VI.
Hipyllos raised the curtain hanging over the door and entered a small, low chamber, lighted by a lamp with two wicks placed on a high bronze pedestal. The rest of the furniture consisted of four couches and a table covered with goblets, wreaths, fillets for the hair, and alabaster phials of perfume with necks so narrow that the precious contents could only ooze out drop by drop.
In this room were three men. Two reclined on the same couch, half resting against each other, the third stood before them with folded arms, talking to the pair. One of the couple on the couch was a small, white-haired, white-robed man, with a pair of strangely brilliant eyes, the other was a stately personage with long black locks and rings on his fingers, clad in a showy yellow robe. The one who stood before them was a large, stout bald man, with a weather-beaten face and a grey beard, very plainly dressed in a grey chiton, but there was something in his bearing which attracted attention. He carried his head high, and his whole outer man bore the impress of unwavering self-confidence and unbending pride. He was evidently a man of action, and had more than once held command when the point in question was life and death. His manner clearly showed that he was host and the others were his guests.
When Hipyllos entered he advanced several steps to meet him, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a curt, loud tone: “I like a youth who comes at the right hour—spite of chariot-races, dice, women, and wine. By Zeus, when I was young—I always came late.”
Thuphrastos—this was the speaker’s name—had formerly been a captain of horsemen and was known by the name of Cōdōn, the barker. From asthma or habit, he rarely uttered more than five or six words at a time, and so abruptly that his speech really bore some resemblance to a dog’s barking.
“Ha! ha! ha!” chimed in the little white-haired man. “And I was often outside the house till late into the night. But, though my father was only a poor miller, he watched his household strictly enough. For a long time I told our old slave-woman to put a pair of dusty sandals outside of my door, so that he should think I was at home. One night, however, he found the chamber empty, so that trick was over. Ah, I was a young fellow then—it seems so short a time ago—yet now I am old.”
Hipyllos greeted the speaker with marked respect. He was the architect Xenocles, the lovely Clytie’s father.
“Old!” repeated the man in the yellow robe—the orator and tragedian Acestor—“old, don’t say that!” And, glancing at the others, he added “Spite of his white hair, Xenocles is the most active man among us. Like the swan, the bird of Phoebus Apollo—he has no age.”
“Hm,” muttered Thuphrastos tartly, “don’t listen to him. Orators are cunning flatterers. Old friend,” he continued, laying his hand on Xenocles’ shoulder, “we both know better. Age is a sickness of the whole body. We can—at a hundred paces—distinguish a Koppa-stallion from an animal destined for sacrifice; we can, if necessary, chew our barley bread, but—the girls turn their backs upon us.”
Hipyllos exchanged a cold greeting with the stately Acestor, Clytie’s acknowledged suitor.
The latter scarcely seemed to notice the young man; for Hipyllos was not known by many, while every child recognized the orator Acestor. He well knew what pleased the multitude, and talked with equal ease and fluency about campaigns, legal cases, art, the working of mines, and the cultivation of vineyards. He was indebted for what he had learned solely and entirely to his excellent memory—he was far from rich enough to own a library. Books were extraordinarily expensive. Three small treatises by Philolaos, the Pythagorean philosopher, cost 110 minae.[J]
[J] About 1800 dollars.
Whether from lack of will or lack of conviction, Acestor was in one respect an incapable orator. He could never control an assembly that was unfavorable to him. Signs of disapproval from the majority completely upset him, clouded his brain, and made him contradict himself. Yet he was able to sway an audience as he pleased when sure of having his hearers with him. He seemed created to delude credulous folk; thousands on thousands had applauded him, and many thought that, as orator and debater, he surpassed Antiphon the Rhamnusian, and as a tragedian he deserved to rank by the side of the great Pratinas. The more sagacious, on the other hand, held a totally different opinion; they said that he “puffed himself up till the city was too small for him,” thought his voice shrill and his statements untrustworthy and as to his tragedy they remarked with old Cratinus that he “ought to be flogged until he learned to write more briefly.”
His worst opponents went still farther. They openly called him Carian or Phrygian, nay even gave him the slave-name of Sacas—all to intimate that they did not consider him a native Athenian, but a foreigner who had smuggled himself into the list of citizens. The punishment for this imposition was very severe, and consisted of having the hair clipped and being enslaved. Yet nothing was more common than for foreigners, nay, even fugitive slaves, to bribe the recording clerks and be entered in the register of citizens. A revision of this register had led to the perplexing, almost incredible discovery, that no fewer than 4,760 persons had insinuated themselves among 14,240 native citizens.
Hipyllos had not yet taken his seat when the slave-boy’s resonant voice was again heard outside. The blow of the knocker on the door echoed through the house, and the dog in the outer hall snuffed but, remembering the kick, contented itself with growling. Shortly after a peculiarly firm step echoed across the peristyle.
“Hush!” exclaimed little Xenocles. “What a step. If Heracles himself was approaching, it could not sound different. I’ll wager that is Lamon.”