Aesop
by MARY GRANT
1
“THE young from the old!” mocked Aesop brightly, whisking
Deftly a barley cake from Praxilla’s coals,
Munching with show of innocence, yet half-poised
For flight from wrath expected. “ Be off! ” shrieked she.
“You Phrygian thief! Market’s to do, and guests this evening —
His Mightiness long since gone!” So Aesop, laughing,
Slipped from her scolding down narrow streets, rough-paved,
Keeping the shadow of blank white walls, lean feet
Sure on the rounded stones, with a fleeting glance,
To mark its place in his path, at the long straight street
That led to the pride of Samos, Hera’s temple,
Its peacock terraces, scroll-capped shafts — his gaze
Set for the market. Halfway he found the pompous
Master of stores, and slowed his pace to a slave’s
Deference, though his quick-darting eyes, warm, merry,
With a touch of Phrygia still in them, not yet quite used
To strange Greek ways, were masters of all they saw.
Market he loved: the noise and the color — booths
Plaited with osier, with rugs bright-woven stretched
For shade round the dusty square; the stalls
Of fresh-piled vegetables; baskets of fish, cleanshining,
Gaping-mouthed; the chatter and friendly jostling
Of country folk, men from the mountains, with neat-legged donkeys
Heavily panniered, and shepherds, bestaffed and shaggy,
Skin-clad, from glens of Ampelos, with strange twists
To their soft Ionic; swarthy fishermen, reeking
Of brine and sweat and sun, barelegged, swollenveined,
Loud-voiced for a quarrel; and then, near the market’s end,
The artist maker of pots, his hand and eye
Trained to the curve and the hollow, the clay’s cool yielding,
The brown of rosette and lotus; and last, the girls,
Garland makers, gay-clad, with dripping fingers
Busy with smilax and myrtle. At Dromo’s heels tripped Aesop, chafing a little
At the steward’s slow precision; better a laugh,
A story — generous here, thought he, shrewd there,
Than hair-close, cold-cut bargaining; yet his spirits,
Bubbling beyond the slave’s due reticence,
Spread little ripples of laughter where he went,
Bearing the gaping basket. Dromo felt it —
That wake of humor — half-puzzled; the bargains made
Seemed shrewder when the Phrygian followed; strange
The fellow’s impudence! Fresh in his mind there flashed
Last month’s slave market at Delos, when Iadmon
Took him to help his choosing, and the square
Beyond the Sacred Lake and the stiff stone lions
Swayed with Thracians, Phrygians, and the broadnosed
Swarthy men from the south, when the tedious wheedling
And shouts of the rival dealers, the dusty show
Of weary, dull-eyed slaves round the track, was broken
By this gay Phrygian, who, from tense, watchful crouching,
When his turn came, leaped to the dealer’s stand,
And shouted, “Five staters for this Phrygian here!
Quick, take me, master!” pointing at rich Iadmon.
“I can talk, and market, and serve you at meals, and talk
Again! A bargain, master! Five staters!” This, as rough arms
Seized him, and laughter rose, and eyes were turned
Toward Iadmon’s vanity, while Glous, shrewd
At the turn for a profit, spurred on the bidding, rousing
Mainland Phradmon against the islander; so the two
Strove in anger, till Aesop’s voice, high, gay,
With foolish tale of humble bramble deciding
Strife between apple and pomegranate, raised again
Laughter, and Iadmon led off his self-sold prize.
Deftly a barley cake from Praxilla’s coals,
Munching with show of innocence, yet half-poised
For flight from wrath expected. “ Be off! ” shrieked she.
“You Phrygian thief! Market’s to do, and guests this evening —
His Mightiness long since gone!” So Aesop, laughing,
Slipped from her scolding down narrow streets, rough-paved,
Keeping the shadow of blank white walls, lean feet
Sure on the rounded stones, with a fleeting glance,
To mark its place in his path, at the long straight street
That led to the pride of Samos, Hera’s temple,
Its peacock terraces, scroll-capped shafts — his gaze
Set for the market. Halfway he found the pompous
Master of stores, and slowed his pace to a slave’s
Deference, though his quick-darting eyes, warm, merry,
With a touch of Phrygia still in them, not yet quite used
To strange Greek ways, were masters of all they saw.
Market he loved: the noise and the color — booths
Plaited with osier, with rugs bright-woven stretched
For shade round the dusty square; the stalls
Of fresh-piled vegetables; baskets of fish, cleanshining,
Gaping-mouthed; the chatter and friendly jostling
Of country folk, men from the mountains, with neat-legged donkeys
Heavily panniered, and shepherds, bestaffed and shaggy,
Skin-clad, from glens of Ampelos, with strange twists
To their soft Ionic; swarthy fishermen, reeking
Of brine and sweat and sun, barelegged, swollenveined,
Loud-voiced for a quarrel; and then, near the market’s end,
The artist maker of pots, his hand and eye
Trained to the curve and the hollow, the clay’s cool yielding,
The brown of rosette and lotus; and last, the girls,
Garland makers, gay-clad, with dripping fingers
Busy with smilax and myrtle. At Dromo’s heels tripped Aesop, chafing a little
At the steward’s slow precision; better a laugh,
A story — generous here, thought he, shrewd there,
Than hair-close, cold-cut bargaining; yet his spirits,
Bubbling beyond the slave’s due reticence,
Spread little ripples of laughter where he went,
Bearing the gaping basket. Dromo felt it —
That wake of humor — half-puzzled; the bargains made
Seemed shrewder when the Phrygian followed; strange
The fellow’s impudence! Fresh in his mind there flashed
Last month’s slave market at Delos, when Iadmon
Took him to help his choosing, and the square
Beyond the Sacred Lake and the stiff stone lions
Swayed with Thracians, Phrygians, and the broadnosed
Swarthy men from the south, when the tedious wheedling
And shouts of the rival dealers, the dusty show
Of weary, dull-eyed slaves round the track, was broken
By this gay Phrygian, who, from tense, watchful crouching,
When his turn came, leaped to the dealer’s stand,
And shouted, “Five staters for this Phrygian here!
Quick, take me, master!” pointing at rich Iadmon.
“I can talk, and market, and serve you at meals, and talk
Again! A bargain, master! Five staters!” This, as rough arms
Seized him, and laughter rose, and eyes were turned
Toward Iadmon’s vanity, while Glous, shrewd
At the turn for a profit, spurred on the bidding, rousing
Mainland Phradmon against the islander; so the two
Strove in anger, till Aesop’s voice, high, gay,
With foolish tale of humble bramble deciding
Strife between apple and pomegranate, raised again
Laughter, and Iadmon led off his self-sold prize.
2
IMPUDENCE! Yet it was Dromo’s self, that evening
(Banquet to serve), who saw that the oil was smooth
On sleek brown body, on wayward locks the wreath
Straight — who fussily mingled advice with chiding;
“ Hark you, no mischief! Ply old Aeaces with dainties!
Fill well Xantheus’ cup! As for the stranger-guest,
Solon of Athens, look that you stumble not,
Nor clumsily offer the napkin; the ways of Athens
Are sober and fine; see that this service,
First for master Iadmon, goes not awry!”
(Banquet to serve), who saw that the oil was smooth
On sleek brown body, on wayward locks the wreath
Straight — who fussily mingled advice with chiding;
“ Hark you, no mischief! Ply old Aeaces with dainties!
Fill well Xantheus’ cup! As for the stranger-guest,
Solon of Athens, look that you stumble not,
Nor clumsily offer the napkin; the ways of Athens
Are sober and fine; see that this service,
First for master Iadmon, goes not awry!”
Through eyes discreetly veiled, amid half-heard words, in the perfumed
Bathing of feet, placing of light-carved tables, the serving
Of eel and tunny and rare spiced pheasant, Aesop saw
Iadmon preening — a peacock host in extravagant purple,
Proud of his island luxury; cushioned near
(Half-revealed tyrant of Samos), Aeaces, bland,
Portly, with small shrewd eyes that steadily noted
Always men’s weaknesses, seeking in cool appraisal
To store them in ordered memory; next him, Xantheus
The restless merchant, fingering his food, his talk
Ever of bale and load and balance, his eyes
Furtive, longing for flute girls. These but the common
Coin of Ionia, Aesop knew; his thoughts were eager
Rather for him of Attica, who had won
For his city an island by madcap song, and set
Athens’ feet toward splendor. Quickly he noted,
While shifting the ivory-shod table, and deftly placing
Still more broidered cushions for resting arm,
Solon’s dark form, his mantle crisply folded,
Face austere, hawk-nosed, with the clear fine profile
Lineaged from Codrus, the full curved lips betokening
Youth, sense-swayed, till the keen mind rose master,
Reining pleasures with show of mockery, choosing
Discipline’s road instead. His dark, cool eyes,
Veiled by ironic boredom, hinted of fires
Deep-burning — fervor for Athens; easy to turn
Backward the scroll of his years, and see that day
When, garlanded, madman-wise, he had dared dread laws,
Mounting the sacred stone of the herald, calling
Men to die for lovely Salamis . . . Wise, they named him.
Bathing of feet, placing of light-carved tables, the serving
Of eel and tunny and rare spiced pheasant, Aesop saw
Iadmon preening — a peacock host in extravagant purple,
Proud of his island luxury; cushioned near
(Half-revealed tyrant of Samos), Aeaces, bland,
Portly, with small shrewd eyes that steadily noted
Always men’s weaknesses, seeking in cool appraisal
To store them in ordered memory; next him, Xantheus
The restless merchant, fingering his food, his talk
Ever of bale and load and balance, his eyes
Furtive, longing for flute girls. These but the common
Coin of Ionia, Aesop knew; his thoughts were eager
Rather for him of Attica, who had won
For his city an island by madcap song, and set
Athens’ feet toward splendor. Quickly he noted,
While shifting the ivory-shod table, and deftly placing
Still more broidered cushions for resting arm,
Solon’s dark form, his mantle crisply folded,
Face austere, hawk-nosed, with the clear fine profile
Lineaged from Codrus, the full curved lips betokening
Youth, sense-swayed, till the keen mind rose master,
Reining pleasures with show of mockery, choosing
Discipline’s road instead. His dark, cool eyes,
Veiled by ironic boredom, hinted of fires
Deep-burning — fervor for Athens; easy to turn
Backward the scroll of his years, and see that day
When, garlanded, madman-wise, he had dared dread laws,
Mounting the sacred stone of the herald, calling
Men to die for lovely Salamis . . . Wise, they named him.
3
FOR such a man, weak were Iadmon’s gestures;
Samian gossip bored him, and talk of trade,
Youth-learned, gladly forgotten; so, when the vine-wreathed
Wine bowl ruled, with libations poured, and flowers strewn
Fresh on the patterned floor, when Iadmon, pressing
Perfumes, hinted at labored revelries
(Ionia’s best) to come, — flute girls, kohl-eyed,
Jugglers, the ringing cottabus, — Aesop, seeing
The glaze of boredom in Athenian eyes,
As he passed the shallow painted cup, bowed low,
And murmured, “May the humble Phrygian mouse
Gnaw free the netted lion?” Solon, frowning,
Raising the thin rim to fastidious lips,
Stared, as if seeing then first the sleek brown body,
The tilted Phrygian nose, just missing lines
Of straight Greek sureness, the warm and merry eyes.
‘Lion and mouse? Your meaning?” and Aesop, quickly,
‘A terrace — coolness — Zeus and the Gods — your thoughts!”
Samian gossip bored him, and talk of trade,
Youth-learned, gladly forgotten; so, when the vine-wreathed
Wine bowl ruled, with libations poured, and flowers strewn
Fresh on the patterned floor, when Iadmon, pressing
Perfumes, hinted at labored revelries
(Ionia’s best) to come, — flute girls, kohl-eyed,
Jugglers, the ringing cottabus, — Aesop, seeing
The glaze of boredom in Athenian eyes,
As he passed the shallow painted cup, bowed low,
And murmured, “May the humble Phrygian mouse
Gnaw free the netted lion?” Solon, frowning,
Raising the thin rim to fastidious lips,
Stared, as if seeing then first the sleek brown body,
The tilted Phrygian nose, just missing lines
Of straight Greek sureness, the warm and merry eyes.
‘Lion and mouse? Your meaning?” and Aesop, quickly,
‘A terrace — coolness — Zeus and the Gods — your thoughts!”
A moment only Solon, hesitant,
Scanned the warm wine-hazed andron, where flute music
Began to quaver; then, with excuses bland,
Rose from the scented cushions, following
Bare feet to narrow steps that led above
The dizzying music to the silent stars.
“The Gods, master!” bowed Aesop, and turned to leave
The wise man with the silence, yet lingered a little,
As if in hope there would fall from Wisdom’s lips
Some word to treasure — and Solon, half-amused,
Echoed, “The Gods? What think you, slave, that Zeus
Perchance does now?” With quick half-breath, to gauge
Measure for impudence, smiled Aesop, “Surely,
Surely his wonted tasks: humbling the proud,
Honoring the lowly!” Swift arose wrathful hand,
And wrath flushed haughty cheek: “We have no custom,
Fellow, in Athens of jesting slaves!” But of a sudden
The great man laughed, “ Ungrateful lion!” as fresh
Bursts of the dizzying music rose. He wheeled,
Shifting his mantle to bare shoulder to favor
The cooler air, and murmured, “When men turn beasts,
Slaves may be men . . . Thou’rt Phrygian, slave?” “Aye, master!”
“Thy wit is keen, Greek-keen! Sit, man! Sit, friend!
Tell me the lore of Phrygia!” So they say
Wise man and slave on Samian parapet, sharing
Common humanity, the while the stars,
The wise large stars of Eastern nights, foreshadowed
Fables and codes, friendships with princes . . . wheeling
Slowly toward dawn-dark Greece.
Scanned the warm wine-hazed andron, where flute music
Began to quaver; then, with excuses bland,
Rose from the scented cushions, following
Bare feet to narrow steps that led above
The dizzying music to the silent stars.
“The Gods, master!” bowed Aesop, and turned to leave
The wise man with the silence, yet lingered a little,
As if in hope there would fall from Wisdom’s lips
Some word to treasure — and Solon, half-amused,
Echoed, “The Gods? What think you, slave, that Zeus
Perchance does now?” With quick half-breath, to gauge
Measure for impudence, smiled Aesop, “Surely,
Surely his wonted tasks: humbling the proud,
Honoring the lowly!” Swift arose wrathful hand,
And wrath flushed haughty cheek: “We have no custom,
Fellow, in Athens of jesting slaves!” But of a sudden
The great man laughed, “ Ungrateful lion!” as fresh
Bursts of the dizzying music rose. He wheeled,
Shifting his mantle to bare shoulder to favor
The cooler air, and murmured, “When men turn beasts,
Slaves may be men . . . Thou’rt Phrygian, slave?” “Aye, master!”
“Thy wit is keen, Greek-keen! Sit, man! Sit, friend!
Tell me the lore of Phrygia!” So they say
Wise man and slave on Samian parapet, sharing
Common humanity, the while the stars,
The wise large stars of Eastern nights, foreshadowed
Fables and codes, friendships with princes . . . wheeling
Slowly toward dawn-dark Greece.