because of his young age. She read his fears and smiled, saying, “Do not worry. I know that a sculptor's gift is in his hands, not in his age.”
“My master, the great artist Henfer, has borne witness to my ability,” he said enthusiastically.
“Have you carried out important work before?”
“Yes, my lady. I decorated one side of the summer room in the palace of Lord Ani, governor of Biga.”
“You are a child prodigy, Benamun.”
He blushed and his eyes flashed with delight. He was overjoyed. Rhadopis summoned Shayth and ordered her to take him to the summer room. The youth hesitated a moment before following the slave and said, “You should be free for me every day, at any time you wish.”
“I am used to such duties. Will you carve a full image of me?”
“Or half. Or maybe I will just do the face. It will depend on the general design of the work.”
He bowed and followed Shayth out of the room. Rhadopis remembered sculptor Henfer and considered the irony: had it occurred to him that the palace he had asked her to open to his pupil would now be forbidden to him forever?
She felt relief at the effect this naive young man had left in her, for he seemed to have provoked in her heart a new emotion that had not come to life before. It was the maternal instinct, for how quickly compassion for him had glowed in her eyes, from whose magic no man had found salvation. She prayed sincerely to Sothis to preserve his trusting candor and to deliver him from pain and despair.
Benamun
The next morning, as she had promised, she went to the summer room in the garden. There she found Benamun sitting at a table. He had spread out a sheet of papyrus upon it and was drawing shapes and images, deeply engrossed in his — work. When he became aware of her presence he set down his pen, rose to his feet, and bowed to her. She greeted him and, smiling, said, “I shall make this hour of the morning for you, for it is the one I possess in my long day.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said the boy in his shy quiet voice. “But we shall not begin today. I am still — working on the general idea of the design.”
“Alas, you have deceived me, young man.”
“God forbid, my lady. But I have had a wonderful idea.”
She looked at his wide clear eyes and with a hint of mockery in her voice said, “You mean that young head of yours can come up with wonderful ideas?”
His face went red, and he pointed to the right wall in embarrassment and said, “I will fill that space with a picture of your face and neck.”
“How awful. I fear it might turn out frightful and ugly.”
“It will be beautiful as it is now.”
The youth spoke these words with a simple innocence, and she looked at him intently. He was quickly embarrassed and she felt sorry for him and looked straight ahead so that her eyes settled upon the pool beyond the eastern door of the room. What a delicate young man he was, like an innocent virgin. He caused a strange compassion to stir in her heart and awakened the sleeping mother in the deep recesses of her soul. She turned to him and found him bent over his work, but he was not entirely absorbed in it, for the redness of embarrassment still shone on his cheeks. Should she not leave him and go on her way? But she felt a desire to talk to him, — which she gave in to. “Are you from the South?” she asked.
The youth raised his head, his face clothed in a cheerful, happy light and answered, “I am from Ambus, my lady.”
“You are from the north of the South then. So — what brought you together — with sculptor Henfer, since he is from Bilaq?”
“My father — was a friend of sculptor Henfer, and — when he saw my keen interest in art he sent me to him and commended me to his charge.”
“Is your father an artist?”
The youth was silent for a moment, then said, “Not at all. My father was the senior physician of Ambus. He was a distinguished chemist and embalmer. He made numerous discoveries in methods of mummification and the composition of poisons.”
Rhadopis concluded from the way he was speaking that his father was dead. But she was impressed by his discovery of the composition of poisons and asked, “Why did he manufacture poisons?”
“He used them as beneficial medicines,” replied the boy sadly. “Physicians used to take them from him, but sadly, it cost him his life in the end.”
“How was that, Benamun?” she asked him with great concern.
“I recall, my lady, that my father concocted a wonderful poison. He always used to boast that it was the deadliest of all poisons and could finish off its victim in a matter of seconds. For that reason he called it the ‘happy poison.’ Then one sad night he spent the entire night in his laboratory working ceaselessly. In the morning he was found stretched out on his bench, the spirit gone out of him, and by his side was a phial of the deadly poison, its seal broken open.”
“How strange! Did he commit suicide?”
“It is certain that he took a dose of the deadly poison, but what was it that drove him to perdition? His secret was buried with him. We all believed that some devilish spirit had possessed him and caused him to lose all reason and he carried out his deed in a state of incapacity and confusion. Our entire family was devastated.”
A deep sadness covered his face and he lowered his head over his chest. Rhadopis regretted she had brought up this painful subject and asked, “Is your mother still alive?”
“Yes, my lady. She still lives in our palace in Ambus. As for my father's laboratory, no one has entered its door since that night.”
Rhadopis returned to her chambers thinking of the strange death of the physician Besar and his poisons locked up in the closed laboratory.
Benamun was the only outsider to appear on the calm horizon of her world of love and tranquility, as indeed he was the only person to snatch an hour from the time she allotted to love every morning. Despite this, he did not annoy her in the slightest for he was lighter and more delicate than a sprite. The days passed with her madly in love and him bent over his work, while the sublime spirit of art breathed its life into the walls of the summer room.
She delighted in watching his hand as it diffused the spirit of wondrous beauty through the room. She became convinced of his outstanding talents and felt certain that he would be ready to take over from sculptor Henfer before very long. One day she asked him, as she was about to leave the room after an hour's sitting, “Do you never feel tired or bored?”
The young man smiled proudly and said, “Not at all.”
“It is as if you are driven by some demonic power.”
A brilliant smile flashed across his dark face and he said quietly, naively, “It is the power of love.”
Her heart fluttered at these words that awoke in her delicious associations conjuring up in her mind a beloved image surrounded by splendor and radiance, yet he did not comprehend a thing that went on in her soul.
“Do you not know, my lady, that art is love?” he went on.
“Really?”
He pointed to the top of her forehead, which he had drawn on the wall, and said, “Here is my soul pure and unsullied.”
She had regained control of her emotions and said sarcastically, “But it is just deaf stone.”
“It was stone before my hands touched it, but now I have put myself into it.”
She laughed. “You are so in love with yourself!” she said as she turned her back on him; but it was clear after that day that his self was not the only thing he loved. She was walking aimlessly in the garden one day like a lost thought in a happy dreaming head, when she looked out suddenly over the summer room. She felt an urge to amuse herself by climbing the high hill in the sycamore glade and looking through the window of the room where
