“What man,” I said, “or what god, for that matter? But he has it, surely? The Athenians call him Solon the Wise.”
“Now they do. I hope, where he is, it reaches him. They have lived with his laws and liked them, now that they have me, who could have given them laws they would have liked much less, but for my oath and honor, as well they know. Oh yes, they thank him now. Did they thank him then? Not they, not when it could have warmed his living heart.”
His fingers tightened round the wine-cup’s stem. I think he might have broken it, if it had not been made of gold. I asked, “How was it then, sir?”
“Then?” He looked at me, saw me young, and suddenly looked old again. “Then he gave out his laws, and had them carved on the wooden tablets you can see today, set up in the King Archon’s colonnade. All sorts of men—lords, knights, merchants, commons—praised him for his laws and found them admirable. Except, each of them found, for just one thing. He had satisfied none of them. That shows you how just he was. So, therefore, each of them wanted a thumb upon the scales, just a tilt their way. Then they would truly honor him … Kleon, fill up.”
The butler came softly with the jug. He had put in more water, when his master was not looking.
“He was a man of honor, and believed the same of his friends. Well, perhaps he was right; let us say they were not all men of discretion. Somehow, before his laws were proclaimed, one or two men learned that he meant to cancel mortgages. So they bought land on mortgages, for which they could not have paid. And mean-minded men, whose greed he had not satisfied, put it about that he had advised it.”
He set down his cup. He had truly returned there. I saw that his hand was shaking.
“In my youth, I was not without some beauty. It was all I had to offer him in his trouble. Every day they bickered and complained; and always what they wanted had to be taken unjustly from some other man. He had a steady soul—that was why they’d gone to him in the first place—but he began to lose his sleep. Still, he had true friends who had never tried to use him. They told him his laws were just, and should be enforced. They urged him to accept a tyranny; they said he would be backed by all moderate men. They offered him gold of their own, to hire Thracian soldiers—excellent advice, as I have found. I was a boy still; I begged him to consent, as though he would do for my young face what was not in him to do at all. He was kind to me. Solon was always kind. ‘Tyranny, my dear, is like one of those mountain climbs which take one up, but not down. One can only fall. They have sworn their oaths to me; if they fear the gods, they will have to keep them. And they cannot harry me to change my laws, if I am not there.’ He was gone ten years, trading his way, seeing the world. I stayed, and became a man … He’d known I was old enough to think; he thought that because I loved him I would think like him. Indeed I loved him. Indeed he was my teacher. But what he taught me was not what he supposed.”
I murmured some assent. I did not want to remind him of who I was, in case he had forgotten. I felt like Orpheus, visiting the shades.
“Few men are wise enough to know themselves, as Pythian Apollo commands us. He was. He had done what he could, and knew what he could not do … When he sailed, he gave me his dog, a young harrier, liver and white, that he’d been rearing. One can’t do with a dog on shipboard, he could not keep him, so he gave him me. I reared and trained him; he was the best dog I’ve had. His name was Bia: Strength. I was young, but I knew it was an omen.”
The old butler, who’d looked as if he wanted to get him off to bed, had stopped fidgeting and drawn near to listen.
“He grew old here without bitterness. It was as if he drained all of it in one draught and threw the cup away. When he came back to find they’d made me First Archon, he sang the Athenians one of his poems, telling them not to blame the gods if they thought better of it later. Someday I will teach it to you; but I expect you know those lines. Everyone does.”
He was right, of course. He saw it with a smile.
“He retired from all public life, just as he’d said. But he knew how to live without being busy. He had traveled the world, meeting the sages and the kings; he knew the gods’ names among foreign peoples, and their rites of worship. At Sais, the temple priests had told him Egypt’s history back for six thousand years, and how the anger of Poseidon destroyed Atlantis. He had known and seen more than Odysseus …”
I wonder if, like old Argos, the dog Bia had known his master on his return. But then, Argos had been left masterless.
“He had known pleasure too, choosing the best like wine. All in all, he had enough stored up in himself to last him another lifetime. He lived between his town house and his farm, enjoying the seasons and his friends. People thought I made much of him for the sake of policy. It was no matter what they thought. We understood each other.”
He picked up his mint-scented napkin, wiped his mouth and set aside his wine-cup. The butler prepared to show me out, I prepared my thanks. Then he said, “A good man will gather good men round him, and know too little of evil. A bad one will gather his like, and do nothing good. Ruling men, it seems, must be like this wine we have drunk tonight: strong enough, sweet enough, but with a fleck of mold upon the grape, which comes once in a way and makes it what it is. And never drunk neat … Ah well, it grows late. Thank you, my dear boy, for the pleasure of your conversation, and for your charming songs. We were all delighted. A very good night to you.”
Eight or ten days later, he invited me again to sing; but while I was dressing, a messenger brought me his regrets. He was indisposed that evening, but hoped for the pleasure shortly. So I did not ride back to Euboia; at first, because I waited to hear from him; then, because I waited as all the city was waiting.
First, he had caught a cold; then, it had gone to his chest, with fever; then, his mind was wandering, and with his sons by his bed he had asked to see his children; then, he was sinking fast. As news came in, there began to be a hush all over Athens; at any sound in the street, everyone would pause to listen. The Acropolis, when I went up, was full of silent people, watching the house. When sunset came, the guards did not close the gates, and anyone stayed who wished. As the dark deepened, some went off to bed. I waited. It was a calm, warm night; and I knew the hour at which Hermes the Guide comes oftenest for his travelers. A little before the dawn, a woman cried; then we heard the household lamenting.
Around me, in the dark, women began to wail. In those days they went about more freely than in Athens now, and not a few had kept the death-watch. For some time they keened, their mantles flung over their heads; men stood still, talking in low voices, as people do when there is nothing left to stay for, yet they cannot make up their minds to go. As dawn was breaking, we saw the tall jar of purification set by the door, for those leaving the house to asperse themselves clean of death. In little knots the crowd drifted away.
I walked in half-awakened streets in the faint light. Doors opened, people looked out to ask for news. When they heard it, they seemed not so much grieved as dazed. For days it had been expected everywhere; yet now they could not quite believe it, nor see beyond. He had been there so long. He had put his style on everything, like Exekias who both shaped his vases and painted them. Like Exekias he kept up the old grand manner. He had been tyrant, but never upstart; he was the Old Archon now, head of the family. It was as if they had waked that morning, and found the Acropolis gone.