The Mask of Apollo: A Novel by Mary Renault

Author:Mary Renault [Renault, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Literary, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Historical Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mythology & Folk Tales, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Fairy Tales
ISBN: 0099469413
Amazon: B00DCGJ6V8
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-09-10T07:00:00+00:00

12

NEXT DAY PHILISTOS SENT FOR ME TO BE PAID. I had lain awake half the night, thinking what I would say to him. I kept improving it, till I wished I had written the best parts down. Then I slept; and in the morning I saw I could forget all I had thought of. Menekrates’ home and kin were in Syracuse. Dion, in exile, might need a messenger who was not suspect, and could come or go.

Philistos received me in his business room. His desk was heaped with state papers, just like Dion’s’ before. His red pouchy face, with hard little eyes in smiling folds of flesh, made me queasy, like pork when one is seasick. He greeted me as someone he had discreetly shared a joke with. As I knew, he had not been at the play, but he commended my performance. His Egyptian accountant came at his hand-clap, with a big heavy leather bag. I waited for it to be opened, but Philistos just pushed it over. It had the silver talent mark.

In recent years, I have been paid as much for one performance; once, indeed, a rival sponsor offered me even a little more to go sick and not to play. But in those days it was a sum beyond belief. No actor got such money. I paused, to make sure there was no mistake. I have never been so glad in my life that a fee was big.

“Thank you,” I said, “on behalf of the company, and myself.”

“My dear Nikeratos,” he answered, breezy as a sailor, “your company is provided for. This is your own fee.”

This saved me the trouble of doing sums. I pushed the bag back again. “Will you offer it, please, at the temple of Dionysos, for some dedication in my name?”

He went on smiling, but not with his little eyes. “Have you some reason?” he said, and watched me.

“Yes, I have. I was not satisfied with my performance.”

“Everyone agrees you performed outstandingly.” He did not say it as a compliment, but with hard suspicion. Having pretended he had seen me, he could hardly now go back on it.

“I think not. Conditions were against me. You have a very well-equipped theater here; but I prefer to play where poet and artist are taken seriously.”

“What do you mean?” he said, in a voice which did not ask, but threatened.

“Portrait masks are for comedy. In tragedy they distract the audience. To spring such tricks on actors in performance is to treat us like clowns at a fair. What is this money for—my reputation? Thank you, but I’m afraid it is not enough.”

He spluttered, then forced a laugh and held forth about the vanity of artists, quite believing, now, that this was all, and, of course, that I would take it in the end. With some trouble I undeceived him, and left him admiring my self-importance. It had never struck me this might impress him, but of course he was just the man. I could see, when I left, that my consequence had been raised with him.

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