“Perhaps my school is only for those who are already decrepit,” she said to me in the end, “though I’m proud of my art. You are young. You know what hunger and thirst are. Resinous wine and poor man’s bread taste better in your hungry mouth than Cypriot wine and flamingo tongues in a mouth that is weary. If you fall in love with a young maiden, the sight of a bare shoulder alone would dazzle your senses more than fulfillment of your desire. Smooth out that frown and be glad of your life, because you are still young.”
‘Would you rather tell me about the divine secrets?” I suggested. “You serve Aphrodite with your art?”
She looked thoughtfully at me with her beautifully darkened eyes.
“Aphrodite is a capricious and merciless but also wonderful goddess,” she said. “He who strives for her favors most eagerly and sacrifices most to her, remains unsatisfied forever. She was born from the foam of the sea and is herself like the foam which bubbles and bursts. She herself dissolves into air when anyone avariciously grasps at her faultless limbs.”
She too frowned a little as she raised both her hands and absently stared at her scarlet nails.
“I can give you an example of her caprice,” she went on. “One of us is a woman who is still young enough to be without a wrinkle or a blemish. She has been a model for sculptors and has a great reputation as such. The goddess put it into her head that she must succeed in seducing all the famous philosophers who come to Athens to teach the art of virtue and self-control. In her vanity, she wishes to disgrace their wisdom and make them weep in her arms. She cracked many a hard nut by listening humbly to their teachings for evening after evening, and the philosophers praised her as the wisest of all women they had met, for she knew how to listen to them so attentively. But she was not after their wisdom. She used all her arts to make them stumble in their virtue. As soon as she succeeded, she drove them away and would not see them again, although some crawled on their hands and knees outside her door and one of them took his own life on her threshold. But some time ago, about six months or so, an itinerant Jew came to Athens.”
“A Jew!” I cried, leaping to my feet. My head prickled as if my hair were standing on end. The Hetaira misunderstood my surprise and went on.
“Yes, I know,” she said, “the Jews are powerful magicians. But this one was different. He spoke in the marketplace. He was questioned about his teaching by the Areopagus council, as is usual. He was a hook-nosed man, bald and bandy, but he was full of fire. The woman I am speaking of was seized with a wild desire to put the Jew’s teaching to shame too. She invited him to her house with other guests to listen to him, dressed herself demurely and covered her head to honor him. But whatever she did, she could not even tempt him, so she gave up and began to listen to him seriously. After he had left Athens, she became deeply depressed, shut up her house and now sees only the few Athenians who were impressed by the Jew’s teachings. The philosopher who can’t find a follower or two in Athens doesn’t exist. That was how the goddess took her revenge on her for her vanity, although she had brought great honor to Aphrodite. On my part, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Jew was not a genuine learned man but was bewitched by the goddess herself to resist all seductions. The poor woman is still so bitter over her humiliation that she threatens to leave our association and live a simple life on her savings.”
She laughed and gave me a look which was meant to encourage me to join in the laughter. But I felt no desire to do so. So she grew serious again.
“Youth flies swiftly past,” she admitted, “and beauty fades, but the true power of enchantment can be retained into old age with the favor of the goddess. I have an example of this in the woman who was until recently our oldest member and who at seventy could charm any youth.”
‘What is her name and where can I find her?” I asked.
“She is already ashes. The goddess allowed her to die of a heart attack in her own bed as she was practicing her art for the last time,” said the Hetaira.
“I don’t mean her, but the woman whom the Jew converted,” I said.
“Her name is Damaris. You can easily ask the way to her house. But I told you, she is ashamed of her misfortune and doesn’t receive guests anymore. What is wrong with my house?”
I remembered what courtesy demantled, praised her house, her entertainment, her sweet-smelling wine and her incomparable beauty, until she calmed down and forgot her indignation. After a suitable interval I rose, left my gift on a tray and went back to the inn in the most wretched state of mind. It was like a curse, that not even in Athens could I rid myself of Paul the Jew. Naturally he was the man of whom she had spoken.
I could not sleep for a long time. I listened to the night sounds of the inn until dawn crept into my room through the gaps in the shutters, and I wished I were dead or had never been born. I had nothing to grumble about. I was more succcssful than most of my contemporaries. I was healthy and whole, too, except for a slight limp, and that did not stop me doing anything unless I wanted to be a priest in some Roman collegium. Why had all happiness been taken from me? Why had Claudia so cruelly used my credulity? What made me despair so at meeting Paul?
Finally I fell into a deep sleep and slept until midday. When I awoke, I knew I had had a wonderful dream but I could not remember it. In contrast to my thoughts in the night, I had been filled with the knowledge that it was no chance matter that I had heard of the Hetaira Damaris, but that it contained some meaning. This conviction pleased me so much that I ate hungrily, went to a barber and had my hair curled. I also had my Greek mantle folded artistically.
I found Damaris’ handsome house quite easily. The door knocker was a Corinthian bronze lizard. I knocked many times. A man passing by made an indecent gesture and shook his head to show that I was waiting to no purpose. Finally the door was opened by a tearful slave-girl. She tried to close it again but I put my foot in and said the first thing that came into my head.
“In Corinth I met Paul the Jew. I wish to talk to your mistress. I want nothing else.”
The girl reluctandy let me into a room filled with colored statues, decorated couches and eastern tapestries. After a short while, Damaris came swiftly in, half-dressed and barefooted. Her face shone with glad expectation and she welcomed me with eager gestures of her hands.
“Who are you, stranger?” she asked. “Have you really a greeting for me from Paul the messenger?”
I tried to explain that I had met Paul some time ago in Corinth and had had a long talk with him, and the conversation had made such an impression on me that I could not forget it. When I had heard that Damaris had been in difficulties because of the teachings of the wandering Jew, I wanted to meet her and talk about the matter.
As I was speaking, I looked at Damaris and saw that she was a woman past the best years of her life. She must have been very beautiful and her slim figure was still faultless. Temptingly dressed and skillfully painted, her hair well brushed, in a dim light she would have made an impression on any man.
She sat down wearily on a couch and signed to me to do the same. She must have noticed my scrutiny, because she put her hand to her hair, as women do, adjusted her clothes and pulled her bare feet under the folds of her mantle. But more than that she did not do. Her eyes were wide open as she stared at me. Suddenly I felt content in her company. I smiled.
“That terrible Jew,” I said, “makes me feel like a rat in a trap. Is it the same with you, Damaris? Let’s both think of a way of opening the trap and getting our happiness back again.”
She smiled too, but raised her hand in a defensive gesture.
“Why are you afraid?” she said. “Paul is the messenger of the risen Christ and spreads the word of joy. I did not know the taste of true happiness in my life until I met him.”