Phryne's Test

FULL leave to choose the statue that I will
From out the throng that fills thy sculptured hall,
And make it mine ? Ran not thy promise thus ?

Yea, thus. And yet, methinks my slow consent
Was won unfairly, with thy delicate cates,
Thy fruits from Lemnos, and the witching wines,
With which thou haply cozenedst overmuch
In the cool atrium. But I keep my word.
If I have captured from thy breathing form
Of most incarnate beauty, that which makes
My marbles live, I do but give thee back
Thy graces, turned, like Niobe, to stone,
By stress of love, not grief. Yea, thou shalt choose.
There’s Hebe. Well thou knowest how Athens raves
Over the carvings of her willowy grace ;
Or Pallas, with divinity’s white flame
Within her lambent eyes. If other yet
Thy choice should be, behold that Naiad there,
Shaking the pearl-drops from her dripping limbs;
Or glad Aurora, with the orient light
Full in her face.

But which were best to choose ?
Thy promise holds that I should have the best;
And I am not so deftly skilled in art
As wholly to be certain which is best.
O master, double thy rich gift, and make
The choice thine own!

Say’st so ? Take Hebe, then.
I never wrought in pure Pentelican
Aught perfecter than those raised arms that lift
The chalice up, — unless it were that knee,
In its bare, dimpled roundness.

Nay, methinks,
Amid thy group of radiant goddesses,
Hebe is not the fairest one. Her robe
Conceals too much the orbèd bosom, hides
The matchless shoulder.

See, then, Clytie stands
With but the peplos caught about her waist,
If that’s thy whim. Or mild Persephone,
Just back from Hades, pleads, “ Make me thy choice.”

Nay, she is sad. The goddess of my dreams
Must wear no wistfulness upon her face,
But be as fresh as dawn. Persephone’s
Shows morning twilight. Choose Demeter? Nay,
She hath not youth enough, and her grave brow
Hints overmuch of motherhood and care.
Confess, now, once for all, Praxiteles,
Thou holdest Aphrodité, with the foam
Wet on her lip, the most divine of all.

One always deems one’s last creation best.
Demeter is my last. Thou hast my word.

And so Demeter is thy very best,
Because thy latest? Judgeth Athens thus?
The Archons that from Cnidos came to choose
A statue for their temple,—saw they not
Demeter ? Yet, unsought, they pass her by.

I know thou ratest Hermes, as he holds
The grapes beyond the child’s so eager reach,
Among thy works the foremost. Shall I choose
Hermes to fill the niche that empty waits ?
Not so. A god would overburden, oft,
My most unspiritual fancy. And, withal,
He girds his chlamys with too strained a fold
Across his breast. A goddess it shall be,
Whose calm, white presence shall have comfort in it, —
Goddess, yet woman still.

Ill news, my master!
Amid the sculptures fire hath broken out.
Which marble shall we save ? We cannot all.
Which rescue first ?

Haste ! haste ! by all the gods!
Snatch Aphrodité from her pedestal,
Without a moment’s waste ! Where’s Clistlienes,
Gulippos, and the rest ? Base slaves to let
Such mischief hap !

Nay, nay, content thyself!
Thine Aphrodité is as safe as when
The foam first brake to let the goddess through.
Forgive ! I did but mock thee with a trick.
See ! Here is Creon, with thy snow-cooled cup
Of Thasian wine. Enough. I have thy choice.