Chapter III: Preface (3)

In his almost deserted house in the street of the Potters not far from the Pnyx, the market, and the Prytaneum he had a strange, dismal room, whose like was not to be found in Athens, and which he jestingly called his Opisthodomus, treasure-chamber. The name was no pious one and showed no deep reverence for the gods; for the real Opisthodomus, the apartment where the treasures of the state were kept, was a sacred place behind the Parthenon and was placed under the protection of Athene Polias, the defender of the city. But Callippides only used this title when he was talking to his faithful old Manes, a slave nearly seventy years old who, like the house, had been a legacy to him from his ancestors.

Whoever had expected to find gold and silver in Callippides’ treasure-chamber would have been greatly mistaken.

The apartment was almost empty, the only furniture it contained being an old arm-chair, a sort of high seat with a foot-stool beside a little table. The riches of the chamber consisted of the notes which covered its white walls--all written in a firm, elegant hand. They were found by the score, were as tersely composed as possible, and were all accurately marked with the day, month, and Archon’s year. Over the door leading to the peristyle were the following inscriptions:

“POLYCLES, SON OF STRATON. _Accused of deserting from the
military service. Sentenced to the_ LOSS OF THE RIGHTS OF
CITIZENSHIP, THOUGH WITHOUT FORFEITURE OF PROPERTY.”

“MANTITHEUS, SON OF CTESIPHON. _Accused of secret understanding
with the Spartans. Ran away. Punished by the erection of a pillar
of infamy_ INSCRIBED WITH HIS NAME.”

These and a number of other notes were written with charcoal; but directly over the entrance, in the most conspicuous place in the room, there were a large collection written with red chalk and embracing the most severe and terrible punishments. The first and second of these inscriptions ran as follows:

“STEPHANUS, SON OF EUCTEMON. _Accused of treason. Sentenced_ TO
DRINK THE HEMLOCK.

“NAUSICRATES, SON OF GLAUCUS. _Accused of having tempted his
step-mother to commit adultery._ HURLED INTO THE GULF.”

Yet in his way Callippides seemed to be an honest man, for, little as it might have been expected, here and there appeared a sentence whose result had gone against him, as for instance:

“POLEMARCHUS, SON OF CALLIAS. _Accused of fraud. Sentenced by
the_ Forty _to loss of the rights of citizenship and forfeiture
of property. The decree_ DECLARED INVALID _by the_ dicasts of the
people _because founded on the deposition of a false witness_.”

True, this inscription was placed in the darkest corner, where no one would easily seek it, and what the record did not relate was that the affair had almost proved a bad one for Callippides--so bad that Pyrrhander, the Ildmand, had required all his influence to save him. But this concealment must be regarded as an allowable military stratagem.

It is certain that the “treasure-chamber” rarely failed in its purpose. Here Callippides used to bring his victims, the unfortunates who were threatened with a dangerous accusation. Scarcely did they find themselves here when, on some pretext, he left them alone. As they read the gloomy records, read them by scores, at first with surprise, then with anxiety, and finally with increasing fear, there were few who had confidence in the justice of their cause. As they stood there alone with throbbing hearts, quaking with dread lest everything which in a short time would belong to their Past should make a fresh inscription on these ill-boding walls, the written characters gradually began to run into each other before their eyes; the red letters seemed to be inscribed with blood, and even firm, brave men were ready, almost without exception, to come to terms with Callippides without bargaining as to price, if he would only promise to let the accusation drop. In this way the “treasure-chamber” justified its name, there was not a little money in it.

Strangely enough there was one place in the room where a whole row of records was erased, leaving only a dark stain on the white wall. It had happened in this way.

From the first the old slave, Manes, had not liked these notes. During the greater part of his life he had served Philocles, Callippides’ father. The latter had been one of the most distinguished of the Athenian citizens and had filled the most important offices; he had been commander of a trireme, inspector of the city walls, and member of the Council of Five Hundred. Messengers from tributary cities never came to Athens without seeking him, to bring him costly gifts, as one of her principal citizens.

The room in which he used to receive them was the prettiest in the house, and richly furnished with brass tripods, ivory couches, magnificent vases, and Milesian carpets.

This was the apartment of which the son, Callippides, made so unworthy a use. Every time a new inscription was placed on the walls which to Manes seemed so sacred he felt as though he had received a stab in his honest old heart. One day, when the number had again increased, he plucked up courage and, without asking permission, he was beginning to wash the walls as if merely intending to clean the room. But he had scarcely commenced, when Callippides came behind him.

Their eyes met. The master looked so sharply at the servant that for the first time in many years the old man’s pale, wrinkled cheeks flushed.

“Well, well!” said Callippides drily and, without another word, he seized the largest whip he had left from the time of his passion for horse-racing and belabored the luckless Manes’ back until the shrieking slave clasped his knees and begged for mercy.

“Blockhead!” muttered Callippides, flinging the scourge into a corner, “don’t you know that these notes are my livelihood.”

From that day the old man never meddled with the inscriptions.

Whatever the “treasure-chamber” brought in, Callippides had not succeeded in making a new fortune. Men like him, with a restless mind and tireless body, only give up one passion to devote themselves to another. He who, when a youth, had cared for nothing except horses and chariots, now, in his fortieth year, could not see a pretty hetaera fasten up her dress to dance without having his heart kindle with the most ardent love. It was no longer Menippus, the horse-dealer, but Philostratus, the go-between, with whom he had business. Just before we made his acquaintance it was said that, by a written agreement, he had hired the key of Philostratus’ garden gate for two months that he might be able to steal in to visit his youngest daughter, fifteen year old Charixena. This bargain, in which the father had sold his daughter, was rumored to have cost Callippides two bright staters.[E] It was with the profit of his wiles, with blood-money, that he paid for the key of the quiet room where Dionysus and Aphrodite, the deities of joy, were to receive him.

[E] A stater was about 20 drachmae--at
that time a considerable sum. An
archon received for his daily pay
only 2 drachmae.

But Aphrodite did not allow herself to be mocked.

Behind Callippides’ house lay a garden which was in a very neglected condition, so overgrown with weeds that there was scarcely an avenue or path, and the statue of Hermes in front of the house had fallen and rested on one side. An old stone seat under a tall leafy plane-tree was in better preservation, and here Callippides used to seek coolness and shade during the burning heat of noon.

While resting there one day, half drowsily turning the leaves of a yellow roll of manuscript, he heard a door in the next house open and saw a young female slave come out to spread a carpet over a prettily-carved _aiōra_ (swing) which was hung in the shadiest place between the pillars of the house. Directly after a little girl seven or eight years old, dressed in white, came skipping out and was lifted on to the rug by the slave. But the swing had scarcely been set in motion before it began to rock unsteadily and the child, growing impatient, leaned back in the seat and shouted:

“No, Chloris, not you! Stop, stop! My sister knows how to do it a great deal better.” Then the little one began to scream with all her might: “Melitta, Melitta!”

The sycophant, whose profession required him to know everything, remembered at the child’s call that the young girl who bore this name must be a daughter of General Myronides, who had recently inherited the next house, and that she was reputed to be _amechanōs kalē_, irresistibly pretty. So it was not without eager expectation that he awaited her coming. Then he heard a young girl’s voice inside the house, singing:

“Amid the vines, amid the leaves
Peer forth the lustrous grapes....”

The singer approached, and Callippides’ heart throbbed faster.

But he was not taken by surprise when the door opened. Rumor had told the truth; for she was beautiful, fairer than any woman he had ever seen--half child, half maiden, like Polycleitus’ bewitching basket-bearers.[F]

[F] Basket-bearers. This was the
name given to a chosen band of
citizens’ daughters who, at
the Panathenaic Festival, took
part in the great procession of
the whole Athenian population.
They carried on their heads
baskets containing offerings. A
representation in marble of these
beautiful Attic virgins was the
sculptor Polycleitus’ most famous
work.

She laughed so gaily and carelessly at her little sister’s impatience that her dark eyes sparkled and her white teeth glittered between her scarlet lips, then as the child turned, stretching its arms towards her, she darted to her, embracing and kissing the little one.

“Swing me, Melitta, swing me!” cried the child. “Chloris can’t do it.”

Melitta fastened the purple fillet tighter around her black locks, removed the upper garment worn over her red-bordered dress, and told the slave to carry it into the house; then, leaning forward, she put the swing in motion.

So this was Melitta, the irresistibly pretty Melitta.

Callippides’ glance rested as though spell-bound on the young maiden with the dark eyes, smiling lips, and slender, girlish figure. As she stood there in her light robe in the shadow between the pillars of the house, she was surrounded by such an atmosphere of purity that it defended her like a shield against evil thoughts. From the black curls that slipped out beneath the purple fillet to the gold-broidered sandals everything about her was full of childlike grace.

“Higher!” cried the little girl joyously, striking her feet together till the sandal straps clapped.

Melitta bent still lower to give the swing a stronger push. This loosened the gold clasp that fastened her dress at the neck, and the dainty dazzling shoulders appeared a moment.

Callippides knew himself, so he was surprised that no flush of passion had crimsoned his face. In the midst of his secret agitation, he recognized this fact as a sign that he was no longer the same man.

As Melitta soon after stopped the swing and helped the child out, her glance fell on the next garden where Callippides, half concealed by some bushes, stood motionless as a statue in the shade of the plane-tree.

Callippides was a tall, distinguished-looking man. His dark hair and beard were cut by Sporgilus, the best barber in Athens, and the blood-red scar made by the horse’s hoof on the crown of his head was partially concealed by the hair which, in this place, had grown somewhat thin. His features were dark and stern, but in consequence of his arduous exercises in the race-course, he had retained a bearing which made him ten years younger. Like all Athenians of noble birth, he paid great attention to his person and most frequently wore a snow-white chiton or tunic of the finest Milesian wool, with a blue over-garment of Persian kaunakē, a kind of costly rough woollen fabric imported from Sardis. Down to the light soles which belonged to his calling of sycophant he was, in short, in everything an exquisite, a dandy, but in such a way that he did not make himself ridiculous. His gait showed none of the affected stiffness with which Athenian coxcombs tried to attract attention, and he never carried a short staff under his cloak nor walked with a fragrant Median apple in his hands when he appeared out of doors.

Women have quick eyes. Melitta, with a single glance, received an impression of his whole person. The tall, grave, bearded man seemed to her to resemble her father--the only free citizen whom in her monotonous life in the women’s apartments she had had an opportunity to notice. She let the child go in first, and turned her head again. Melitta was very fond of her father. She wanted to see whether she had been right--whether the man in the next garden resembled him.

At the young girl’s movement a flood of joy swept through Callippides’ heart, and he became even happier when he fancied he read good-will in the look with which Melitta gazed at him.

The sycophant was not spoiled by good-will.

When Melitta had disappeared he walked towards the house as if in a dream. At the sun-dial he found old Manes who, bending over the pin, was in the act of reading the hour. He looked intently at him but the slave did not seem to have noticed anything.

Callippides went into the “treasure-chamber” and took his seat in the arm-chair. He imagined that he still saw Melitta with the purple fillet around her black curls, with her dark eyes, smiling lips, and dazzling shoulders. There was something in the girl’s fresh youth which moved his inmost soul. He, the voluptuary, who was ever seeking to devise some new pleasure, thought that the highest joy he could fancy would be to hold Melitta’s hand in his.

“By the Graces!” he exclaimed, “she is a living human flower.”

Suddenly it became evident to him that in a few moments, a far shorter time than the water-clock required to run out, he had become an entirely different person. A shudder ran through his limbs and--as if afraid to hear his own words, he murmured softly:

“Callippides no longer belongs to himself.”

When he again raised his head and looked at the walls they seemed to him, for the first time, as they had appeared to Manes. He did not like the inscriptions, there was something about them which disturbed him, so he went into the next room and threw himself on a couch where he fell into deep thought. He lay thus a long time; the day declined more and more, the short twilight merged into the deep shades of evening. When he roused himself and looked through the open door the stars were shining over the peristyle.

He called Manes and told him to light the lamp.

As he rose from the couch his glance fell upon his foot-gear, which, contrary to habit and custom, he had kept on after having come in from the garden. At the sight of the thin soles, the token of his trade of sycophant, he shuddered.

“How cold the wind blows!” he muttered as though to deceive himself.

Then he called again, thrust out his foot, and said:

“Manes, take off my soles, and”--he spoke hurriedly--“burn them and all the others of the same kind I possess.”

The old man stood as if he were petrified. If his master had been a soldier and had ordered him to break his sword, he could not have been more dumb with amazement.

“Don’t you hear?” said Callippides sternly.

Manes knelt before him, but his hands trembled so that he was unable to open the buckles.

“You are growing old, Manes,” said Callippides more gently as though he regretted his harshness.

Then he put his foot on the edge of the couch to unfasten the straps himself; but, ere he had touched them with his hands, started up and, with two vigorous kicks, hurled them into the farthest corner of the chamber, where they fell on the ground with a clapping noise.

“Did you hear?” he said to Manes, “the dumb soles spoke. It was their farewell.”

Callippides then drew from his belt a key with three wards which he gave to Manes, saying:

“Take it to Philostratus to-morrow morning.”

Mares passed from one surprise to another.

“What shall I say to him?” he asked timidly.

“That I have no farther use for it.”

The old man scarcely believed his ears. He clasped his hands, but dared not speak.

“What would you say, Manes,” asked Callippides, “if you should see me some day with a helmet on my head leading a troop of horsemen?”

At these words the aged face brightened and the old man fixed his eyes with almost a father’s tenderness upon the master whom, when a child, he had often played with on his knee.

“The day I see you leader of the band of horsemen,” he exclaimed, “the day the bridal torches....”

Manes got no farther; at the last word Callippides started up and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Silence, old fool!” he cried sternly. “You are talking about things which don’t concern you. Do you want me to tear your tongue out of your mouth and fling it to the dogs?”

The slave silently slunk away, trembling from head to foot.

Contrary to his custom Callippides, during the following days, remained at home and did not fail to spend the afternoon hours in the garden. But day after day slipped by without his having the smallest glimpse of Melitta. The door of the next house often opened; but it was only a female slave who came out to gather flowers, pluck fruits, or bring in from the garden the stuffs that had been washed. As each day elapsed, Callippides became more and more depressed.

One night, as he sat half erect on his couch, unable to sleep, he saw through the open door a narrow ray of light which fell upon the flags in the courtyard. Surprised, he rose; the light came from Manes’ room. Fearing that the old man might be ill, he went to him at once.

Manes was sitting working on a pair of sandals, whose straps were not in the best condition. When Callippides entered, he was evidently startled and confused and tried to hide something behind his chair.

“What are you doing, Manes?” asked Callippides.

“Putting new straps to a pair of old sandals.”

“Whose are they?”

“Mine.”

“And these?” asked Callippides, taking from behind the chair a pair of little sandals for a child seven or eight years old, “are these yours too?”

Manes silently tried to avoid his master’s eye.

Callippides now understood something of which hitherto he had not thought, and knew to whom he owed the frugal meals which had been set before him during the last few days.

Yet he said nothing. Callippides was a man of few words.

He stood still a moment gazing silently at the old slave, who scarcely knew whether he might venture to continue his work or not. Suddenly Callippides laid his hand upon his shoulder and said with a strange gentleness in his voice:

“Go to rest. Manes; you have worked enough to-day.”

The old man seized his master’s hand and kissed it. At that moment he would have died for him.

The next day Callippides, contrary to his usual custom, went out into the garden before noon. Some presentiment told him that this time it would not be in vain. He had remained there only a few minutes when, through the half open door of the next house, he fancied he heard a child’s voice utter Melitta’s name.

Almost at the same moment the young girl came out, accompanied by an old female slave. Taking from her hand a graceful jug, she began to water the rarer flowers which were planted nearest to the house. Then she searched for buds, removed the withered blossoms, and tied up the drooping branches; in short, she busied herself a long time among the flowers, and at every movement her slender figure displayed some fresh girlish charm.

To-day she wore on her dark locks a gold clasp which fastened a blue fillet above her brow, and her white garment was trimmed with a double border of the same color. It seemed to Callippides that the young girl looked a little graver, but even more beautiful than when he first saw her.

As she came to the clump of bushes nearest to the next garden she perceived Callippides. The slave, who was holding a red umbrella over her young mistress’ head, followed the direction of her glance, but had scarcely caught sight of the sycophant when she dropped the umbrella and seized the girl’s arm as though some danger threatened her.

Melitta turned in astonishment, and the slave hastily uttered a few words which made her mistress frown. She seemed to contradict her attendant, who became more and more vehement.

Callippides had sharp ears--he was a sycophant--and the distance from the two speakers to the spot where he stood was only thirty or forty paces. First he caught one of the slave’s words, then more, until at last he distinctly heard her say:

“As sure as you’re General Myronides’ daughter, he belongs to the venomous brood whose pathway is filled with curses, blood, and corpses. You can see for yourself that he is marked by the wrath of the gods! Is not his shadow blacker than other men’s?”

As Callippides stood in the green dusk under the plane-tree, with the white wall of the house behind him, so dense a shadow really fell upon him that, from the sunlit spot where the two women stood, it was impossible to discern the colors in his dress.

Disturbed by the slave’s words, Melitta herself fancied she saw something spectral and threatening in the tall, dark man. With a shriek she dropped the water-jar, gathered the folds of her robe around her, and rushed into the house. By the terror with which she closed the door behind her, Callippides understood that it had shut between them forever.

Quietly as ever, though somewhat paler than usual, he went back to the house. Sometimes he fancied he again heard the door banged, and each time he felt as though his heart would break.

The lonely and desolate condition, the seclusion from intercourse with others in which he had spent his later years had often weighed heavily, nay almost unendurably upon him, yet never had his heart been so empty, so dead to all hope, as now. “Alas!” he murmured, “everything might have been different, entirely different--but it is too late.” He gazed steadily into vacancy, and his eyes expressed a sombre resolve.

Soon after he had come in from the garden he sat down to write, but twice tore up what he had traced before he was satisfied. Then he made an exact copy of it.

“Now it only needs the signatures of the witnesses,” he said to himself, as he put his seal-ring on his finger.

After standing for some time absorbed in deep thought, he took from a chest a flask with a wicker basket-work covering called a _lagynos_. When he had assured himself that it was empty, he smelled it and was in the act of calling Manes when he suddenly stopped.

“Why wash it?” he said, looking at the flask with a strange smile. “It can have held nothing worse than I intend to buy.”

Callippides then left the house, and did not return until the evening.

Manes had scarcely lighted the double-wicked lamp, when his master said in a curt, imperious tone:

“Bring water, efface these inscriptions, and wash the walls clean.”

The old man would fain have hugged his master, but he had not forgotten how badly he had fared when he let fall a word about the hymeneal torches. Yet never had he obeyed a command with greater joy. Still, zealously as he worked, it was not quick enough for Callippides.

With a restlessness very unusual, he wandered to and fro hurrying the slave every moment.

At last the walls were partially cleaned, but the water stood in great pools on the flagged floor.

“Let it stay,” said Callippides curtly, “it will soon sink into the ground.”

Then he added:

“Come here, Manes!” and, after having gazed at him with a long, earnest glance, he said with the same strange gentleness as on the evening before.

“You have always been a faithful servant to me.”

Something in both words and tone surprised the old man.

“Is the master going away?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For a long time?”

“Perhaps so,” replied Callippides with a faint smile.

Towards dawn Manes had a strange dream. It seemed to him that a vast shining Shape formed of mist, with wings on its cap and heels, came floating in to his master and took him by the hand. Scarcely had this happened ere his master himself became a misty form and both soared noiselessly away.

The old man awoke with a shudder. He felt a chill on his brow as though wings were waving around him, and did not exactly know whether he was awake or dreaming.

Seized by a gloomy foreboding, he rose from his couch. To his terror Callippides’ sleeping-room was empty. The couch was untouched, the pillow had not been pressed, and an old over-garment lay carefully rolled at the foot. It was evident that no one had slept there during the night.

When he entered the “treasure-chamber,” he felt greatly relieved at seeing his master sitting in the arm-chair. His head was resting against the high back and his eyes were closed. He was apparently sleeping.

The old man approached--a penetrating, disagreeable odor, proceeding from a goblet on the table reached him--the smell of hemlock.

He now understood everything.

“Dead!” he murmured, “dead!” he repeated, as though he could not believe his own words.

Motionless and carefully attired as usual, Callippides sat in the high-backed chair he had inherited. His dark hair and beard were redolent of perfume, there was not a spot to be seen on his light robe, and shining rings glittered on his fingers. The only thing which showed he had fought his last battle, was that his right hand was pressed against his side as if in an attack of pain, while the left hung loosely over the arm of the chair. His features were dark and grave, but neither darker nor graver than usual, and a ray of the dawning day cast a delusive semblance of life upon his pallid cheeks.

Directly above him on the white wall were two lines of an imperfectly washed inscription.

Manes, fixing his eyes on it, read:

... “Sentenced _to
drink the hemlock_.”

At the sight of these words, which stood there like the inscription on a tomb, marked by the finger of retribution, tears streamed from the old slave’s eyes.

“Zeus Soter be merciful to him,” he murmured. “He has sentenced himself!”

Directly after Manes saw a sheet of papyrus lying on the table. Taking it up with a trembling hand he read:

“COPY
OF
CALLIPPIDES’ LAST WILL.

“May all be well! I hereby make the following disposition of
my estate. The little rented dwelling in the Piræeus shall be
sold to the highest bidder and the money used for my funeral
obsequies, which must be worthy of my birth. The tomb shall be
built on the road to Budoron, opposite to the garden attached to
General Myronides’ country-seat, and the memorial stone is to
be a plain column inscribed with the name and date of birth and
death. Nothing more.

“I free my slave Manes and, as I have no relatives, I give him
for his property my house in the Street of the Potters, with the
garden belonging to it, on condition that he always takes care of
the tomb.

“The papyrus furnished with a seal, of which this is a copy, is
deposited with Philon, son of Sophilus. The witnesses are: Lycon,
son of Hegesias, and Charicles, son of Theron.”

By the side of the papyrus lay a note in which was written:

“To Manes:

“Conceal the manner of my death, that I may go to the grave
unmutilated.[G] Say that you found me dead in the chair.

“In a box on the table is a ring with an exquisitely-carved
stone, representing Charis bathing her mistress Aphrodite in the
sacred grove at Paphos. Take the ornament to Melitta, General
Myronides’ daughter, and say to her: ‘My dead master Callippides,
your neighbor, begs you to accept this ring, which belonged to
his mother. You can wear it without fear; from the day he first
saw you he has not been a sycophant.’

“To you, my faithful Manes, I say: Farewell, and do not grieve.
It is better to have poison in the body than in the soul.”

[G] It was the custom to punish
suicides by cutting off the right
hand.

The old man gave free course to his tears.

As if in a dream he heard the birds twittering in the garden; the refreshing fragrance of the dewy verdure entered, filling the room, and through the still morning air echoed nearer and nearer the rumbling of chariots. Outside was heard the Acharnians’ usual cry in the streets:

“Buy charcoal! Buy vinegar!”

The unexpected and the usual, stillness and awakening traffic, death and life, blended so strangely in this hour that the old man experienced a feeling he had never before known.

Without knowing what he was doing he knelt and kissed his dead master’s hand, then clasping his own he cried in his simple, honest fashion:

“May the twelve Olympians grant him every blessing! He was a kind master.”

THE HETAERIA.

THE SECOND YEAR OF THE 91ST OLYMPIAD (415 B.C.)

THE HETAERIA.

I.

Hipyllos had not mentioned where he was going. Old Myrmex, who accompanied him with a blazing pine-torch, did not rack his brains to discover, but trudged on with dull indifference, following his young master step by step. His most distinct feeling was that he was beginning to be tired. They had already traversed the greater part of Athens, and at this time--the year Chabrias was archon--Athens was a large city.

Shortly after sunset the master and slave had quitted Hipyllos’ house, just inside the Acharnian Gate, and passed through the length of Colonus, the most northern portion of the city. Then they walked by the “Big Stones” of the Acropolis with their numerous niches for votive offerings, which may still be seen at the present day. From the Prytaneium they had followed the Street of the Tripods, with its temples of the gods and huge brazen tripods, and had gone from the Odeium down through the Theatre of Dionysus, over whose orchestra people were in the habit of making a short cut, as the huge building, with the exception of a few festival days, stood empty almost all the year. Next they had followed the Street of the Temples along the southern edge of the citadel, where no fewer than six marble temples gleamed through the twilight shadows at the foot of the dark cliff.

Hipyllos had made this circuit to consume the time until the lamps were lighted in the houses. The moment had now come, more and more points of light glimmered through the dusk.

From the Street of the Temples master and man turned into a narrow alley, which wound between the houses, trees, and garden-walls. There was and is still a marked difference between the air in this quarter and the atmosphere of the rest of Athens. South of the Acropolis a refreshing sea-breeze usually blows over country and city.

Hipyllos, inhaling the damp air with delight, pursued his walk. He had a joyous face, and his whole person illumined by the red torch-glare made a striking impression. His white upper-garment, adorned with a blue border, formed a picturesque contrast to his sunburnt skin and black locks, and every movement of his well-formed limbs was firm and steadfast, in harmony with the expression of his face.

Old Myrmex did not care for the sea-breeze. He was suffering from lumbago and, at the first puff of the damp air, he took his torch into his left hand and rubbed his side with the right--an act in which he was not impeded by his clothing, which consisted of a dark _exomis_, the usual garment worn by slaves, and which, to give freedom of motion, left the right arm, shoulder, and side bare.

About the middle of the street the way led close by a side-building, doubtless the women’s apartment of a stately house that apparently belonged to a wealthy citizen. From one of the sparsely scattered _thyrides_, a kind of air-hole, the light of a lamp streamed into the darkness. Hipyllos paused. This light must have had some peculiar charm for him, he could not turn his eyes from it.

As if in the mood when some secret joy renders men communicative he suddenly patted the old man on the shoulder, saying:

“Myrmex, do you know whence that light shines?” And, without waiting for an answer, he added: “From the room occupied by Clytie, the fairest of all Athenian maidens.”

Myrmex stared at Hipyllos with his mouth wide open in amazement.

“Master, master!” he stammered, “what have you taken into your head?”

Hipyllos did not hear. But Myrmex feared his master was in the act of committing some hasty deed, and he knew that when a citizen was guilty of a crime, but denied his offence, it was ordained that he should have one of his slaves tortured. The law was based on the belief that the slave would testify against his master and, if he did not, the master’s innocence was proved.

As this did not seem to be one of the women who led a dissolute life, but a citizen’s daughter, a closely-guarded maiden, Myrmex in imagination already felt himself stretched on the rack, whipped with brushes and scourges, tortured with thumb-screws, laden with tile-stones on his stomach, and half-choked by vinegar in both nostrils. So he repeated in a still louder tone.

“Master, master, what have you taken into your head?”

Hipyllos picked up a pebble, but just as he was flinging it against the wall, as though in obedience to a preconcerted signal, he saw two shadows on the red curtain inside of the loop-hole.

“_Aiboi!_ a piece of ill-luck!” he muttered, dropping the pebble, “she isn’t alone.”

Then kissing his hand to the bright ray of light, he passed on half reluctantly, farther in the direction of the Cerameicus, the northwestern part of the city.

Myrmex did not think much; but when an idea once entered his brain he did not let it go easily, and now asked for the third time:

“Master, master, what have you taken into your head?”

This time Hipyllos heard him. He cast a glance at his companion and, seeing his troubled face, understood the connection of ideas and burst into a loud laugh.

“Poor Myrmex,” he said, pinching the old man’s cheeks, “are you afraid of the thumb-screws? Pooh! You’ll escape! This is no matter of life and death, and a citizen can be compelled to have a slave tortured only in an affair of life and death.... Have you heard,” he continued, mischievously, “the story of Killikon from Miletus? He betrayed his native place to the citizens of Priene, and when his friends, during the preparations, asked what he had in view, constantly replied: ‘Nothing but good.’ Well then! when you ask what I have taken into my head I can, with still better reason, answer: ‘Nothing but good.’ For the maiden belongs to a highly-respected family, and I intend that she shall become my wife.”

II.

Hipyllos walked on silently for some time, then suddenly exclaimed:

“Myrmex, you don’t know--no words can tell how pretty she is.... It’s a little more than a month since I first saw her. She was returning home from the temple of Demeter, accompanied by her mother and several slaves. The wind raised her veil and revealed a face which, crimsoned with blushes at the notice she was attracting, was the loveliest I had ever seen. The young girl was tall and wore a snow-white robe with a broad violet-blue border; her shining black hair was drawn high above her neck, and over her veil a gold clasp ornamented with a large blue stone glittered on her brow. Her silver-wrought sandal-straps fitted her small feet so trimly, that even men usually blind to the secrets of beauty uttered a murmur of admiration. Whenever the breeze tightened her garments, making her movements more visible, her bearing showed a reserve and modesty impossible to describe in words and, as she passed, I seemed to feel an atmosphere of freshness mingled with the faint fragrance of some costly ointment.... Never has any woman so bewitched me! At night I dreamed of her dazzlingly white neck and soft black hair--heavenly powers, how pretty she is! But you don’t understand me, Myrmex; I might as well confide in the trees and stones by the wayside.... All the young men she met turned--no one was content with merely seeing her pass. Here, where the girls spend their days in the narrow limits of the women’s apartment, it isn’t three times in a man’s life that he meets such a maiden on the highway.

“As she and her mother approached the house where we just saw the light shining, one of the slaves ran into the Phalerian street to knock at the door, and I now knew who the young girl was. The mansion belonged to the architect Xenocles, and the maiden was doubtless his daughter Clytie, whose beauty I had often heard praised. At the corner of the wall the wind blew stronger, so that the women were obliged to struggle against it. Suddenly the young girl’s veil was loosened and flew away on the breeze. Uttering a loud shriek, she stopped and covered her face with her hands. Rushing on in advance of the rest after the veil, which was whirling around in the air, I caught it as it fell and hung on a slender branch. As I approached the young girl, who had let her hands fall and stood blushing crimson, with eyes bent on the ground, she looked so bewitchingly beautiful that, fairly beside myself, I grasped the hand with which she took the veil, exclaiming:

“‘Pretty Clytie, raise your eyes to mine; for here, in your mother’s presence, I swear that you and no one else shall become my wife.’

“The young girl turned pale and snatched her hand from my clasp, but she did what I asked. She raised her large dark eyes and fixed them on mine--it seemed to me not with dislike.

“The mother, however, was very angry and thrust me away, saying:

“‘Who are you, Youth, who dares to speak so boldly to a modest maiden? Clytie--_your_ wife! May all the gods forbid! Know that her father has promised her to another....’

“‘By Zeus!’ I interrupted, ‘that other shall yield, were he the king of Persia himself.’”

Myrmex looked up at his master and laughed in his beard at his audacity.

“The next morning,” Hipyllos continued, “on the walls, the bark of the trees, and the stones along the roadside were the words written by different hands:

‘_Clytie is beautiful. No one
is lovelier than Clytie._’

“I alone did not write; but, at the hour that everybody was going to market, I rode my black Samphora steed through the narrow lane. It was very rare to hear the sound of hoofs there and, as I had anticipated, the pretty maid appeared at the peep-hole. Her room was where I had expected. She hastily drew back, but I saw by her glance that she had recognized me. The next day I again rode by. She did not vanish so quickly; but I didn’t speak to her, for I did not know whether she was alone. The last time I rode through the street I passed close by the house and laid a laurel-blossom in the loop-hole; when I came back it had been exchanged for a narcissus flower, which lay where it could be easily taken. I then sent Manidoros--whom you know: the boldest and most cunning of my slaves--to Phalerian street. He speedily ingratiated himself with Doris, the youngest of Xenocles’ female slaves, and how happy I was when one afternoon he came home and said:

“‘Everything has happened as you wish. Doris told me that her young mistress has seemed wholly unlike herself ever since she saw you. She weeps, dreams, and murmurs your name. But the man to whom her father has promised her--he is a great orator and writer of tragedies--she hates worse than death. Doris declares you have used some spell, and that the girl is bewitched.’”

Old Myrmex shook his head.

“May all this give you happiness!” he murmured.

III.

The master and slave continued their way towards the Cerameicus.

The district through which they were walking was the most rugged part of Athens, and the eye everywhere met the proud outlines of steep mountains. A few hundred paces on the right towered the Acropolis; a little farther away at the left lay the Museium, and five hundred paces in front the broad Pnyx and steep Areopagus rose into the air. Most of these heights were considerable cliffs and the two nearest, the Acropolis and the Museium, towered hundreds of ells above the stony ground where the road lay.

It was a bright, clear evening in the month Boedromion. The wind was dying away; but every time a faint breeze swept by it bore a peculiar spicy odor from the wild thyme that grew on Mt. Hymettus. The crescent moon was high in the heavens. The Acropolis, with the temple on its summit, appeared like a huge, shadowy mass, against which the greyish flanks of the Museium lay bathed in moonlight, so that one could count the little white houses.

Suddenly from the distance a loud shriek of pain echoed through the evening stillness and repose. A man’s deep voice moaned as if some one were suffering a torturing death-agony. More than twenty times the: _Oi moi! Oi moi!_ (Woe is me! Woe is me!) was repeated. Every syllable, every intonation was borne through the soft air with peculiar distinctness. A little later the sound became fainter till at last it died away in a dull, breathless silence.

Hipyllos started, though he had heard piteous wails in this place before.

The cries came from a part of the height where there were no houses. The interior of the cliff was doubtless inhabited, for about twenty yards above the place where the road wound light shone through twenty or thirty small holes in the mass of rock. These holes, ranged in two rows, may be seen at the present day, and inside of them lay--and still remain--some ancient cliff-chambers, whose origin mocks human speculation, since even that period--nearly twenty-three centuries ago--possessed no knowledge of whose hands had formed them or--if they were tombs--whose bones had mouldered there. At that time these rooms were used for prisons, and many a criminal sentenced to death was here--where no escape was possible--compelled to drain the poisoned cup.

Hearing the wails reminded Hipyllos that “the eleven” were in the habit of going at sundown to the prison to loose the chains of the condemned criminal and inform him that his last hour had come. The hapless man then took a bath, and was afterwards compelled to drink a goblet of hemlock juice and pace up and down the narrow room until his limbs grew cold under him. Then he was obliged to lie down on the couch, cover his face, and await death. It was during this torturing expectation that even the strongest man uttered lamentations.

Whoever knew this fact could understand the cause when, as on this evening, shrieks of anguish echoed from the dark stone chambers.[H]

[H] Numerous subterranean rooms
are found in the southwestern
quarter of Athens, the ancient
cliff-city, which is now almost
uninhabited. A certain part of
the eastern base of the Museium
contains three entrances, the
central one somewhat dilapidated,
that lead to two rooms 10-11
feet in length and a well-like
air-passage connected with lower
corridors. These cliff-chambers
now bear the name of _hē fylakē
tu Socratus_, Socrates’ dungeon,
and are marked as such by oral
tradition.

Even Myrmex awoke from his indifference and spit three times on his breast to avert misfortune.

“Do as I do,” he said to his master, “keep ill-luck away.”

Hipyllos quickened his pace.

“I fear nothing for myself,” he replied “and I cannot aid the doomed man.”

His features at this moment wore a serious expression which showed that, spite of his youth, he had seen and experienced many things.

IV.

Hipyllos’ father, Chaeretades, one of the guardians of orphan children, was already advanced in life when he lost his wife, Hipyllos’ mother. After the short period of mourning, thirty days, he married a young widow named Cleobule, famed for her beauty, but about whom nothing good was said in other respects. Scarcely six months after, rumor asserted that she was carrying on an intrigue with a young Carystian who lived in the house.

The report reached Hipyllos’ ears through the slaves and, stirred to his inmost soul, he taxed Cleobule with her infamy, but she called all the gods to witness that she was unjustly suspected, and looked so pathetic and beautiful in her despairing grief that Hipyllos did not know what to believe. But, after the Carystian had left the house, the caresses which, as his step-mother, she could venture to bestow upon her husband’s son, grew warmer than was seemly and when, at the great Panathenaic festival, he returned from the procession clad in his holiday robe with a garland on his hair, she ran to meet him, embraced him, and called him her young Hippolytus, her young Theseus. He thrust her away so violently that she fell on the tiled pavement of the peristyle, and from that hour Cleobule pursued him with the bitterest hatred. As he stood alone--Chaeretades was completely in her power--this gradually developed in his nature a premature degree of firmness and resolution. Nevertheless, he was obliged to submit to many things. Cleobule finally alleged that he associated with dissolute revellers, and persuaded her husband to send him to the fleet of twenty ships with which Phormion, since the second year of the war, had guarded the mouth of the Corinthian Gulf.

Hipyllos found the fleet lying off Antirrhium, opposite to the Peloponnesian galleys. It seemed strange to suddenly find himself so near the enemy that he could hear the Spartan war-songs and see their spears and swords glitter in the sunlight. Aboard young and old were confident of victory, for they had recently defeated a Corinthian fleet twice as large as their own.

The battle was not long delayed.

Early in the morning the Peloponnesians rowed into the bay opposite Naupactus, a city belonging to the allies of Athens. Phormion was hurrying after to defend the place, when the enemy suddenly made a circuit by which they intercepted and captured his last nine ships. Hipyllos was on the eighth and, frantic at falling into the hands of the foe, he shouted to a party of Messenians from Naupactus whom he saw on shore:

“Messenians! Will you calmly see ships that were hastening to the aid of your city, captured by the enemy? Help us save this one galley. When we are once free, we will speedily rescue the others.”

The men on land consulted together a moment, then they waded out into the sea and assisted their allies. But scarcely was the ship freed, when it rowed to the next, and when two were rescued they easily succeeded in recapturing the others, so that the Peloponnesians only kept a single one of the Athenian galleys. Meantime Phormion had rowed farther on with the remainder of the fleet, but, perceiving that the Peloponnesians kept no order, he attacked and routed them, capturing six ships. The Athenians raised the sign of victory, jeering at the Peloponnesians for doing the same.

Hipyllos was universally praised; for he had not only summoned the Messenians to the rescue, but had fought bravely and killed a brother of Lycophron, one of the commanders of the hostile fleet.

On his return to Athens Hipyllos found his father on a sick-bed. Shame for Cleobule’s misconduct, which at last could no longer be concealed, affected the old man like a slow poison.

Hipyllos’ valor in the naval battle at Rhium was his last joy. The very day that he had listened to the account of it from one of the officers of the fleet he breathed his last, holding his son’s hand in his own. Hipyllos mourned sincerely for his father. Cleobule was more richly dowered by the dead man’s will than she had any right to expect, but was compelled to instantly quit the hearth on which she had brought disgrace.

At the time we make Hipyllos’ acquaintance he was in independent possession of a fine house, numerous slaves, and a fortune of more than thirty talents.[I] The firmness he had acquired in the conflict with his wicked step-mother now served him in good stead. Having early learned to govern himself, he was wiser than most of the men of his own age and did not squander his property. When reproached for not keeping open house for his friends and sending a team of four horses to the games, he shook his head and answered:

“Why should I waste my inheritance? Some day Athens will knock at my door, saying: ‘Give me a ship for the fleet or a chorus for the theatre’--then will be the time to be open-handed.”

[I] An Attic talent was equal to
about eleven hundred dollars.

V.

Hipyllos and Myrmex had now reached the closely-built Cerameicus. But even the great market which, half steeped in moonlight, half veiled in deep shadow, lay outspread before them with its temples, arcades, booths, altars, hermae, and statues--even here there was little movement.

Most of the people had long since returned from the gymnasia, freedmen and slaves had performed the duties of the day, and after sunset children were not permitted to play outside of the doors of the houses.

Yet life was not wholly silent. Laughter and song echoed from the wine-shops, and the heavy grating of the stone-saws was heard from many a sculptor’s; for in those days sculptors had so much to do that their slaves were often obliged to work in the evening and part of the night. Ever and anon the hooting of owls sounded from their countless hidden holes in the cliffs and, as usual in the autumn, there was heard, like voices from another world, the wailing notes of invisible birds of passage calling to each other in the night as they flew at a dizzy height above the city.

Hipyllos turned into a side street, which led from the superb street extending from the Dipylum Gate to a long hill in the Melitan quarter. Here he told Myrmex to extinguish the torch; then after looking around him and listening, till he thought himself sure that no one was following, he directed his steps towards a solitary house at the foot of the height which, seen in the moonlight, presented a peculiar aspect.

It had a hyperoon or upper story which extended only over part of the building and was reached by a staircase on the outside. It was an old-fashioned, but very convenient style of architecture, especially when this upper story was used for guest rooms. In those days, when taverns were almost unknown, nearly every house annually received visits from distant guests who, on the great festivals, came to Athens to attend the processions and torch-races, or the performances in the Theatre of Dionysus. Both stories were so low that a man, by standing on another’s shoulders, could have reached the roof with a staff. Nevertheless, the house had a certain air of distinction from being enthroned on a huge limestone rock, in whose crumbling sides ten or twelve steps were hewn.

As Hipyllos and his companion went towards the dwelling there was a rustling on the outside staircase, and the figure of a boy with closely-cropped hair suddenly appeared outlined against the grey evening sky--doubtless a young slave stationed to keep watch. At the sight of the approaching forms he began to sing at the top of his voice, apparently to attract the attention of the inmates of the house, the beginning of the old Harmodius chorus:

“Never has Athens possessed such a man,
Never did citizen so serve the city....”

Then he suddenly stopped and, in the stillness, which seemed doubly as profound as before, a dog was heard barking within the dwelling. Hipyllos went up to the door of the house and signed to Myrmex to knock with the copper ring. Scarcely had the heavy blow fallen, when a frantic deafening barking was heard, interrupted by a short howl as though the dog had been silenced by a kick. A heavy step approached inside and a rough voice asked:

“Who knocks so late?”