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himself.
    That evening, I borrowed the kithara, which they had never heard me play. But I laid it by, arousing their expectation, and played some slight thing on the lyre, keeping one eye on the door. I was pleased to see the Ganymedes and their devotees in force that night. Presently, in came Kleobis in his second-best robe (the best of course was for recitals). I looked, started, and bowed, as if overwhelmed by the sight of this famous man. Seeing the server take note and bustle up to him, I felt my heart move with love. He looked more worn, hollower round the eyes, thinner and greyer than when he sailed from Ephesos. At least I might pay him a little of what I owed. I picked up the kithara and tuned the strings.
    When he was settled and served, I sang the song, turning his way as one does to the guest of honor. By now, I was getting into a style that was my own; but this was his, and I fell into his style as if it were two years back. When I saw from his face that I had got it true, it was hard not to smile back at him; but that might have cheapened my tribute afterwards.
    I ended with a dying fall, and a showy cadenza on the kithara; my own, for he had not yet worked up his concert version. There was a burst of applause. I saw his eyes filled with tears, and not of grief. That moment was like a laurel crown to me. But man’s joy is fleeting.
    “Expect the unexpected.” Everyone quotes me on that; it has become a proverb. Well, that was the day on which I began to learn.
    I waited through the hammering of wine-cups on the tables; most of them were of bronze, and a fine din they made. I gestured to catch their eyes. They were already falling silent; Kleobis had disposed himself with a touch more dignity; I had even begun to speak. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, I had lost them. All eyes were upon the door.
    For a moment I thought, Can it be Polykrates? This may be our chance. Then I saw who it was.
    Three years had passed since last I’d seen him, though only across a hall. Then he had been awaited, now he was a god-sent surprise; but the chorus of delight burst out in a paean. “Anakreon! Anakreon!”
    He stood in the doorway, making an entrance from mere habit; style sat on him like his clothes. A small man, with hair so bright, his head might have been on fire; a face pale as new ivory, elegantly carved; light eyes like changing water. And young; not thirty. Nobody now remembers him young, but I.
    Quietly I caught my master’s eye. He lifted his brows and smiled; he had weathered much change of fortune in his day. His hand moved slightly, beckoning. I picked up the kithara a?nd came to sit at his table, joining the audience. Nobody noticed me.
    For some time the noise went on. Then Kleobis said, “We must greet him,” and got up.
    Of course he was right; to show my bitterness would disgrace us both. But before we could move, Anakreon’s flaming head was swooping through the crowd like a hawk through sparrows.
    “Kleobis! Dear old friend! What a joy to see you! When did you get away, how long have you been in Samos?”
    Too long for him not to have had news of us, if we’d had success here. Well, he was Anakreon. At once he recalled the last time they’d met, when Kleobis had given a much-praised Ode to Artemis. It was smooth; it was also kind. Even I got a charming smile and a graceful compliment, just as if he’d not scanned all the Ganymedes on his way across, like a vintner choosing grapes. We exchanged our news, to the pleasure of all the guests. There was a knot too in the doorway, of refugee Ionians without the price of a drink.
    Everyone was amazed to see him. His native city was Teos, north along the coast from Ephesos; one of those whose people had fled by sea with all their shipping, and anyone else’s which was in port just then, and found empty land to start again; on the Thracian coast, in a place called Abdera. Here they had hewed timber, made mud-bricks, planted their vine-slips and their