There you acted your stony part to perfection. As you could neither follow her, nor make inquiries of the Smyrnaean, it only remains for you to describe her as best you can, on the chance of my recognizing her.
You know not what you ask. It is not in the power of words—certainly not of my words—to portray such wondrous beauty; scarcely could an Apelles, a Zeuxis, a Parrhasius,— a Phidias or an Alcamenes, do justice to it; as for my flimsy workmanship, it will but insult the original.
Well, never mind; what was she like? There can be no harm in trying your hand. What if the portrait be somewhat out of drawing?—the critic is your good friend.
I think my best way out of it will be to call in the aid of some of the old masters I have named: let them fashion the likeness for me.
Well, but—will they come? They have been dead so long.
That is easily managed: but you must not mind answering me a few questions.
You have but to ask.
Were you ever at Cnidus?
I was.
Then you have seen the Aphrodite, of course?
That masterpiece of Praxiteles’s art! I have.
And heard the story they tell there,—of the man who fell in love with the statue, and contrived to get shut into the temple alone, and there enjoyed such favours as a statue is able to bestow.—But that is neither here nor there.—You have seen the Cnidian Aphrodite, anyhow; now I want to know whether you have also seen our own Aphrodite of the Gardens,—the Alcamenes.
I must be a dullard of dullards, if that most exquisite of Alcamenes’s works had escaped my notice.
I forbear to ask whether in the course of your many visits to the Acropolis you ever observed the Sosandra of Calamis
Frequently.
That is really enough for my purpose. But I should just like to know what you consider to be Phidias’s best work.
Can you ask?—The Lemnian Athene, which bears the artist’s own signature; oh, and of course the Amazon leaning on her spear.