Apollo always arrived at Delphi on his birthday the seventh of Busious. Then the whole Precinct and the town awoke to greet him with song and festival. In Nikander’s house slaves ran to and fro on busy errands; for of a surety guests would be coming from the ends of the earth. The purples and the woven curtains came forth from Theria’s familiar storeroom, and all the house glowed with the patterns and pictures of tapestries. What joy to the little girl that busyness and commotion.
Past the house on the highroad now came throngs of pilgrims, more of them every day. At these times no forbiddings or punishments could keep Theria away from the window.
Here came men from Corinth, Thebes, Argos, and the islands of the sea. Rich men on horseback with trains of slaves, poor men whose anxious faces showed plain their question to the god. “Even the wolves bring gifts to Delphi,” was the saying; and some of these with their heavy mountain faces and clothes of skin seemed wild and wolf-like to the little girl. Now would pass a delegation from some distant Delphian colony bearing the tithe gift to the mother fane; for Apollo was founder of cities. It was he who had first led the colonists to their distant lands over the misty deep. Sculptors came accompanying their statues; poets brought their songs. Now would pass an Ionian gentleman in long purple cloak, laughing, gesturing; now a quiet young philosopher whose large-eyed vivid face showed his spirit-quest. Philosophers were well known in Delphi and more welcome than kings.
How eagerly the visitors talked as they came along. They had arrived after long journeying to within sight of their goal. The broad Doric speech, the melodious Attic, the barbarous dialects mixed with the speech of Scyths, Sikels, and Gauls, all these she heard.
Among these passers-by were sure to be some who would stop and enter Nikander’s door—guests of the priestly house. Often these were men of high renown, but quite as often they would be poor, in threadbare garments, who had came to the Oracle in bitter need. To these Nikander’s ministry was almost un-Greek in its overflowing sympathy. An inherited skill of kindness was his and his poet quality of insight was of no peculiar race or date. Many a troubled wight came forth from Nikander’s presence, serene to face the god.
In the centre of Nikander’s as in every Greek house there was a fast-closed door. Behind this door lived the women. They might, when only the family was in the house, come through this door, but they had no business or occupation on its outer side. At the appearance of a guest the women must quickly disappear.
This door was at once Theria’s greatest grief and greatest delight. Grief that it must constrain her at all. Delight in that she could steal through it and catch glimpses of her father’s guests. Often though she was punished for this Theria always did it. Who would not take punishment for a glimpse of Æschylus, Kimon, Parmenides, or Pindar!
“Back to your room—quick, Daughter!” Nikander would command whenever he noticed her. But often Nikander would be absorbed in his guest, and the room would be confused with serving-slaves. Nikander would not even see Theria’s little figure crouched by a pillar.