“Two, as it’s a Great Year. Men and girls. The men for a choral ode to Poseidon at the holy spring.”
“You’ll have to think of something new about Theseus, won’t you? Is there anything?”
“Certainly. He’s not yet been down to the underworld, to carry off Persephone.”
“That’s a dark tale, Uncle Sim. Do you think the Archons will like it?”
“That’s with the god, who sent the song to me.” I had asked myself the same question, but only as if asking whether it would rain tomorrow. This tale of the hero’s hubris and nemesis had seized my mind, and I had no time for anything else. “Herakles shall rescue him at the end.”
“And what about the girls?”
“That hymn is always joyful. It’s for the maidens, who bring the offerings to Athene. Yes, I shall be busy. Hipparchos, too. He’s been planning a full year for the Great Year. That will take his mind off his little folly.”
A thought came to me then, and I said, “I don’t think, this year, the city would grudge me the privilege of having my pupil carry my kithara. Just for the Presentation of the Maidens.”
Before he found his voice, he looked almost beautiful. Never mind, I thought; he is in no danger now, and if he were he can well look after himself. I took him to a robe-maker to have something made up, a short tunic proper to his age, and a red shoulder-cloak.
A few days later, Hipparchos sent for me to discuss the festival. Of course I was one of many: high priests and generals, the engineers who had charge of the Sacred Ship, and that year were making a new one; the other poets, and the musicians. The heralds were there, to learn their stations and cries. The eldest of them plied back and forth with messages to the High Priestess of Athene, who was too holy to appear among men at all. Both Archons were present; Thessalos too, who was to lead the youths’ cavalcade, by reason of rank, for he was past the age. Hipparchos, as usual, did almost all the business of the rite, and had a good deal to say to me; but all day I never had speech with him alone.
That I had expected; but I kept my eye on him, and what I saw disturbed me. In the last few years he had been thickening a little, till it threatened to spoil his looks; now he was lean. He had lost flesh so quickly, I wondered if he could have a wasting sickness. Men with a phthisis have this burned-up look, till one day they cough blood and die. But he did a great deal of talking that afternoon, and did not cough even once.
When all the business was over, he did beckon me up. I wondered if he wanted a private word, and didn’t know if I feared or wished it; it was a long time now since I had known his mind. But it was only to say he would be sending for me shortly, to discuss the Maidens’ Hymn.
Anakreon left with me, and we walked down the steps together. I said, “Is Hipparchos sick, or has he had too many late nights? The man looks raveled.”
“Something has happened. I don’t know what; nor does anyone else—except one, maybe. A few days back he passed me in the city within a yard, and never saw me or heard me greet him. No, it wasn’t meant; he might have been alone upon Mount Parnes. He looked as if the Furies were after him.”
I remembered Bacchylides; but I had given him good advice and meant to keep it myself. “Can it be love? I thought he’d be cured by this time.”
“He did not name his daimon. But it looked more like hate to me.”
“Or the terrible face of Eros, when he changes shape.”
He gave me his sweet smile; like a wise young boy’s, though by then he was over fifty. “My dear, there is no terrible face of Eros. There is just the one charming one, which he may decide to turn away. The Furies who follow him are all begotten by men.”
That was his truth; and even in sad old age, when his smiling god had turned away forever, he did not renounce it. Happy Anakreon!
Next day, Hipparchos sent for me about the maidens’ procession. I took my kithara to let him hear the hymn. This time, maybe I would be alone with him. But once more, no; Thessalos was sitting by him.
He at least was his usual self; a saffron robe, blue-bordered, gold clasps and studs on his sandals, an Egyptian girdle worked with ibises. His dark hair was cut to the nape in the very latest fashion, with an embroidered headband. He looked in high health and spirits. They waved me to sit at their writing-table. No clerk was there; Hipparchos wrote a very good hand himself.
Once again I wondered if he was sick. Beside his brother, glossy as a well-groomed horse, his lack of condition showed up. He was dressed with less than his usual care; his hair looked dull, and for the first time I was aware of grey in it; his cheeks were mottled, with broken veins, and when he held his stylos, I saw that he had a tremor. He spoke to me very civilly, but with only half his mind on me. It was Thessalos who saw my kithara, and jogged him into asking to hear the hymn.
I gave it, my own mind partly upon Thessalos himself. His concern with the maiden rite was something new. He was now about thirty, and might well be thinking of marriage. He was far from sharing his brother’s dislike of women; and the great festivals are good times for choosing brides. Men can look the girls well over, before getting caught up with matchmakers and kinfolk. Wellborn girls are hard to get a sight of at other times.
Hipparchos roused himself when my noise had stopped, and praised it as warmly as any man can who has not listened. Thessalos, who was missing nothing today, picked out one or two images for compliment. We went quickly over the rite, which had only to be remembered from one Great Year to the next. Thessalos said, “Was there anything else? Oh, yes, we never finished choosing the girls.”
He sounded too careless, and I was sure I had guessed right. If so, his choice would be on the list already. As usual, Hipparchos showed it me; sometimes I would ask for some girl of middle station, whom I’d marked down at a wedding or a feast, for her fine presence or sweet voice. I had no one in mind today; he rolled it up, saying, “We can finish it presently. Won’t you take some wine before you go?” I left the brothers with their heads together. He had one friend at least, it seemed, in whom he could still confide.
The maids were duly brought to the temple precinct, to be taught the hymn and the order of the procession. Their mothers led them proudly, dressed in their second best, their new ones saved for the day; their hair just loosened from the crimping-plaits, solemn-faced, too overawed even to catch one another’s eyes. Their mothers sat down on the seats along the wall, appraising each other’s daughters, and looking at me to be sure I valued their own.
I have never desired young maids, preferring ripe fruit to green; maybe it is because I feared their laughter when I was a boy. But at the rites they always moved me: those sure of their beauty, so ignorant of what Aphrodite may send them when they have served Athene; the shy ones, sure of nothing, except that this is their own Great Year, which they will have to remember forever. They give no trouble, as boys often do, who know they will find their fates elsewhere and would sooner impress each other than their teacher. The girls seek perfection before unknown eyes they have only seen in dreams.
It was the mother I noticed first, fanning herself, and condescending to the lady beside her. The girls stood in a clump, waiting for me to arrange them. There in the middle was the silver-gold hair of the young Delias.
I thought, Her name was not on the list; but it was not finished. He added her later, ashamed that I should see. And Anakreon says there is no terrible face of love! As surely as Dionysos, he can strike men mad. This poor wretch, who has had every gift he offered thrown back in his face, still hopes that by flattering the family he can buy his treasure. The girl is too young, hardly more than a child. Well, at least it will give her pleasure.