Part 5

We, we applaud with great cries, whether, smiling over thy shoulder, thou agitatest with a shiver thy convulsed muscular croup, or whether thou undulatest, almost extended, to the rhythm of thy memories.

CXV

THE FLUTE-PLAYER

Melixo, thy legs joined, thy body inclined, thine arms forward, thou slippest thy light double-flute between thy lips moist with wine, and thou playest about the couch where Teleas still embraces me.

Am I not most imprudent, I who hire so young a girl to distract my hours of labor? I who show her thus naked to the curious looks of my lovers, am I not careless?

No, Melixo, little musician, thou art an honest friend. Yesterday thou didst not refuse to change thy flute for another when I despaired of accomplishing a love full of difficulties. But thou art safe.

For I know well of what thou thinkest. Thou awaitest the end of this night of excesses which animates thee cruelly and in vain, and, at the first dawn, thou wilt run in the street, with thine only friend Psyllos, to thy little broken mattress.

CXVI

THE WARM GIRDLE

“Thou thinkest thou lovest me no longer, Teleas, and since a month thou hast passed thy nights at the table, as though the fruits, the wines, the honey, could make thee forget my lips. Thou thinkest that thou lovest me no longer, poor fool!”

Saying that, I loosened my moist girdle and I rolled it about his head. It was still quite warm with the heat of my body; the perfume of my skin issued from its fine meshes.

He breathed it deeply, his eyes closed, then I felt that he returned to me and I even saw very clearly his reawakening desires that he hid not from me, but, as a ruse, I resisted him.

“No, my friend. This evening, Lysippos possesses me. Farewell!” And I added, as I fled: “O gormand of fruits and greens! the little garden of Bilitis has only one fig, but it is good.”

CXVII

TO A HAPPY HUSBAND

I envy thee, Agorakrites, for having a wife so zealous. It is she herself who attends to the stable, and in the morning, in place of making love, she gives drink to the cattle.

Thou shouldst rejoice in her. How many others, wouldst thou say, dream of base pleasures, waking the night, sleeping the day, and yet demanding from adultery a criminal satiety?

Yes; thy wife labors in the stable. They say even that she has a thousand tendernesses for the youngest of thine asses. Ah! Ha! there is a good animal. He has a black spot over his eyes.

They say that she plays between his hoofs, under his soft gray belly.... But those who say that are slanderers. If thine ass pleases her, Agorakrites, it is without doubt that she recalls thy look in his.

CXVIII

TO A WANDERER

The love of women is the most beautiful of all that mortals experience, and thou wouldst think so, Kleo, if thou hadst a truly voluptuous soul; but thou dreamest only vanities.

Thou losest thy nights in cherishing youths who are ungrateful to us. Therefore regard them! How ugly they are! Compare to their round heads, our thick hair; seek our white breasts upon their chests.

Beside their narrow flanks, consider our luxuriant hips, broad, hollowed couches for lovers. Say, above all, what human lips, except hers who wishes it, can elaborate the pleasures?

Thou art sick, O Kleo, but a woman can cure thee. Go to young Satyra, the daughter of my neighbor Gorgo. Her croup is a rose of the sun, and she will not refuse thee the pleasure she herself prefers.

CXIX

INTIMACIES

Why I have become Lesbian, O Bilitis, thou askest? But what player of the flute is not, a little? I am poor; I have no bed; I lie with her who wishes me and I thank her with what I have.

While yet small, we dance naked; those dances, thou knowest them, my dear: the twelve desires of Aphrodite. We regard each other, we compare our nudities and we find them so pretty.

During the long night, we inflame ourselves for the pleasure of the spectators; but our ardor is not feigned and we feel it so much that sometimes, behind the doors one of us may animate her companion who consents.

How then can we love a man who is rough with us? He seizes us as girls and leaves us before the delight. Thou, thou art a woman, thou knowest what I mean. Thou canst take it as for thyself.

CXX

THE COMMAND

“Old woman, hear me. I give a festival in three days. It is to divert me. Thou wilt lend me all thy girls. How many hast thou, and what can they do?”

“I have seven. Three dance the Kordax with the scarf and the phallos. Nephele of the sleek armpits will mimic the love of doves between her rosy breasts.

“One singer in a broidered peplos will chant the songs of Rhodes, accompanied by two auletrides who will have garlands of myrtle rolled about their brown legs.”

“It is well. See that they be freshly depilated, laved and perfumed from head to foot, ready for other games if they are demanded. Go give the orders. Farewell.”

CXXI

THE FIGURE OF PASIPHAE

In a debauch that two young men and some courtesans made at my house, where love gushed out like wine, Damalis, in honor of her name, danced the Figure of Pasiphae.

She had caused to be made at Kition two masks of a cow and of a bull, for herself and for Karmantidea. She wore terrible horns, and a hairy tail upon her croup.

The other women, led by me, held the flowers and the torches, and we turned about ourselves with cries and we caressed Damalis with the tips of our pendent tresses.

Their lowings and our songs and the dancing of our loins lasted longer than the night. The empty chamber is still warm. I regard my reddened knees and the canthares of Kôs where the roses float.

CXXII

THE JUGGLER

When the first dawn blended with the feeble glimmer of the torches, I sent into the orgie a flute-player, vicious and agile, who trembled a little, being cold.

Praise the little girl of the blue lids, of the short hair, of the sharp breasts, clad only in a girdle from which hung yellow ribbons and the stems of black iris.

Praise her! for she was adroit and performed difficult tricks. She juggled with hoops, without breaking anything in the room, she glided through them like a grasshopper.

Sometimes she made a wheel, bending upon her hands and feet. Or, with her two legs in the air and her knees apart, she curved herself backward and touched the ground, laughing.

CXXIII

THE DANCE OF THE FLOWERS

Anthis, dancing-girl of Lydia, has seven veils about her. She unrolls the yellow veil, her black hair spreads out. The rosy veil slips from her mouth. The white veil falls, revealing her naked arms.

She releases her little breasts from the red veil that unties itself. She lets fall the green veil from her double, rounded croup. She draws the blue veil from her shoulders, but she presses upon her puberty the last transparent veil.

The young men supplicate her; she tosses her head backward. Only at the sound of the flutes, she tears it a little, then, suddenly, and with the gestures of the dance, she culls the flowers of her body.

Singing: “Where are my roses? where are my perfumed violets! Where are my tufts of parsley!--Behold my roses, I give them to you. Behold my violets, will you have them? Behold my fair curled parsley.”

CXXIV

VIOLENCE

No, thou shalt not take me by force, count not on that, Lamprias. If thou hast heard it said that someone violated Parthenis, know that she gave herself, for one plays not with us without being invited.

Oh! do thy best, make efforts. See: it is a failure. I scarcely defend myself, yet. I will not call for help. And I do not even struggle; but I stir. Poor friend, it is a failure again.

Continue. This little game amuses me. The more as I am sure to conquer. Again an unhappy essay, and perhaps thou wilt be less disposed to show me thine extinguished desires.

Butcher, what doest thou! Cur! thou wilt break my wrists! and this knee, this knee which opens me! Ah! go, now, it is a fine victory, that of ravishing a young girl, in tears, upon the ground.

CXXV

SONG

The first gave me a collar, a collar of pearls, worth a city with its palaces and its temples, and its treasures and its slaves.

The second made verses for me. He said that my tresses were black as those of the night and my eyes blue as those of the morning.

The third was so beautiful that his mother could not embrace him without reddening. He put his hands upon my knees and his lips upon my naked foot.

Thou, thou hast told me nothing, thou hast given me nothing, for thou art poor. And thou art not beautiful, but it is thee I love.

CXXVI

ADVICE TO A LOVER

If thou wouldst be loved by a woman, O young friend, whoever she may be, tell her not that thou wishest her, but have her see thee every day; then disappear, to return.

If she address her speech to thee, be amorous without eagerness. She, of herself, will come to thee. But thou must take her by force, the day when she intends to give herself.

When thou receivest her in thy bed neglect thine own pleasure. The hands of an amorous woman are trembling and without caresses. Excuse them from being zealous.

But thou, take no repose. Prolong thy kisses to breathlessness. Allow her no sleep, even though she beg it of thee. Kiss always the part of her body toward which she turns her eyes.

CXXVII

FRIENDS AT DINNER

Myromeris and Maskale, my friends, come with me, for I have no lover this evening and, lying upon beds of byssus, we will converse over our dinner.

A night of repose will do you good; you shall sleep in my bed, even without fards and with unkempt hair. Wear a simple tunic of wool and leave your jewels in their box.

No one shall make you dance to admire your legs and the heavy movements of your loins. No one shall demand the Sacred Figures to judge whether you are amorous.

And I have not commanded for us two flute-players with fair mouths, but two pans of browned peas, cakes of honey, fried croquettes, and my last leathern bottle of Kôs.

CXXVIII

THE TOMB OF A YOUNG COURTESAN

Here lies the delicate body of Lydé, little dove, the most joyous of all the courtesans, who more than all others loved orgies and floating hair, soft dances and tunics of hyacinth.

More than all others she loved the savory glottisms, the caresses upon her cheek, games that only the lamp saw, and love which bruised the limbs. And now she is a little shadow.

But before putting her in the tomb, they have arranged her hair marvelously and laid her in roses; even the stone which covers her is all impregnated with essences and perfumes.

Sacred earth, nurse of all, receive gently the poor dead, let her sleep in thine arms, O Mother! and make to grow about the stèle, not nettles and briers, but tender white violets.

CXXIX

THE LITTLE ROSE MERCHANT

Yesterday, Nais said to me, I was in the market when a little girl in red tatters passed, carrying roses, before a group of young men. And this is what I heard:

“Buy something from me.--Explain thyself, little one, for we know not what thou sellest; thyself? thy roses or all at once?--If you will buy from me all these flowers, you may have mine for nothing.

“And how much wishest thou for thy roses?--I must have six oboli for my mother, else I shall be beaten like a bitch.--Follow us. Thou shalt have a drachma.--Then, shall I seek my little sister?”

And both followed those men. They had no breasts, Bilitis. They knew not even how to smile. They trotted along like two kids which one leads to the butcher.

CXXX

THE DISPUTE

Ah! by Aphrodite, behold thee! bloody head! rottenness! infection! sterile one! carcanet! clumsy one! good for nothing! evil sow! Do not try to escape me; come yet nearer.

Behold this woman of the sailors, who knows not even how to fold her garment upon the shoulder and who puts on the fard so badly that the black of her brows runs over her cheek in floods of ink.

Thou art Phœnician: lie with those of thy race. As for me, my father was Hellene: I have right over all those who wear the petasus. And even over the others if it pleases me so.

Stop not in my street or I will send thee to Hades to make love with Karon and I will say very justly: “Let the earth cover thee lightly,” so that the dogs may dig thee out.

CXXXI

MELANCHOLY

I shiver; the night is cool, and the forest all wet. Why hast thou led me here? is my great bed not softer than this moss strewn with stones?

My flowery robe will be spotted with verdure; my hair will be tangled with twigs; my neck; look at my neck, already soiled with the damp earth.

Formerly, I followed into the woods he who.... Ah! leave me for a time. I am sad, this evening. Leave me, without speaking, my hand over my eyes.

In truth, canst thou not wait! are we beasts to take each other so! Leave me. Thou shalt not open my knees nor my lips. Even my eyes shall stay closed, lest they weep.

CXXXII

THE LITTLE PHANION

Stranger, pause; see who is signing to thee: it is little Phanion of Kôs, she merits that thou shouldst choose her.

See, her hair is curled like parsley, her skin is smooth as the down of a bird. She is small and brown. She speaks nicely.

If thou wouldst follow her, she would not demand of thee all the money from thy voyage: no, only a drachma or a pair of slippers.

Thou wilt find that she has a good bed, fresh figs, milk, wine, and, if it be cold, there will be a fire.

CXXXIII

INDICATIONS

Passer-by who pauses, if thou wishest slender thighs and nervous loins, a firm throat, knees that clasp, go to Plango; she is my friend.

If thou seekest a laughing girl, with exuberant breasts, delicately shaped, the croup plump and the loins hollowed, go to the corner of this street, where Spidhorodellis dwells.

But if long tranquil hours in the arms of a courtesan, soft skin, the warmth of the body and the fragrance of the hair please thee, seek Milto; and thou wilt be content.

Expect not too much from love; but profit from its experience. One may demand all from a woman when she is naked, when it is night, and when the hundred drachmæ are upon the hearth.

CXXXIV

THE MERCHANT OF WOMEN

“Who is there?--I am the merchant of women. Open the door, Sostrata, I offer thee two opportunities. This is the first. Approach, Anasyrtolis, and strip thyself.--She is a trifle large.--

“She is a beauty. Besides, she dances the Kordax and she knows eighty songs.--Turn thyself. Raise the arms. Lift the hair. Give me thy foot. Smile. It is good.--

“Now this one.--She is too young!--Not at all, she was twelve years old the day before yesterday and thou wilt teach her nothing.--Remove thy tunic. Let me see? No, she is thin.--

“I demand but one mina.--And the first?--Two minæ, thirty.--Three minæ for the two?--It is said.--Enter here and bathe yourselves. And thou, farewell.”

CXXXV

THE STRANGER

Stranger, go not farther into the city. Thou wilt not find elsewhere than with me girls younger or more expert. I am Sostrata, celebrated even beyond the sea.

See this one whose eyes are green as water in the grass. Thou wouldst not have her? Here are other eyes which are black as violets, and hair three cubits long.

I have better still. Xantho, open thy cyclas. Stranger, these breasts are hard as quinces; touch them. And her fair belly, thou seest, carries the three folds of Cypris.

I bought her with her sister who is not yet of the age for love, but who will second her usefully. By the two goddesses! thou art of a noble race. Phyllis and Xantho, follow the illustrious one!

CXXXVI

THE REMEMBRANCE OF MNASIDIKA

They danced, one before the other, with rapid, flying movements; they seemed always wishing to entangle, and yet touched not at all, unless with the tips of their lips.

When they turned their backs in dancing, they looked at each other, the head upon the shoulder, the perspiration gleaming upon their lifted arms, and their fine hair passing over their breasts.

The languor of their eyes, the fire of their cheeks, the gravity of their faces, were three ardent songs. They grazed each other furtively, they bent their bodies upon their hips.

And suddenly they fell, to finish the soft dance upon the earth.... Remembrance of Mnasidika, it was then thou camest to me, and all, except thy dear image, troubled me.

CXXXVII

THE YOUNG MOTHER

Believe not, Myromeris, that, in becoming a mother, thou hast lessened thy beauty. See how thy body, beneath thy robe, has drowned its slim form in a voluptuous softness.

Thy breasts are two vast flowers, reversed upon thy chest, whose cut stems give out a milky sap. Thy softened belly swoons beneath the hand.

And now consider the tiny babe born of a quiver which thou didst feel, one evening, in the arms of a passer-by whose name thou dost not even know. Dream of her distant destiny.

Her eyes which now scarcely open will one day be elongated by a line of black fard, and they will sow among men sorrow or joy by one movement of their lashes.

CXXXVIII

THE UNKNOWN

He sleeps. I know him not. He horrifies me. Nevertheless, his purse is filled with gold and he gave four drachmæ to the slave on entering. I expect a mina for myself.

But I told the Phrygian to enter the bed in my place. He was drunk and took her for me. I would rather die in torment than stretch myself out near this man.

Alas! I dream of the meadows of Tauros.... I was a little virgin.... Then I had a light heart, and I was so mad with amorous envy that I hated my married sisters.

What would I not have done to obtain that which I have refused this night! Today, my breasts are pliant and in my worn heart, Eros slumbers from lassitude.

CXXXIX

THE CHEAT

I awaken.... Is he then gone! He has left something! No: two empty amphoras and some soiled flowers. All the rug is red with wine.

I have slept, but I am still drunk.... With whom, then, did I return?... At least, we lay down together. The bed is still steeped with sweat.

Perhaps there were several; the bed is so disordered. I know no more.... But someone saw them! There is my Phrygian. She still sleeps across the door.

I give her a kick in the breast and I cry: “Bitch, thou couldst not....” I am so hoarse that I can say no more.

CXL

THE LAST LOVER

Child, do not pass without loving me, I am still beautiful in the night; thou shalt see how much warmer my autumn is than the springtime of another.

Seek not for love from virgins. Love is a difficult art in which young girls are little versed. I have prepared it all my life to give it to my last lover.

My last lover shall be thou; I know it. Behold my mouth, for which a nation has paled with desire. Behold my hair, the same hair that Psappha the Great has sung.

I will gather for thee all that remains of my lost youth. I will burn even the memories. I will give thee the flute of Lykas, the girdle of Mnasidika.

CXLI

THE DOVE

For a long time I have been beautiful; the day comes when I shall no longer be a woman. And then I will know heart-rendering memories, burning solitary envy and tears in my hands.

If life is a long dream, of what good to resist? Now, four and five times a night, I demand amorous enjoyment, and when my loins are exhausted, I sink asleep wherever my body falls.

In the morning, I open my eyelids and I shiver in my hair. A dove is upon my window; I ask of her, in what month we are. She says to me: “It is the month when women are in love.”

Ah! whatever be the month, the dove speaks truly, Cypris. And I throw my two arms about my lover, and with great tremblings, I stretch my still benumbed legs to the foot of the bed.

CXLII

THE RAIN OF THE MORNING

The night has worn away. The stars are far away. See, the last courtesans have returned with their lovers. And I, in the rain of morning, I write this verse upon the sand.

The leaves are laden with brilliant water. The rivulets across the paths drag along the earth and the dead leaves. The rain, drop by drop, makes holes in my song.

Oh! how sad and alone I am here! The young regard me not; the old have forgotten me. It is well. They will learn my verses, and the children of their children.

That is what neither Myrtale nor Thais nor Glykera may say, the day when their fair cheeks deepen with wrinkles. Those who shall love after me, will sing my strophes together.

CXLIII

THE TRUE DEATH

Aphrodite; merciless goddess, thou hast willed that, for me also, the happy youth of beautiful hair shall disappear in a few days. Why am I not dead now!

I have regarded myself in my mirror: I have no longer smiles or tears. O sweet face that loved Mnasidika, I cannot believe that thou wast mine.

Can it be that all is ended! I have not yet lived five times eight years; it seems to me that I was born only yesterday, and now, behold, I must say: No one will love me more.

All my cut hair, I have twisted into a girdle, and I offer it to thee, Cypris eternal! I will never cease to adore thee. This is the last verse of the pious Bilitis.

THE TOMB OF BILITIS

FIRST EPITAPH

In the country where the springs rise from the sea, and where the bed of flowers is made of leaves of rock, I, Bilitis, was born.

My mother was Phœnician; my father, Damophylos, Hellene. My mother taught me the songs of Byblos, sad as the first dawn.

I have adored Astarte at Cypros. I have known Psappha at Lesbos. I have sung as I have loved. If I have loved well, Passer-by, tell it to thy daughter.

And sacrifice not for me a black goat; but in soft libation, press her teats above my tomb.

SECOND EPITAPH

Upon the sombre banks of Melos, at Tamassos of Pamphylia, I, daughter of Damophylos, Bilitis, was born. I repose far from my native land, thou seest.

Even as a child, I learned the loves of Adonis and of Astarte, the mysteries of the holy Serfs, and the death and return to Her-of-the-rounded-eyes.