha.
So it was an extremely welcome task to be permitted to inform her that
she was awaiting his master in vain.
In reply to her inquiry whether it was the aristocrat who had just arrived
who kept Hermon from her, he admitted that she was right, but added
that the gods were above even kings, and his master was obliged to
yield to the Alexandrian's will.
Ledscha laughed incredulously: "He--obey a woman!"
"He certainly would not submit to a man," replied the slave. "Artists,
you must know, would rather oppose ten of the most powerful men
than one weak woman, if she is only beautiful. As for the daughter of
Archias--thereby hangs a tale."
"Archias?" interrupted the girl. "The rich Alexandrian who owns the
great weaving house?"
"The very man."
"So it is his daughter who is keeping Hermon? And you say he is
obliged to serve her?"
"As men serve the Deity, to the utmost, or truth," replied the slave
importantly. "Archias, the father, it is true, imposed upon us the debt
which is most tardily paid, and which people, even in this country, call
'gratitude.' We are under obligations to the old man--there's no denying
it--and therefore also to his only child."
"For what?" Ledscha indignantly exclaimed, and the dark eyebrows

which met above her delicate nose contracted suspiciously. "I must
know!"
"Must!" repeated the slave. "That word is a ploughshare which suits
only loose soil, and mine, now that my master is waiting for me, can
not be tilled even by the sharpest. Another time! But if, meanwhile, you
have any message for Hermon----"
"Nothing," she replied defiantly; but Bias, in a tone of the most eager
assent, exclaimed: "One friendly word, girl. You are the fairest among
the daughters of the highest Biamite families, and probably the richest
also, and therefore a thousand times too good to yield what adorns you
to the Greek, that it may tickle the curiosity of the Alexandrian apes.
There are more than enough women in the capital to serve that purpose.
Trust the experience of a man not wholly devoid of wisdom, my girl.
He will throw you aside like an empty wine bottle when he has used
you for a model."
"Used?" interrupted Ledscha disdainfully; but he repeated with firm
decision: "Yes, used! What could you learn of life, of art and artists,
here in the weaver's nest in the midst of the waves? I know them. A
sculptor needs beautiful women as a cobbler wants leather, and the
charms he seeks in you he does not conceal from his friend Myrtilus, at
least. They are your large almond-shaped eyes and your arms. They
make him fairly wild with delight by their curves when, in drawing
water, you hold the jug balanced on your head. Your slender arched
foot, too, is a welcome morsel to him."
The darkness prevented Bias from seeing Ledscha's features, but it was
easy to perceive what was passing in her mind as, hoarse with
indignation, she gasped: "How can I know the object of your
accusations? but fie upon the servant who would alienate from his own
kind master what his soul desires!"
Then Bias changed not only his tone of voice, but his language, and,
deeply offended, poured forth a torrent of wrath in the dialect of his
people: "If to guard you, and my master with you, from harm, my
words had the power to put between you and Hermon the distance

which separates yonder rising moon from Tennis, I would make them
sound as loud as the lion's roar. Yet perhaps you would not understand
them, for you go through life as though you were deaf and blind. Did
you ever even ask yourself whether the Greek is not differently
constituted from the sons of the Biamite sailors and fishermen, with
whom you grew up, and to whom he is an abomination? Yet he is no
more like them than poppy juice is like pure water. He and his
companions turn life upside down. There is no more distinction
between right and wrong in Alexandria than we here in the dark can
make between blue and green. To me, the slave, who is already
growing old, Hermon is a kind