ASPASIA
A ROMANCE
OF ART AND LOVE IN ANCIENT HELLAS
BY
ROBERT HAMERLING
From the German by MARY J. SAFFORD
IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. I.
NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1882
PREFACE.
If this romance, according to a much quoted saying of our time, “seeks
out as its work,” a nation—the old Hellenic race—will not a shade of
thought and pedantry seem to cling to the description of this kind of
toil, since the universal labor of the Greek people was that of the
artist, poet, and thinker? Will it not be inferior in freshness of
sensation, to scenes drawn from the spring of simple, vigorous life,
whose poetry is not yet exhausted? And, on the other hand, must not
such an attempt also lack the charm of the cleverness—in the modern
sense of the word—piquant realism, and bright, vivid coloring of the
literary productions of the present day? Ought Hellenic life to be
represented otherwise than with Hellenic simplicity, and should its
chronicler strive for any thing except to gain a breath of the Hellenic
spirit, the Hellenic grace? Is it not especially difficult to describe
a vanished life? Minute painting of modern existence is praised as
charmingly realistic; that of ancient times will produce on many the
chilling impression of erudition. Indeed, whoever merely turns over the
leaves of this book, noticing that the different portions disclose
views of the various sides of Hellenic life, will promptly form the
opinion that he has a mere sketch-book of loose sheets, or at most a
historical romance, which according to the idea of most persons, is
about the same thing as no romance at all.
And yet—if the romance, as an artistic work, is distinguished by its
internal and external form from biography, history and mere narrative,
if it is not only the expression of a life and destiny contained within
itself, but also of a conflict which has a logical development and
solution, what I relate here is a romance. It not merely contains, in a
positive form, beautiful sensuality glorified by intellect, in its
development, prime and decay; but the conflict between the æsthetic and
moral ideal of existence arises and is decided in the life of an
individual, and the destiny of a nation. This parallelism between the
fate of individuals and nations, individual and universal life, has
always hovered before me as the art-secret of epic poetry, its supreme
principle, its peculiar model. Not, however, that the particulars
related of individual life and those of national existence run side by
side, one as it were an episode of the other, but both as far as
possible, relate to one and the same detail, and resemble an organic
structure, closely interwoven and blended together.
The conflict could be only slightly indicated, in order not to destroy
the pure, pleasing impression of the picture—it was only permitted to
advance by easy stages, and thus the action will perhaps appear to move
on a very slender thread. But whatever may seem like a digression in
conversations or descriptions, will without exception, at last appear
in its proper light, show its necessity in relation to the whole, the
idea.
Yet not to an idea in the abstract meaning of the word. Let not the
reader be misled by the thought, that the course of this story turns,
or is modelled, upon any “tendency” to love. What I shall relate is the
unfalsified, impartial truth. I shall describe human nature and the
course of the world, I shall relate the acts and conduct, the struggles
and aspirations of men, and the words with which they defend them. I
have no tendency in view save that of life, no moral save that of
necessity, no logic save that of facts, which consist of thrust and
counter-thrust, as constant and regular as the swaying to and fro of a
pine-tree in the wind. Philosophers are right in asserting that the
idea never merges wholly into reality. The poet of tendency pursues it
to a high point of its development, holds it forcibly at a spot which
it really only touches in passing, makes it shimmer and sparkle for the
pleasure of mortals, and converts the soap-bubble into the fixed star.
Pure, unpremeditated poetry, on the contrary, accompanies the idea on
its way to realization to the spot, where to restore itself to its
former purity, phœnix-like it delivers itself to a fiery death.
R. H.
Graz, November 1st, 1875.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAP. PAGE.
I.—The Treasure of Delos, 1
II.—Telesippe, 38
III.—The Ribbon-Dealer From Halimus, 62
IV.—The Grotto of Pan, 87
V.—Pyrilampes’ Peacocks, 116
VI.—On the Banks of the Cephissus, 142
VII.—The Cast of the Discus, 172
VIII.—The Sacrifice to the Graces, 195
IX.—Antigone, 217
X.—The Queen of the Symposium, 245
XI.—Samos, 272
XII.—In Ionian Honeymoon, 301
XIII.—Diopeithes and Hipparete, 323
ASPASIA.
CHAPTER I.
THE TREASURE OF DELOS.
One day, during the sultry season, in the city of the Athenians, a
slender, girlish figure, accompanied by a female slave, hastily crossed
the Agora. A singular result of this woman’s appearance was, that every
man she met on her way paused after a glance at her face, and stood as
if spellbound, following her with his eyes. The cause of this was not
so much the circumstance, that it was a rare event to see a free-born
Athenian woman of the aristocratic classes walking in the streets, but
rather because this girlish figure possessed remarkable, nay
bewildering beauty.
The faces of those who stared at her in passing, or stood rooted to the
ground gazing after her, wore every possible expression of
astonishment.
Some smiled, the eyes of grey-beards sparkled, others cast a sneering
glance at the beautiful woman, and others still wore on their faces a
shade of reverence, as if they beheld a goddess. Some displayed the
grave, well-satisfied demeanor of connoisseurs, others looked
semi-idiotic, standing with mouths half-open in amazement. There were
even a few, who made a scornful grimace and cast an angry, piercing
glance at the fair one, as if beauty were a crime. Men walking in pairs
or standing in groups, interrupted their conversation. Faces that bore
the stamp of weariness suddenly brightened, frowning brows smoothed.
Every soul was stirred.
The appearance of this beautiful woman was like a sunbeam shining into
an arbor of roses, where the midges instantly begin a bacchanalian
dance.
Among those whose attention was attracted, were two men, walking
silently side by side. Both were of grave, calm, dignified and noble
aspect; the younger, dark-haired and stately, was not without a touch
of effeminacy in the contour of his features; his taller companion’s
bearing inspired a feeling akin to reverence; the crown of his head,
above the thoughtful brow, was perfectly bald. The pair recalled the
fiery Achilles walking beside Agamemnon, the ruler of the people.
The younger man cast a glance of surprise at the beautiful woman; his
friend was perfectly unmoved—it seemed as if he had seen the fair face
before, nay he appeared so unsympathizing, so completely absorbed in
other thoughts, that the former repressed the question already hovering
on his lips.
A slave followed the two men, who were walking over the long, dusty
road to the Piræeus.
The younger sometimes gazed watchfully at the glittering waves of the
Saronic Gulf. His eye was keen as an eagle’s, and he caught sight of a
ship as yet invisible to any other vision. He saw it appear on the
verge of the horizon, but at this distance its progress was
imperceptible. This man looked like a person who could control his
emotions, but while gazing at the far off vessel, it sometimes seemed
for a moment as if he would fain wing the lingering sails with his own
breath.
If the eye wandered towards the right from the road along which they
were walking, it rested upon a wall glittering in the sun, which
extended from the city to the rocky strand. Turning to the left,
another wall of the same kind appeared, which fairly seemed to grow
under the spectator’s gaze. Workmen were piling blocks of hewn stone
one above another, and where the mass was finished, the noise of
hammers beating the metal clamps into the stones, echoed for a long
distance.
This wall also extended to the sea, swept off in a wide curve, and
joining the other, seemed to enclose the port and its buildings, above
and below the city, in a protecting embrace.
The eyes of the younger man rested searchingly, but with a satisfied
expression, on this wall, whenever they turned a moment from the
distant sail. At last, while gazing at the endless line of firmly
united blocks, he turned to his companion, and said smiling:
“If every persuasive word I have spoken to the Athenians in behalf of
this work, could have become a stone, the completed structure would
have stood before us long ago. But even as it is, we at last see the
end approaching.”
“And was this middle wall really indispensable?” asked the other, with
a careless glance at the work.
“It was. The old left wall turned much too far towards Phalerum. A
large portion of the shore of the harbor was unprotected. The problem
is now wholly solved. The city of Pallas Athena, brilliant and
beautiful, sustained by the tributes of the Hellenic coasts and
islands, has risen rejuvenated from the ashes of the Persian war, flung
this girdle of stone about her limbs, and will soon be strong enough to
defy the envious whose tongues utter the Greek language, no less than
the assaults of all the barbarians of the East.”
The man who thus addressed his companion was the son of Xanthippus,
Pericles, the Alcmæonid, surnamed the Olympian.
His friend was a famous sculptor in bronze and marble, named Phidias.
The famous statue of Pallas Athena was the work of his hands. From the
height of the Acropolis, it was visible throughout the Attic country,
and even on the horizon, where approaching sailors joyously hailed the
golden spear-head of the goddess, as the first token of the spell of
“violet-wreathed Athens.”
The long lines of stone blocks looked almost monotonous, but steeped in
the light of the Greek sky, presented no aspect of gloom. An animated
throng surged to and fro between them. The shouts of the mule-drivers
echoed loudly on the air, and the richly-laden beasts moved in long
trains along the road from city to harbor, and harbor to city.
Here and there, close beside the way, grew a grove of olive-trees,
whose green branches ever and anon swayed gently beneath the refreshing
breeze blowing from the gulf.
Whenever this occurred, the sculptor raised his broad-brimmed petasus,
to let the air fan his high, bald forehead, but the “Olympian” only
strode onward more sturdily, and fixed his eyes still more intently on
the trireme, which was gradually approaching the harbor.
The two men were now only a short distance from the sea. The harbor was
gained. Here too Pericles’ glance wandered over the scene with an air
of satisfaction. The greater portion of the objects visible to the eye,
broad, straight, stately streets—a new thing to the Greeks of those
days—was his work. Here was the magnificent market-place, surrounded by
porticos, which had received the name of its builder, Hippodamus the
Milesian. On the left, above the theatre’s forest of pillars, stood the
rows of houses built on the slopes of the fortified hill of Munychia,
and on the summit of this hill gleamed the marble temple of Artemis. In
the plain below, lines of storehouses stretched in endless succession
to the sea—the magnificent stoa of Pericles, the vast warehouses, where
discharged cargoes could remain until sold or reshipped, the huge
market-place of the port, the merchandise exchange, the “Deigma,” where
mariners and traders displayed their goods and made their bargains.
In these shops, on these stone terraces, the clever Greek stood on the
firm foundation of his own powers, rejoicing that with the prosperity
of the whole community his own wealth increased. Here he took from the
hands of the friendly sea-god the horn of plenty, overflowing with all
the gifts of foreign lands, and saw the last rippling waves of the
Pontus, the Nile, and the Indian Ocean vanish in foam upon his native
strand.
Here thronged the Greeks of the time of Pericles; beautiful brown
figures, standing forth in picturesque relief against the background of
white marble buildings. Most heads were bare, the scanty light garment,
similar in shape to a shawl or cloak, was thrown carelessly over one
shoulder—but they stood between the marble columns like bronze statues,
in their plastic beauty. Only they gesticulated eagerly, the sound of
the musical Hellenic idiom was audible in the confusion of voices; full
of energy in speech and motion, they were yet dignified as actors.
Since, after successful wars, the Athenian gained the empire of the
sea, he learned to go to the port of the Piræeus and gather riches. He
sought ship owners for distant voyages and speculations, visited
brokers and exchangers, advanced or collected money, or if he had none
to deposit or receive, borrowed some; for commerce was flourishing, and
the Athenian understood how to take advantage of his opportunities. He
knew when it was time to import grain from Pontus, wood from Thrace,
papyrus from Egypt, carpets from Miletus, dainty shoes from Sicyon, or
grapes from Rhodes. He knew too where his olive-oil, honey, figs,
articles of wrought metal, and vessels of clay were needed, and would
bring the highest prices. And the brokers and exchangers gave the money
without much hesitation. The rate of interest was high, and a man can
afford to risk something for a large percentage. So many a freedman,
many a Pasio, many a Simo, many a Phormio sat contentedly behind his
table in the Piræeus, and behaved like a person in authority, for
contracts were made before him. He paid out two talents without a
change of countenance, received them when deposited with equal
indifference, wrote the amounts and the names of the depositors in his
book, and thus settled the matter. People trusted Pasio’s honesty, and
Pasio was honest, at least so long as the profit of fraud did not
outweigh the disadvantage of a tarnished character.
The two companions now beheld the sea, whose emerald green waves
rippled gently against the stone terraces. The deeply embayed harbor of
the Piræeus lay before the gaze. Two huge towers, on the right and left
of the entrance, guarded the haven like warders of the sea-gate. In
times of peril a gigantic iron chain could be swung from one to the
other. Innumerable round-bellied merchant vessels lay at anchor in the
port; but the shore on the left was completely covered by the
high-decked triremes of the Athenian navy, drawn up on land according
to Greek custom, each in its special enclosure, like monsters resting
in their dens, mighty sea-dragons with fantastic beaks and tails
saucily curled; while beyond, on the other side of the peninsula of the
Piræeus, in the military havens of Zea and Munychia, were more of these
superb sea monsters. Behind them extended the naval arsenals, where the
sails of the dismantled ships were kept, and still farther beyond, the
wharves, where fresh timber for vessels was constantly unloaded, new
keels were continually laid.
The sail Pericles had seen on its way to the Piræeus, was now just
entering the harbor. It was the Athenian ship “Amphitrite.”
The crowds of people surged towards the landing-place; a roar of voices
echoed from every shop, every terrace:
“The Amphitrite has arrived”—“the Amphitrite with the treasure of
Delos”—“the Amphitrite with the money of the league.” “So that cunning
fellow, Pericles, has succeeded?” “What will the allies say to it?”
“Whatever they choose, we are at their head, we protect them, we send
our triremes to their coasts, we wage their wars, in return they pay
the money—what we save is our property.”
The sound of flutes echoed from the vessel, as it approached nearer.
On the Amphitrite, like all the government ships of the Athenians, the
stroke of the oars was directed by the music of flutes. Songs also
resounded from the rowers’ benches, and amid the melody was heard the
plash of the waves beaten by countless oars. The image of the goddess
of the sea, whose name the ship bore, glittered on the prow, and the
edge of the lofty deck, beautifully painted, gleamed in the sunshine.
Song, music of the flutes, and plash of waves were all drowned by the
jubilant shouts of the populace, loudly returned by the weather-beaten
sailors on the ship.
The notes of the flutes died away, the oars no longer moved, the ship
lay motionless, ropes creaked, cables rattled, the crew rushed to and
fro on deck, the anchor was lowered, the sails taken in, and a ladder
stretched from the ship to the shore. Several Athenian dignitaries were
standing close by the edge of the wharf. Pericles approached them and
said a few words. There was something peculiar, something marvellous in
the tone of his voice. Those who had not yet recognized him knew him
now; for while all the Athenians could not see his face in the popular
assemblies on the Pnyx, every one heard, every one knew his voice. Some
of the magistrates crossed the ladder to the ship’s deck.
After some time a couple of iron-bound, well-secured casks were raised
from the ship’s hold and conveyed to the land, where a train of mules
waited for the heavy load. The trierarch came on shore and talked with
Pericles.
The Amphitrite had borne a golden treasure over the blue waves, under
the eager eyes of the sympathizing Athenian populace. It was the
treasure of the allied Greeks and at Pericles’ instigation, came from
Delos, the “star of the sea,” to mighty Athens, no longer to be used as
the property of the confederate states, but received as the tribute of
the cities and isles.
There is a touch of mystery, a twilight atmosphere, a breath of the
unknown about golden treasure, which kindles conscious hopes, inspires
vague anxiety. The ingot of gold is coined, but the coin becomes again
unstamped in the owner’s hand. It is transformed under every finger
that touches it. To one it brings a blessing, to another a curse. And
thus this treasure of Delos, on which the Athenians’ eyes rested so
expectantly—who knows whether it will bring curse or blessing, purchase
pleasure or remorse, create lasting or perishable monuments? Who knows
the winds that will blow from this pipe of Æolus?
“With this gold Athens might be made the invincible citadel of Hellas,”
thought some of the official personages who surrounded Pericles.
“With this gold the naval power of Athens might be strengthened, Sicily
and Egypt conquered, the Persians attacked and Sparta crushed,” thought
the trierarch.
“With this gold they might give us festivals and plays,” thought the
throngs that filled the stone terraces of the harbor.
“With this gold the most superb temples might be built, the most
magnificent statues erected!” thought the grave sculptor, who stood
beside Pericles.
And Pericles himself? In his brain, and his alone, all these thoughts
were united.
The train of mules, intended to convey the golden burden from the
harbor to the city, began to move. The throng of Athenians dispersed,
and Pericles set out with Phidias on their homeward way. As the greater
portion of the crowd flocked after the treasure, the road to the
Piræeus was nearly empty, and individuals could be distinctly
recognized.
On the marble slab of one of the tombs that stood by the roadside, sat
two men engaged in eager conversation. The face of one expressed the
cheerful dignity of the sage, but his companion’s features were gloomy,
and his glowing eyes revealed fanatical obstinacy. The former greeted
Pericles with a pleasant smile, while the latter cast a hostile glance
at him.
The two men had walked on for some distance, when they saw a youth
standing in the middle of the road, absorbed in thought. He seemed to
have forgotten the world or lost his footing on it, and to be now
reflecting where he could find a new one. His features were peculiar,
but by no means attractive, and he gazed steadily at the ground.
“One of my stone-cutters,” said Phidias to his companion, patting the
young man on his shoulder as if to rouse him, “a worthy fellow, but
very odd. He toils steadily in my workshop one day, and the next
disappears. It is his habit to stand lost in meditation.”
Not far away a lame, crippled man crouched by the way-side, a beggar
with a queer, simpering face. Pericles threw him a piece of money, but
the cripple only distorted his features still more, and seemed to
mutter some abusive epithet.
When the two men had traversed about half the distance to the city, and
emerged from an olive-grove that bordered both sides of the way, the
Acropolis rose before them, and the gigantic bronze statue of “Athena
Promachus,” glittered in the light of the setting sun. They saw her
helmeted head, uplifted spear, and the huge shield on which her left
hand rested. A golden Gorgon’s head, bestowed by some wealthy Athenian
as an offering, also flashed with dazzling radiance from the mountain.
From this moment a singular change occurred in the sculptor’s manner.
He seemed to have entirely changed places with his companion. While the
latter, on their way to the harbor, had gazed with excited mind and
kindling eyes towards a distant goal, Phidias walked beside him grave,
silent, almost unsympathizing—on the return home, the sculptor hastened
towards the Acropolis with quickened step and sparkling eyes, while
Pericles moved quietly, with an almost weary air. It seemed as if the
sight of his goddess awakened some peculiar emotion in the sculptor,
after what he had recently beheld at the Piræeus. There the pomp of the
useful had appeared before him—the tumult at the port, the angry cries
of the exchangers, the huge shops, monotonous in their size, which
resembled gigantic temples, and finally the golden treasure, surrounded
by the twilight atmosphere of the unknown: these things had clouded his
artist soul. He could not dispute it, but it disturbed the constant
succession of unreal, ideal visions of loveliness that filled his mind.
Now, when the Acropolis appeared before him, he seemed transformed; his
steadfast gaze wandered so thoughtfully and reflectively over the
gleaming height, that Pericles was about to ask the cause of this
intent earnestness.
At this moment a little boy, whose dark eyes rested constantly on the
Acropolis, as he walked with an elderly man directly in front of
Pericles and Phidias, asked:
“Father, do the Athenians alone have the protecting goddess Pallas on
their citadel, or does she dwell with other men too?”
“The Rhodians also desired to have her on their citadel,” replied the
man, “but could not succeed.”
“Was Pallas Athena angry with them?” said the boy.
“The Athenians sought the goddess’ favor on the land, and the Rhodians
on the sea,” answered the man. “Both held a festival at their citadels
to win the approval of Pallas. But the Rhodians were forgetful; they
went up to their citadel and when they wished to offer sacrifices, had
no fire. So they made no fitting one, but offered the victims cold,
while flames and the smoke of burning fat rose cheerfully from the
rocks of the Acropolis among the wise Athenians. For this reason Pallas
Athena gave the preference to the Athenians. But Zeus pitied the
Rhodians, and to compensate them, sent down from heaven a golden rain
that filled their streets and houses. The Rhodians rejoiced over the
treasure, consoled themselves with it, and placed on their citadel a
statue of the god of wealth, Plutus.”
The story the father told the little boy reached the ears of the two
men, who walked behind them. Phidias smiled faintly, and after a few
minutes silence turned towards his companion, saying:
“Pericles, it seems to me that times have changed, and we shall soon be
like the Rhodians. Don’t you also intend to place Plutus on the
citadel.”
“Have no fear,” replied Pericles smiling. “So long as the sea washes
the Attic coast, the bronze statue of your goddess will tower above the
city of the Athenians.”
“But beneath the ruins of the temple,” returned Phidias, “the stones of
the stronghold still lie half-scattered, as the fire of the Persians
left them. Let the columns and ruins be carried down and build your
piers and long walls with them; for what the Persians destroyed above,
you restore only at the Piræeus.”
At this moment the man who was leading the little boy, hearing
footsteps behind him, turned and recognized Pericles. The latter
answered his greeting cordially, he had known him a long time, and been
his guest when the other lived in Syracuse.
“The conversation between you and your little son Lysias, has just
given Phidias occasion to press me warmly, my dear Cephalus,” said
Pericles.
“How so?” asked Cephalus.
“We have come from the Piræeus,” continued Pericles, “and there our
friend, the favorite of Pallas Athena, was very much out of humor. He
would like to be always among the images of the gods. He hates the long
walls, vast shops, bales of goods, sacks, casks, and leather
wine-skins; the shouts of the exchangers have deafened him. When he
passes through the gate into the crooked, insignificant streets of the
old city, he will shake the dust of the road to the harbor from his
feet, with a relieved heart.”
“But tell me,” he continued, turning to the sculptor, “why do you gaze
so steadily and thoughtfully at the summit of the Acropolis? Is it the
sight of your goddess—your helmeted Athena with the upraised spear,
that excites you?”
“Know,” replied Phidias, “that the helmeted, armed Pallas has long
since been thrust out of my mind by a Pallas Athena of peace; a Pallas
who no longer fights with clanking metal, but calmly, yet victoriously,
turns the offspring of darkness to stone by the sight of her glittering
Gorgon shield. When I now fix my eyes on the height of the Acropolis,
know that I place there the image conjured up in my mind, and shelter
it beneath a superb temple, that I adorn the pediment and frieze of
this temple with hundreds of carvings, and even build magnificent
porticos on the side which the Panathenaic procession approaches. But
fear not, Pericles, that I shall beseech you for gold and ivory for
this Pallas Athena of peace, marble for this temple; no, I only build
and carve in my imagination—fear nothing.”
“That’s the way with all these sculptors and poets,” said Pericles,
almost offended by his friend’s sarcastic words, “they do not know that
the beautiful is merely the flower of the useful. They forget that the
safety of the community must first be secured, the prosperity of the
people established on firm foundations, and that the perfect flower of
art can only unfold in a wealthy, powerful state. Phidias bears me
ill-will because, for several years, I have built storehouses for grain
at the Piræeus, and the long central wall, instead of repairing the
temple of the Acropolis, and because I don’t trust entirely to the
upraised spear of his bronze goddess on the citadel, to protect us
against every foe that may threaten by land or sea.”
Phidias raised his head as if angered, and cast a sombre glance at
Pericles; but the latter met the look with a winning smile, and
extending his hand to his friend, continued:
“Do you know me so little, that you could seriously reproach me for
being an enemy and derider of the divine art of sculpture? Am I not the
enthusiastic friend and fosterer of everything beautiful?”
“I know,” said Phidias, now smiling sarcastically in his turn, “I know
you are the friend of the beautiful. One look into the eyes of fair
Chrysilla—”
“Not that alone!” replied Pericles hastily, and continued earnestly:
“Believe me, my friends, when public cares and private anxieties burden
me, when many an anxiety oppresses me, many an act of opposition
embitters me, when I return in ill-humor from a meeting of the
Athenians, and wander thoughtfully, with troubled spirit, through the
streets, often some little colonnade, whose beautiful proportions meet
my eye, or some piece of sculpture by the way-side, designed with
delicate genius, attracts my attention and changes my mood, and I
cannot remember ever having a sorrow, which would not at least be
lightened by reading some of Homer’s verses.”
The friends had now passed through the gate into the city. The streets
here seemed narrower, the houses less stately than those at the port;
but it was the real Athens, it was sacred soil.
As Phidias had already reached the vicinity of his house, he said to
Pericles and Cephalus:
“If you had the leisure and inclination to enter my workshop, you might
aid in deciding by your opinion a by no means trivial contest.”
“You rouse our curiosity!” replied Pericles.
“You remember,” continued Phidias, “the block of marble the Persian
army brought here by sea, to erect a monument of victory from Persian
stone after our subjection, and which, when the barbarians fled
defeated, remained in our hands on the battle-field of Marathon. After
many wanderings the magnificent block was placed in my workshop, and as
you know, Pericles, the Athenians desired a statue of the Cyprian
goddess to be carved from it to adorn the gardens. I thought none of my
pupils more capable of winning renown by the execution of such a work,
than Agoracritus of Paros, and therefore, at his desire, gave him the
block of marble, from which he has now finished an admirable statue.
But another of my best pupils, the ambitious Alcamenes, envied
Agoracritus the block and the fame of the work, and presumed to carve a
marble statue of the same goddess in emulation of the Parian, my
favorite, as he calls him. Both youths have now completed their work,
and a large number of lovers of art will assemble to-day in my house.
If you would join them, what a spur it would be to both rivals. Come
and see how differently the fairest of the goddesses is mirrored in the
souls of the two young men.”
Pericles and Cephalus did not hesitate long, but nodded assent, and
full of eager anticipation, entered Phidias’ dwelling.
They found many of the best connoisseurs in art already assembled—among
others Hippodamus the Milesian, Antiphon, Ephialtes the orator, the
partisan of Pericles, Callicrates, the builder of the long central
wall, and Ictinus, an architect of much learning and great knowledge of
art, a particular friend of Phidias.
When these men had exchanged greetings with the new arrivals, the
master led them into one of the spacious court-yards of his house.
There on a pedestal, side by side, were two closely-covered masses of
marble. A linen cloth thrown over them to protect the pure white stone
from dust and soil, was now withdrawn by a slave at a sign from
Phidias, disclosing the magnificent works in their vast, noble
outlines, to the eyes of the spectators assembled before them.
The men, with a strange expression of perplexity on their faces, gazed
long and silently at the statues. The remarkable difference in the
design evidently caused their embarrassment.
One represented a female figure of august beauty and superhuman
nobleness. She was robed, and her garment fell in ample, exquisite
curves to her ankles. Only one breast was bare. The statue seemed
thoroughly strong and steadfast; there was nothing effeminate in the
features, nothing voluptuous in the limbs, nothing amorous in the
attitude. And yet it was beautiful, beautiful with an austere, ripe,
but virginal loveliness. It was Aphrodite without the perfume of the
crocus and hyacinth blossoms, with which the Graces and wood-nymphs of
Ida crowned the goddess. She was not yet redolent of perfumes, did not
yet smile.
So long as the spectators gazed only at this statue, they missed
nothing. A Cypris with all the Graces and Loves hovering around her,
had not yet matured in the Hellenic mind.
The ideal of the foam-born goddess chiselled by Agoracritus had been
inherited from their ancestors.
But, as soon as the beholder’s eye wandered from this statue and rested
for a time on Alcamenes’ work, he was seized with a sort of anxiety;
and if he tried to return to the first statue, it appeared less
intelligible than before, as if he had lost the standard for its
correct appreciation.
The spectacle presented to the eyes of these men was a novel one, and
they could not yet decide whether the novelty pleased them. The only
thing certain was, that they now liked the statue by its side far less.
The more frequently the gaze wandered from Alcamenes’ statue to that of
Agoracritus and back to the former, the longer it lingered on
Alcamenes’ work. The mysterious spell exerted by the latter was the
consciousness of a charm, an animation, a freshness and close
resemblance to the living human form, which the chisel of the Greeks
had hitherto neither attained, nor striven to reach.
No one gazed so long or so ardently, at the form displayed by
Alcamenes, as Pericles.
“This work,” he said at last, “almost reminds me of Pygmalion’s statue;
it seems to be animated with a soul, and just in the transition from
the rigidity of marble to warm, pulsating life.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Cephalus, “Agoracritus’ work is full of the spirit
of his master, Phidias, only surpassing it in austerity; but it seems
to me that a spark from a foreign forge has fallen into Alcamenes’
statue, where it glows with a strange, peculiar life.”
“Why, my good Alcamenes,” cried Pericles, “what new spirit has entered
into you? Hitherto your work could scarcely be distinguished from that
of Agoracritus. Have you seen the goddess in a dream? Do you know that
you have put me into an ecstasy of delight, such as no marble ever
aroused before.”
Alcamenes smiled, but Phidias, as if a new thought had flashed into his
mind, now gazed intently at his pupil’s work, and seemed to be scanning
the outlines and forms of the limbs under the influence of this idea.
“It appears to me,” he said at last, “that no vision is embodied here,
but many charms have been borrowed from reality to adorn the goddess.
The longer I examine the slenderness of the whole statue, the delicate
yet voluptuous lines of the bust and hips, the peculiar daintiness of
these tapering fingers, and the graceful contour of the wrist, the more
strongly I am reminded of a woman, whom we have recently seen several
times in this house—”
“If not the face, it has the very figure of the Milesian!” exclaimed a
pupil of Phidias, approaching nearer; and all his companions, advancing
and gazing first at the statue, then at each other, cried:
“There is no doubt—it is the Milesian.”
“Who is this Milesian?” asked Pericles in a hasty, eager tone.
“Who is she?” said Phidias smiling. “You have already seen her once—the
radiance of her beauty flashed upon you for a moment. For the rest, ask
Alcamenes—”
“Who is she?” repeated the fiery Alcamenes. “She is a sunbeam, a
dew-drop, a beautiful woman, a rose, a refreshing zephyr. Who will ask
the name and origin of a sunbeam? Perhaps Hipponicus, in whose house
she is a guest, can tell you more.”
“She once came to this place with Hipponicus,” said Phidias.
“For what purpose?” asked Pericles.
“To talk of various matters, as I have never yet heard them discussed
by a woman’s lips,” replied Phidias.
“So she is a guest of Hipponicus?” asked Pericles.
“She lives in a small house that belongs to him, situated between his
own home and this dwelling,” replied Phidias. “But since the Milesian
has occupied the house, a strange spirit has entered into all this
throng of youths.”
“How so?” enquired Pericles.
“Since that time,” replied Phidias, “the young fellow whom you saw
standing alone on the road leading to the harbor, gazing into vacancy,
has grown still more thoughtful, while Alcamenes belongs to the number
of those whom I most frequently surprised on the flat roof of the
house, that overlooks the peristyle of the adjoining one, and to which
they slip away from their work, sometimes under the pretext of catching
an escaped bird or monkey, sometimes to sit in the cool of the evening
to rest, because as they said, their blood rushed so violently to their
heads—but really to listen to the Milesian’s music.”
“So Alcamenes caught the charms that delight us in the marble, from
this enchantress?” said Pericles.
“I can’t say how it happened,” replied Phidias. “Perhaps the fellow who
stood lost in thought yonder acted as go-between, for he seems to be on
intimate terms with her. The queer genius lately undertook to carve a
statue of Eros, and for this purpose considered it necessary to first
study the character of the god and his idea. That’s the way with him;
he never strives for the things themselves, but for their idea, for
truth and wisdom, as he says; so we never call him anything but the
friend of wisdom, the seeker after truth. Just now he is pursuing the
pure idea of love, and wants to be instructed concerning it by the
beautiful Milesian. The latter apparently wishes to indulge him, and I
once saw her sit an hour on a block of stone in this courtyard, talking
with him. If it is not only this young man, but Alcamenes also who has
enjoyed the secret instruction of the Milesian, he too may try his
fortune in this direction, may continue to learn more from beautiful
women than from the masters of his art.”
“The statue before you,” cried Alcamenes, enraged by these sarcastic
words, “is the work of my hands; the censure it receives I will take
upon myself, and the praise bestowed I need share with no one.”
“Oh! yes,” exclaimed Agoracritus gloomily; “you must share it with the
Milesian. She stole secretly to you—”
A scarlet flush suffused Alcamenes’ cheeks.
“And you?” he cried, “who stole to you? Do you suppose we did not
notice it? Phidias, the master, slipped into your workshop at night to
put the last finishing touches to his favorite’s statue—”
It was now Phidias, whose face flushed darkly. He cast an angry look at
his insolent pupil, and was about to reply, but Pericles stepped
between them, saying soothingly:
“No quarrelling! It is as you say, the Milesian glided to Alcamenes,
Phidias to Agoracritus. Let each learn where and as he can, and neither
envy the other the beauty that falls to his lot through the favor of
the Muses, the Graces, or any other goddess.”
“I have not disdained to learn from Phidias,” said Alcamenes, who was
the first of the three to recover his good-humor; “but it is the wise
artist’s part to catch the beautiful from the living reality, and I
frankly confess that a Milesian, or daughter of the joyous Ionic coast,
seems to me far better suited to reveal the secrets of beautiful nature
to the sculptor’s searching gaze, than the women and matrons of our
native Attica. It is no unimportant matter how the sculptor sees a
woman; whether in foolish embarrassment she resembles the worm that
seems to wish to creep into itself, or whether she displays the bloom
of her personal charms with graceful freedom. Our Athenian women spend
their lives under rigid guardianship, in the seclusion of the women’s
apartments. If we wish to enjoy the sight of one who, without
embarrassment or boldness, knows how to delight us with her charms, we
must seek these Ionian and Libyan women, who coming from the opposite
coasts and bringing with them, as it were, a breath of the beautiful
license of their merry native festivals, announce the cheerful rule of
beauty and sensual pleasure.”
Many of those present agreed with Alcamenes, and considered him
fortunate to have found a woman like this Milesian so yielding.
“Yielding?” said Alcamenes. “I don’t know what you mean; this woman’s
compliance has its limits—ask her friend yonder, the truth-seeker.”
Alcamenes pointed to the young stone-cutter, who had just been standing
lost in thought on the road leading to the Piræeus, and now entered the
courtyard on his way home. All the bystanders looked at him and smiled,
for they saw nothing in his appearance which would have made him seem
worthy the friendship of a beautiful woman. He was snub-nosed, and his
whole exterior bore no resemblance to that of a well-educated Greek.
True, spite of his thick lips, his mouth wore a by no means unpleasant
smile, and when his eyes were not fixed too intently upon vacancy,
their glance was clear and inspired confidence.
“We are departing from our subject,” remarked Phidias. “Alcamenes and
Agoracritus are still standing awaiting our verdict. At present we only
seem to agree that Agoracritus has carved a goddess, Alcamenes a
beautiful woman.”
“Why,” said Pericles, “I think that not only Alcamenes, but
Agoracritus, though he may consider himself so much more devout, will
incur the anger of the Immortals, because they have both learned from
their master Phidias, when they wish to represent a god, to imitate the
human form to its smallest vein. You sculptors are all alike in this,
that you pretend to carve gods, in whom we really believe we see
something divine; but when we look more closely, we perceive that this
divine element is only the purest flower and development of human
nature, and even the etherial body of the divinity is merely a
combination of human pulses, sinews, muscles, joints and nerves. Let us
hear the second pupil of the beautiful Milesian, your thinker yonder.
He too is called upon to give his opinion.”
“What do you think,” cried Alcamenes to the youth, “is the nature of
man worthy to represent a divine being?”
“As for Homer, Hesiod, and the other poets,” replied his companion, “I
remember that they call the sea, the earth, and all possible things
divine; so I should be surprised if the human form with its muscles,
sinews and veins, were not divine too. Pindar even seems to me to go
still farther, when he sings: ‘The race of gods and of mortals is one
from the beginning.’ And I remember having heard the wise Anaxagoras
say that all that is is alive, and every living thing is divine. If you
will not listen to these old men, ask the beautiful Milesian—”
“I think we should all be by no means disinclined to follow this
counsel,” replied Pericles, “if we only knew how to call the Milesian
to decide the affair. Can Phidias do us the service, will Alcamenes
betray the secret of obtaining the beauty’s advice, or shall we trust
the truth-seeker.”
“The truth-seeker!” cried Alcamenes eagerly. “Be sure that the latter,
if he chooses, can lure the Milesian from Hipponicus’ house this very
day, as a serpent is wiled from its hole by magic songs and charms.”
“If Alcamenes himself directs us to this youth, he and no other is
probably the right man for us in this matter,” said Pericles. “But what
can we promise, to induce him to have pity and lure the Milesian
hither?”
“It ought not to be difficult,” replied the other, “to induce a person
to enter who already, as it were, stands waiting at the door.”
“So the Milesian is close at hand?” asked Pericles.
“As I returned just now, from my walk along the road to the Piræeus,
and entered the house from the back, I passed close by the hedge of
Hipponicus’ garden, and saw the Milesian standing among flower-beds and
blossoming bushes, gathering a branch of laurel. I asked what hero,
sage, or artist she intended to adorn, and she replied that it was
destined for either of Phidias’ pupils, who according to the verdict of
the judges, should emerge as victor from the contest. ‘So you desire to
infinitely heighten the conqueror’s joy?’ I replied. ‘Try also to
console the vanquished one.’ ‘Very well,’ she answered, ‘we must have
pity on the defeated. I’ll gather a rose for him.’ ‘A rose?’ I
rejoined, ‘isn’t that rather too much? Are you sure the victor will not
envy the vanquished?’ ‘Then let the victor choose,’ she cried, ‘here,
take the laurel and the rose.’ ‘Ought not you to bestow them yourself?’
I enquired. ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Certainly,’ I replied. ‘Very well, send
the victor and vanquished to the garden-gate, as soon as the judges
have pronounced their verdict and retired’—‘So you now know,’ said the
youth in conclusion, ‘that the Milesian is standing with the rose and
laurel, behind the hedge of Hipponicus’ garden.’”
“Very well,” said Phidias, “go and bring her here.”
“How can I? How shall I induce her to enter the presence of so many
men?”
“No matter how you arrange it,” said Phidias, “that’s part of your
secret arts, which you need not betray. Only go and bring her, since
Pericles so earnestly desires it.”
The youth obeyed, left the house, and in a few moments returned with a
woman, whose figure combined the most perfect delicacy with the most
voluptuous charms. Pericles instantly recognized the beauty, of whom he
had caught a hasty glimpse on his way to the harbor with Phidias. She
was slender, yet her limbs possessed the most charming roundness. Her
step was at once firm and graceful, her soft waving hair was
reddish-brown in color, her face peerlessly beautiful. Still, the most
bewitching thing about her was the dewy lustre, the soft,
Aphrodite-like light of her marvellous eyes. Her robe of soft yellow
byssus fell in clinging folds from the slender, rounded hips to the
ankles—the upper portion of the garment being fastened at the shoulders
with delicately wrought clasps, its superfluous length hanging like a
sort of upper robe in graceful drapery below her waist. The sleeveless
costume left the beautifully formed arms uncovered, and did not wholly
conceal the outlines of the delicate, yet perfectly developed bust. It
was the chiton usually worn by Greek women, but ample and richly
ornamented, like those seen among the Ionians and Lydians of the Attic
coast. The color of the garment was bright-yellow, the border adorned
with beautiful embroidery.
The reddish-brown hair floated in waving curls over her shoulders, its
luxuriant mass confined by a purple fillet, ornamented, at the point
where it rested on the brow, with a metal disk.
This charming woman hesitated a little, as she entered the circle of
distinguished men and saw among them the great Pericles himself. But
Alcamenes came forward, took her hand, and said:
“Pericles, the Olympian, wishes to see the wise and beautiful
Milesian.”
“However great and natural may have been our desire to see a woman so
highly praised,” replied Pericles, “you are wrong, Alcamenes, in
concealing the fact that it was the difficulty we experienced in
deciding the result of the contest between you and Agoracritus, which
led us, by the truth-seeker’s counsel, to seek the aid of the beautiful
Milesian’s wisdom. The question has been started among us, whether it
is allowable to represent a goddess under the form of a beautiful
Hellenic woman. The Athenians, who are so devout and reverent to the
gods, begin to doubt whether it may not make mortals arrogant, and the
gods envious, if they represent divine beings with too close a
resemblance to the human form, and whether their art of sculpture is
pleasing or odious to the Immortals.”
“The mildness and clearness of the Greek sky is everywhere praised, and
the Greek form is recognized, even by barbarians, as most nearly akin
to that of the gods,” replied the Milesian, in a voice whose silvery
tone was no less bewitching, than the radiance of her eyes. “The gods
of Hellas will not be angry with the Athenian, if he builds them
temples as bright and sublime as the blue vault that arches over them,
and erects in their honor statues whose symmetry of form is not
inferior to that of the men, who offer sacrifices before them. The
temples are like the land, the gods like the inhabitants! Do not the
Olympians show, that it is their will and pleasure to see their own
images reflected in the souls of the Athenians? Have they not bestowed
on them, above all others, a genius for carving, and given to the land
of Attica the best clay, the most perfect stone for buildings and
statues?”
“Indeed!” cried the impetuous Alcamenes, “we possess everything, except
the proper, boundless field of labor. Ay,” he continued, turning to his
companions, “our fingers have long been twitching, and the chisels in
our hands grow hot with impatience—”
A murmur of assent ran through the group of Phidias’ pupils, at this
sudden turn in the conversation.
“Take comfort, Alcamenes,” said the Milesian, placing a strong emphasis
upon the words, “Athens has grown rich, abundantly rich, and the golden
treasure of Delos has doubtless not come across the sea to you in
vain—”
The beautiful woman, while uttering these words, glanced at Pericles
with her bewitching eyes. The latter had been gazing at the waves of
her soft, fine hair, and now secretly said to himself: “By the gods,
this woman’s fair locks are a shining golden treasure of Delos, and the
uncoined wealth would not be too dearly purchased by the expenditure of
the coined metal.”
Then he bent his head in thought for some time, while the eyes of all
the company were turned towards him. At last he began:
“You have a right to expect, friends and patrons of the beautiful art
of sculpture, that the treasure of Delos shall not float to the Attic
coast in vain. And if I had only to question the wish of the heart, not
the demands of the community, I should have ordered the gold to be
conveyed directly from the Piræeus to Phidias’ workshop. But hear how
matters present themselves to those on whom rests the care of the
public welfare. When the hordes of the Persian army overran the
country, the common peril united all the Greeks, but when the conquered
foe retired, the great lesson taught by the war was again forgotten,
the spirit of dissension once more awoke; yet I hoped it might be
possible to continue in peace what we had begun, forced by the
necessity of war. Obeying my counsel, the Athenians invited all the
Hellenes to send representatives to Athens, to discuss the common
business of Greece. I wished to have all the temples and sanctuaries,
burned by the Persians, restored by mutual aid. Moreover the Hellenes
were thenceforward to be permitted free passage over all the Hellenic
seas, to all Hellenic coasts; security was to be given that the
prosperity of all Greeks should flourish under the protection of
unclouded peace. We chose twenty men from the people; men, who had
fought together in the great Persian battles. And what answer did these
envoys bring home? Evasive ones from some quarters, positive refusals
from others. Above all, Sparta endeavored to sow the seeds of distrust
of Athens lavishly among the kindred nations. Thus the attempt was
frustrated, and Athens obtained the experience that she could not rely
upon the concord of the Hellenes, that her rivals’ envy did not sleep.
Had my well-meant plan succeeded, Athens and all Hellas might have
devoted themselves entirely to the arts of peace, developed its fairest
and noblest blossoms. Now it is our first duty to strive for greater
power, greater influence in Hellas, and stand ever prepared for war.
This first of necessities compels us to husband our resources, immense
as they may appear at the moment. Now judge, my friends, whether we can
lose sight of the precautions required by the assertion of our
supremacy in Hellas, and spend the golden gift of fortune upon what is
beautiful and pleasant.”
Such were Pericles’ words, and as his hearers listened silently, but as
he thought he noticed, not without secret hesitation, he continued:
“Consider the matter, or recommend it to the attention of this
thoughtful youth, the truth-seeker, or if women may be heard in
political matters, this fair one from Miletus.”
“If I have rightly understood the words of Pericles,” replied the youth
in his somewhat unintelligible speech, as all the others remained
silent, “the great statesman has represented it as a fixed fact, that
Athens must strive to assert her preëminence among the Greek states.
But the manner in which this supremacy is to be obtained he has left it
to us to consider. True, he has said that he too held the opinion,
hitherto universal, that the preëminence of one community over another
must rest solely on strong military power. But, wise as he is, he
distinguishes himself from all former statesmen by seeming to consider
other means possible; for if he did not, why should he request us to
reflect upon them?”
“If you can suggest such other means for the same purpose,” said
Pericles, “speak.”
“To learn these means,” replied the other, “we should question those
persons who understand well-tested methods of obtaining supremacy over
others, and without the use of force, can subjugate and rule men in the
best and most beautiful way. We must question the fair Milesian.”
The stranger cast a smiling glance at him, and the truth-seeker,
turning towards her, continued:
“You have heard that we are considering whether one community can
secure preëminence over another solely by military power and wealth, or
if there are any other means; for instance the fostering of goodness,
beauty, and every excellent quality of the soul. You are one of those
who understand how to take precedence of others, and without violence
govern men in the best and most beautiful way. Will you not tell us how
you manage?”
“So far as we women are concerned,” replied the Milesian smiling, “I
can only say that it depends upon a certain beauty of form, on the
style of dress, the art of dancing gracefully, playing the cithara
bewitchingly, and other things distinguished among the arts of
pleasing.”
“Then, so far as women are concerned, the enigma would be solved,” said
Pericles. “But shall we Athenians seek to subjugate and rule the
Spartans, Asiatics, and all the dwellers on the isles, by festal
garments, beautiful figures, graceful dances, and playing on the
cithara?”
“Why not?” replied the Milesian. These boldly uttered words bewildered
all present, but the charming woman continued:
“The highest degree of power and splendor will be reached by that
community, where people dance most gracefully, play the cithara most
skilfully, erect the finest buildings, carve and paint most
exquisitely, and where the best poets thrive.”
“You are jesting!” said some of the group.
“Not at all,” replied the beauty, smiling.
“When we examine the subject more closely,” said Hippodamus, “the
Milesian doesn’t seem so far wrong in her bold assertion, which at
first made us smile. Indeed, if beauty is now the victorious power in
the world, why should not a nation take precedence of others by the
charms of the beautiful, win fame, admiration, love, incalculable
influence, like a lovely woman?”
“If the constant cherishing of the beautiful would not render men’s
minds weak and effeminate,” replied Pericles.
“Weak and effeminate!” exclaimed the Milesian. “You Athenians possess
too little of these qualities. Are there not many among you, who would
fain shape your commonwealth according to the gloomy, austere model of
the Spartans? It is wrong to say that the beautiful corrupts mankind.
An appreciation of it renders the citizen cheerful, content, yielding,
self-sacrificing, capable of enthusiasm. What could be more enviable
than a happy nation, to whose festivals people flock from far and near?
Let the rude, gloomy Spartans make themselves hated. Athens, perfumed
and garlanded with flowers like a bride, will win all hearts.”
“So you think,” said Pericles, “that the time has already come, when we
may be permitted to lay the sword aside and devote ourselves to the
culture of the beautiful, and all the arts of peace?”
“Will you allow me,” asked the stranger, “to say when, in my opinion,
it is time to create the beautiful?”
“Speak!” replied Pericles.
“The time to create grand and beautiful things,” said the Milesian,
“has come, I think, when the men appointed for the purpose are here.
You now have Phidias and other masters; will you delay the execution of
their ideas till they grow old in inaction? You can easily find money
to pay for the beautiful, but not always men to produce it.”
Loud and universal applause rang forth at these words.
There are looks, words, which fall like the kindling lightning into a
human soul. Pericles had been touched by such a word, such a glance.
The kindling look had come from the most bewitching eyes, the kindling
word from the most bewitching lips. Pericles was conscious of the power
of the word, but the might of the glance darted through him with a
sweet fire, from whose glow he emerged more transformed than he was
aware.
His eye began to sparkle more brightly, and he repeated:
“The time to create beautiful things has come, when the men capable of
doing so are here! I must confess,” he continued, “these words are most
instructive and convincing. No better advocate of what lies near the
hearts of all could be found. I believe you have convinced me and all
present. Yet it would not have been so easy, fair stranger, if what you
said had not already slumbered in the depths of our souls. But will you
pardon me for not acknowledging myself wholly vanquished? Will you
enter into a friendly compact with me? I think we will strive to keep
our Athens prepared for war and powerful as she now is; but you are
right, we ought not, from motives of timidity, to hesitate longer in
doing that for which the time has now come, since as you have made us
remember, men are here, who when they pass away, can never return.
Thank this beautiful woman, Phidias, if my scruples have vanished, and
I now promise you and those, who as Alcamenes exclaimed, have felt
their chisels burning with impatience in their hands, to open the
barriers, that you may go forth like an enthusiastic army to battle, to
rebuild ruins and create more magnificent and beautiful structures.
“No little has been done to fortify Athens. The port is altered, the
middle wall nearly completed. I intended long since to build a spacious
wrestling school for the Athenian youth, and will erect worthy edifices
for the arts of music and poetry. We will crown with magnificent
temples of the gods and beautiful statues, the work of renovation
commenced below in the Piræeus.”
At these words joyous applause burst from the ranks of the sculptors
and other spectators.
“The gigantic columns of the temple Pisistratus began to build for the
Olympic Zeus, and which since his fall no one has touched, rise
warningly before us,” continued Pericles. “Would it not be well to
complete this first?”
“No,” cried Ephialtes eagerly. “That is perpetuating the fame of the
enemy of popular freedom. Let a tyrant finish what a tyrant began. The
free Athenian nation will leave Pisistratus’ monument lying amid its
ruins, in token that no divine blessing rests on the work of despots.”
“You have heard Ephialtes,” said Pericles, “and in his words have
listened to the whole Athenian people. On the Acropolis stands the
ancient sanctuary of Erechtheus and the goddess of the city, Athena,
half destroyed and only repaired so far as was necessary for the
service of the gods since the Persian war.”
“Owls live there!” cried the freethinker Callicrates. “The rooms in the
temple are old and gloomy, so too are the priests, and even the gods
themselves are defaced by slow decay.”
“Then let us rebuild the temple and make it light and cheerful,” said
Pericles.
“In that case Phidias will be condemned to idleness,” replied
Callicrates. “You know the ancient wooden statue of Athena Polias,
which fell from Heaven, can never be replaced by any other in the
temple of Erechtheus—its shapelessness can never be altered, but merely
hung with fresh tinsel.”
“Then, we will leave the old priests to live in their ancient temple
with their old gods,” replied Pericles, “and talk with Phidias, that he
may tell us what he dreams with open eyes, when he fixes his gaze upon
the Acropolis.”
Phidias was standing lost in thought.
Pericles approached, and touching his shoulder, said:
“Reflect—rouse the mighty thoughts in your brain, however numerous they
may be, for their time has come.”
Phidias smiled, then answered with sparkling eyes:
“Ictinus here can tell you how often I have paced with him the hill-top
where stands the citadel and its rocky terraces—how we measured,
calculated and formed secret plans, not knowing when the hour would
come to realize them.”
“And what were these plans?” asked the others.
Phidias explained what had long been secretly maturing in his mind, and
they listened enthusiastically.
“But,” asked one of the party, “will not such a work be thwarted by the
envy of the priests of Erechtheus, as has already happened once?”
“We will triumph over this envy!” cried Ephialtes.
“The treasure of Delos,” said Pericles, “shall be laid at the feet of
the goddess—it shall be secured in the rear building of the temple, and
thus on the shining heights of the Acropolis, the same space shall
contain the pledges of the power and greatness of Athens.”
All greeted Pericles’ last words with enthusiastic shouts. But the
latter, as if suddenly recollecting himself, glanced at the rose and
laurel in the beautiful Milesian’s hands, and continued:
“Many things have been decided, but the contest between Alcamenes and
Agoracritus is not yet settled. To which of these two Aphrodites does
the wise and lovely stranger give the preference?”
“Is this an Aphrodite?” asked the Milesian, gazing at the work of
Agoracritus; “I thought it a sterner goddess, a Nemesis.”
Agoracritus, who during this time had sat apart on a block of stone
with a gloomy, sullen face, smiled bitterly and scornfully.
“A Nemesis?” repeated Pericles; “the name is certainly apt. Is not
Nemesis the stern goddess of moderation, any violation of which is
always avenged? Well, in this work of Agoracritus, the grave, stern law
and measure of existence seems embodied. The beauty of this goddess is
almost threatening, almost alarming. For the rest—are not Cypris, the
goddess of pleasant moderation, and Nemesis, the judge of its
violation, somewhat akin? Yet, if the fact is that the Athenians wish
to place a statue of Aphrodite in the gardens, and Alcamenes alone has
carved one, this is the only one we can erect within their bounds. But
the work of Agoracritus, which represents a superb Nemesis, we will,
with his permission, place in the temple of this goddess at Rhamnus. It
will be an easy matter for the sculptor to add a few external symbols.”
“That I will!” cried the gloomy Agoracritus, with flashing eyes. “My
Cyprian goddess shall become a Nemesis.”
“And now, fair stranger,” said Pericles, “to whom will you give the
laurel and to whom the rose?”
“Both to you,” replied the Milesian. “Neither of these two youths is
victor, neither is vanquished, and at this moment it seems fitting to
lay all wreaths in the hands of the man, to whom they are indebted for
the opening of a career in which to strive for the noblest garlands.”
With these words she gave laurel and rose to Pericles.
Their sparkling eyes met and gazed significantly a moment into each
other.
“I will divide the laurel between the two youths,” replied Pericles,
“but keep the fragrant, beautiful rose for my own.”
He broke the laurel and gave it to the rivals, then glancing around the
circle, said:
“I believe I shall now leave no dissatisfied heart here. Only the
friend of wisdom yonder seems to be still gazing into vacancy with
troubled brow and somewhat anxious aspect. Have you any farther
doubts?”
“I asked the beautiful Milesian in your name just now,” replied the
youth, “whether one community could gain preëminence over another
solely by gold and military power, or if this purpose could be
accomplished by fostering the beautiful, the good, and all admirable
mental qualities? The Milesian has shown us that the beautiful is
specially adapted for this purpose, but I should now like to know
whether it is the same with the other things I have named, the good and
all noble traits of character.”
“I think,” said the Milesian, “that goodness is one with beauty; but if
this were not so and it was opposed to it, I believe it could be
spared, when in pursuit of this object.”
“Can you give us proofs of this also?” asked the youth.
“Proofs?” replied the Milesian smiling, “I don’t know whether there are
any. If they occur to me, I will tell you.”
“Quite right,” observed Pericles; “we will defer the discussion for
another occasion.”
The youth shrugged his shoulders and left the courtyard.
“He doesn’t seem entirely satisfied,” said Pericles.
“No,” replied Alcamenes, “I know him; he assumes an air of great
modesty, but it vexes him extremely, if the reins of conversation are
wrested from him, and the discussion does not go exactly to the point
he has secretly marked out for it. But his anger will soon pass away;
he has a good-natured, placable disposition.”
“What is the name of this singular fellow?” asked Pericles.
“Socrates, the son of Sophroniscus!” replied Alcamenes.
“And the beautiful stranger, from whom we learned so much to-day?”
continued Pericles.
“Aspasia!” said Alcamenes.
“Aspasia?” cried Pericles. “The name is soft and sweet; it melts on the
lips like a kiss.”