Along the hill-side he came, following a path which skirted the sea.
His forehead was bare, deeply furrowed and bound by a fillet of red
wool. The sea-breeze blew his white locks over his temples and pressed
the fleece of a snow-white beard against his chin. His tunic and his
feet were the colour of the roads which he had trodden for so many
years. A roughly made lyre hung at his side. He was known as the Aged
One, and also as the Bard. Yet another name was given him by the
children to whom he taught poetry and music, and many called him the
Blind One, because his eyes, dim with age, were overhung by swollen
lids, reddened by the smoke of the hearths beside which he was wont
to sit when he sang. But his was no eternal night, and he was said
to see things invisible to other men. For three generations he had
been wandering ceaselessly to and fro. And now, having sung all day
to a King of Ægea, he was returning to his home, the roof of which
he could already see smoking in the distance; for now, after walking
all night without a halt for fear of being overtaken by the heat of
the day, in the clear light of the dawn he could see the white Kyme,
his birthplace. With his dog at his side, leaning on his crooked
staff, he walked with slow steps, his body upright, his head held
high because of the steepness of the way leading down into the narrow
valley and because he was still vigorous in his age. The sun, rising
over the mountains of Asia, shed a rosy light over the fleecy clouds
and the hill-sides of the islands that studded the sea. The coast-line
glistened. But the hills that stretched away eastward, crowned with
mastic and terebinth, lay still in the freshness and the shadow of
night.
The Aged One measured along the incline the length of twelve times
twelve lances and found, on the left, between the flanks of twin rocks,
the narrow entrance to a sacred wood. There, on the brink of a spring,
rose an altar of unhewn stones.
It was half hidden by an oleander the branches of which were laden
with dazzling blossoms. The well-trodden ground in front of the altar
was white with the bones of victims. All around, the boughs of the
olive-trees were hung with offerings. And farther on, in the awesome
shadow of the gorge, rose two ancient oaks, bearing, nailed to their
trunks, the bleached skulls of bulls. Knowing that this altar was
consecrated to Phœbus, the Aged One plunged into the wood, and, taking
by its handle a little earthenware cup which hung from his belt, he
bent over the stream which, flowing over a bed of wild parsley and
water-cress, slowly wound its way down to the meadow. He filled his cup
with the spring-water, and, because he was pious, before drinking he
poured a few drops before the altar. He worshipped the immortal gods,
who know neither pain nor death, while on earth generation follows
generation of suffering men. He was conscious of fear; and he dreaded
the arrows of Leto's sons. Full of sorrows and of years, he loved the
light of day and feared death. For this reason an idea occurred to him.
He bent the pliable trunk of a sapling, and drawing it towards him hung
his earthenware cup from the topmost twig of the young tree, which,
springing back, bore the old man's offering up to the open sky.
White Kyme, wall-encircled, rose from the edge of the sea. A steep
highway, paved with flat stones, led to the gate of the town. This gate
had been built in an age beyond man's memory, and it was said to be
the work of the gods. Carved upon the lintel were signs which no man
understood, yet they were regarded as of good omen. Not far from this
gate was the public square, where the benches of the elders shone
beneath the trees. Near this square, on the landward side, the Aged One
stayed his steps. There was his house. It was low and small, and less
beautiful than the neighbouring house, where a famous seer dwelt with
his children. Its entrance was half hidden beneath a heap of manure, in
which a pig was rooting. This dunghill was smaller than those at the
doors of the rich. But behind the house was an orchard, and stables of
unquarried stone, which the Aged One had built with his own hands. The
sun was climbing up the white vault of heaven, the sea wind had fallen.
The invisible fire in the air scorched the lungs of men and beasts.
For a moment the Aged One paused upon the threshold to wipe the sweat
from his brow with the back of his hand. His dog, with watchful eye and
hanging tongue, stood still and panted.
The aged Melantho, emerging from the house, appeared on the threshold
and spoke a few pleasant words. Her coming had been slow, because a god
had sent an evil spirit into her legs which swelled them and made them
heavier than a couple of wine-skins. She was a Carian slave and in her
youth the King had bestowed her on the bard, who was then young and
vigorous. And in her new master's bed she had conceived many children.
But not one was left in the house. Some were dead, others had gone away
to practise the art of song or to steer the plough in distant Achaian
cities, for all were richly gifted. And Melantho was left alone in the
house with Areta, her daughter-in-law, and Areta's two children.
She went with the master into the great hall with its smoky rafters. In
the midst of it, before the domestic altar, lay the hearthstone covered
with red embers and melted fat. Out of the hall opened two stories of
small rooms; a wooden staircase led to the upper chambers, which were
the women's quarters. Against the pillars that supported the roof leant
the bronze weapons which the Aged One had borne in his youth, in the
days when he followed the kings to the cities to which they drove in
their chariots to recapture the daughters of Kyme whom the heroes had
carried away. From one of the beams hung the skin of an ox.
The elders of the city, wishful to honour the bard, had sent it to
him on the previous day. He rejoiced at the sight of it. As he stood
drawing a long breath into a chest which was shrunken with age, he took
from beneath his tunic, with a few cloves of garlic remaining from
his alfresco supper, the King of Ægea's gift; it was a stone fallen
from heaven and precious, for it was of iron, though too small for a
lance-tip. He brought with him also a pebble which he had found on the
road. On this pebble, when looked at in a certain light, was the form
of a man's head. And the Aged One, showing it to Melantho, said:
"Woman, see, on this pebble is the likeness of Pakoros, the blacksmith;
not without permission of the gods may a stone thus present the
semblance of Pakoros."
And when the aged Melantho had poured water over his feet and hands in
order to remove the dust that defiled them, he grasped the shin of beef
in his arms, placed it on the altar and began to tear it asunder. Being
wise and prudent, he did not delegate to women or to children the duty
of preparing the repast; and, after the manner of kings, he himself
cooked the flesh of beasts.
Meanwhile Melantho coaxed the fire on the hearth into a flame. She
blew upon the dry twigs until a god wrapped them in fire. Though the
task was holy, the Aged One suffered it to be performed by a woman
because years and fatigue had enfeebled him. When the flames leapt up
he cast into them pieces of flesh which he turned over with a fork of
bronze. Seated on his heels, he inhaled the smoke; and as it filled
the room his eyes smarted and watered; but he paid no heed because he
was accustomed to it and because the smoke signified abundance. As the
toughness of the meat yielded to the fire's irresistible power, he
put fragments of it into his mouth and, slowly masticating them with
his well-worn teeth, ate in silence. Standing at his side, the aged
Melantho poured the dark wine into an earthenware cup like that which
he had given to the god.
When he had satisfied hunger and thirst, he inquired whether all in
house and stable was well. And he inquired concerning the wool woven in
his absence, the cheese placed in the vat and the ripe olives in the
press. And, remembering that his goods were but few, he said:
"The heroes keep herds of oxen and heifers in the meadows. They have a
goodly number of strong and comely slaves; the doors of their houses
are of ivory and of brass, and their tables are laden with pitchers
of gold. The courage of their hearts assured them of wealth, which
they sometimes keep until old age. In my youth, certes, I was not
inferior to them in courage, but I had neither horses nor chariots, nor
servants, nor even armour strong enough to vie with them in battle and
to win tripods of gold and women of great beauty. He who fights on foot
with poor weapons cannot kill many enemies, because he himself fears
death. Wherefore, fighting beneath the town walls, in the ranks, with
the serving men, never did I win rich spoil."
The aged Melantho made answer:
"War giveth wealth to men and robs them of it. My father, Kyphos, had
a palace and countless herds at Mylata. But armed men despoiled him of
all and slew him. I myself was carried away into slavery, but I was
never ill-treated because I was young. The chiefs took me to their bed
and never did I lack food. You were my best master and the poorest."
There was neither joy nor sadness in her voice as she spoke.
The Aged One replied:
"Melantho, you cannot complain of me, for I have always treated you
kindly. Reproach me not with having failed to win great wealth.
Armourers are there and blacksmiths who are rich. Those who are skilled
in the construction of chariots derive no small advantage from their
labours. Seers receive great gifts. But the life of minstrels is hard."
The aged Melantho said:
"The life of many men is hard."
And with heavy step she went out of the house, with her
daughter-in-law, to fetch wood from the cellar. It was the hour when
the sun's invincible heat prostrates men and beasts, and silences even
the song of the birds in the motionless foliage. The Aged One stretched
himself upon a mat, and, veiling his face, fell asleep.
As he slumbered he was visited by a succession of dreams, which were
neither more beautiful nor more unusual than those which he dreamed
every day. In these dreams appeared to him the forms of men and of
beasts. And, because among them he recognized some whom he had known
while they lived on the green earth and who having lost the light of
day had lain beneath the funeral pile, he concluded that the shades of
the dead hover in the air, but that, having lost their vigour, they
are nothing but empty shadows. He learned from dreams that there exist
likewise shades of animals and of plants which are seen in sleep. He
was convinced that the dead, wandering in Hades, themselves form their
own image, since none may form it for them, unless it were one of those
gods who love to deceive man's feeble intellect. But, being no seer,
he could not distinguish between false dreams and true; and, weary of
seeking to understand the confused visions of the night, he regarded
them with indifference as they passed beneath his closed eyelids.
On awakening, he beheld, ranged before him in an attitude of respect,
the children of Kyme, whom he instructed in poetry and music, as his
father had instructed him. Among them were his daughter-in-law's two
sons. Many of them were blind, for a bard's life was deemed fitting for
those who, bereft of sight, could neither work in the fields nor follow
heroes to war.
In their hands they bore the offerings in payment for the bard's
lessons, fruit, cheese, a honeycomb, a sheep's fleece, and they waited
for their master's approval before placing it on the domestic altar.
The Aged One, having risen and taken his lyre which hung from a beam in
the hall, said kindly:
"Children, it is just that the rich should give much and the poor less.
Zeus, our father, hath unequally apportioned wealth among men. But he
will punish the child who withholds the tribute due to the divine bard."
The vigilant Melantho came and took the gifts from the altar. And the
Aged One, having tuned his lyre, began to teach a song to the children,
who with crossed legs were seated on the ground around him.
"Hearken," he said, "to the combat between Patrocles and Sarpedon. This
is a beautiful song."
And he sang. He skilfully modulated the sounds, applying the same
rhythm and the same measure to each line; and, in order that his voice
should not wander from the key, he supported it at regular intervals
by striking a note upon his three-stringed lyre. And, before making a
necessary pause, he uttered a shrill cry, accompanied by a strident
vibration of strings. After he had sung lines equal in number to double
the number of fingers on his two hands, he made the children repeat
them. They cried them out all together in a high voice, as, following
their master's example, they touched the little lyres which they
themselves had carved out of wood and which gave no sound.
Patiently the Aged One sang the lines over and over until the little
singers knew every word. The attentive children he praised, but those
who lacked memory or intelligence he struck with the wooden part of his
lyre, and they went away to lean weeping against a pillar of the hall.
He taught by example, not by precept, because he believed poesy to be
of hoary antiquity and beyond man's judgment. The only counsels which
he gave related to manners. He bade them:
"Honour kings and heroes, who are superior to other men. Call heroes
by their own name and that of their father, so that these names be not
forgotten. When you sit in assemblies gather your tunic about you and
let your mien express grace and modesty."
Again he said to them:
"Do not spit in rivers, because rivers are scared. Make no change,
either through weakness of memory or of your own imagining, in the
songs I teach you, and when a king shall say unto you: 'These songs are
beautiful. From whom did you learn them?' you shall answer: 'I learnt
them from the Aged One of Kyme, who received them from his father, whom
doubtless a god had inspired.'" Of the ox's shin, there yet remained a
few succulent morsels. Having eaten one of them before the hearth and
smashed the bone with an axe of bronze, in order to extract the marrow,
of which he alone in the house was worthy to partake, he divided the
rest of the meat into portions which should nourish the women and
children for the space of two days.
Then he realized that soon nothing would be left of this nutritious
food, and he reflected:
"The rich are loved by Zeus and the poor are not. All unwittingly I
have doubtless offended one of those gods who live concealed in the
forests or the mountains, or perhaps the child of an immortal; and
it is to expiate my involuntary crime that I drag out my days in a
penurious old age. Sometimes, without any evil intention, one commits
actions which are punishable because the gods have not clearly revealed
unto men that which is permitted and that which is forbidden. And
their will remains obscure." Long did he turn over those thoughts in
his mind, and, fearing the return of cruel hunger, he resolved not to
remain idly in his dwelling that night, but this time to go towards
the country where the Hermos flows between rocks and whence can be
seen Orneia, Smyrna and the beautiful Hissia, lying upon the mountain,
which, like the prow of some Phœnician boat, plunges into the sea.
Wherefore, at the hour when the first stars glimmer in the pale sky,
he girded himself with the cord of his lyre and went forth, along the
sea-shore, toward the dwellings of rich men, who, during their lengthy
feasts, love to hearken to the praise of heroes and the genealogies of
the gods.
Having, according to his custom, journeyed all night, in the rosy dawn
of morning he descried a town perched upon a high headland, and he
recognized the opulent Hissia, dove-haunted, which from the summit of
her rock looks down upon the white islands sporting like nymphs in the
glistening sea. Not far from the town, on the margin of a spring, he
sat down to rest and to appease his hunger with the onions which he had
brought in a fold of his tunic.
Hardly had he finished his meal when a young girl, bearing a basket
on her head, came to the spring to wash linen. At first she looked
at him suspiciously, but, seeing that he carried a wooden lyre slung
over his torn tunic and that he was old and overcome with fatigue,
she approached him fearlessly, and, suddenly, seized with pity and
veneration, she filled the hollows of her hands with drops of water
with which she moistened the minstrel's lips.
Then he called her a king's daughter; he promised her a long life, and
said:
"Maiden, desire floats in a cloud about thy girdle. Happy the man who
shall lead thee to his couch. And I, an old man, praise thy beauty like
the bird of night which cries all unheeded upon the nuptial roof. I am
a wandering bard. Daughter, speak unto me pleasant words."
And the maiden answered:
"If, as you say and as it seemeth, you are a musician, then no evil
fate brings you to this town. For the rich Meges to-day receiveth a
guest who is dear to him; and to the great of the town, in honour of
his guest, he giveth a sumptuous feast. Doubtless he would wish them to
hear a good minstrel. Go to him. From this very spot you may see his
house. From the seaward side it cannot be approached, because it is on
that high breeze-swept headland, which juts out into the waves. But if
you enter the town on the landward side, by the steps cut in the rock,
which lead up the vine-clad hill, you will easily distinguish from all
the other houses the abode of Meges. It has been recently whitewashed,
and it is more spacious than the rest." And the Aged One, rising with
difficulty on limbs which the years had stiffened, climbed the steps
cut in the rock by the men of old, and, reaching the high table-land
whereon is the town of Hissia, he readily distinguished the house of
the rich Meges.
To approach it was pleasant, for the blood of freshly slaughtered bulls
gushed from its doors and the odour of hot fat was perceptible all
around. He crossed the threshold, entered the great banqueting-hall
and, having touched the altar with his hand, approached Meges, who
was carving the meat and ordering the servants. Already the guests
were ranged about the hearth, rejoicing in the prospect of a plenteous
repast. Among them were many kings and heroes. But the guest whom Meges
desired to honour by this banquet was a King of Chios, who, in quest
of wealth, had long navigated the seas and endured great hardship. His
name was Oineus. All the guests admired him because, like Ulysses in
earlier days, he had escaped from innumerable shipwrecks, shared in the
islands the couch of enchantresses and brought home great treasure.
He told of his travels and his labours, interspersing them with
inventions, for he had a nimble wit.
Recognizing the bard by the lyre which hung at his side, the rich Meges
addressed the Aged One and said:
"Be welcome. What songs knowest thou?"
The Aged One made answer:
"I know 'The Strife of Kings' which brought such great disaster to
the Achaians, I know 'The Storming of the Wall.' And that song is
beautiful. I know also 'The Deception of Zeus,' 'The Embassy' and
'The Capture of the Dead.' And these songs are beautiful. I know yet
more--six times sixty very beautiful songs."
Thus did he give it to be understood that he knew many songs; but the
exact number he could not tell.
The rich Meges replied in a mocking tone:
"In the hope of a good meal and a rich gift, wandering minstrels ever
say that they know many songs; but, put to the test, it is soon seen
that they remember but a few lines, with the constant repetition of
which they tire the ears of heroes and of kings."
The Aged One answered wisely:
"Meges," he said, "you are renowned for your wealth. Know that the
number of the songs I know is not less than that of the bulls and
heifers which your herdsmen drive to graze on the mountain." Meges,
admiring the Old Man's intelligence, said to him kindly:
"A small mind would not suffice to contain so great a number of songs.
But, tell me, is what thou knowest about Achilles and Ulysses really
true? For many are the lies in circulation touching those heroes."
And the bard made answer:
"All that I know of the heroes I received from my father, who learned
it from Muses themselves, for in earlier days in cave and forest the
immortal Muses visited divine singers. No inventions will I mingle
with the ancient tales."
Thus did he speak, and wisely. Nevertheless to the songs he had known
from his youth upward he was wont to add lines taken from other songs
or the fruit of his own imagination. He himself had composed wellnigh
the whole of certain songs. But, fearing lest man should disapprove of
them, he did not confess them to be his own work. The heroes preferred
the ancient tales which they believed to have been dictated by a god,
and they objected to new songs. Wherefore, when he repeated lines of
his own invention, he carefully concealed their origin. And, as he was
a true poet and followed all the ancient traditions, his lines differed
in no way from those of his ancestors; they resembled them in form and
in beauty, and, from the beginning, they were worthy of immortal glory.
The rich Meges was not unintelligent. Perceiving the Aged One to be a
good singer, he gave him a place of honour by the hearth and said to
him:
"Old Man, when we have satisfied our hunger, thou shalt sing to us all
thou knowest of Achilles and Ulysses. Endeavour to charm the ears of
Oineus, my guest, for he is a hero full of wisdom."
And Oineus, who had long wandered over the sea, asked the minstrel
whether he knew "The Voyages of Ulysses." But the return of the heroes
who had fought at Troy was still wrapped in mystery, and no one knew
what Ulysses had suffered in his wanderings over the pathless sea.
The Old Man answered:
"I know that the divine Ulysses shared Circe's couch and deceived the
Cyclops by a crafty wile. Women tell tales about it to one another. But
the hero's return to Ithaca is hidden from the bards. Some say that he
returned to possess his wife and his goods, others that he put away
Penelope because she had admitted her suitors to her bed, and that he
himself, punished by the gods, wandered ceaselessly among the people,
an oar upon his shoulder."
Oineus replied:
"In my travels I have heard that Ulysses died at the hands of his son."
Meanwhile Meges distributed the flesh of oxen among his guests. And to
each one he gave a fitting morsel. Oineus praised him loudly.
"Meges," he said, "one can see that you are accustomed to give
banquets."
The oxen of Meges were fed upon the sweetsmelling herbs which grow on
the mountain-side. Their flesh was redolent thereof, and the heroes
could not consume enough of it. And, as Meges was constantly refilling
a capacious goblet which he afterwards passed to his guests, the repast
was prolonged far into the day. No man remembered so rich a feast.
The sun was going down into the sea, when the herdsmen who kept the
flocks of Meges upon the mountain came to receive their share of the
wine and victuals. Meges respected them because they grazed the herds
not with the indolence of the herdsmen of the plain, but armed with
lances of iron and girded with armour in order to defend the oxen
against the attacks of the people of Asia. And they were like unto
kings and heroes, whom they equalled in courage. They were led by two
chiefs, Peiros and Thoas, whom the master had chosen as the bravest and
the most intelligent. And, indeed, handsomer men were not to be seen.
Meges welcomed them to his hearth as the illustrious protectors of his
wealth. He gave them wine and meat as much as they desired.
Oineus, admiring them, said to his host:
"In all my travels, I have never seen men with limbs so well formed and
muscular as those of these two master herdsmen."
Then Meges uttered injudicious words. He said: "Peiros is the stronger
in wrestling, but Thoas the swifter in the race."
At these words, the two herdsmen looked angrily at one another, and
Thoas said to Peiros:
"You must have given the master some maddening drink to make him say
that you are the better wrestler."
Then Peiros answered Thoas testily:
"I flatter myself that I can conquer you in wrestling. As for racing, I
leave to you the palm which the master has given. For you who have the
heart of a stag could not fail to possess his feet."
But the wise Oineus checked the herdsmen's quarrel. He artfully told
tales showing the danger of wrangling at feasts. And, as he spoke well,
he was approved. Peace having been restored, Meges said to the Aged One:
"My friend, sing us 'The Wrath of Achilles' and the 'Gathering of the
Kings.'"
And the Aged One, having tuned his lyre, poured forth into the thick
atmosphere of the hall great gusts of sound.
He drew deep breaths, and all the guests hearkened in silence to the
measured words which recalled ages worthy to be remembered. And many
marvelled how so old a man, one withered by age like a vine-branch
which beareth neither fruit nor leaves, could emit such powerful notes.
For they did not understand that the power of the wine and the habit of
singing imparted to the musician a strength which otherwise would have
been denied him by enfeebled nerve and muscle.
At intervals a murmur of praise rose from the assembly like a strong
gust of wind in the forest. But suddenly the herdsmen's dispute,
appeased for a while, broke out afresh. Heated with wine, they
challenged one another to wrestle and to race. Their wild cries rose
above the musician's voice, and vainly he endeavoured to make the
harmonious sounds which proceeded from his mouth and his lyre heard by
the assembly. The herdsmen who followed Peiros and Thoas, flushed with
wine, struck their hands and grunted like hogs. They had long formed
themselves into rival bands which shared the chiefs' enmity.
"Dog!" cried Thoas.
And he struck Peiros a blow on the face which drew blood from his mouth
and nostrils. Peiros, blinded, butted with his forehead against the
chest of Thoas and threw him backwards, his ribs broken. Straightway
the rival herdsmen cast themselves upon one another, exchanging blows
and insults.
In vain did Meges and the Kings endeavour to separate the combatants.
Even the wise Oineus himself was repulsed by the herdsmen whom a god
had bereft of reason. Brass vessels flew through the air on all sides.
Great ox-bones, smoking torches, bronze tripods rose and fell upon the
combatants. The interlaced bodies of men rolled over the hearth on
which the fire was dying, in the midst of the liquor which flowed from
the burst wine-skins.
Dense darkness enveloped the hall, a darkness full of groans and
imprecations. Arms, maddened by frenzy, seized glowing logs and hurled
them into the darkness. A blazing twig struck the minstrel as he stood
still and silent.
Then a voice louder than all the noise of combat cursed these impious
men and this profane house. And, pressing his lyre to his breast, he
went out of the dwelling and walked along the high headland by the sea.
To his wrath had given place a great feeling of fatigue and a bitter
disgust with men and with life.
A longing for union with the gods filled his breast. All things lay
wrapped in soft shadows, the friendly silence and the peace of night.
Westward, over the land which men say is haunted by the shades of the
dead, the divine moon, hanging in the clear sky, shed silver blossoms
upon the smiling sea. And the aged Homer advanced over the high
headland until the earth, which had borne him so long, failed beneath
his feet.