Callippides was universally detested in Athens. Every one knew him to be one of the most dangerous informers, who lived by extorting money from people by threatening them with some ruinous impeachment.

When he entered a workshop, a hair-dresser’s, or a lesche,C any of the places where the citizens met to discuss the incidents of the day or to drive a bargain, one after another stole away till he was left alone. If he bought a fillet from one of the pretty perfume dealers in the market-place, she put his copper coins aside that they might not become mixed with the other money and so bring ill-luck to the day’s receipts; if he spoke in the street to a female slave who knew the residents of the city she hurried off, and if he had merely laid the tips of his fingers on her arm, she rubbed it with the palm of her hand as though some poisonous reptile had touched her. If he was seen in any one’s company more than once, that person was known to be a timid man who was trying to flatter and cajole him in order to be safe from him. In other respects he led so solitary a life that a well-known jester, the parasite Meidias, said of him that “the only thing that stood near him was his shadow.”

Yet there was one person in Athens who valued him. This was Pyrrhander, the Ildmand,D to whom he was inestimable in tracking the hetaeriae or secret societies and who, when Callippides was mentioned, used to say: “He’s the best sleuth-hound in our pack.”

The sycophant was by no means frightful in his external appearance. On the contrary, he was a stately man. Of noble lineage, he had belonged in his youth to the select circle of the “gilded youth” of Athens, and in the company of the young Eupatridae, Proxenides and Theagenes, he had squandered his ancestral property in a few years upon horses and chariots. At every horse and chariot race he was seen among the most excited spectators. No one could say how often he had been thrown from his chariot while swinging around the race-course, or how frequently a snorting, foaming team of four horses had been driven over him. The last time this had happened he had been kicked so violently on the head by one of the steeds that he always bore the mark of it. He was so severely injured that the physician, Pittalus, had already sent a messenger for the wailing women.

When Callippides regained his health, his passion for horses and chariots was at an end. His fortune was expended and, like so many Athenians of rank before him, he now sold his last Samphora steed and bought the sandals of a sycophant. With this foot-covering, which made every step noiseless, he stole around the market-place like a snake or a scorpion, listened to backbiters, came behind whispering couples, questioned slaves and soon became as full of unsavory secrets as a marsh is full of croaking frogs. These secrets he used for his own profit and the ruin of others.

In his almost deserted house in the street of the Potters not far from the Pnyx, the market, and the Prytaneum he had a strange, dismal room, whose like was not to be found in Athens, and which he jestingly called his Opisthodomus, treasure-chamber. The name was no pious one and showed no deep reverence for the gods; for the real Opisthodomus, the apartment where the treasures of the state were kept, was a sacred place behind the Parthenon and was placed under the protection of Athene Polias, the defender of the city. But Callippides only used this title when he was talking to his faithful old Manes, a slave nearly seventy years old who, like the house, had been a legacy to him from his ancestors.

Whoever had expected to find gold and silver in Callippides’ treasure-chamber would have been greatly mistaken.

The apartment was almost empty, the only furniture it contained being an old arm-chair, a sort of high seat with a foot-stool beside a little table. The riches of the chamber consisted of the notes which covered its white walls—all written in a firm, elegant hand. They were found by the score, were as tersely composed as possible, and were all accurately marked with the day, month, and Archon’s year. Over the door leading to the peristyle were the following inscriptions:

“POLYCLES, SON OF STRATON. Accused of deserting from the military service. Sentenced to the LOSS OF THE RIGHTS OF CITIZENSHIP, THOUGH WITHOUT FORFEITURE OF PROPERTY.”

“MANTITHEUS, SON OF CTESIPHON. Accused of secret understanding with the Spartans. Ran away. Punished by the erection of a pillar of infamy INSCRIBED WITH HIS NAME.”

These and a number of other notes were written with charcoal; but directly over the entrance, in the most conspicuous place in the room, there were a large collection written with red chalk and embracing the most severe and terrible punishments. The first and second of these inscriptions ran as follows:

“STEPHANUS, SON OF EUCTEMON. Accused of treason. Sentenced TO DRINK THE HEMLOCK.

“NAUSICRATES, SON OF GLAUCUS. Accused of having tempted his step-mother to commit adultery. HURLED INTO THE GULF.”

Yet in his way Callippides seemed to be an honest man, for, little as it might have been expected, here and there appeared a sentence whose result had gone against him, as for instance:

“POLEMARCHUS, SON OF CALLIAS. Accused of fraud. Sentenced by the Forty to loss of the rights of citizenship and forfeiture of property. The decree DECLARED INVALID by the dicasts of the people because founded on the deposition of a false witness.”

True, this inscription was placed in the darkest corner, where no one would easily seek it, and what the record did not relate was that the affair had almost proved a bad one for Callippides—so bad that Pyrrhander, the Ildmand, had required all his influence to save him. But this concealment must be regarded as an allowable military stratagem.

It is certain that the “treasure-chamber” rarely failed in its purpose. Here Callippides used to bring his victims, the unfortunates who were threatened with a dangerous accusation. Scarcely did they find themselves here when, on some pretext, he left them alone. As they read the gloomy records, read them by scores, at first with surprise, then with anxiety, and finally with increasing fear, there were few who had confidence in the justice of their cause. As they stood there alone with throbbing hearts, quaking with dread lest everything which in a short time would belong to their Past should make a fresh inscription on these ill-boding walls, the written characters gradually began to run into each other before their eyes; the red letters seemed to be inscribed with blood, and even firm, brave men were ready, almost without exception, to come to terms with Callippides without bargaining as to price, if he would only promise to let the accusation drop. In this way the “treasure-chamber” justified its name, there was not a little money in it.

Strangely enough there was one place in the room where a whole row of records was erased, leaving only a dark stain on the white wall. It had happened in this way.

From the first the old slave, Manes, had not liked these notes. During the greater part of his life he had served Philocles, Callippides’ father. The latter had been one of the most distinguished of the Athenian citizens and had filled the most important offices; he had been commander of a trireme, inspector of the city walls, and member of the Council of Five Hundred. Messengers from tributary cities never came to Athens without seeking him, to bring him costly gifts, as one of her principal citizens. The room in which he used to receive them was the prettiest in the house, and richly furnished with brass tripods, ivory couches, magnificent vases, and Milesian carpets.

This was the apartment of which the son, Callippides, made so unworthy a use. Every time a new inscription was placed on the walls which to Manes seemed so sacred he felt as though he had received a stab in his honest old heart. One day, when the number had again increased, he plucked up courage and, without asking permission, he was beginning to wash the walls as if merely intending to clean the room. But he had scarcely commenced, when Callippides came behind him.

Their eyes met. The master looked so sharply at the servant that for the first time in many years the old man’s pale, wrinkled cheeks flushed.

“Well, well!” said Callippides drily and, without another word, he seized the largest whip he had left from the time of his passion for horse-racing and belabored the luckless Manes’ back until the shrieking slave clasped his knees and begged for mercy.

“Blockhead!” muttered Callippides, flinging the scourge into a corner, “don’t you know that these notes are my livelihood.”

From that day the old man never meddled with the inscriptions.

Whatever the “treasure-chamber” brought in, Callippides had not succeeded in making a new fortune. Men like him, with a restless mind and tireless body, only give up one passion to devote themselves to another. He who, when a youth, had cared for nothing except horses and chariots, now, in his fortieth year, could not see a pretty hetaera fasten up her dress to dance without having his heart kindle with the most ardent love. It was no longer Menippus, the horse-dealer, but Philostratus, the go-between, with whom he had business. Just before we made his acquaintance it was said that, by a written agreement, he had hired the key of Philostratus’ garden gate for two months that he might be able to steal in to visit his youngest daughter, fifteen year old Charixena. This bargain, in which the father had sold his daughter, was rumored to have cost Callippides two bright staters.E It was with the profit of his wiles, with blood-money, that he paid for the key of the quiet room where Dionysus and Aphrodite, the deities of joy, were to receive him.

But Aphrodite did not allow herself to be mocked.

Behind Callippides’ house lay a garden which was in a very neglected condition, so overgrown with weeds that there was scarcely an avenue or path, and the statue of Hermes in front of the house had fallen and rested on one side. An old stone seat under a tall leafy plane-tree was in better preservation, and here Callippides used to seek coolness and shade during the burning heat of noon.

While resting there one day, half drowsily turning the leaves of a yellow roll of manuscript, he heard a door in the next house open and saw a young female slave come out to spread a carpet over a prettily-carved aiora (swing) which was hung in the shadiest place between the pillars of the house. Directly after a little girl seven or eight years old, dressed in white, came skipping out and was lifted on to the rug by the slave. But the swing had scarcely been set in motion before it began to rock unsteadily and the child, growing impatient, leaned back in the seat and shouted:

“No, Chloris, not you! Stop, stop! My sister knows how to do it a great deal better.” Then the little one began to scream with all her might: “Melitta, Melitta!”

The sycophant, whose profession required him to know everything, remembered at the child’s call that the young girl who bore this name must be a daughter of General Myronides, who had recently inherited the next house, and that she was reputed to be amechanos kale, irresistibly pretty. So it was not without eager expectation that he awaited her coming. Then he heard a young girl’s voice inside the house, singing:

The singer approached, and Callippides’ heart throbbed faster.

But he was not taken by surprise when the door opened. Rumor had told the truth; for she was beautiful, fairer than any woman he had ever seen—half child, half maiden, like Polycleitus’ bewitching basket-bearers.F

She laughed so gaily and carelessly at her little sister’s impatience that her dark eyes sparkled and her white teeth glittered between her scarlet lips, then as the child turned, stretching its arms towards her, she darted to her, embracing and kissing the little one.

“Swing me, Melitta, swing me!” cried the child. “Chloris can’t do it.”

Melitta fastened the purple fillet tighter around her black locks, removed the upper garment worn over her red-bordered dress, and told the slave to carry it into the house; then, leaning forward, she put the swing in motion.

So this was Melitta, the irresistibly pretty Melitta.

Callippides’ glance rested as though spell-bound on the young maiden with the dark eyes, smiling lips, and slender, girlish figure. As she stood there in her light robe in the shadow between the pillars of the house, she was surrounded by such an atmosphere of purity that it defended her like a shield against evil thoughts. From the black curls that slipped out beneath the purple fillet to the gold-broidered sandals everything about her was full of childlike grace.

“Higher!” cried the little girl joyously, striking her feet together till the sandal straps clapped. Melitta bent still lower to give the swing a stronger push. This loosened the gold clasp that fastened her dress at the neck, and the dainty dazzling shoulders appeared a moment.

Callippides knew himself, so he was surprised that no flush of passion had crimsoned his face. In the midst of his secret agitation, he recognized this fact as a sign that he was no longer the same man.

As Melitta soon after stopped the swing and helped the child out, her glance fell on the next garden where Callippides, half concealed by some bushes, stood motionless as a statue in the shade of the plane-tree.

Callippides was a tall, distinguished-looking man. His dark hair and beard were cut by Sporgilus, the best barber in Athens, and the blood-red scar made by the horse’s hoof on the crown of his head was partially concealed by the hair which, in this place, had grown somewhat thin. His features were dark and stern, but in consequence of his arduous exercises in the race-course, he had retained a bearing which made him ten years younger. Like all Athenians of noble birth, he paid great attention to his person and most frequently wore a snow-white chiton or tunic of the finest Milesian wool, with a blue over-garment of Persian kaunake, a kind of costly rough woollen fabric imported from Sardis. Down to the light soles which belonged to his calling of sycophant he was, in short, in everything an exquisite, a dandy, but in such a way that he did not make himself ridiculous. His gait showed none of the affected stiffness with which Athenian coxcombs tried to attract attention, and he never carried a short staff under his cloak nor walked with a fragrant Median apple in his hands when he appeared out of doors.

Women have quick eyes. Melitta, with a single glance, received an impression of his whole person. The tall, grave, bearded man seemed to her to resemble her father—the only free citizen whom in her monotonous life in the women’s apartments she had had an opportunity to notice. She let the child go in first, and turned her head again. Melitta was very fond of her father. She wanted to see whether she had been right—whether the man in the next garden resembled him.

At the young girl’s movement a flood of joy swept through Callippides’ heart, and he became even happier when he fancied he read good-will in the look with which Melitta gazed at him.

The sycophant was not spoiled by good-will.

When Melitta had disappeared he walked towards the house as if in a dream. At the sun-dial he found old Manes who, bending over the pin, was in the act of reading the hour. He looked intently at him but the slave did not seem to have noticed anything.

Callippides went into the “treasure-chamber” and took his seat in the arm-chair. He imagined that he still saw Melitta with the purple fillet around her black curls, with her dark eyes, smiling lips, and dazzling shoulders. There was something in the girl’s fresh youth which moved his inmost soul. He, the voluptuary, who was ever seeking to devise some new pleasure, thought that the highest joy he could fancy would be to hold Melitta’s hand in his.

“By the Graces!” he exclaimed, “she is a living human flower.”

Suddenly it became evident to him that in a few moments, a far shorter time than the water-clock required to run out, he had become an entirely different person. A shudder ran through his limbs and—as if afraid to hear his own words, he murmured softly:

“Callippides no longer belongs to himself.”

When he again raised his head and looked at the walls they seemed to him, for the first time, as they had appeared to Manes. He did not like the inscriptions, there was something about them which disturbed him, so he went into the next room and threw himself on a couch where he fell into deep thought. He lay thus a long time; the day declined more and more, the short twilight merged into the deep shades of evening. When he roused himself and looked through the open door the stars were shining over the peristyle.

He called Manes and told him to light the lamp.

As he rose from the couch his glance fell upon his foot-gear, which, contrary to habit and custom, he had kept on after having come in from the garden. At the sight of the thin soles, the token of his trade of sycophant, he shuddered.

“How cold the wind blows!” he muttered as though to deceive himself.

Then he called again, thrust out his foot, and said:

“Manes, take off my soles, and”—he spoke hurriedly—“burn them and all the others of the same kind I possess.”

The old man stood as if he were petrified. If his master had been a soldier and had ordered him to break his sword, he could not have been more dumb with amazement.

“Don’t you hear?” said Callippides sternly.

Manes knelt before him, but his hands trembled so that he was unable to open the buckles.

“You are growing old, Manes,” said Callippides more gently as though he regretted his harshness.

Then he put his foot on the edge of the couch to unfasten the straps himself; but, ere he had touched them with his hands, started up and, with two vigorous kicks, hurled them into the farthest corner of the chamber, where they fell on the ground with a clapping noise.

“Did you hear?” he said to Manes, “the dumb soles spoke. It was their farewell.”

Callippides then drew from his belt a key with three wards which he gave to Manes, saying:

“Take it to Philostratus to-morrow morning.”

Mares passed from one surprise to another.

“What shall I say to him?” he asked timidly.

“That I have no farther use for it.”

The old man scarcely believed his ears. He clasped his hands, but dared not speak.

“What would you say, Manes,” asked Callippides, “if you should see me some day with a helmet on my head leading a troop of horsemen?” At these words the aged face brightened and the old man fixed his eyes with almost a father’s tenderness upon the master whom, when a child, he had often played with on his knee.

“The day I see you leader of the band of horsemen,” he exclaimed, “the day the bridal torches....”

Manes got no farther; at the last word Callippides started up and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Silence, old fool!” he cried sternly. “You are talking about things which don’t concern you. Do you want me to tear your tongue out of your mouth and fling it to the dogs?”

The slave silently slunk away, trembling from head to foot.

Contrary to his custom Callippides, during the following days, remained at home and did not fail to spend the afternoon hours in the garden. But day after day slipped by without his having the smallest glimpse of Melitta. The door of the next house often opened; but it was only a female slave who came out to gather flowers, pluck fruits, or bring in from the garden the stuffs that had been washed. As each day elapsed, Callippides became more and more depressed.

One night, as he sat half erect on his couch, unable to sleep, he saw through the open door a narrow ray of light which fell upon the flags in the courtyard. Surprised, he rose; the light came from Manes’ room. Fearing that the old man might be ill, he went to him at once.

Manes was sitting working on a pair of sandals, whose straps were not in the best condition. When Callippides entered, he was evidently startled and confused and tried to hide something behind his chair.

“What are you doing, Manes?” asked Callippides.

“Putting new straps to a pair of old sandals.”

“Whose are they?”

“Mine.”

“And these?” asked Callippides, taking from behind the chair a pair of little sandals for a child seven or eight years old, “are these yours too?”

Manes silently tried to avoid his master’s eye.

Callippides now understood something of which hitherto he had not thought, and knew to whom he owed the frugal meals which had been set before him during the last few days.

Yet he said nothing. Callippides was a man of few words.

He stood still a moment gazing silently at the old slave, who scarcely knew whether he might venture to continue his work or not. Suddenly Callippides laid his hand upon his shoulder and said with a strange gentleness in his voice:

“Go to rest. Manes; you have worked enough to-day.”

The old man seized his master’s hand and kissed it. At that moment he would have died for him.

The next day Callippides, contrary to his usual custom, went out into the garden before noon. Some presentiment told him that this time it would not be in vain. He had remained there only a few minutes when, through the half open door of the next house, he fancied he heard a child’s voice utter Melitta’s name.

Almost at the same moment the young girl came out, accompanied by an old female slave. Taking from her hand a graceful jug, she began to water the rarer flowers which were planted nearest to the house. Then she searched for buds, removed the withered blossoms, and tied up the drooping branches; in short, she busied herself a long time among the flowers, and at every movement her slender figure displayed some fresh girlish charm.

To-day she wore on her dark locks a gold clasp which fastened a blue fillet above her brow, and her white garment was trimmed with a double border of the same color. It seemed to Callippides that the young girl looked a little graver, but even more beautiful than when he first saw her.

As she came to the clump of bushes nearest to the next garden she perceived Callippides. The slave, who was holding a red umbrella over her young mistress’ head, followed the direction of her glance, but had scarcely caught sight of the sycophant when she dropped the umbrella and seized the girl’s arm as though some danger threatened her.

Melitta turned in astonishment, and the slave hastily uttered a few words which made her mistress frown. She seemed to contradict her attendant, who became more and more vehement.

Callippides had sharp ears—he was a sycophant—and the distance from the two speakers to the spot where he stood was only thirty or forty paces. First he caught one of the slave’s words, then more, until at last he distinctly heard her say:

“As sure as you’re General Myronides’ daughter, he belongs to the venomous brood whose pathway is filled with curses, blood, and corpses. You can see for yourself that he is marked by the wrath of the gods! Is not his shadow blacker than other men’s?”

As Callippides stood in the green dusk under the plane-tree, with the white wall of the house behind him, so dense a shadow really fell upon him that, from the sunlit spot where the two women stood, it was impossible to discern the colors in his dress.

Disturbed by the slave’s words, Melitta herself fancied she saw something spectral and threatening in the tall, dark man. With a shriek she dropped the water-jar, gathered the folds of her robe around her, and rushed into the house. By the terror with which she closed the door behind her, Callippides understood that it had shut between them forever.

Quietly as ever, though somewhat paler than usual, he went back to the house. Sometimes he fancied he again heard the door banged, and each time he felt as though his heart would break.

The lonely and desolate condition, the seclusion from intercourse with others in which he had spent his later years had often weighed heavily, nay almost unendurably upon him, yet never had his heart been so empty, so dead to all hope, as now. “Alas!” he murmured, “everything might have been different, entirely different—but it is too late.” He gazed steadily into vacancy, and his eyes expressed a sombre resolve.

Soon after he had come in from the garden he sat down to write, but twice tore up what he had traced before he was satisfied. Then he made an exact copy of it.

“Now it only needs the signatures of the witnesses,” he said to himself, as he put his seal-ring on his finger.

After standing for some time absorbed in deep thought, he took from a chest a flask with a wicker basket-work covering called a lagynos. When he had assured himself that it was empty, he smelled it and was in the act of calling Manes when he suddenly stopped.

“Why wash it?” he said, looking at the flask with a strange smile. “It can have held nothing worse than I intend to buy.”

Callippides then left the house, and did not return until the evening.

Manes had scarcely lighted the double-wicked lamp, when his master said in a curt, imperious tone:

“Bring water, efface these inscriptions, and wash the walls clean.”

The old man would fain have hugged his master, but he had not forgotten how badly he had fared when he let fall a word about the hymeneal torches. Yet never had he obeyed a command with greater joy. Still, zealously as he worked, it was not quick enough for Callippides.

With a restlessness very unusual, he wandered to and fro hurrying the slave every moment.

At last the walls were partially cleaned, but the water stood in great pools on the flagged floor.

“Let it stay,” said Callippides curtly, “it will soon sink into the ground.”

Then he added:

“Come here, Manes!” and, after having gazed at him with a long, earnest glance, he said with the same strange gentleness as on the evening before.

“You have always been a faithful servant to me.”

Something in both words and tone surprised the old man.

“Is the master going away?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For a long time?”

“Perhaps so,” replied Callippides with a faint smile.

Towards dawn Manes had a strange dream. It seemed to him that a vast shining Shape formed of mist, with wings on its cap and heels, came floating in to his master and took him by the hand. Scarcely had this happened ere his master himself became a misty form and both soared noiselessly away.

The old man awoke with a shudder. He felt a chill on his brow as though wings were waving around him, and did not exactly know whether he was awake or dreaming.

Seized by a gloomy foreboding, he rose from his couch. To his terror Callippides’ sleeping-room was empty. The couch was untouched, the pillow had not been pressed, and an old over-garment lay carefully rolled at the foot. It was evident that no one had slept there during the night.

When he entered the “treasure-chamber,” he felt greatly relieved at seeing his master sitting in the arm-chair. His head was resting against the high back and his eyes were closed. He was apparently sleeping.

The old man approached—a penetrating, disagreeable odor, proceeding from a goblet on the table reached him—the smell of hemlock.

He now understood everything.

“Dead!” he murmured, “dead!” he repeated, as though he could not believe his own words.

Motionless and carefully attired as usual, Callippides sat in the high-backed chair he had inherited. His dark hair and beard were redolent of perfume, there was not a spot to be seen on his light robe, and shining rings glittered on his fingers. The only thing which showed he had fought his last battle, was that his right hand was pressed against his side as if in an attack of pain, while the left hung loosely over the arm of the chair. His features were dark and grave, but neither darker nor graver than usual, and a ray of the dawning day cast a delusive semblance of life upon his pallid cheeks.

Directly above him on the white wall were two lines of an imperfectly washed inscription. Manes, fixing his eyes on it, read:

At the sight of these words, which stood there like the inscription on a tomb, marked by the finger of retribution, tears streamed from the old slave’s eyes.

“Zeus Soter be merciful to him,” he murmured. “He has sentenced himself!”

Directly after Manes saw a sheet of papyrus lying on the table. Taking it up with a trembling hand he read:

“Copy
OF
Callippides’ Last Will.

“May all be well! I hereby make the following disposition of my estate. The little rented dwelling in the PirÆeus shall be sold to the highest bidder and the money used for my funeral obsequies, which must be worthy of my birth. The tomb shall be built on the road to Budoron, opposite to the garden attached to General Myronides’ country-seat, and the memorial stone is to be a plain column inscribed with the name and date of birth and death. Nothing more.

“I free my slave Manes and, as I have no relatives, I give him for his property my house in the Street of the Potters, with the garden belonging to it, on condition that he always takes care of the tomb. “The papyrus furnished with a seal, of which this is a copy, is deposited with Philon, son of Sophilus. The witnesses are: Lycon, son of Hegesias, and Charicles, son of Theron.”

By the side of the papyrus lay a note in which was written:

“To Manes:

“Conceal the manner of my death, that I may go to the grave unmutilated.G Say that you found me dead in the chair.

“In a box on the table is a ring with an exquisitely-carved stone, representing Charis bathing her mistress Aphrodite in the sacred grove at Paphos. Take the ornament to Melitta, General Myronides’ daughter, and say to her: ‘My dead master Callippides, your neighbor, begs you to accept this ring, which belonged to his mother. You can wear it without fear; from the day he first saw you he has not been a sycophant.’

“To you, my faithful Manes, I say: Farewell, and do not grieve. It is better to have poison in the body than in the soul.”

The old man gave free course to his tears.

As if in a dream he heard the birds twittering in the garden; the refreshing fragrance of the dewy verdure entered, filling the room, and through the still morning air echoed nearer and nearer the rumbling of chariots. Outside was heard the Acharnians’ usual cry in the streets:

“Buy charcoal! Buy vinegar!”

The unexpected and the usual, stillness and awakening traffic, death and life, blended so strangely in this hour that the old man experienced a feeling he had never before known.

Without knowing what he was doing he knelt and kissed his dead master’s hand, then clasping his own he cried in his simple, honest fashion:

“May the twelve Olympians grant him every blessing! He was a kind master.”