The Praise Singer (12 page)

My prize beast was duly sacrificed at the altar before the porch, the priestesses’ portion delivered to the temple servants, the rest of the meat carried to my host’s house for the victory feast. For the first time I saw the trophy head of a victory bull, mine, hung in its garlands above the door.

My host was Prokles; he had asked everyone he knew. After having found me in Keos when nobody had heard of me, he was naturally pleased that he had backed a winner. The supper-couches went all around the wall; he had borrowed from half his guests.

All the Athenian poets had been invited. No doubt they said to each other what losers say of winners, some of which is sometimes true; but they were far more civil than I had hoped for, and, indeed, we had some very good talk about our craft. After the wine and the garlands had come in, guests wandered from couch to couch, greeting friends or getting acquainted with strangers. To me it was all delight; the first time in my life, I think, when I forgot that I was ugly.

The hour came when people drift in after leaving other parties, and a well-trained doorkeeper will tell unwanted ones that the drinking is over. Once or twice I heard the discordant singing going off down the street. Then suddenly there were laughing voices, the doorman was all civility, and my host got so swiftly to the door, one wondered how he did it without running.

Four or five men came in. The leader was a little over thirty, of middle height, graceful and slender, dressed with the greatest elegance in a robe of fine-combed wool dyed light green, and scarlet sandals buckled with gold. His hair was dressed in the latest style, bound round his head in two plaits, with a curled fringe combed down in front over the ends, as neat as if done in gold wire. His face, though it would not have inspired a sculptor, was comely, and seemed from liveliness handsomer than it was. He was clean-shaved, which you don’t see today. Then, many young men of rank kept it up well into their thirties; it’s a fashion which has disappeared, like others now thought to smack of aristocracy. His friends, though outshone by him, were very much in his style. Since my host, whose couch I had been sharing, had gone to greet him, I turned to my neighbor to ask who he might be.

He, and the next man, both fixed their eyes on me in wonder. It was as if I had pointed to the moon, and asked what was that light. “Why,” said the nearer one, “that is Hipparchos”; and the other, seeing me still no wiser, added, “The Archon’s second son.”

He swept into the room with his little troop behind him, waving a greeting here and there. Unlike his elder brother, he had not their father’s face; no doubt he took after the mother’s side. Of course I had heard of him; no one could have been entertained in Athens even once without that. If my mind had not been on other things, I should not have been so slow. As it was, I had barely time to collect myself before he reached me.

“Ah!” he cried, embracing Prokles and me in a single smile, “we are still in time! I have been urging these fellows through the streets as though we were on a training run, to be here before the victor picks up the lyre.”

I was presented, and he praised my ode. He was the first to mention the lines that I had liked best myself. (There is praise, after all, which makes one wonder what one did wrong, to have caught the fancy of such a fool.) A handsome laughing young fellow beside him, with dark hair hanging in long crimped lovelocks, said, “Don’t forget Mother’s message.”

“I was coming to it, brother. She said the ode was very fine and made splendid music. I will add for myself, to spare their modesty, that my sisters said just the same. Thessalos expects me to forget everything I’m charged with, I don’t know why.”

Despite their different looks, there was a likeness in their movements and their way of spe?ech, as if they were a good deal together. They and their friends were all found places on the couches; there was a sense of precedence, but without formality, which one could see was the style of their set. Fresh wreaths appeared for all; our host, provident man, must have been prepared for this visitation. The wine went round again. Then the cry began for a song.

I had known enough to be ready for this. At one’s victory feast, one can sing whatever one chooses; and some people always expect something in the style of one’s competition piece. But it is unwise to give it them. The solemn precinct, the great audience, the thought of the famous bards who have stood in that place before one, the men of one’s choir all tuned like one’s lyre to concert pitch: one can offer only a shadow of all this, singing solo in a private room. Part of our craft is a sense of the occasion.

There was a song I had made in Samos, and never had the heart to sing; not even to my master, for whom it would have gone too near the bone. It came from long brooding on the changefulness of human fortune, of fate and chance, and the folly of counting on anything beyond the moment. Now that the wheel had turned again for me and come bright side up, I knew that I could sing it.

The heroes too of old,

Sired by the gods our masters,

Knew ere their days were told,

Their perils and disasters.

All things are from the gods, I ended; when they send us joy, let us catch it as it flies, for who would choose life without it? Not even kings, not even the immortals.

The new guests made a very courteous audience. It must have been their second party that night, if not their third, and none of them were sober; but they listened quietly, applauded as if they knew what they had heard, and said some very graceful things. After that the lyre went round, and we all sang skolions. Though Hipparchos made himself lord of the revels and could almost have been the host, he was never insolent, and Prokles seemed flattered, rather than not.

A few places along, a man was sharing his couch with a handsome youth, with whom he had arrived. Between the songs, as people moved here and there, Thessalos went up, and asked the youth to move for a moment, as he had some news to give his friend. He got down, and was beginning to look about, when Hipparchos called, “Oh, my dear Kleinias, my brother wants a lesson. Come here and take his place, and let him find one where he can.” The youth went over with a smile-he could have done nothing else, without looking surly-while Thessalos talked charmingly to the older friend. Hipparchos, laughing at first, grew serious and confiding. Once I saw the brothers catch each other’s eye. It seemed they were loyal allies.

Prokles, returning to our couch from going among the guests, said in my ear, “He has paid you a great compliment, coming like this with the most select of his friends. As a rule, when he looks in at a party, he brings some flute-girls to play.”

“No boys?” I asked, having used my eyes.

“Oh no. That matter he takes seriously.”

I glanced that way. He did not look as if he pledged his soul in the cup; but I guessed what Prokles meant. “A matter between gentlemen?”

“Just so. A matter of pride, I fancy.”

No need for more. The old nobility of Attica, like that of Sparta, looked back to the Sons of Homer. Women were for pastime; but your young friend must be someone you met in the gymnasium, not the whorehouse; someone whose father your father knew, who would lock shields with you or ride at your side in war. And no house went further back than the Pisistratids.

A few songs later, they left in a little breeze of gay goodbyes. Hipparchos took Prokles by both shoulders, and thanked him prettily for putting up with their invasion. “You must blame your own good company, and the gifted friends it brings you. Here’s one whom I hope to share.” He turned to me, with a boyish and modest grace. “I must put in my claim before all Athens gets ahead of me. Will you sup with us three days from ?now, and let us hear you sing again?”

I expect I accepted civilly as I’d been trained to do; when he had gone, I felt I must have stared at him like an oaf. Prokles rushed back from seeing him off to grasp my hand and cry, “You’re made, my boy! You’re made!”

He called for a toast to my success, and everyone drank, even the rival poets. There was only one silent man: the one whose supper-couch Thessalos had been sharing. He sat alone now; the handsome youth who had come with him was missing. But at any big Athenian party, trifles like that are no more than common form.

OFTEN, in those Athenian days, I asked myself, Why did I wait so long? I am twenty-five; I could have had all this much sooner. If I had gone to Keos when Kleobis first urged me to, and sung before my father, I could have won a crown there-I was good enough for that-and he’d have given me the Euboian farm. My master would not have wasted his health and hope in Samos; I would have gone to Athens, and found that the land was peaceful, and gone again. All I have now, I could have been heir to years ago.

I don’t suppose I would have been crowned there any sooner; my work had ripened and that was all. But I could have been making friends, hearing songs, seeing the craft-work, sharing the talk, living the rich life of this city which put out the fruit of men’s minds as an old vine gives its grapes in a good year.

From the day of that first supper in Hipparchos’ house, I was Athenian in my heart, so far as a wanderer belongs to any city. All I had lost in Ionia was here, distilled and refined; the painted walls, the slender-legged tables, the couches with their fine embroidered cushions, the clean well-mannered boys who served food and wine; everywhere elegance, nowhere ostentation. No flaunting Samian gold-work; but, exquisitely painted, the first service in red-figure I’d ever seen. Or, for that matter, the Athenian diners either-yes, that would make men smile today! It was Hipparchos who had inspired it.

Answering our compliments, he said, “I was in Exekias’ shop. He painted me that wine-cooler, which I don’t think will displease me however fashions change. That day, however, I was there to order a small dedication to Eros.” The handsome youth (a new one) who shared his couch, returned his glance with charm, but no vulgar simpering, and touched his wine-cup, doubtless inscribed with “The Beautiful” and his name. “I had attended to that, and was idling about the shop, when I heard the master roaring at a pupil who’d been working, it seemed, industriously in his corner. People say my curiosity will be the death of me someday.” He turned on us his winning smile. “So I went over, in time to hear the culprit told that if he thought he had all day to spend in foolery, he had better make room for someone else who’d value his place. By now, I was craning over Exekias’ shoulder. The young man was holding an oil-jar, on which he’d drawn a Greek and a Phrygian dueling. As you’ll have guessed, he had amused himself by painting the background black, and reserving the figures. It was the very best Ilissos clay, that bakes a soft glowing red. Seeing Exekias just about to dash it to the ground, or maybe at his pupil’s head, I caught back his arm, crying, ‘Fire it! Fire it, my friend, and let us see. And don’t have a brush laid on that cup I ordered, until I have had a look.’”

His friend toasted him in it, very tastefully; he was not merely presentable but exceedingly well-bred.

“And, after that, nothing would content me but to set something of the kind before all my friends. If you care for them, pay me the compliment of accepting them and taking them home.”

Of course nothing else was talked of, as men showed their cups to one another. Thessalos’s, which was lewd but witty, was passed right round the room. I am sure not a guest but was at a potter’s next morning; in no time at all the young Psiax, whose fortune had been made in that one evening, had set up his own shop. My cup had Apollo on his tripod, playing the lyre; I kept it forty year?s, till some fool of a porter broke it.

Hipparchos was a host whom guests were eager to please. But he neither asked, nor got, the crude sycophancy of Samos. He had much more to confer than gold. Polykrates’ courtiers grew rich, but were held in contempt and envy; Hipparchos could bestow esteem. His patronage was a prize to any artist, not just a living. Fashions he set were not seen later to have been foolish; when they came to be denounced, it was long after, for other reasons. Accepted by him, you were acceptable anywhere in Athens, as I quickly learned. When the wine-cups had been admired, he called on me to sing, making it seem that those trifles had been just an appetizer, this was the banquet.

I had never sung better than on that night, and knew it. The very images of the tale shone brighter in my head. The god-wrought armor of Achilles burned; the river-god he wrestled with was a great sinuous giant with transparent blue limbs and hair of stiff green rushes whose lice were silver fish. Much of it I improvised as my mind was quickened. Luckily I remembered it after.

Above all other talents, Hipparchos had the bright and perilous gift of making others shine. It was his paternal heritage, the only share he had been endowed with. For, of course, he could have possessed the graces of a god without getting where he was, if his father had not made his way secure.

It was my luck to be just in time for Pisistratos. I have always been glad not to have missed a man so remarkable and, as I still think, great. Soon after, as old age crept on him, he began to fail a little; but at that time, he was still what he had been, and one could understand how he had done what he had. It was no lie when I sang of him that he was a Perseus who had buried the Gorgon’s head.

The first time he sent for me was soon after Hipparchos’ party. He did not keep late hours; as I went up, the ornaments on the temple roofs still caught a gleam of sun. The stone house with its marble portico had an unforced dignity, and some parts looked very old. Maybe it was true that bits of King Theseus’ palace had been taken into it.

There were no guards outside; he no longer needed them as in his early days. The tale was that he got them by trickery then, showing himself and his mule-team bleeding from an ambush no one else saw, and asking the Council for the right to protect himself. They only had clubs at first, till his private army was ready and the spears came out. I daresay it was true.

The house was spacious inside, and gravely rich, the anteroom floored with yellow marble laid like a honeycomb. There was a big Persian wall-hanging, and on a green marble stand an old bronze lion, solid-cast, masterly. The chamberlain who placed us in the guest-room was well polished; so were the couches and tables and sideboards, mellow with beeswax and good slaves. It all looked, like its master, to have been there a long time without getting frowsty. From the way he greeted me, I could have been among the highest-ranking of his guests. I thought of Samos. I suppose from that moment he had my love.