Georg Ebers - Premium Collection: Historical Novels, Stories & Autobiography. Georg Ebers
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the woman you love; while I, miserable old fellow, am blamed by everybody, and totter to my grave without wife or children to weep for me and pray the gods to be merciful to my poor soul.”
“Why think of such things?” cried Zopyrus, flourishing the wine-cup. “There’s no woman so perfect that her husband does not, at least once a day, repent that he ever took a wife. Be merry, old friend, and remember that it’s all your own fault. If you thought a wife would make you happy, why did not you do as I have done? I am only twenty-two years old and have five stately wives and a troop of the most beautiful slaves in my house.”
Araspes smiled bitterly.
“And what hinders you from marrying now?” said Gyges. “You are a match for many a younger man in appearance, strength, courage and perseverance. You are one of the king’s nearest relations too—I tell you, Araspes, you might have twenty young and beautiful wives.”
“Look after your own affairs,” answered Araspes. “In your place, I certainly should not have waited to marry till I was thirty.”
“An oracle has forbidden my marrying.”
“Folly? how can a sensible man care for what an oracle says? It is only by dreams, that the gods announce the future to men. I should have thought that your own father was example enough of the shameful way in which those lying priests deceive their best friends.”
“That is a matter which you do not understand, Araspes.”
“And never wish to, boy, for you only believe in oracles because you don’t understand them, and in your short-sightedness call everything that is beyond your comprehension a miracle. And you place more confidence in anything that seems to you miraculous, than in the plain simple truth that lies before your face. An oracle deceived your father and plunged him into ruin, but the oracle is miraculous, and so you too, in perfect confidence, allow it to rob you of happiness!”
“That is blasphemy, Araspes. Are the gods to be blamed because we misunderstand their words?”
“Certainly: for if they wished to benefit us they would give us, with the words, the necessary penetration for discovering their meaning. What good does a beautiful speech do me, if it is in a foreign language that I do not understand?”
“Leave off this useless discussion,” said Darius, “and tell us instead, Araspes, how it is that, though you congratulate every man on becoming a bridegroom, you yourself have so long submitted to be blamed by the priests, slighted at all entertainments and festivals, and abused by the women, only because you choose to live and die a bachelor?”
Araspes looked down thoughtfully, then shook himself, took a long draught from the wine-cup, and said, “I have my reasons, friends, but I cannot tell them now.”
“Tell them, tell them,” was the answer.
“No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot. This cup I drain to the health of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my favorite, Darius.”
“Thanks, Araspes!” exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his lips.
“You mean well, I know,” muttered Darius, looking down gloomily.
“What’s this, you son of Hystaspes?” cried the old man, looking more narrowly at the serious face of the youth. “Dark looks like these don’t sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his dearest one. Is not Gobryas’ little daughter the noblest of all the young Persian girls after Atossa? and isn’t she beautiful?”
“Artystone has every talent and quality that a daughter of the Achaemenidae ought to possess,” was Darius’s answer, but his brow did not clear as he said the words.
“Well, if you want more than that, you must be very hard to please.”
Darius raised his goblet and looked down into the wine.
“The boy is in love, as sure as my name is Araspes!” exclaimed the elder man.
“What a set of foolish fellows you are,” broke in Zopyrus at this exclamation. “One of you has remained a bachelor in defiance of all Persian customs; another has been frightened out of marrying by an oracle; Bartja has determined to be content with only one wife; and Darius looks like a Destur chanting the funeral-service, because his father has told him to make himself happy with the most beautiful and aristocratic girl in Persia!”
“Zopyrus is right,” cried Araspes. “Darius is ungrateful to fortune.”
Bartja meanwhile kept his eyes fixed on the friend, who was thus blamed by the others. He saw that their jests annoyed him, and feeling his own great happiness doubly in that moment, pressed Darius’s hand, saying: “I am so sorry that I cannot be present at your wedding. By the time I come back, I hope you will be reconciled to your father’s choice.”
“Perhaps,” said Darius, “I may be able to show a second and even a third wife by that time.”
“‘Anahita’ grant it!” exclaimed Zopyrus. “The Achaemenidae would soon become extinct, if every one were to follow such examples as Gyges and Araspes have set us. And your one wife, Bartja, is really not worth talking about. It is your duty to marry three wives at once, in order to keep up your father’s family—the race of Cyrus.”
“I hate our custom of marrying many wives,” answered Bartja. “Through doing this, we make ourselves inferior to the women, for we expect them to remain faithful to us all our lives, and we, who are bound to respect truth and faithfulness above every thing else, swear inviolable love to one woman to-day, and to another to-morrow.”
“Nonsense!” cried Zopyrus. “I’d rather lose my tongue than tell a he to a man, but our wives are so awfully deceitful, that one has no choice but to pay them back in their own coin.”
“The Greek women are different,” said Bartja, “because they are differently treated. Sappho told me of one, I think her name was Penelope, who waited twenty years faithfully and lovingly for her husband, though every one believed he was dead, and she had fifty lovers a day at her house.”
“My wives would not wait so long for me,” said Zopyrus laughing. “To tell the truth, I don’t think I should be sorry to find an empty house, if I came back after twenty years. For then I could take some new wives into my harem, young and beautiful, instead of the unfaithful ones, who, besides, would have grown old. But alas! every woman does not find some one to run away with her, and our women would rather have an absent husband than none at all.”
“If your wives could hear what you are saying!” said Araspes.
“They would declare war with me at once, or, what is still worse, conclude a peace with one another.”
“How would that be worse?”
“How? it is easy to see, that you have had no experience.”
“Then let us into the secrets of your married life.”
“With pleasure. You can easily fancy, that five wives in one house do not live quite so peacefully as five doves in a cage; mine at least carry on an uninterrupted, mortal warfare. But I have accustomed myself to that, and their sprightliness even amuses me. A year ago, however, they came to terms with one another, and this day of peace was the most miserable in my life.”
“You are jesting.”
“No, indeed, I am quite in earnest. The wretched eunuch who had to keep watch over the five, allowed them to see an old jewel-merchant from Tyre. Each of them chose a separate and expensive set of jewels. When I came home Sudabe came up and begged for money to pay for these ornaments. The things were too dear, and I refused. Every one of the five then came and begged me separately for the money; I refused each of them point blank and went off to court. When I came back, there were all my wives weeping side by side, embracing one another and calling each other fellow-sufferers. These former enemies rose up against me with the most touching unanimity, and so overwhelmed me with revilings and threats that I left the room. They