The Praise Singer

by Mary Renault

  Well, she pleased me in bed, and I liked the thought of having her to myself; but most of all it was because, as it seemed, she had only me to care for her, that made me say I would be there with the money first. She embraced me, and warned me to say nothing yet to the mistress; the other man was rich, and if he knew, would raise his offer. It would be best if I gave her the money, not at the brothel, but at my house. I can’t think how I swallowed that; I daresay because she was too clever to make excuses. Presently she led me out to the common guest-room and saw me off with a tender kiss. I was still on the threshold when I remembered I’d left my walking-stick inside the door, and turned back to get it. She was looking towards another girl who was sitting there, a painted Egyptian; and though she’d not had time even to open her mouth, her face said louder than words, “What did I tell you? The fool will pay.” The other girl saw me first, and grimaced to warn her. That killed my last doubt, even before she saw me and tried to face it out. There was no need to say anything, and I went away.

  For a while, this brought me back to my prentice days in Ionia. It was lucky that at least I remembered Hipponax, and did not spoil my work with tedious scoldings. She was not Women, but one girl, as Hipponax was one man, by whom one must not judge others. My pride was not so tender to blows as in those old days, and a visit to Dorothea healed its bruises. Presently, feeling cured, I pulled the scab off my wound by making a good story of it for Hipparchos, one evening when I was sharing his supper-couch.

  When I had done, he cried, “My dear fellow! Wherever have you been wasting yourself? A man like you, in Athens, to be making do with a common trull! Tell me, what price did she set on herself, this little vixen?”

  “A hundred drachmas. But then, there were the other bidders.”

  “You must be joking. Why, you could buy a good dog for that. Well, she has played that game for the last time. I’ll see to it.”

  “By all means,” I said, “if you know of any other fish she is playing on the line, give them a word of warning.”

  “We shall see. My dear Simonides, I blame myself for all this. I have been a selfish host; I don’t invite enough women here. A man of your worth should not have to go foraging. People will think I don’t look after you … Come to supper—yes—three nights from now. I shall try to make amends.”

  When the night came, it was clear that he’d taken trouble. The room was garlanded, smelling of roses and rich spiced food. The other men, of whom one was Thessalos, were all distinguished; and the women did not appear with the wine and wreaths, like common flute-girls or dancers. They were to share the meal. After our host had greeted us, and each man had been shown to a couch with room for two, an inner door was thrown open with a flourish, and in they came.

  I wondered, indeed, where I’d been wasting my time. They walked with the dignity of ladies bringing offerings to a temple, but much more gracefully; their paint, if they wore any, was as delicate as nature; their gowns in clear bright colors were thin, but not tight, so that their bodies were just glimpsed softly as they moved; their hair was put up into embroidered snoods, as the fashion was just then; and from their softly hennaed ear-lobes dangled worked gold. They brought in the scents of a rose garden, planted here and there with aromatics.

  Hipparchos stepped down from his supper-couch to greet them, just as if they’d been men; and I understood the nature of this occasion. These were the royalty of their calling. No lesser man could have brought them into one room together. Certainly, he took on nothing he did not mean to do well.

  I don’t know how they were allotted among the guests, it flowed so naturally. I do know that from the moment they came in, one had especially dazzled me: a young woman with that brilliant fairness which art can never counterfeit, and large deep blue eyes. It’s a coloring that often goes with silliness; when you see wit and sense there, it can seem almost divine. Her gown was deep blue, sewn all over with small gold stars, and starry clusters hung from her ears. I was wondering who would have the god-sent luck to get her, when she walked towards my couch, and said, like a queen being gracious to a worthy subject, “Greetings, Simonides, and good health to you. Why have you never called on me?”

  I made room for her, with some confused reply. She settled her gown, smoothing out its embroidered borders, and said smiling, “I don’t believe you even know who I am. I am Lyra.”

  Just so, on the slopes of Ida, might Aphrodite have declared herself to the young Anchises, simply, without fuss.

  I must collect myself, before she thought me an oaf. “I have heard of Lyra, as I have heard of Helen. But I’ve neither the beauty of Paris, nor Menelaos’ rank.” (Nor his wealth, I thought.) “Fear of presumption kept me from your door.”

  “Foolish man,” she said lightly. “Do you think that Helen would have shut her door to Homer?”

  “Beautiful Lyra, but I am not Homer.”

  “Sweet-tongued Simonides, but I am not Helen. So we’re quits. And because you have never deigned to attend my parties, I’ve had to sing your songs to the guests myself. Of course everyone said, ‘But where is the poet?’ And what could I reply?”

  “Why, that the crow should stay in hiding, if he can have his song sung by the nightingale.”

  Her blue eyes changed and grew soft. “They wanted the Lament of Danae. I know every word, but I dared not. It always makes me cry.”

  She laid her hand on mine, and pressed it gently. I lifted and kissed it; the fingers were long and delicate, with faintly tinted tips. Even the slave with the jug and finger-bowl had seemed to rinse them with reverence. I recalled with shame the coarse grasping hands of Thalatta.

  The first tables came in and were set beside us. You don’t get such meals any more in Athens. (Here in Sicily, yes, if I could still digest them.) She ate with an elegance I’d not seen since I left Ionia. Now and then she would take up some choice bit and dip it in sauce and feed it to me, with a gay subtle glance that said, “This will be good, but some things are more delicious.”

  She leaned on her cushions just near enough for me to feel her scented warmth. Though she roused desire, she gave off too a sense of ease and harmony, both promise and present pleasure. Her skin was flowerlike however close one looked. I said, “Tonight for the first time I rejoice that I am not Homer. They say that he was blind.”

  “He is dead, too.” She put a shelled shrimp into my mouth. “But don’t lie to me, poet. To be Homer you would forfeit me, and him up there, and all that he can give you. Even your eyes. Your life, maybe. Not so?”

  “I thought so once. He is for all time, yes. But only his own time could have begotten him. He is a god to me, yet my own time made me otherwise; and time has taught me that I have my own things to say.”

  “When will you come and say them to me, Simonides? I don’t eat men, like Odysseus’ sirens.”

  “Ah, but those who dare the current can still be drowned.”

  “Put your toe in the water, much-enduring voyager, and come to one of my parties. My friends only pay their share of the feast, you know. Sometimes we sing and amuse each other till dawn. Or sometimes we have a little contest of some kind; and then, of course, there is a prize.” The lamplight shadowed a laughing-crease beside her mouth.

  “I should have got someone to bind me to the mast. It is too late now; I have heard the music from the island. Yes, I will come.”

  The second tables came in, and she began to gossip about the guests, with a little salt but no vinegar. I remarked that our host’s chosen companion was well past her prime. “Oh,” she said, “Peitho will amuse him all the same. She has known everyone. His father too … well, of course he must know that. They say she was matchless in her day; she spent one fortune and saved another. Even now that she’s put away her mirror, she still gets rich. Some old lover tells her what ships to take a venture in; she has a cargo now with Theasides … Oh, you know him! He comes from your part of the world.”

  “He’s my brother. Is he so well known in Athens?”


  “He’s well known wherever he goes.” Maybe I was wrong, but I thought she sleeked herself a little, like a cat that has almost purred. “He doesn’t visit us very often; I think he prefers Corinthians. He tells us that he comes to Athens to see his brother. I might have known!”

  “Most people say they never would have guessed it.”

  “Oh, there’s a look. Men who both know what they can do. A style.” She nodded, and glanced round the room again. Her fine brows drew together. “But why has our host put Antenor with Phylinna? I wish he would not do those things.”

  “It doesn’t seem that Antenor is complaining.”

  “Oh no. That girl will get him and keep him, now. But everyone knows about him and Milto, he has been her friend so long. Poor girl; now when she’s been ill and can’t look her best, it really was not kind.”

  Milto, with too much paint on a face that should have had distinction, was doing her best to look as if her supper partner delighted her. I said, “I don’t suppose he meant it. Parties like this he gives to please his friends; I doubt he knows much about such things himself.”

  She glanced up from the bread she was cleaning her fingers with, looked round at me and seemed about to speak; but just dropped the crust to a little dog under the table, and started to talk about her own pet dog at home.

  The tables were cleared, the wine and the wreaths came in; a pretty boy and girl danced naked, Herakles and Antiope, which made everyone laugh; then a couple of flute-girls who had played for them played on, a screen of sound for talk. There was a good deal of merriment, and calling from couch to couch. Lyra did her share; but would drop her voice to talk to me again, as if she found it better. She will take me, I thought, when I have courted her in the way she will expect. I must ask Theas to buy me a Persian necklace. She would like lapis. When will her next party be? The warmth of the wine brought out the scent she was wearing. My hope of possessing her was only a part of my pleasure; it was almost enough that a creature of such loveliness was here, contented, in my company.

  The dancers had gone; the flute-girls now made their bow; there was the pause that expects departure. Lyra pushed back a feather of hair into her snood. Her soft lips brushed mine like a whispered promise; she spread out her skirt to step down with grace. Then her head turned sharply, so that I followed her glance.

  The women were not gathering to leave together, as they had entered. Their partners had got down with them. The first pair was already before Hipparchos, holding hands; I could half hear, and clearly see, the complicit thanks, the answering smile of felicitation. Only now it came to me that the party had been just the appetizer of Hipparchos’ feast. The main course would be enjoyed in private. He had bought for each guest a night with one of the first hetairas in Athens. It was his little joke. He had done it mainly for me.

  I don’t know how I saw so quickly that something was wrong. Since I was a man, I’d been used to seeing men leave parties with women they had picked up there, dancers or flute-girls or hetairas. It had been expected by everyone, the host, the guests, the woman. In late years I’d done it myself, if a girl made it clear enough that she was willing; I still half feared the disgrace of being refused in public. One made one’s own arrangement, said thanks to the host, and collected the girl as one left; she might wave to friends, one’s own friends might shout good wishes. But this was different. This girl with her grace and pride had not been fooling, playing the game of courtship when already bought. She’d believed she was free to choose.

  Her head was turned away; she was watching Milto’s face, as Antenor led away laughing Phylinna. I said quietly, “You were not warned of this.”

  She did not look round. “Were you?”

  “No. Could you not tell?”

  “Yes. I am sorry.” She was very angry, though, and I felt the burn from it. Her long fingers were clenched on the gold-starred border of her overdress. Half to herself as she watched the room, she said, “The fee was high. But it was not that kind of message … Some of them knew. Phylinna did. Not Milto … Look, he is amused.”

  Well, I thought, a host who gives a surprise treat at a party is bound to look amused; no doubt he meant it for the best. I was more concerned with myself. I could feel the heat of shame crawling all over me.

  “If I had been asked,” I said, “I would have told him I never yet forced an unwilling woman. I am not to everyone’s taste; I know it, and so should he. Don’t fear I’ll do anything to spoil your evening. I daresay we had better leave together. Or would you rather show them all that you do just as you wish?”

  We should soon be the last to move. She turned to look straight at me with her large blue eyes; then suddenly she laughed, very sweetly, like a good singer going into a song, and slid an arm round my neck. Laying her head on my shoulder, she whispered in my ear, “What are you thinking of? Look happy, kiss me, do you want to offend him? Quickly! Now! We can talk as you see me home.”

  From her face, she could have been crooning me endearments. I kissed her and she clung to me. It was hard to let her go; but I did not want her to think I was for taking my present after all. We went up to the Archon’s couch, where he and his old hetaira were dismissing each couple wittily. Lyra stepped up gaily, swinging our joined hands.

  “Well, Simonides, my friend,” he said with his most charming smile, “have I made up at last for my neglect of you?”

  I was inspired to answer that he had given me the theme for a thousand songs, and no poet could ask for more.

  “And a lyre, I hope, which will answer sweetly to the hand.” For a moment his eyes moved round to her.

  She bent her knee, spreading her glittering gown in her right hand, and said lightly, “Oh yes, my lord, there will be music.” Then we were out, with the linkboy waiting.

  He walked before us at a decent distance, being well trained. I gave her my arm because the path was steep, and because of the linkboy. Presently she said, “Did you mean it, that if I’d chosen, you’d have let me walk out alone?”

  “Certainly; it was your right. Thank you for sparing my pride.”

  “Your pride?” Her voice had risen; quickly she brought it down. “You never thought that was all? You must be mad. He would never have forgiven you.”

  “Oh, he meant it for a joke. One never knows what he will think of next. Thanks to you my face was saved.”

  “And you thought the joke was on you? You should think better of yourself, my friend.”

  “But on whom else?”

  “On us, of course. Milto once displeased a friend of his; he doesn’t quickly forget. As for me … perhaps he thinks I need taking down a little. He doesn’t like women much, you know.”

  “I never heard him say so. Why should he care about them one way or the other? He does without them very happily.”

  “Why indeed? But a man need not scold like a Hipponax, for one to know.”

  “Hipponax! You must know the poets well.”

  “Oh, enough to converse with my guests, I hope. Besides, any man who wants a curse to throw at a woman has heard of him. I don’t know what they would do without him.”

  “Well, his fame his outlived him. He would be glad of that.”

  “Would you rather live on by cursing, or be beloved and die?”

  “The second, but I hope to avoid the choice.”

  “If you knew Hipponax, you must have known Ionia.” I began to tell her about it, when, too soon, the linkboy stopped at her house. I paused only to bid her good night; but she drew me near and whispered, “He might tell tales. You had better come in awhile, if you don’t mind walking home without a torch.”

  “I shall have starlight.” I gave the man something and dismissed him. A lamp was burning inside, with scented oil. It was a guestroom which Anakreon himself would have approved. Four supper-couches of pale polished pearwood, a sideboard with a fine wine-cooler and red-figured cups, a little gilt Aphrodite on a marble stand. Everything was light and cool, no whore’s trimmings at
all; even the wine-cooler was painted with a scene of decent revelry. A curtain of patterned loomwork hid the room beyond.

  “Stay a little,” she said, “to be sure he’s gone. He may have been told to wait and see.”

  “Yes, indeed.” I did not yet presume even to smile. “He might go round the corner and come back.”

  “A cup of wine, then. Try this. A friend of mine ships it in from Samos.”

  It was excellent, just as good as what Theas brought me. “Tell me more,” she said, “about Ionia. I shall never go there, now. Some women do, and I hear some of them prosper; but the Greeks who govern for the Persians do what they like with people like us, and I could not be at anyone’s bidding. Tonight I should have known better; I was luckier than I deserve.”

  When the cups were empty, I made half a move to go, just to show I was taking nothing for granted. Our eyes met smiling. She took up the lamp; but it was not to the outer door that she lit my way.

  Beautiful Lyra! Like the zenith moon, more lovely when the robe of stars was shed; like the moon, making no false vows that her light was for one alone. In the years I loved her, I can’t pretend that I was ever free from jealousy; but I was never mocked, never betrayed or cheated. She had handsomer lovers—you could say that for most of them!—and richer, and higher-born; but when she said, “Simonides, you are my truest friend,” I knew I was the only one to hear those words from her. Indeed, she was as good a friend as a lover, which is saying much for her friendship.

  I made many songs for her; first to praise, and later to amuse her. They are sung in Athens still. It is hardly ten years since she died. When she had put away her mirror, as the saying is—not that she ever really did it!—we were dear friends still. As I said to her, “If you like, turn the young men away. But you are still ten years younger than I, and very much better-favored.” Not that I had her to myself, even in those days. She was the kind of woman old lovers always come to with their troubles, or to talk about the past.