Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

“Rejoice, Cleophrades and Ehephilos! Two great creations appear to celebrate Hellas here, thousands of stadiums away from our homeland. You, Athenian, surpassed everything you created before. And you, apprentice, have become equal to some of the greatest artists. I am pleased that both goddesses are not novelties and not built to suit the fickle taste of current generation. They are examples of the original beauty, so difficult for the artists to achieve and so necessary for the proper understanding of life. Let us sit and be quiet as we wait for dawn.”

Thais, captivated by both statues, did not notice that the moon had set. The outlines of both sculptures changed in the predawn twilight. Acsiopena seemed to have stepped further back into the shadows and Anadiomena dissolved in the air.

With stunning suddenness, the rosy eyes of Eos flashed from behind the mountain range with the appearance of the bright dawn, and one more miracle took place. Crimson light played over the polished silver body of Anadiomena and the goddess lost the starry weightlessness of the moonlit night. She appeared before the enraptured spectators in all her light-filled, nearly tangible might.

Competing with her in power and in beauty of clear and powerful outlines, Artemis the Avenger no longer appeared to be a menacing black shadow. She stood like a warrior approaching her goal without rage or anger. Each line of Ehephilos’ statue was sharper than those of the sculpture by Cleophrades, embodying inevitability. The power of the rising Anadiomena resonated with the reddish black embodiment of fate. Both sides of existence — the beauty of a dream and the merciless responsibility for one’s actions — stood together so overwhelmingly that Lysippus shook his head. He said the two goddesses should be displayed separately, otherwise they would cause confusion and contradictory emotions.

Thais silently took off her wreath, put it onto Cleophrades and knelt in front of the sculptor. The moved Athenian lifted her up and kissed her. Eris followed her friend’s example, but she did not kneel before her much younger sculptor. Instead, she clutched him in a firm embrace and kissed him fully on the lips. The kiss lasted a long time. For the first time, the Athenian saw the unapproachable priestess as a woman and realized that those who sought higher bliss in the temple of the Mother of Gods did not risk and give their lives in vain. When it was Thais’ turn to kiss Ehephilos, the sculptor barely responded to the touch of her lips, busy as he was in trying to contain his breath and his madly beating heart.

Lysippus offered to continue the “ritual of the gratitude of muses”, as he referred to Thais’ and Eris’ actions, at the table. There the black Khios wine with the scent of rose petals was already prepared. This was a rarity even for the “glory of Helenian arts”. There was also an oynohoya vessel, filled with water from freshly melted snow. Everyone lifted the precious glass goblet to the glory, health and joy of the two sculptors, Cleophrades and Ehephilos, as well as to the master of masters, Lysippus. The artists responded with praise to their models.

“The day before yesterday an artist from Hellas told me about a new painting by Apelles, the Ionian, at the temple on the island of Cos,” Lysippus said. “It too shows Aphrodite Anadiomena. The painting is already famous. It is hard to judge by description. Painting and sculpture can only be compared by the level of their impact upon people.”

“Perhaps it is because I am a sculptor,” Cleophrades said. “But I feel that your portrait of Alexander is deeper and stronger than his painted portrait by Apelles. In the past, in the last century, Apollodorus of Athens and Parrasius of Ethes could express beauty beyond many sculptures with a mere outline. Our great artist Nikias helped Praxiteles by painting marble with hot wax paints and giving it a miraculous semblance to a living body. You love bronze and you don’t need Nikias; however, one cannot help but admit that a union between a painter and a sculptor is truly great for marble.”

“Paintings by Nikias are great on their own,” Lysippus said. “His Andromeda is a true Helenian, death-defying courage combined with her youthful desire to live, although according to the legend she is an Ethiopian princess, like Eris. This silver Anadiomena may well turn out to be better both in workmanship and in the beauty of the model. As far as Artemis is concerned, there is nothing like her in Hellas and has never been. Not even in the temple at Ethes, where artists have been competing to create the best image of Artemis for four centuries. There are seventy of her statues there. Of course they did not possess the modern skill in the ancient times.”

“I know of a splendid Artemis at Leros,” Cleophrades said. “I think it has the same idea as the one by Ehephilos, although it is a century older.”

“What is she like?” Eris asked, her voice tight with a tinge of jealousy.

“She is not like you. She is a maiden who has yet to know a man but is already blossoming with the first feminine beauty. She is filled with the fire of sensations and her breasts nearly burst from insatiable desire. She leans forward with her arm outstretched, like your Artemis, but before a huge Cretan bull. The monster, stubborn yet already overcome, is beginning to kneel before her.”

“According to an ancient legend, the Cretan bull is defeated by a woman,” Thais said. “I wish I could see a sculpture of that.”

“You would sooner see the battle at Granic,” Lysippus said with a laugh, implying the tremendous group of twenty-five horsemen he couldn’t seem to finish, much to the displeasure of Alexander, who wished to erect it in Trojan Alexandria.

“I hesitated at length, whether to show Eris my Artemis with the dagger fully exposed,” Ehephilos said thoughtfully.

“You did well not to show it. A muse can carry a sword, but only to defend, never attack,” Lysippus said.

“Acsiopena, much like the black priestess of Kibela, attacks when she punishes,” Thais objected. “You know, teacher, only here in Persia and in Egypt, where an artist is recognized as a master of elevating royalty, did I realize true meaning of beauty. There is no spiritual elevation without it. People must be lifted beyond the usual level of everyday life. An artist, by creating beauty, gives comfort in a memorial, poeticizes the past in a monument, expands heart and soul in the images of gods, women and heroes. One must not distort beauty, or else it would stop giving strength, consolation and spiritual fortitude. Beauty is fleeting, our touch with it is all too brief, and that is why, as we grieve the loss of it, we gain deeper understanding and appreciation of beauty yet to come, and look for it that much harder. That is why the sadness of songs, paintings and tomb memorials is so lovely.”

“You have surpassed yourself, Thais,” Lysippus exclaimed. “Wisdom speaks through your lips. Art cannot disgust and corrupt or else it would stop being art as we Helenians understand it. Art either rejoices in the splendor of beauty or grieves for the loss of it. It can only be so.”

These words by the great sculptor would forever remain with the four that met dawn at his house.

Thais was sorry Hesiona could not have been there, but after having thought about it she realized the little celebration had to include only the artists, their models and the main patron of the endeavor. Hesiona saw the statues the following day and burst into tears with delight and a strange anxiety. She remained pensive all day and only managed to sort out her emotions in the evening, when the two friends were settling for the night in Thais’ room. This was where they often stayed when they wanted to talk.