THE SACRIFICE TO THE GRACES.
No one enters so thoroughly into his work as the sculptor. Phidias’
only walk was between the Acropolis and his studio. Even in his dreams
he saw nothing but his statues of the gods, his groups, his frieze; and
as his restless mind was active in his sleeping as well as his waking
hours, he often, to his great surprise, found his plans matured and
developed when he awoke. Many of his designs had originally suggested
themselves in a dream, and he could say that the gods appeared to him
in slumber, as they did to Homer’s heroes. The whole world was valuable
to him, only so far as it was connected with his art-aspirations. He
renounced the pleasures of life, and remained alone and unwedded.
His soul was filled with the archetypes of all things, and his clear
eye mirrored in pure outline every created object.
There was a motley confusion of persons and things in Phidias’ studio.
Designs were constantly being invented, tested, rejected, modelled
afresh in clay; measures and proportions were considered. Besides the
preparatory work in clay, many a piece of sculpture was being hewn from
the block by the stone-cutters, to be afterwards entrusted to better
skilled hands for its perfect development. The workshop might be called
a heap of rubbish, but it was rubbish of origin, not destruction. It
was chaos, yet not the chaos of ruin, but that from which proceeds
creation. Fragments lay scattered everywhere, not as parts of what had
once been a whole, but as portions on the way to form one. Over this
chaos hovered the spirit of Phidias. His mind directed everything, and
kept the fiery Alcamenes and stern Agoracritus united in a common
labor.
This pair were his two powerful arms. Nay, the former was an eloquent
tongue. What Phidias suggested in monosyllabic, perhaps mysterious
words, Alcamenes interpreted, repeated, inculcated.
He also kept watch over the young pupils and assistants, whose work was
entrusted to his care, reproving, admonishing, encouraging, with the
impetuosity natural to him, while examining the various portions of the
pediment, frieze and metopes.
“What are you doing, Dracyllus? The curve of the breast is too flat to
produce the right effect at a distance, the abdomen too little marked,
not sufficiently distinguished from the groin. The principal muscles
are too little raised, the lesser ones too much!
“Charicles, you make the skin here too tight, and here too loose over
the muscles. It’s not sufficiently visible here. Even in the rigid
bronze or marble, the skin ought always to look as if it could be
grasped and lifted a little between the fingers.
“Lycius, your god can scarcely be distinguished from the folds of his
garments. Are you one of the sculptors, whose Heracles can only be
recognized by his club?
“Your nymph of the spring, Crinagoras, seems to intend to rely upon her
urn to mark her character, instead of having it appear from the soft,
almost liquid outlines of her limbs.”
He now came to one of the groups on the frieze of the Parthenon—youths
curbing rearing steeds. “On what animal, Lycius, did you see that broad
head, these blunt ears? The whole is too stiff, not sufficiently free,
too old-fashioned. Did you go to school with the Æginetans? Argeladas
would no longer have approved such bungling work!” Such were Alcamenes’
exclamations, particularly condemning this or that point, and as he
grew angry seeming by no means disinclined to shatter the pupil’s
carvings, a thing he was quite capable of doing, when passion
overpowered him.
Agoracritus stepped forward and, as often happened, defended the
fiercely reviled work against the impetuous Alcamenes. The hot blood
crimsoned the latter’s face, and he made a hasty reply.
Just at that moment, Phidias approached with two companions, who were
by no means strangers in his house.
How could Pericles and Aspasia have denied themselves the pleasure of
sometimes casting a glance at the quiet creation and progress of these
vast designs?
They found the master in the midst of throngs of pupils and assistants,
among clay models, half-hewn statues and blocks of marble; found him
more silent, stern, thoughtful and reserved than ever before.
When Alcamenes saw Aspasia, he strove to appear gay and careless, to
conceal the indignation he could not yet wholly stifle, and to which he
had allowed himself to give expression during the hasty meeting in the
Agora. The sullen Agoracritus made no effort to hide the secret rage he
still cherished in his heart against Aspasia. He turned away and wasted
no words on the distinguished visitors.
As the latter had overheard some portion of the dispute, the
conversation soon reverted to the same subject, and Aspasia did not
hide the fact, that she entirely agreed with Alcamenes in his desire to
see every trace of old-fashioned tradition effaced from art. While
looking at the sketches and clay models for the colossal groups on the
pediment, the frieze, and the metopes, she found many of the most
beautiful a little hard and rigid, and even the richest development of
the art seemed to her to advance too slowly. These opinions she
expressed without reserve.
“The beautiful Aspasia,” said Phidias with a grave smile, “would like
to have everything we carve as delicate, luxurious, and charming as
herself. But do not forget, that in these tasks we sculptors have to
represent no mere human, commonplace prettiness, but almost
supernatural beauty.”
“Perhaps Phidias is right in not allowing himself to be entirely
deprived of what Aspasia calls the harsh, stiff, old-fashioned style,”
said Pericles. “Who knows whether the highest ideal of beauty may not
dwell on the narrow line, that separates chaste, virginal loveliness
from luxurious, fully developed charms? The highest and last stage of
development is often the first of decline; so the point which delights
and refreshes the mind with the purest, loftiest magic, should lie a
little on the side of the summit and not directly upon it.”
“If I urged you ever so strongly towards the charming, delicate, and
luxurious,” replied Aspasia, “and you encouraged your pupils to strive
towards the same goal, I think even then it would be long ere the
correct limit was passed. Your assistants seem to me so far from making
their work too delicate and graceful, that even if they exerted all
their powers, they would scarcely attain the goal. I do not say you are
slow, but the road is long.”
“When I look at Phidias’ statues,” said Pericles evasively, as if he
feared the sculptor might be wounded—“or hear the songs of Homer, I
think them sublime in their charm, and charming in their sublimity.
They are sublime, as every one knows, they are charming, as no one can
deny, and we may call them beautiful, because they are both at the same
time.”
“I agree to that,” said Socrates, looking up from his work of hewing
the rough outlines of a statue in a marble block. “I have been
reflecting a long time upon the real nature of beauty; Pericles’ words
have shone like a ray of light into my soul. So the beautiful is
graceful sublimity and sublime grace. When Pericles and Aspasia again
discuss together the right limits of the progress of development in the
arts, they will find it easy to say that the beautiful, to remain the
beautiful, must never be merely charming and never merely sublime, but
both united. The gods grant that I may remember this lesson at every
stroke of the chisel, especially while I am executing the gift I intend
to make Phidias’ goddess, on the day of the opening of her magnificent
temple on the Acropolis.”
“What?” cried Aspasia, “does the thoughtful stone-cutter intend to try
his skill as the creative sculptor?”
“Of course!” replied Socrates. “True, Phidias and Alcamenes have
assigned none of the carved work on the new Parthenon to my independent
execution, and when I begged permission to try this greater task, was
sharply refused by Alcamenes, with the smiling contempt of which he is
master. By Zeus! I have learned from Phidias how to carve the perfect
egg form of the face, to make the head small but delicately shaped, the
line of the brow and nose almost straight, curve the eyebrows in a
delicate arch, chisel the eyes large, round, and deep, and the sides of
the nostrils in a gradual slope, round the chin, and arrange the hair
and beard in graceful masses. I will not forever hew blocks of marble
into mere rough outlines, and as an obedient workman, help embody the
thoughts of others. I will prepare a gift modelled after my own design,
and try with practised hands to represent in stone, a clear, pure idea
of my own.”
“But what is the clear idea, which as you say, you wish to embody in
stone?” asked Aspasia.
“You shall hear,” replied Socrates; “but it is not seemly to talk of a
pupil’s efforts, before you have seen as much of the master’s work, the
divine Pallas Athena, as can be viewed at present.”
Pericles and Aspasia earnestly entreated Phidias to let them see what
he had already created, but the sculptor replied:
“You can see nothing at this moment but fragments, for the clay model
has been broken in pieces, as the necessities of the work in gold and
ivory required.”
But, as Pericles and Aspasia protested that they would be satisfied
with even a sight of the fragments, Phidias, accompanied by Socrates
and Alcamenes, led them into one of the spacious court-yards, and there
pointed out a wooden framework, over which the figure was to be shaped
of gold and ivory, as flesh and skin rests on the skeleton of bones.
Besides the workmen engaged in separating the clay model of the
magnificent work into fragments, were others employed in sawing
elephants’ tusks—of great size and beauty which the Greeks imported
from India—into thin plates, each one of which was to be exactly fitted
in its place over the wooden skeleton, according to the design of the
clay model.
The visitors scanned the huge, separate portions of the colossal
statue. Even these fragments afforded food for thought, and fortunately
the head of the goddess was still uninjured. This they could examine to
their heart’s content, and give themselves up to the spell of the
master’s lofty thought, revealed in the sublime, pensive features of
this new Pallas Athena of peace.
They mirrored intellectual power, the light of pure intelligence rising
from the depths.
“The beautiful, pensive face of this goddess makes her appear indeed
the divinity, who sprung from the head of her father, Zeus,” said
Pericles.
“But,” interposed Socrates, ever in search of ideas, eagerly seizing
upon the remark, “in the head, as all well know, dwells thought. So
what is Pallas, springing from her father’s brain, save the living,
embodied thought of Zeus? Oh, happy Phidias, blessed by the gods, to be
thus called to represent what is highest—thought! I, poor bungler,
strove all my life to attain the realm of pure thought, and would fain
have guided it from Zeus’ brain to mine, like a leaping spark, yet
could never grasp it. This Phidias here takes a bit of clay, a lump of
earth, kneads it, and beneath his hands grows a statue that dazzles my
eyes when I behold it, forces me to exclaim: ‘This is thought!—the
thought of Zeus!’ Yet Phidias is right, when he names the thought
placed before us, Pallas Athena, the glorious guardian divinity of
Greece. We have proof of that, when we compare what philosophers say of
thought, and poets of Pallas. Apart from her oft mentioned origin in
the brain of Zeus, the poets declare that Pallas Athena is a virgin,
also that she partakes of both masculine and feminine nature, quite
unlike the goddess of Love, who has nothing to do with thought, but
devotes herself exclusively to delightful emotions and the unconscious
creative works of love. Who will deny that thought is virginal, and at
once masculine and feminine? Thought is calm, like starlight, and
remains sufficient for itself on its pure, clear height; only its
counterpart, feeling, is full of ardor and enters into all the deeds of
love. What is the horrible Gorgon head, which poets and sculptors place
on the shield of the goddess Pallas Athena, save the terrors of
conquered darkness, which victorious thought bears as a trophy? So
there is no doubt that Phidias intended to represent thought, though we
may still be permitted, if we choose, to call the head before us that
of the goddess Pallas Athena.”
Grave Phidias smiled faintly, and Alcamenes, also smiling, interrupted
Socrates by patting him on the shoulder, but praised his words.
Aspasia said:
“If Phidias, as you assert, Socrates, wished to embody in this statue
the might of lucid thought, he scarcely ventured, while creating it, to
ponder over this idea.”
“The same thing doubtless happens to other fathers,” replied Socrates.
“It certainly doesn’t happen so with you,” cried Alcamenes with a
mischievous smile.
“No,” replied Socrates, “but why should you jeer at me for it? It is
certainly better to think than not to think. The gods may bestow their
best gifts on their favorites in dreams. We other mortals must try to
help ourselves with our waking senses. No doubt, Aspasia, you have
wondered why I so often questioned you about the idea and nature of
love. Yet I could not help it. As Phidias has embodied the victorious
light of thought in the statue of Pallas Athena, I would fain embody
love in a statue of Eros. You surely will not assert that Eros is a
contemptible deity; nay, some call him the first and oldest of all, and
if love, as it appears, is, above all things, an aspiration, a strife,
an endeavor, I can say that this god is really mine. To learn still
more exact particulars about him, I have, as you know, moved much among
men, inquiring—”
“That’s true,” interrupted Alcamenes smiling, “you have been seen far
more frequently at the Agora and other public places, than in Phidias’
workrooms. This fellow really seems to be driven about by some special
anxiety. First he chops at his marble blocks for half a day like a
madman, then drops his tools and stares thoughtfully for an hour into
vacancy. Then he starts up, dashes off, and doesn’t come back for half
a day. You mean to carve an Eros? Tell us when? Do you know, my dear
fellow, that Phidias calls you his most negligent pupil?”
“I know it,” replied Socrates; “but remember that you too often throw
down the chisel and rush off, with or without a pretext, and like me,
it is said, follow love, though certainly without inquiring much about
its idea and nature.”
“You are right,” cried Alcamenes laughing, “I don’t inquire about its
idea. But who tells you I follow love, when I leave here?”
“You don’t always go away yourself,” replied Socrates, “sometimes you
merely send one of the men who carry mortar, or even mad Menon, if he
happens to be lounging about here, with a little note to the beautiful
Corinthian, Theodota.”
Again Alcamenes smiled, and Socrates continued:
“My friend Anaxagoras has called the passion of love a disease—I only
want to know whether it is an ordinary sickness, to be treated with
medicine, or a divine one, like the poet’s rapture or the ravings of
the Delphic priestess. I know the god of Love must have wings and a
boy’s figure; but how I am to represent him in other respects, grave or
gay, looking upward or downward—I should really like to know, Aspasia,
how you would undertake to represent him, if you were one of us pupils,
here in Phidias’ studio?”
“I should not attempt to represent it,” replied Aspasia. “Love is an
emotion, and a feeling is formless. Why seek to represent what has no
form? Instead of love, present what awakens love, the charming, the
beautiful. That has a shape, is tangible, visible, perceptible by all
the senses. Nor need you ponder over it and question other people, but
simply copy the most beautiful and graceful object you behold.”
Socrates spent several minutes in silent thought, and then replied:
“Nothing can be truer than what you have just said, Aspasia. I will let
Eros go, and try to carve the Graces; for you probably intend to point
them out to me again, as you have often done, as the real goddesses of
loveliness and beauty. Aphrodite is beautiful, but she is not only the
goddess of beauty, but of love—in her nature beauty is already mingled
with love, while in the Graces, it is still apart, and so to speak,
sufficient unto itself. So I will carve the Graces, and offer them as a
gift to Phidias’ goddess on the Acropolis. But as I formerly pursued
love, I must now follow beauty. Where shall I find the most beautiful
and graceful person, to ‘simply copy,’ as Aspasia just said.”
“If you want to see the most graceful creature ever beheld, my dear
Socrates,” said Alcamenes smiling, “I can give you a piece of advice.
Try to see the beautiful Corinthian, whom you just mentioned, dance.”
“The Corinthian Theodota?” asked Socrates; “I have often heard the
charm of her dancing praised. But who is to procure us the pleasure of
seeing and admiring the Corinthian, except yourself, Alcamenes, her
best panegyrist, friend, and companion?”
“Why not?” replied Alcamenes, with, merry arrogance. “Whoever desires
to enjoy the sight of the most perfect grace a woman’s form is capable
of displaying in the dance, should see Theodota, and I will
ungrudgingly serve as guide to any one who wishes to have this
pleasure.”
These words were not devoid of secret malice towards Aspasia. He
intentionally praised the grace and charm of another woman, in the
presence of Pericles’ friend and Pericles himself.
The beautiful dancer Theodota had been induced to come from Corinth to
Athens by Alcamenes. The cause of this action was a singular one.
On perceiving that he must give up Aspasia, of whom he had thought
himself secure, the young sculptor was seized with secret indignation
against the Milesian. Yet his temperament was too light, gay, and
careless to allow grief to gnaw at his heart on account of this loss;
his sole endeavor was to seize some real happiness, some genuine love
in place of that of which he had been robbed.
A very wealthy Corinthian had given him an order for a small marble
statue. Alcamenes finished the work and sent it to Corinth. The owner
was delighted with its rare perfection and grace, and wrote to
Alcamenes that he might ask any payment he desired for the little
masterpiece; whatever his request, it should be fulfilled.
Upon this the young sculptor, with his usual arrogance, wrote the
Corinthian the following reply:
“It is well known that your wealthy and luxurious Corinth has long
possessed the fairest ‘friends,’ to be found in Hellas. As you offer me
any reward for my little statue, I beg you to send the most famous
beauty in Corinth to remain a month in Athens at your expense,
informing her that during this month she is to serve me exclusively as
a model.”
The rich Corinthian laughed when he read these lines, and a few days
after, the beautiful hetæra, the dancer Theodota, arrived in Athens.
Alcamenes was satisfied, and for a month enjoyed the society of the
far-famed beauty at his wealthy patron’s expense.
When the month had passed and the fair Theodota’s engagement was
fulfilled, she felt little inclination to return to Corinth: she had
become fond of Athens and determined to stay there.
Alcamenes remained her constant friend, and praised her to all who
would listen to him as the fairest woman in Hellas, never neglecting to
add she was more charming than the famous Milesian, Aspasia, who had
ensnared Pericles more by craft than beauty.
As Alcamenes thus praised Theodota to Socrates in Aspasia’s presence,
the latter instantly perceived the intention of the offended youth, and
knew he wished to annoy her by bestowing admiring words upon the beauty
of another woman. With feminine quickness she instantly arranged her
thoughts and formed her resolution.
Amid the lightning-like reflections that darted through her mind, was
the wonder what impression Alcamenes’ words might have made on
Pericles’ susceptible fancy. She considered that he might wish to see
the fair Corinthian, and gratify this desire on some other occasion
than when accompanied by his friend. She did not care to have Pericles
meet Theodota unless she was present, but had little fear of such an
interview in her company. She well knew what she could throw into the
scales against all other women, and as for Alcamenes, decided that she
could not punish his secret malice better, than by showing him how
little she cared for this kind of annoyance.
To these motives for her resolution was added another—she herself was
not without some curiosity to see the much-praised Corinthian beauty.
So, to the no small perplexity of the young sculptor, she eagerly
accepted his offer to take any one to Theodota, who might desire to go,
saying with careless gayety:
“If you are able to show us the way to the most beautiful and graceful
person you know and let us see Theodota dance, it would be folly for
Pericles, Socrates, I myself, or any one who hears you, not to
instantly take you at your word and compel you to fulfil so tempting a
promise without delay.”
“I suppose,” replied Alcamenes, quickly recovering his self-control,
“that you have spoken in your own name, as well as for Pericles and
Socrates.”
Pericles hesitated a moment, then said he would not oppose Aspasia’s
wish. “We are going,” he added, “only in Socrates’ train and for his
sake: but it can never reflect disgrace upon a man to follow a
philosopher.”
“Our fiery Alcamenes,” said Socrates; “is a friend to all hasty and
bold ideas. See how joyously he rubs his hands and seizes his
Thessalian hat. I’ll wager that he’ll give us no farther peace, but is
fully determined to conduct us immediately, just as we are, from
Phidias’ house to the fair Theodota’s dwelling.”
“Even so,” cried Alcamenes. “Our master Phidias has slipped quietly
away while we were talking. I advise you not to disturb him by
leave-taking. Here is a passage close at hand, the door is open, the
street empty, Theodota’s house not far away—let us go.”
They soon reached Theodota’s residence.
There was no occasion to fear annoying the beauty. Alcamenes went first
to tell her his companions were coming, but returned almost immediately
and invited them to follow him.
He conducted them to Theodota’s most private apartments, which were
furnished with the most luxurious splendor. Soft pillows and purple
cushions lay scattered everywhere, the floor was covered with thick
carpets, delicious perfumes rose from delicately-wrought vases. A
couch, with purple coverings, was supported by graceful cupids; jewels
and garments were strewn around in picturesque confusion. Soft sandals,
fillets, costly girdles, pots of rouge, boxes of ointment, circular
mirrors of polished metal with richly-carved handles,
exquisitely-shaped sunshades, and gaily-painted fans in the form of
leaves, were intermingled with small works of art in bronze and
marble—some gifts from Alcamenes—musical instruments inlaid with gold
and ivory, fresh and withered garlands of every kind. At the first
glance, all these things in their motley confusion made a bewildering
impression on the senses, an impression strengthened by the perfumed
air of the room, while the beautiful, richly-dressed hetæra rose from
one of the soft cushions to greet her guests.
Theodota was beautiful. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing, her eyes
were dark and fiery, and her features delicate. She was very much
rouged, her eyebrows were artificially curved, and her lips much redder
than the coloring of nature. She wore a robe embroidered with flowers,
and was adorned with magnificent jewelry. This robe was fastened around
her waist by a girdle of gold plates, whose clasp was richly
ornamented, and from which hung no less tasteful and daintily-formed
amulets of various kinds. Her neck, bosom, arms, and even her ankles
were encircled with ornaments of serpent-shape, set with garnets or
amber. Even her small, delicately-formed ears were adorned with
dangling rings of exquisite workmanship. On her head she wore a metal
coronet, set with pearls.
“I have already informed Theodota why you came,” said Alcamenes,
turning to his companions.
“Alcamenes is rash to suddenly bring me such distinguished guests,
without permitting me to make the slightest preparation to receive them
worthily,” replied Theodota smiling.
“No preparation is necessary,” answered Alcamenes, “for you are always
yourself, and our visit is not paid to your house, but to yourself,
your charms, and your art. You see before you a wise, earnest man,” he
continued, pointing to Socrates, “who is longing to see you and admire
your dancing. You owe it even more to him than to my enthusiastic
words, Theodota, that to-day the great Pericles and the far-famed
Aspasia from Miletus cross your threshold, to convince themselves, by
the evidence of their own eyes, of your much-praised skill.”
“What,” cried Theodota, “must I venture to display myself and the
little I can do to the criticism of such judges?—a philosopher, a
dignified statesman, and one of my own sex, who it seems, surpasses in
brilliant accomplishments all other women?”
“Fear nothing, Theodota,” said Pericles, “Alcamenes has praised you to
us, and Alcamenes knows how to discover what is most beautiful in
everything.”
“Indeed,” added Socrates, with a subtle smile, glancing at Aspasia, “he
always meets the most beautiful first.”
“Then he can take the responsibility!” said Theodota. “To act the prude
before any one, or refuse to display my art, ought not to enter my
mind. You wish to see me dance, like hundreds before you, and I obey.
Consider yourselves my masters. What do you desire me to dance and
represent? What goddess? What heroine? What myth or history?”
She addressed these questions principally to Pericles, but he replied:
“Ask the philosopher, for he came here with intentions, that certainly
make it desirable for him to be permitted to fix the subject of your
dance. Speak without hesitation, Socrates. What do you wish to have
Theodota dance?”
“If you and Theodota are willing to leave the decision to me,” replied
Socrates, after a short pause, “I know of nothing I should like better,
than to request her to dance the three goddesses seeking to win the
prize of beauty from Paris on Mt. Ida. What a task, to appear before us
first as Aphrodite, then as Hera, and then as Pallas, and show how each
with the same means, though subtly varied according to her character,
strove to bewitch the shepherd and snatch the prize from his hand.
Alcamenes has promised to let me learn here what grace is, so we will
compel Theodota to be as charming and graceful as possible, yet in the
most different ways imaginable.”
When Theodota had left the room to make certain changes in her dress
and appearance, required by the task imposed upon her, Socrates said:
“We shall gain our object, for Theodota is not like other beauties, who
only deal out what they mean to give by drops, but will honestly offer
us what she has to proffer and pour out everything at once, as if from
Amaltheia’s horn of plenty. The whole affair will be settled, and we
can go home. Theodota, I can see, is yielding and gentle, but not
intelligent. How Aspasia would dance if she chose! But which of us,
except perhaps the Olympian Pericles, has ever seen her!”
Theodota now returned, clad in a robe that did not check the freest
motions. With her came a boy bringing a lute, and a flute-player. The
latter began to play, and the boy chimed in with a few chords.
Theodota’s movements commenced, as it were, to blend with the sounds,
and it was impossible to say at what precise moment she had begun to
dance.
First, as she had been requested, she danced Aphrodite’s wooing for the
apple, the prize of victory in the hands of Paris; then Hera’s, then
that of Pallas. It was the same dance, thrice repeated, yet each time
with totally different expression, in accordance with the characters of
the goddesses. Theodota seemed thrice transformed. It was marvellous to
see what changes she succeeded in bringing into the mimicry of the suit
by speaking glances, buoyant gestures, significant movements. By turns
the wooing appeared like graceful pleadings, sweet flattery, charming
coquetry, bewildering fascination, promise of the fairest reward; then
proud command, an imperious order rather than bold or sportive
entreaty, then as a swift surprise, an attempt to wrest the prize of
victory from the judge’s hand by gentle violence. Meantime, she
succeeded in displaying every physical charm of attitude, movement,
gesture. As each cleverly-devised expressive feature, exactly adapted
to the character of the goddess, appeared in the triple performance,
the spectators knew not whether to most admire the wealth of invention
and variety of the whole, or the charm and perfection of the execution
of each individual trait.
The fact should be mentioned that Theodota, during the whole dance,
kept her eyes, glowing with a varying but always beseeching expression,
almost constantly fixed upon Pericles. She made him the involuntary
companion of her mimic suit, seemed to see in him Paris, and seek to
win from his hands the prize of victory.
When the fair Corinthian had finished her dance, Pericles praised the
grace and expression with which she had performed her task.
“The commission you gave the beautiful Theodota was by no means too
difficult,” said Alcamenes, “she would have performed harder tasks in a
way to rouse still greater astonishment. She can not only imitate the
tenderness of the dove and the fierceness of the lion, but if necessary
the undulation of water, the blaze of fire, and the light rustling of
the trees.”
“I don’t doubt,” replied Pericles, “that she even understands, like the
dancer I saw a short time ago, how to represent the letters of the
alphabet by the motions of her wonderfully lithe and pliant body.”
“And now what have you to say about Theodota?” cried Alcamenes,
touching Socrates on the shoulder. The latter had not once averted his
eyes from the dancer during the entire performance, and now stood
apparently absorbed in thought.
“I will learn to dance!” he answered gravely. “Hitherto I only knew of
wisdom of the head; I now perceive that there is also a certain wisdom
of the hands and feet.”
The listeners smiled, supposing he was speaking with his usual irony.
But Socrates continued:
“Rhythm is proportion, and proportion is morality. A rhythm of the body
so beautiful as that Theodota has shown us, must necessarily fill the
whole nature of men with appreciation and love for beauty of
proportion. When this has once been seen, everything rude, coarse,
unpolished and base must be despised. I envy you your beautiful rhythm
of body and soul, Theodota.”
“I enjoy this beautiful rhythm myself,” replied Theodota, smiling, “if
I possess and others take delight in it, for it is my profession to
amuse and please. But this art of pleasing and amusing seems to grow
daily more difficult in Hellas. To the eyes of you art-pampered men,
beautiful nature in woman is not enough. You require us to adorn
ourselves with every charm of art, if we desire to attract or captivate
you. Yet,” she added with a bewitching smile, “difficult as you make
the profession of pleasing, I shall not cease to consider this calling
the most delightful, and, if you allow it, mine.”
“You evidently don’t belong to that class of women, who seek to please
only one man,” said Socrates.
“No, by the gods!” exclaimed Alcamenes. “She doesn’t belong to their
ranks. She is the terror of all enthusiastic youths, who babble of
love. Young Damotas complained yesterday, Theodota, that you drove him
out of the house, because he became too melancholy.”
“Yes,” said Theodota, “I not only deride Hymen’s chains, but those of
Eros also. I am no priestess of love, but a daughter of pleasure.”
“I admire you, Theodota!” said Socrates. “You seem to me to have chosen
not only the fairest, but the most philanthropic of all professions.
What self-sacrifice you must practise! You disdain to be the refreshing
draught in one man’s pitcher, honorably placed in the shade of the
domestic hearth, you prefer to mount into the air like a light cloud,
float over many lands, and melt away in a rain of pleasure on the heads
of men. You renounce household peace, the honor of wifehood, maternal
happiness, the consolations of age, merely to gratify the strengthened
desire for beauty and pleasure in the bosoms of the men of Hellas. And
it is not only Hymen’s fetters you disdain—but with insolent courage,
and so to speak Promethean defiance, dare the wrath of Eros, the most
revengeful of all the gods. Yet you are not ignorant how short a time
beauty and youth last. You stand there full of self-renunciation and
self-sacrifice, like a blossoming tree in the month of March, and say:
‘Gather and shake off all the flowers of my fleeting Spring, and let
any one bind a bouquet to last a few days. I have no wish to be a
fruit-tree, I am a flowering-tree!’ What self-sacrifice, Theodota, what
self-denial! May gods and men bless you for it, and the Graces bury
your body under roses.”
Theodota thanked him with a smile. She had become too familiar with the
eccentricities of different men, to be surprised by this strange
mortal’s words.
“You exaggerate my merits.”
“I have not yet told all,” replied Socrates.
“That will be a reason for coming again,” answered Theodota.
The conversation between the two continued for some time, but soon grew
more animated as the others took part in it, and Theodota found
opportunities to direct many an eager glance, many a significant word
to Pericles.
Pericles responded in the gentle, friendly manner peculiar to him, when
addressing women.
Aspasia noticed the advances made, but without the passionate blindness
of other women. She herself announced the message of free, joyous love,
and publicly declared her hostility to slavery not only in marriage,
but in love. Besides, she knew that a woman who betrays jealousy is
lost, and was aware of the distance that separated her from Theodota.
The latter carelessly spent her life in fulfilling her calling of
nymph. Aspasia could never have entered upon such a career. She was far
removed from the self-sacrifice Socrates had praised in Theodota. She
did not renounce the blossoms of her Spring to gratify the love of
pleasure of the common crowd; she had sought and found a more brilliant
goal. She was beloved and loved—though only with the gay, bright love
she preached. As for the means of bewitching and captivating—Theodota
gave what she had recklessly, and soon had nothing more to bestow.
Aspasia’s rich, deep nature was inexhaustible.
Yet the latter did not disdain to note the best way to wrest from her
rival even a fleeting victory. A little plan quickly matured in her
mind, and the visit to the Corinthian beauty was not without its
consequences.
When the four companions left Theodota’s house, the sculptor asked:
“Well, friend Socrates, what have you learned for your group of Graces
from the charming Theodota’s triple dance?”
“Many and marvellous things!” replied the latter. “I now know what the
trio of Graces is intended to mean, each in herself and all three
united. But this shall remain my secret for the present, for it is time
to take the chisel in my hand and let the marble speak. You will see
what I have learned from Theodota to-day, when my group of the Graces
stands completed on the Acropolis. To-day accept my thanks for having
given me your company on the way I took for the sake of the wise and
beautiful woman, who commanded me to sacrifice to the Graces.”