THE CAST OF THE DISCUS.
Since the magnificent building, devoted by Pericles to musical
performances, had been dedicated and opened with a contest between
musicians, the Athenians flocked to the southern foot of the Acropolis,
to admire the peculiar edifice and its wedge-shaped roof, built of the
masts of captured Persian ships.
But the completion of the Lyceum soon followed that of the Odeum, and
the crowd now flocked out of the eastern gate towards the Ilissus to
see the handsome new gymnasium, which had no equal.
Although still new, the walls and pillars were already scrawled here
and there with flattering inscriptions praising some handsome boy. Not
only the sculptors, to whom the graceful figures of the youths,
displayed naked here in numerous bodily exercises, afforded a welcome
school of symmetry and beauty, but idle admirers of the beautiful came
hither to enjoy the sight of the perfect development of youthful grace.
The enthusiastic gaze of these connoisseurs was rivalled by the eyes of
affectionate, ambitious fathers, who watched with proud satisfaction
the feats and contests of their offspring, encouraging them by many an
eager gesture, many a loud shout. There were also lovers of gymnastics,
to whom the sight of them was a pleasure in and of itself, and whose
aged limbs seemed rejuvenated by the zeal, motions, and exercises of
the youths. Nay, the delight of many enthusiastic lovers of this sport
rose to such a height, that they were not content to spend whole days
in the Lyceum and Palæstra, as idle spectators; but when the longing
seized upon them, threw themselves among the youths and shared their
exercises, or challenged one of their contemporaries to a friendly
wrestling on the sand of the gymnasium. “Holloa, Charisios,” some one
would cry, “shan’t we try another little match, as we have so often
done in our happy days? What young Hercules we were—how different from
the boys now!” Then the two men, remembering the bright days of their
youth, would clench and wrestle with each other, according to the
unforgotten rules of the art, amid a group of encouraging spectators.
But the place was not used solely for gymnastic exercises, it was also
a vast assembly-room. Nay, so largely was it devoted to this purpose,
that the real apartments for gymnastic exercises all opened from the
southern side of the peristyle, behind the double portico, while the
other three halls, as well as the tree-shaded grounds adjoining the
wrestling-school, were intended exclusively for the social intercourse
of the Athenians. Here came the most famous men with their admirers,
friends, and pupils. Here people could talk with less interruption,
than in the noisy Agora. The words posterity eagerly reads in dusty
tomes, here fell in living streams from the lips of the sages. Any one
in the crowd, who desired to do so, could join the master and the few
pupils who at first walked beside him, listening to his discourse. It
was only a few days since the halls of the Lyceum had opened their
portals, and already the rustle of the bold pinions of Hellenic thought
could be heard.
In the old man with the clear eyes might be recognized Anaxagoras, the
friend of Pericles. Many an Athenian had already learned from him to
inquire the causes of the course of nature, and place the eternal laws
of natural events above the caprices of the Olympic Gods. But there
were also many, who still inclined to see in him an uncanny sort of
magician.
“Isn’t that the philosopher from Clazomenæ?” asked an Athenian,
addressing one of the pupils and listeners, in the group which
surrounded the sage. “Isn’t he the man, who is said to have sat at the
Olympic games with a sheepskin cloak fastened around his body, while
the sun was shining in the clear sky, and told those who laughed at
him, that a storm would burst in less than an hour, which to the
astonishment of everybody, actually did occur. Whence did the man get
such a supposition, if he is not more learned in supernatural things
and the art of divining, than other people?”
“Ask him,” replied the pupil.
The Athenian followed his advice, and addressing himself directly to
Anaxagoras, repeated the question. “Are you the man, who went to
Olympia in a sheepskin cloak, and predicted a thunder-storm when the
sky was clear and the sun shining?”
“Certainly,” answered Anaxagoras smiling. “And you might have done the
same, without the use of any magic arts, if like me you had been taught
by an Arcadian shepherd about the cap of Erymanthus.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the Athenian.
“Erymanthus,” replied Anaxagoras, “is a lofty mountain, which stands at
the point where the borders of Arcadia, Achaia and Elis meet, and if,
during a time of great heat, while the wind blows from the north-east,
the summit of this peak is seen from Olympia to be covered with the
thinnest cap of clouds, in less than an hour a storm will rise,
bringing cool air and floods of rain over the Pisatian meadows.”
When the bystanders’ conversation afterwards turned upon the origin and
causes of thunder-storms, Anaxagoras declared that the lightning
proceeded from a certain kind of friction among the clouds. He then
passed to other natural phenomena, making new and unusual assertions;
for instance, he declared that the sun consisted of a glowing mass of
metal, and was larger than the Peloponnesus. The moon, he maintained,
was inhabited and had hills and valleys.
While the philosopher thus walked with his hearers, and excited groups
gathered elsewhere around the politicians or news-mongers, two persons
sat on the smoothly-polished marble bench in an empty corner of the
most northern hall of the Lyceum, apparently eagerly discussing some
important affair.
One was a remarkably handsome youth, the other a young man whose type
of countenance was singularly unlike his companion’s.
There was scarcely a person among those who passed, who did not pause
or at least look back, to glance a second time at the youth’s
remarkable beauty. Some even returned, or lingered near, watching the
youth and waiting for the moment when he would bare his whole form to
take part in the gymnastic exercises, for which purpose he had probably
come.
But those who cherished this expectation were disappointed, for the
bewitching youth was Pericles’ lovely friend, who had to-day resolved
to again avail herself of a masculine disguise, to inspect one of
Pericles’ favorite creations, the now completed Lyceum. This time she
had chosen her old friend Socrates for a companion; for she scarcely
dared show herself publicly with Pericles in this costume—too many
persons had already penetrated the cithara-player’s secret. Socrates
gladly undertook the charge Pericles was forced to deny himself.
He had gone to the Lyceum with her early in the morning, to show her
the interior of the wrestling-ring before the youths and boys began
their gymnastic exercises. He eagerly did his part by accompanying
Aspasia into the central room of the gymnasium, the vast court-yard
surrounded by porticos, behind which extended spacious halls, and did
not even forget the baths nor the groves of young trees, which
stretched along the meadow lands of the Ilissus, an addition to the
gymnasium welcome to those who were fond of walking.
To choose for a companion the “truth-seeker,” the “friend of wisdom,”
the meditative pupil of Phidias, without falling a victim to the
loquacious man’s secret designs, was impossible. Thus, speaking in his
thoughtful manner, he had remarked how ingeniously Pericles had
completed the Odeum by the Lyceum, and in so doing perhaps intended to
say that music and gymnastics must always be connected, and united
produced the harmonious activity of body and soul, and that the Greek
not only desired to foster and enjoy the beautiful in bronze and
marble, but to realize it in his own mental and physical nature.
After satisfactorily performing the office of guide, he understood how
to detain Aspasia, and involve her still longer in conversation.
Seating himself with her on the marble bench, in one of the most
secluded and least crowded halls, he again reverted to the favorite
topic, never neglected when he could secure the beautiful Milesian’s
society. Unluckily, while striving to obtain the long-desired
explanation of the idea and nature of love, Aspasia’s answers resulted
in making Socrates believe himself compelled to reply:
“What you describe, Aspasia, is not love for others—all that is merely
love of self.”
He wished to know the real meaning of the words, when, for instance,
people said: “Pericles loves Aspasia,” or “Aspasia loves Pericles.” But
no matter what fine turns his companion might give the subject,
Socrates turned and twisted still more skilfully, and continually drew
from her words, no matter what she might say, the interpretation that
whoever seemed to love another person, in reality loved only self and
personal enjoyment. The thought of an emotion which should be really
love for another, not solely of oneself, constantly hovered before his
mind, and with his usual whimsicality he pretended that he could not
even find the slightest trace of such a feeling in Aspasia’s
statements. He discovered nothing but egotism—a dual egotism.
The truth-seeker and the beautiful woman had already discussed this
subject some time, when they saw Anaxagoras and several companions come
slowly up the hall.
“The gods doubtless send this man to relieve us from our perplexity,”
said Socrates.
“Don’t you think youth ought to be ashamed to question age about love?”
replied Aspasia smiling.
Anaxagoras, advancing slowly up the hall and sometimes pausing a
moment, was just explaining to his followers that the beginning of all
things consisted of tiny particles exactly resembling each other; for
as gold is composed of gold-dust, the entire universe was made of the
smallest atoms, which received the first impulse towards harmony and
form, through the reason that ruled everything. This reason, which he
called the nus, or spirit, existed not only in conscious human beings,
but pervaded even the apparently darkest depths of the life of nature,
and everything was full of souls.
As the philosopher and his companions approached the spot where
Socrates sat conversing with Aspasia, the former, without waiting for a
greeting from the younger man, with whom he stood on very friendly
terms, turned towards him with a pleasant smile.
Socrates rose from his seat, saying:
“How I envy the friends who can accompany you all day long, Anaxagoras,
and quench their thirst for knowledge at any moment. We, who rarely
meet you, must bear our unsolved doubts for many days, tormenting
ourselves and the friends no less eager for information, with endeavors
that lead to no result. I have been vexing Axiochus’ son for an hour,
in the attempt to learn from him the meaning of love, for he
understands such matters. But he apparently intentionally withholds his
knowledge, and with mischievous malice only tells me things which make
me even less wise than before. Have pity, Anaxagoras, and tell me: what
is love?”
“In the beginning,” replied the philosopher, misunderstanding the
question, and taking the subject on its speculative side, “the original
elements and germs of things were mingled in blind confusion. All was
chaos, darkness, Erebus. There was neither sky, nor earth, nor air,
till black winged night, wedded by the wind, produced the primeval egg,
from which yearning love, or winged Eros, as the poets say, came into
the world, through whose power the strife and dissension of matter
ceased, and everything mingled lovingly together, until water, earth,
sky, human beings and gods, emerged in separate forms from the womb of
fruitful nature, as the children of love.”
“Then Eros was the first principle,” said Socrates, following the
philosopher for a moment into the realms of speculation; “but I have
also heard you call the nus the first and highest element. Are nus and
Eros, all-ruling reason and all-producing love, the same?”
“It is possible that they are,” replied Anaxagoras, “and both strive to
reach the same goal—the former consciously, the latter blindly.”
“Then,” cried Socrates, “that would at once explain what is meant when
people speak of the blindness of love, the bandaged eyes of Eros. If I
understood you correctly, Anaxagoras, Eros is nothing but the nus with
bandaged eyes.”
“Understand it so, if you choose,” said Anaxagoras smiling.
“But,” continued Socrates, “how you have diverted me and my young
companion from our original subject, by leading us to the upper heights
of wisdom. We had in mind a very different kind of love, from that to
which you have just alluded in your remarks about the strife of matter,
Erebus, and the primeval egg. We were inquiring—and perhaps this
question too may not seem valueless—what was the real nature and
purpose of that feeling, by whose might one human being professes to
love another, especially a man a woman, or a woman a man.”
“A yearning of this kind,” replied Anaxagoras, “which attracts a man
not towards the sex in general, but one woman in particular, or a woman
towards one particular man, is a sort of disease of the soul, and as
such pitiable. For not only does such a love plunge him who is
disappointed in obtaining the object on which his heart is set, into
the most terrible despair and grief; but even if he has a hope that it
will be returned, brings him into a state of dependence on the woman he
loves, which he cannot help recognizing as unworthy and disgraceful,
and should be especially avoided by the wise man, who, if he desires to
maintain calmness and contentment of mind, must never suffer himself to
cling to anything with ardent devotion, because every object to which
we allow ourselves to be bound in this manner by habit, may be snatched
away, and its loss cause unendurable torment. Such a sickly love
confuses the mind, fills it with continual anxiety and jealousy, makes
the boldest timid, the strongest feeble, the best indifferent alike to
honor and disgrace, and the most economical lavish. Moreover, it
kindles the fiercest discord among men, and brings misfortune on whole
nations, as for a woman’s sake Ilium was destroyed, and Greece for a
decennium suffered every conceivable misfortune, and the loss of her
best sons.”
Anaxagoras had scarcely finished, when Pericles came up the hall,
engaged in conversation with a companion. He saw Anaxagoras talking
with Socrates, recognized Aspasia, and cast a surprised, inquiring
glance at her, which she answered by an unembarrassed smile.
Pericles paused, and as he had heard the last words, asked those who
greeted him, on what subject they had been listening with such profound
attention to the philosopher’s instructions.
“Let this youth explain it to you,” replied Socrates, with a sly smile;
“for it is his fault, that Anaxagoras was compelled to stop here and
express his views of what, in my opinion, is one of the most difficult
points of human knowledge.”
“The wise Clazomenian’s address was caused by Socrates’ question—what
is the nature of love,” said Aspasia.
“And what did the wise Clazomenian answer?” asked Pericles.
“If I have followed his thought and not merely his words,” replied
Aspasia, “love, however ardent it may be, must always remain associated
with the gay and cheerful pleasures of life, and never degenerate into
sickly, mournful fanaticism, tyranny, nor jealousy.”
“He said,” interrupted Socrates with a significant smile, “that if a
man should see the youth who was dear to him, or the fair woman he
loved, by the side of another man, whether handsome or ugly, he must
not therefore consider it necessary to contract his Olympic brows, or
collect a Greek fleet at Aulis to blot out nations and efface cities,
in his wild thirst for revenge.”
Pericles smiled. The Silenus figure of the truth-seeker seemed to him
almost ridiculous, beside the radiant beauty of the disguised Aspasia.
True, he had at first been surprised to meet her here, and his Olympic
brows had really contracted a little at the sight; but he now felt
almost ashamed of this emotion. He did not doubt his fair friend’s
intention of retiring from the wrestling-school, as became her sex,
before the gymnastic exercises began, yet thought it advisable to
remind her, by a secret hint, that this time was drawing near and she
must not linger. He therefore remarked that the exercises would soon
begin, adding that it was an affair of honor for him to be here, as his
two little sons, Xanthippus and Paralus, and his ward, Alcibiades,
after passing through a small preparatory school in the Palæstra, were
to take part for the first time in the public gymnastic exercises of
the boys in the wrestling-school. Little Alcibiades could be kept away
no longer, he scoffed at the Palæstra and longed to cope with the lads
of his own age in the public field of honor, the Lyceum.
Anaxagoras and his companions heard this news with eager interest and
joined Pericles, to witness the contests of little Alcibiades, of whom,
young as he was, the Athenians already began to talk.
Aspasia also rose with Socrates, as if to follow, but privately
requested the truth-seeker to guide her out of the building.
But Phidias’ thoughtful young pupil, after escaping from the throng
with the disguised beauty, walked by her side as if in a dream, and
without knowing or intending it, instead of leading her out of the
Lyceum, conducted her to one of the most secluded halls, far from the
spot where the boys and youths were practising their gymnastic
exercises.
His mind was entirely absorbed in reflecting upon what Anaxagoras had
said about the passion of love. The sage’s words had penetrated deep
into his soul.
Aspasia at last asked the cause of his thoughtful silence.
It was long ere he replied; then, as if waking from a dream, he asked
his companion to sit down with him on a marble bench in the empty hall,
and began:
“Do you know, Aspasia, when my demon first made itself known to me?”
“What do you call your demon?”
“A creature midway between divine and human nature. He is no phantom,
no delusion of the brain; for I sometimes hear his voice within me as
distinctly as anything can be heard. But unfortunately he disdains to
secretly reveal the depths of wisdom; so far as knowledge is concerned,
he seems no stronger and wiser than myself. He contents himself with
briefly telling me in certain cases, without giving any reasons, what I
must and must not do. I heard his voice for the first time in my life,
Aspasia, when I first saw you.”
Aspasia felt strangely moved at hearing the young sculptor talk so
gravely of his demon, as if speaking of a real person and the most
natural thing in the world.
“And what did he command at that moment?” she asked smiling.
“When I saw you and instantly thought of questioning you about the
nature of love, I heard him say in a low, distinct tone: ‘Do not.’ But
I thought: what does this stranger mean? Why should he trouble himself
about my affairs? I did not obey, but questioned you, questioned you
often, and always about the nature of love. Now I have resolved to
follow him in everything he may forbid or command; for I have convinced
myself that he has excellent judgment, is my friend, and worthy of all
confidence.”
“You are a dreamer,” said Aspasia, “though you intend to search for the
clear ideas of things. You are too much devoted to studying your own
nature, son of Sophroniscus. Look around and see the pure, quiet,
healthful life, full of cheerful beauty, that surrounds you. Sacrifice
to the Graces, oh! Socrates, sacrifice to the Graces! And don’t forget
that you are a Greek.”
“A Greek?” replied Socrates, smiling. “Am I not too ugly to be a Greek?
My snub-nose does not belong to the pure lineaments of my race. I shall
make a virtue of necessity, and seek an ideal of life compatible with
unloveliness.”
Aspasia looked at Socrates with an expression of mingled perplexity and
compassion.
Unfortunate son of Sophroniscus! He moved amid the happy, cheerful
throng, the only discontented person in the crowd. People were
beginning to number him among the philosophers, but no one had ever
heard him assert anything. He only questioned. He walked among his
fellow-men as a huge, living, almost uncanny interrogation point. Was
he the embodied necessity of a new revelation, a new thought, a new
time?
As reality, even in its richest development, did not wholly answer his
questions, he took refuge in the domain of pure thought. He pursued
“clear ideas.” But nothing is more closely allied to meditation than
its apparent opposite, enthusiasm. So he spoke of his demon.
He was perfectly serious in doing so. The Greek’s eye was accustomed to
gaze clearly and frankly at outward objects. Socrates turned his
within. He heard himself think, discovered his inward life, and was so
much startled that it seemed to him some diabolical power, which he
called his demon.
Much was said of his “irony.” Ah, the sarcasm with which he revealed
the ignorance of others, was but a faint reflection of that whose sting
he turned against himself, the vain struggle for knowledge going on in
his own breast. It was sorrowful earnest, when he declared of himself
that he was aware he knew nothing.
Yet the thought-germs of the future were fermenting in his mind.
He sought, as Aspasia had just heard him say, an ideal of life that
should be compatible with unloveliness.
He sought, divined, a graver ideal than that of omnipotent beauty,
which cast a halo of glory over his age.
Such was the character of the youthful thinker. And yet—he was a Greek.
Unlovely of aspect and meditative by nature, he was nevertheless
inspired by the grace of the Hellenic intellect. He was no gloomy
fanatic, and could never become one. Aspasia’s spirit had also
influenced him; he could never wholly fall a prey to the gloomy powers.
His nature must become gradually more and more attuned to gentle
cheerfulness, though only the cheerfulness of the philosopher, who
calmly drank the goblet of poison, when his hour had come.
But now youth and a secret youthful love, of which he was himself
scarcely conscious, were seething in his veins. He was not yet the man,
the old philosopher, of which the ancient books tell us—he was still
the young stone-cutter in Phidias’ studio.
He secretly loved the beautiful Aspasia, loved her, yet knew that he
had the snub-nose of a barbarian, the face of a Silenus, and she could
never love him in return.
He knew this, but he was still young and only half realized the force
of the fire that secretly blazed in his veins.
“I know,” he continued, “I seem to you to creep like a worm on the
flowers of Hellenic life, secretly gnawing and sullying them with the
spleen of sceptical thoughts, and you would like to snap me off with
the tips of your rosy fingers. But, Aspasia, I would far rather be
handsome than wise. Only tell me what I am to do, to become so.”
“Always be gentle and bright,” replied Aspasia, “and strive to
sacrifice to the Graces.”
“Shine upon me with the radiance of your eyes!” cried the usually quiet
truth-seeker, overpowered by the emotion of his heart. “Then,” he
continued, “I shall always be gentle and bright.”
He uttered these words with passionate feeling, bending nearer to
Aspasia, as if he wished to absorb the cheering light of her gaze, and
putting his Silenus countenance so near her lovely face, that his
pouting lips almost touched the beauty’s.
“Sacrifice to the Graces!” cried Aspasia, starting up and walking
rapidly away.
At the same moment a naked boy came running breathlessly up the hall,
and perceiving Socrates, rushed to him and wrapped his mantle around
his bare limbs.
The truth-seeker knew not whether to fix his eyes on Aspasia’s
retreating figure, or the boy who had fled to him for protection. He
looked like a man from whose hand a dove had escaped, while a swallow
flies into his breast.
The boy, wrapped in the cloak, nestled closely to him, and still
gasping for breath, besought him to conceal and protect him.
“Whose son are you, and what is the cause of your flight?” asked
Socrates.
“I am Cleinias’ son, Alcibiades, the ward of Pericles,” answered the
boy.
The incidents that caused the little fellow to fly to Socrates, naked
and trembling, occurred in the following manner.
While the latter was absorbed in his conversation with Aspasia, the
gymnastic exercises of the youths and boys had commenced in the halls
of the Lyceum devoted to this purpose.
Pericles and his companions, with many other persons stood in the room
set apart for the lads.
It was a most charming spectacle to see these bright, beautiful,
slender boys, strengthened by their preliminary training in the
Palæstra, divested of the purple chlamis, wrestling on the sand.
Alcibiades was conspicuous among them all. Though one of the youngest
lads, his footing was firm, and there was a touch of boldness and
defiance in his bearing, softened, however, by the charm of his beauty.
The sculptors pressed forward to admire the play of the still
undeveloped muscles, the budding symmetry, the masculine harmony of
form reduced to a juvenile scale.
Besides Alcibiades, his two playmates Xanthippus and Paralus, the sons
of Pericles, and little Callias, son of the wealthy Hipponicus, with
whom Alcibiades had already formed a friendship, were among the boys.
Pyrilampes’ little son, named Demos, was also present.
The ardent, vivacious lads could scarcely wait for the commencement of
the exercises, which began with races, under the direction of
pædotribæ.
These men instructed their pupils how to economize their breath and
strength in running, how to move their limbs equally, how to stride as
far as possible with uplifted feet, in order to pass over the greatest
amount of space with the smallest number of steps. They also taught the
boys certain regular movements of the arms, which, corresponding with
the motion of the feet, were calculated, in their opinion, to increase
the speed.
But little Alcibiades would not heed this instruction—he declared the
motions of the arms he was taught to make, awkward, and disputed about
the matter with the pædotribæ. One of the inspectors and directors of
the exercises soothingly interposed, patted the boy’s cheeks, and
praised his eagerness to preserve the beauty of gesture and attitude so
pleasing to the eye, but pointed out to him in justification of these
movements, the example of the Mauritanian ostrich, which assisted its
running by the motion of the little wings it used like sails.
The naked boys rushed towards the goal with a joyous shout, that grew
louder the nearer they approached it. The race was repeated several
times—Alcibiades was always first.
The exercises in running, were followed by those of leaping.
The pædotribæ put weights in the boys’ hands and taught them to use
them in such a way, that far from checking the lightness of the spring,
they helped the movement of the body forward. These weights also
displeased refractory little Alcibiades, and he was on the point of
throwing one at the head of one of the persons who had charge of
maintaining good-behavior among the lads, and somewhat sharply reproved
him for his unruly conduct. Anger and shame seized upon Pericles, as
standing with his friends among the spectators, he became an
eye-witness of the boy’s rebelliousness. But he soon smiled again, as,
amid the plaudits of the crowd, Cleinias’ son took precedence of all
his companions in leaping as well as running.
The boys were now anointed with oil by the aliptæ appointed for this
purpose, to prepare them for wrestling. Alcibiades was pleased; yet
when sand was strewn over the oil to render the limbs less slippery, he
eagerly resisted. But here people did not submit to the lad’s caprices,
as they had done in the Palæstra; the stricter rules of the gymnasium
were at stake and the child was forced to yield.
The boys advanced to wrestle in pairs.
The pædotribæ instructed them how to advance the right foot a little by
a slight bend of the knee, how to manage their arms in attack and
defence, how to hold the neck and head erect, draw in the lower portion
of the body, but round and arch the breast. The mode of throwing the
opponent by skill rather than by strength, twining the hands and feet
around the fallen foe, so that he was forced to lie motionless and
renounce all hope of rising, together with various other artifices, was
also impressed upon the minds of the youthful wrestlers. But both
teachers and inspectors of the exercises directed their attention
principally to grace and dignity of movement. The rules they gave were
not intended solely for the development of strength and skill, but also
for the display of every grace of form, and the free, beautiful, easy
bearing by which the Athenian was distinguished from the Barbarian, and
even from many Greeks.
Alcibiades wrestled with the oldest of the boys, and threw him on the
sand by a trick for which he was not indebted to the pædotribæ, but had
invented himself on the spur of the moment’s need.
Scrapers were now given to the lads that they might rub the oily sand
from their limbs, and when this was done, each received a disk and a
small pole instead of a spear, both intended for use in the exercise of
casting. The boys’ disk was not made of bronze, as usual, but carved
from hard wood. Throwing the disk was by no means an easy matter, when
correctly done. Alcibiades, like the other boys, was told how to adopt
the right poise of the body, seize the discobolus in the best position,
after rubbing it with earth to obtain a better grasp, correctly adapt
the degree of strength to be expended to the weight, make the muscles
of the arms elastic, swing the disk in a semicircle and then hurl it
straight into the distance—but he despised these rules, and when one
after another stepped forward to make his cast, and the distance each
reached was distinctly marked on the ground, Cleinias’ son, when his
turn came, threw his disk as he chose. Nevertheless, it flew far beyond
the others.
A strong lad, who possessed special dexterity in hurling the disk, then
stepped forward to try his fortune. Cautiously, duly observing all the
rules of the pædotribæ, he threw his disk, and though he did not
surpass Alcibiades, did not fall behind him. The two disks lay at an
equal distance from the others.
Alcibiades turned pale. For the first time he was compelled to share
the honors of victory with another. He stood silent, trembling with
excitement, casting furious glances at his rival. But the latter
ventured to assert that his disk, if the distance was exactly measured,
lay a little beyond that thrown by Alcibiades!
At this remark the latter, seized with indescribable fury, raised his
right hand, and with all his strength hurled the disk he held at his
opponent’s head. It reached its goal only too well; the boy fell,
bleeding and senseless.
A great tumult ensued. The almost fatally injured lad was borne away.
Alcibiades turned pale and trembled a moment at the sight; but when the
relatives and friends of his wounded rival pressed upon him with
threats and reproaches, instantly regained his composure and defiance.
Then he saw the angry Pericles advancing, accompanied by the dignified
gymnasiarch, and perceiving that he was to be seized, led away, perhaps
punished in some disgraceful manner, suddenly turned, burst through the
circle of spectators where it was thinnest, and fled with the agility
that had helped him to victory in the races.
He was followed, but soon vanished from the eyes of his pursuers.
In the most secluded portion of the Lyceum he met Socrates, rushed to
him, as has been already mentioned, and beseeching his protection, hid
himself in the folds of his mantle.
“So you are Cleinias’ son?” said Socrates in a gentle, quiet tone,
after the boy, in reply to his questions, had related the story of his
escape. “Do you pay no heed to praise or blame, have you no regard for
the opinions and wishes of the admirable and distinguished men from
whom you descend, or who are allied by ties of blood?”
“I don’t want to be always doing what other people wish,” said the boy
defiantly. “I want to do what I like and desire myself, and what I
intend—”
“You are perfectly right,” replied Socrates, still calmly; “a man ought
to be permitted to do what he himself wishes and has intended. But what
did you really desire and propose, when you came with the other boys to
the Lyceum?”
“To be first in everything!” cried little Alcibiades eagerly. “To be
first, to distinguish myself, and bear off the greatest honors. That is
what I intended.”
“Then you have not done what you really desired and proposed,” observed
Socrates, with the same calmness. “You wished to distinguish yourself,
to leave the Lyceum covered with glory; but you have actually been
driven away in disgrace and shame, and perhaps will receive a
punishment when you are restored to your friends. Why did you not go
straight to the goal you wished to attain, instead of losing your time
in minor matters, which diverted you from your object? You did not come
here to cut a hole in your companion’s head with a disk, but as you
say, to gain praise and honor. Your error was, that you forgot for a
moment what you really intended, and devoted yourself to secondary
things, which resulted in your being obliged to fly from the gymnasium
in disgrace and shame, instead of leaving it covered with honor.”
This was the first time that the law of proper conduct had been set
before the eyes of Alcibiades, not as something arbitrary and
threatening, but as a power living in himself and connected with his
own will.
Besides, the words of Socrates and the tone in which they were uttered,
inspired the boy with confidence. He looked gravely and silently into
his companion’s face, gazed into his pleasant brown eyes, and his trust
was unconsciously transformed into a sympathy he had never felt for any
man.
Those who had been searching for Alcibiades, among them Pericles and
the gymnasiarch, now approached.
The boy again began to tremble.
“Fear nothing,” said Socrates; “with the aid of the gods I will try to
appease all these fierce foes and pursuers.”
The advancing group recognized Socrates, and nestling to his side,
wrapped in the folds of his himation, the boy they sought. It seemed as
if they beheld the young Achilles in the company of his tutor, the
clumsy, good-natured centaur.
When Pericles and the gymnasiarch, with the others, came directly
towards Socrates, the latter said:
“I know whom you seek; but he is under my protection, as you see, and I
will not give him up, but defend him, as is my duty, to the best of my
ability. He came to the Lyceum, he tells me, to distinguish himself,
but did not fully succeed, only because from forgetfulness he meddled
with matters which did not belong to his object, that is threw a disk
at a playfellow’s head, which brought him disgrace instead of the honor
he sought. Concerning my intercession for the lad, consider that a
similar misfortune or crime, as you choose to call it, has happened by
the hands of gods and heroes; for, as you know, Apollo killed his
favorite Hyacinthus, and the hero Perseus his grandfather Acrisius, by
the cast of a disk. It is probable that this dark-haired, fiery-eyed
lad might resemble the gods and heroes in other respects, if he would.”
Pericles’ wrath subsided at the sight of the boy, from whose face every
shade of defiance had vanished. He addressed a few friendly words to
the intercessor, which at the same time served to relieve the culprit,
who still expected punishment, and ordered the pedagogue to dress the
child and take him home.
Socrates joined Pericles and the gymnasiarch, and the men conversed for
some time about the singular blending of noble and unworthy qualities,
united in the character of Cleinias’ son.
The latter himself did not leave the hall with the pedagogue, until he
had cast a loving glance from his dark, sparkling eyes at his protector
and intercessor.
Thus was formed the strong bond of affection existing between Socrates,
called the ugly, and the handsomest of all the sons of Greece, the
youthful Alcibiades, on the day that a dove flew out of the
truth-seeker’s hand, and at the same moment a swallow found refuge in
his bosom.