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Title: Of Voices Long Dead
Author: R. D. Cumming [
More Titles by Cumming]
The following is not history, although we have placed it under this heading. It is the literal translation of a poem by Theocritus, a light in the ancient literature of the Greeks. Although the actual incident never occurred, it is typical of what was going on among that long dead people, and it is of as much importance to us as the most valuable record of history, and is of vital interest when viewed in retrospect from the year 1915, because it gives us a rare glimpse into the domestic manners of a people who lived when all the present civilized world was in the hands of savages--and how modern it all seems. The scene might have been enacted yesterday even to the smallest detail.
Imagine yourself in the city of Alexandria about the year 280 B.C.
"Some Syracusan women staying at Alexandria, agreed, on the occasion of a great religious solemnity--the feast of Adonis--to go together to the palace of King Ptolemy Philadelphus, to see the image of Adonis, which the Queen Arsinoe, Ptolemy's wife, had had decorated with peculiar magnificence. A hymn, by a celebrated performer, was to be recited over the image. The names of the two women are Gorgo and Praxinoe; their maids, who are mentioned in the poem, are called Eunoe and Eutychis. Gorgo comes by appointment to Praxinoe's house to fetch her, and there the dialogue begins."
We are following the translation of William Cleaver Wilkinson.
Gorgo. Is Praxinoe at home?
Praxinoe. My dear Gorgo, at last! Yes, here I am. Eunoe, find a chair--get a cushion for it.
G. It will do beautifully as it is.
P. Do sit down.
G. Oh, this gadabout spirit! I could hardly get to you, Praxinoe, through all the crowd and all the carriages. Nothing but heavy boots, nothing but men in uniform. And what a journey it is! My dear child, you really live too far off.
P. It is all that insane husband of mine. He has chosen to come out here to the end of the world, and take a hole of a place--for a house it is not--on purpose that you and I might not be neighbors. He is always just the same--anything to quarrel with one! anything for spite!
G. My dear, don't talk so of your husband before the little fellow. Just see how astonished he looks at you. Never mind, Zopyrio, my pet, she is not talking about papa.
P. Good heavens! the child does really understand.
G. Pretty papa!
P. That pretty papa of his the other day (though I told him beforehand to mind what he was about), when I sent him to shop to buy soap and rouge, he brought me home salt instead--stupid, great, big, interminable animal.
G. Mine is just the fellow to him.... But never mind; get on your things and let us be off to the palace to see the Adonis. I hear the queen's decorations are something splendid.
P. In grand people's houses everything is grand. What things you have seen in Alexandria! What a deal you will have to tell anybody who has never been here!
G. Come, we ought to be going.
P. Every day is holiday to people who have nothing to do. Eunoe, pick up your work; and take care, lazy girl, how you leave it lying about again; the cats find it just the bed they like. Come, stir yourself; fetch me some water, quick! I wanted the water first, and the girl brings me the soap. Never mind, give it me. Not all that, extravagant! Now pour out the water--stupid! why don't you take care of my dress? That will do. I have got my hands washed as it pleases God. Where is the key of the large wardrobe? Bring it here--quick!
G. Praxinoe, you can't think how well that dress, made full, as you've got it, suits you. Tell me, how much did it cost?--the dress by itself, I mean.
P. Don't talk of it, Gorgo; more than eight guineas of good hard money. And about the work on it I have almost worn my life out.
G. Well, you couldn't have done better.
P. Thank you. Bring me my shawl, and put my hat properly on my head--properly. No, child (to her little boy), I am not going to take you; there is a bogey on horseback, who bites. Cry as much as you like, I'm not going to have you lamed for life. Now we'll start. Nurse, take the little one and amuse him; call the dog in, and shut the street door. (They go out.) Good heavens! what a crowd of people! How on earth are we ever to get through all this? They are like ants--you can't count them. My dearest Gorgo, what will become of us? Here are the Royal Horse Guards. My good man, don't ride over me! Look at that bay horse rearing bolt upright; what a vicious one! Eunoe, you mad girl, do take care!--that horse will certainly be the death of the man on his back. How glad I am now that I left the child at home!
G. All right, Praxinoe, we are safe behind them, and they have gone on to where they are stationed.
P. Well, yes, I begin to revive again. From the time I was a little girl I have had more horror of horses and snakes than of anything in the world. Let us get on; here's a great crowd coming this way upon us.
G. (to an old woman). Mother, are you from the palace?
Old Woman. Yes, my dears.
G. Has one a tolerable chance of getting there?
O.W. My pretty young lady, the Greeks got to Troy by dint of trying hard; trying will do anything in this world.
G. The old creature has delivered herself of an oracle and departed.
P. Women can tell you everything about everything. Jupiter's marriage with Juno not excepted.
G. Look, Praxinoe, what a squeeze at the palace gates!
P. Tremendous! Take hold of me, Gorgo, and you, Eunoe, take hold of Eutychis!--tight hold, or you'll be lost. Here we go in all together. Hold tight to us, Eunoe. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Gorgo, there's my scarf torn right in two. For heaven's sake, my good man, as you hope to be saved, take care of my dress!
Stranger. I'll do what I can, but it doesn't depend upon me.
P. What heaps of people! They push like a drove of pigs.
Str. Don't be frightened, ma'am; we are all right.
P. May you be all right, my dear sir, to the last day you live, for the care you have taken of us! What a kind, considerate man! There is Eunoe jammed in a squeeze. Push, you goose, push! Capital! We are all of us the right side of the door, as the bridegroom said when he had locked himself in with the bride.
G. Praxinoe, come this way. Do but look at that work, how delicate it is! how exquisite! Why, they might wear it in heaven!
P. Heavenly patroness of needle-women, what hands we hired to do that work? Who designed those beautiful patterns? They seem to stand up and move about, as if they were real--as if they were living things and not needlework. Well, man is a wonderful creature! And look, look, how charming he lies there on his silver couch, with just a soft down on his cheeks, that beloved Adonis--Adonis, whom one loves, even though he is dead!
Another Stranger. You wretched woman, do stop your incessant chatter. Like turtles, you go on forever. They are enough to kill one with their broad lingo--nothing but a, a, a.
G. Lord, where does the man come from? What is it to you if we are chatterboxes? Order about your own servants. Do you give orders to Syracusan women? If you want to know, we came originally from Corinth, as Bellerophon did; we speak Peloponnesian. I suppose Dorian women may be allowed to have a Dorian accent.
P. Oh, honey-sweet Proserpine, let us have no more masters than the one we've got! We don't the least care for you; pray don't trouble yourself for nothing.
G. Be quiet, Praxinoe! That first-rate singer, the Argive woman's daughter, is going to sing the Adonis hymn. She is the same who was chosen to sing the dirge last year. We are sure to have something first rate from her. She is going through her airs and graces ready to begin.
* * * * *
And here the voices die away in the remote past. How difficult it is to believe that this dialogue took place more than two thousand years ago!
As a last glimpse of such a beautiful, modernly remote gem of conversation, we will give a few more words to show what those ancient gossipy ladies thought of their husbands.
The following are the last surviving words which Gorgo gave to the world:
Gorgo. Praxinoe, certainly women are wonderful things. That lucky woman, to know all that; and luckier still to have such a voice! And now we must see about getting home. My husband has not had his dinner. That man is all vinegar, and nothing else; and if you keep him waiting for his dinner he's dangerous to go near. Adieu! precious Adonis, and may you find us all well when you come next year!
He might have been a husband of yesterday!
For how many years have the husbands been coming home from work daily to partake of a meal which an attentive and tender wife has prepared for him? This was twenty-two hundred years ago.
[The end]
R. D. Cumming's short story: Of Voices Long Dead
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