The Praise Singer (27 page)

I told the slave to leave us the wine and go to bed; our gossip was never very discreet. As soon as the door was shut, Anakreon said at once, “Well, I’ve done my best. I prophesy you’ll be the next one called on. I wish he’d gone to you first. Now I’ve not only failed, which has annoyed him; I’ve made the quarry wary, and spoiled the chase for you.”

I asked what he was talking about. He looked astonished. “What? Wherever have you been? Oh yes, among the horse-tamers. But surely you’ve heard by now what is going on?”

“No, not a word.”

“Our playful friend has been shot through the heart at last. Why is it that with people like him, it’s always someone impossible?”

“All praise impossible? That’s bad for us all. And him.”

“Oh, my dear, much worse than that. Impossible to get.”

Like a hen with one chick, my first foolish thought was of Bacchylides. We would have to go traveling.

“I have tried,” Anakreon was saying, “to drag him down out of the clouds; but he is blind with dreams. I tell you, he had better wake up soon. If he does it too late, there will be trouble.”

“Why, who is it?”

“I can’t believe you don’t know. Well, perhaps I can. But weren’t you on the stand at the Isthmian horse-race?”

I knew then. It gave me a shock, like bad news; the room felt colder. We poets sometimes have divinations.

“It’s Proxenos’ son,” I said.

“Harmodios, who hardly gave him good day. Who sucked in oligarchy with his mother’s milk. Who venerates his father, a man resentful even of Pisistratos.”

“And,” I said, “there is a lover.”

“Acknowledged before all the city. If you know any more, don’t tell me; I shall believe it in advance.”

“But how far has this gone? I don’t see how Hipparchos would even get to know him.”

“Oh, that was quite tastefully done at first. It was while you were away. The Athenians who had ridden at the Isthmus were asked to a parade and sacrifice for Ilissian Herakles. A mounted torch procession to the shrine; pleasant, a delightful spectacle, everyone on best behavior. After the rites, a supper at the riverside, with a little music. I sang.”

“What, a new one, and I have not heard it? Come, give!” I pushed the lyre at him.

It was his lyric about the fair young horseman who is begged not to caracole too high, because he is carrying someone’s heart and one more leap might break it. It is charming, and I told him so.

“Yes, I’ve done worse. The right song at the wrong time. Too soon. Not that he took it to himself, at first. But it was set in the wrong mode, it made him uneasy. Hipparchos should have sent for you, to sing about Perseus or Achilles; but he was impatient. He always was, but it’s grown on him.”

“And after the music, what?”

“The host mingled, of course, among the guests. It was all informal, you understand, no set couches, just cushions on the grass. The nighting?ales were in good voice; the river murmured; aromatic torches stood here and there, to lend enchantment without too much light. There was no lack of agreeable employment, with all those little walks among the plane trees; and as soon as my duty was done I took care to be invisible. A failed conjurer is better out of sight.”

“And a failed lover?”

“Ah. When I came back, and found they had both gone, I thought I’d been successful beyond my hopes. But it was worst, not best. They had not left together.”

“The boy had better leave town. What did he say; did anyone overhear it?”

“I learned from those in earshot that, after some trivial chat, not a word was uttered. But, alas, I fear that far too much was spoken, on either side. There has been an echoing silence ever since, which I do not like at all.”

“I knew his father. I could make some excuse to call. Only to see how things are, no more. The old grandfather’s been ailing; that will serve.”

Next day I took a jar of my best Euboian honey. Inside the courtyard, the first person I met was the young Harmodios, on his way out. Certainly, I thought, Anakreon had been right. I could see his hackles rise at the mere sight of somebody from the court. Taking no notice, I made my kind inquiries. His cool thanks put me in mind of that salute at the horse-race. At this rate, I thought, he will grow up a formidable man.

“You will find him rather weak, sir; but I am sure he will like to see you for a little while. The women will take you in to him. Please excuse me; I have to meet a friend.” He stopped to give some order to a household slave, in the voice of one already used to authority; then he was gone.

The women, as he had said, received me. Proxenos’ widow I had met once or twice while he was alive. She was a fragile anxious lady, brought up from childhood not to fidget or complain, and now looking overstretched; if you’d blown on her, she’d have thrummed like the strings of a lyre. However, it was clear that nothing was on her mind but her sick father-in-law and her upset house, for which she begged my pardon. One could be sure her son had confided nothing. He’d have thought it unbecoming; besides, he could be sure she’d be shocked to death, fall ill as like as not, and give him nothing but trouble. This was a woman who had always leaned on her menfolk. She was a part of his charge.

In me, she saw only a man of her own years who had known her husband, and treated me as a family friend, keeping the young daughter unveiled beside her. Her name, I now learned, was Delias; she was about fourteen, rather tall for her age, grey-eyed, with long fair hair falling nearly to her girdle, very much her father’s child. Though I saw that she was shy, she greeted me with courtesy, and after that kept her eyes upon her mother; anxious for her, I thought, rather than modest for herself. Proxenos’ children must be a close alliance. And yet, how much of his life must be unknown to her.

That was true indeed, and to her cost. But then, how much that would concern me was unknown to me.

I found the grandfather dozing. He roused himself feebly to say, “How kind, how kind,” and to hope my wife and children were in good health. I could see he wanted to be rid of me, and creep back into the womb of sleep. He was shrunk as small as a ten-year child, turned ninety years old; I wish I could have talked with him before his memory failed. I slipped quietly off. He would die kindly; they would hardly know when he was gone.

I had half a mind, next time I supped with Hipparchos, to mention this visit, just to see what it would bring forth. All poets should be inquisitive. But the old man’s name was Harmodios, his grandson having been named for him in the usual way, and I did not think I could carry that off easily. Besides, I remembered Anakreon’s saying that I might be asked in my turn to woo, and I did not mean to put myself in the way of it. I knew too much.

The old man died soon after. Once more I brought a grave-gift to the house and heard its women wailing, thi?s time in kindness more than grief. He looked lost in his bier, like a child in a grown man’s bed; there had been handsome bones, though, in that fragile skull. The great-uncle was absent, sick or already dead. Harmodios was doing the honors.

It was his first family rite, as sole head of the house. I could see his sense of it, his resolve to perform it well. His earnestness made one feel what a boy he was, straining after manhood. Well, I thought, that will come to him soon enough. Poets don’t always have the gift of divination.

No friend of the dead man’s youth had survived to mourn him. Many of his clansmen had come, and former friends of Proxenos; but the guest I noticed most was Aristogeiton. Several times, at the funeral feast, he gave the mother a hand like a second son, and was so treated. It was only the young Delias who would be quietly gone from any place he came to. He was not yet thirty, and it would not have done for them to stand talking in public, especially at such a time; but there seemed more than that in her avoidance. Maybe, I thought, Harmodios wants to marry his friend into the family-that is often done-and she does not like it. Or then, again, brother and sister must have been lifelong confidants, and now the secrets are told to someone else. But I had done my duty by them all; I went back to my own concerns and soon forgot her. Bacchylides, who was now just about her age, gave me quite enough to think of.

His inquiring mind took him rambling about the city and the countryside, in what time he could spare from music; but I made him go to the gymnasium at least one day in two. He lived in Athens and must learn the carriage of a gentleman, whether or not he wished to become an athlete. He went obediently, and did his exercises; but, as he told me cheerfully, the best part of the palaestra was hearing all the gossip. Having no love affairs of his own he had no bashfulness, and chattered freely about those of his companions. I was amused by his mixture of shrewdness and simplicity; it made a good sauce to our midday meal.

“Harmodios was there today,” he said, soaking his bread in soup. “He came without Aristogeiton.”

“Why, have they parted?” I began to attend.

“Oh, no. Aristogeiton has to go out to his farm. Harmodios has more land, but he can afford a steward. And you know, Uncle Sim, if you can believe it, Hipparchos had another try at him?”

I nearly choked on my food. I don’t know why I had expected the boy to have heard nothing; no one had longer ears; but I sometimes forgot his childhood was well behind him. “I never knew he had been so open. It is unlike him.”

“Why, doesn’t he talk to you about it? I made sure he would.”

“No, indeed. I’m amazed that it’s common knowledge.”

“Well, I don’t know about the city. But it is in the boys’ palaestra. People would laugh, if it were anyone else. But I expect he could put us in prison.”

“The gymnasiarch would make you sorry. But you don’t mean to tell me the Archon pays his court on the wrestling-ground?”

“Well, almost. He stands staring. At first he used to just walk up and down with friends, only stealing glances; you know how, it always looks so silly. But now he stands and watches, as if he were a regular erastes waiting for his eromenos. Harmodios hates it. People look, you know. Today when it started, he simply broke off his bout and left the other man standing, and walked out. And Hipparchos followed him.” Seeing my startled face, and remembering I’d not been to school in Athens, he said, “Things like that often happen.”

“Not to him. Bacchylides, don’t gossip about this. I mean it. This is serious.”

“Yes, I know.” Indeed, his face had sobered. “I went to see.”

“Did he see you?” I was surprised by my own alarm.

“No fear. I looked out of the privy window. Harmodios had to wash down before he dressed, so he went to the fountain. He’d come by himself with no one to sluice him down; and Hipparchos went and picked up the jug to do it. I couldn’t hear all they said because of the fountain-spout?s splashing. Harmodios said thank you, but it was too great an honor and he’d sooner do it himself. I couldn’t hear Hipparchos, he spoke too quietly. But he stood the jug on the curbstone, and started to put his hand on him. Harmodios shook him off, like-like a spider. I really thought for a moment he was going to hit him. But he didn’t; he snatched up the jug, and stood with it, ready to throw the water. So then Hipparchos went.”

I was too shocked to speak. There are people to whom such things are never done; everyone knows it to be impossible.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Sim. I didn’t tell the others. Just for your sake I kept back this very good story, which you are the first to hear. It would have made a better one still, if Harmodios had emptied the jug on him. He had his hair in curls across the front, and a robe with three-color borders. I would have liked to see him all wet.”

“I doubt you would.”

“Well, maybe not. I saw his face, as it was . . . And Aristogeiton won’t laugh, either.”

“If Harmodios is wise, he will not tell him.”

“He’ll have to do that. For all he knows, someone saw. Like I did. If he doesn’t tell, and Aristogeiton gets to hear, he might think he listened.” He nodded gravely, a citizen of his world. “Look who Hipparchos is, and what he owns. Harmodios must tell . . . But he’d do it anyway.”

“Yes. I fear that you are right.”

I knew it, next time I saw the two together. They were going about the city upon their business; Harmodios had a kind of sparkle upon him, and I saw what the boy had meant, when he likened him to the young Achilles at Aulis. Aristogeiton looked darker. I thought, That man is afraid. What of? He never looked like a coward. Though it was not likely they would talk of it, I knew how gossip seeps down through the gymnasium from older to younger; so presently I remarked to Bacchylides that Aristogeiton seemed oftener in the city than he used to be.

He answered at once, “Oh yes, he is. He comes to watch over Harmodios.”

“Well, there’s sense in that. It would be better still to take him out of town.”

“He’d never go. He’s the head of the family. Uncle Sim, do you think the Archon would ever carry him off? I think that’s what Aristogeiton is really frightened of.”

“Carry him off?” I could hardly credit my ears. It was too absurd for anger; I simply laughed. “A man like Hipparchos doesn’t run mad for love, like someone in a song. And he’d need be mad, to do that. Harmodios’ family is one of the oldest in Athens.”

“Yes, I know. But his father’s dead, and he hasn’t any brothers . . . They do say Hipparchos carried off a boy.”

“Not for long. Except for the slave; and that was little more than a prank.”

With his elbow on the table beside his bowl, he propped his chin on his hand and looked at me, thinking. I can still see his eyes, under those dark brows which now are starting to grey. Soft and thick they were, in those days.

“You are right,” I said. “It was an act of hubris, and unjust. You could say it was unworthy of a gentleman, let alone a ruler. But things are less simple when you know a man.”

“And he’s been good to you, too.” He meant just what he said, not more. He trusted me.

“That’s so. We are eating his bread this moment. But it’s not his gold that keeps me here. I don’t think we’d come to want if we took the road. You’d enjoy it, I daresay; at your age, I did.”