ANTIGONE.
Those who passed the house of the wealthy Hipponicus in Athens, during
the spring month Elaphebolion of the fourth year of the eighty-fourth
Olympiad, heard the sound of flutes and the notes of men’s voices,
practising in chorus, which echoed from within into the street.
Similar sounds were also heard from the mansions of Pyrilampes, Midias,
Aristocles, and other rich Athenians. It almost seemed as if the blows
of the chisel were drowned by the music of flutes,
stringed-instruments, and voices. The festival of Dionysus had
returned, and with it the season when public interest in Athens
centered upon the dramatic performances, which took place in the
theatre of Dionysus.
The plays, according to custom, were submitted by the authors to the
second archon. The latter, aided by the judgment of experts, selected
those to be performed; the actors who were to appear in them were
engaged at the public expense, and the wealthy Athenian citizens, whose
turn it was to defray the cost of the choruses, that is, to hire the
men, clothe, feed, and have their voices trained, had been appointed to
discharge their offices. Hipponicus had to procure a chorus for
Sophocles’ Antigone, Pyrilampes for a tragedy by Euripides, Midias for
one by Ion, Aristocles for a comedy by Cratinus, and others for other
plays. An almost passionate rivalry had sprung up between these men,
each of whom strove, with the ambition peculiar to the Athenian, to
surpass the others in the careful, artistic, and magnificent outfit and
training given to the chorus of which he had charge. A wreath, scarcely
less desired than the garlands of Olympia and Pytho, allured the
victor.
The melody of voices and the music of flutes rang loudly from
Hipponicus’ mansion, as a man of very pliant figure and lithe, agile
tread, came down the street. He seemed to be a stranger, for he had a
mule-driver behind him, whose beast was laden with luggage. His eyes
roved about as if in search of some particular house.
Suddenly the voices and music from Hipponicus’ dwelling echoed in his
ear. He listened an instant, then smiled as if well satisfied, and said
to the slave:
“We need not ask any one. This, and no other, is Hipponicus’ house.”
He hastily approached and was about to knock at the door, when a man
coming up the street from the opposite direction, met the stranger.
The latter seemed very pleasantly surprised at the sight of the
new-comer, and as he smilingly approached, threw his head a little
back, laid his left hand on his breast, raised his right, and in slow,
sustained tone, as if his feet were in the cothurni, uttered the
following words:
“If my mid wanders not
In dark forebodings, and the light
Of reason doth not fail me—”
“It is a favorable omen from the gods, to meet on Hipponicus’ threshold
my old friend, the tragic poet Sophocles.”
So saying, he held out his hand to the poet, who cordially grasped it.
“Welcome, admirable Polus!” he cried. “Welcome to Athens! Have you been
bewitching men in all the cities of Hellas with the music of your
voice, as you strode in the high-heeled cothurnus, reaped fresh renown,
and ringing reward?”
“Even so!” replied Polus. “I have been honored here and there, wherever
I was needed at the festivals in the cities of Hellas. But there was
ever an echo in my soul:
“‘O! could I climb the woody steep
That hangs incumbent o’er the deep,
From Sunium’s cliff by waves forever beat!
Thence should my eye the lovely prospect greet,
And smile on sacred Athens rising at my feet.’ [2]
“And when the message from your archon reached me at Halicarnassus,
summoning me back to Athens and promising any payment I might ask, and
I heard that at your request the principal part in your new tragedy had
been assigned to me, I flew across the Archipelago as if on wings, for
nowhere do I more gladly buckle on the cothurnus than at Athens, and
there is no poet I would rather serve with my art than my glorious
friend Sophocles.”
Again the poet cordially pressed the actor’s hand.
“And you are always the most wished for by me!” he answered.
“In Hipponicus’ house,” continued Sophocles, “you will meet the members
of the chorus, their leader, and perhaps also your two fellow-actors,
Demetrius and Callippides. Hipponicus invited you to come here at this
hour, that we may all assemble to distribute the parts and make every
preparation necessary to secure our tragedy the victory. Let us go in;
Hipponicus is expecting you impatiently.”
The two men knocked at the door and were admitted. Hipponicus received
Polus with great delight, and instantly invited him to be his guest
during the time he might remain in Athens.
“Do you wish to burden yourself with this trouble, in addition to all
your other cares?” replied Polus.
“I should not consider the new burden, even if it were one, worth
mentioning,” replied Hipponicus. “But you were not wrong in saying that
I have had no little care and trouble, since the duty of procuring the
chorus of Antigone was assigned to me by the archon. The necessary
singers and musicians were to be obtained, and I now have them all in
the house. These people must be lodged and boarded at my expense, and
what boarding! Fed with milk, virgin honey, and all kinds of sweets,
that their throats may not get rough. Caged nightingales couldn’t be
more carefully cherished, than I feed and care for these fellows. Then
there are costly garments and jewels to be ordered for each member of
the chorus, and you know what Athenians require. If they don’t see
gilded garlands and every kind of Dionysian splendor, victory is not to
be expected. I don’t know whether I can get off this time at a cost of
less than five thousand drachmæ. But I would spend twice the amount, if
necessary, to surpass that peacock-raiser, Pyrilampes, who is trying to
win the prize with a tragedy of the woman-hater, Euripides. Sophocles
already knows, but you do not, my friend, what this man has done to
wrest the victory from my hands. First he tried to bribe the archon,
then endeavored to alienate the best members of my chorus, and at last
even secretly offered the leader money to conduct the practising
carelessly. All this did not suffice. When my ornaments and costumes
for the chorus, whose magnificence cannot be exceeded, were finished
and lying in the maker’s shop, Pyrilampes passed by and wanted to force
the man to sell them to him. When refused, he ordered his slaves to
beat him, and threatened to burn down his house at night with all it
contained. That’s the way this scoundrel, Pyrilampes, behaves.”
“Be comforted, be comforted, thou dear one!”
Polus began with deep pathos:
“Zeus is still in Heaven,
Leave with him thy bitter grudge,
Hate not too much, neither forget
The objects of thy wrath.”
“For the rest,” he continued in a less lofty tone, “I know this man and
his wiles myself, Hipponicus. You think you can teach me something
about him, but I can tell you what you don’t know, the means he
employed to prevent me from taking part in Sophocles’ tragedy. He
promised to add to the payment of the government a large sum from his
own purse, if I would appear in the tragedy of Euripides. But I—I stood
like Philoctetes, when the cunning Ulysses sought to convey him and his
victorious bow away to Ilium.
“Never, never,
(Be sure of that) though thunder-bearing Jove
Should with his lightnings blast me, would I go.”
“I thank the gods, Polus,” said Hipponicus, “that a man like you stands
by us faithfully; for no matter how admirable a chorus may be, if the
actors appointed by the government are good for nothing, the Athenians
hiss and whistle.”
“And I thank the gods,” said Polus, “that it is you who fit out
Sophocles’ chorus, for no matter how admirable the actors may be, if
the chorus is not magnificent, the Athenians pound with both hands and
feet.”
Two new-comers, the actors Demetrius and Callippides, now entered. They
were kindly received by Hipponicus and exchanged greetings with Polus,
with whom they had often been on the stage, especially in the tragedies
of Sophocles.
“I now see all who are to work together, to win the victory for
‘Antigone,’ assembled in my house,” observed Hipponicus.
“The practising of the chorus,” said Sophocles, turning to the actors,
“commenced long ago; we have been waiting for you impatiently. Now you
are here, we will not delay in making the distribution of the parts.
First of all, there is Antigone herself: she falls to the player of the
leading character.” So saying he addressed Polus, the “protagonist.”
The latter, like his companions, silently assented as if this
arrangement was a matter of course.
But Sophocles interrupted himself, by asking Polus:
“Have you ever heard of the beautiful Milesian, Aspasia?”
The latter answered in the affirmative, and he continued:
“If we obeyed her wishes, my dear Polus, I should be obliged to request
the archon to assign a woman for the character of Antigone. I had an
excited argument with her, in which she condemned the custom of having
women’s characters assumed by men, and said that women should be
allowed to go on the stage. I vainly spoke of the masks which cover the
face, and the enormous size of the theatre.”
Polus laughed scornfully. “What,” he cried indignantly, “when I entered
as Electra and began:
‘O sacred light! and O, thou ambient air!’
did any one ever miss the woman in me, my bearing, or the voice that
issued from the mournful mask?”
“No one! No one!” all exclaimed.
“And when I sorrowfully embraced the urn containing the supposed ashes
of my brother,” continued the excited Polus.
“O, ye dear remains
Of my Orestes, the most loved of men—”
“The whole audience was moved, stirred, melted with sorrow!” cried
Sophocles, and the others assented.
“Never was any voice heard on the stage,” continued Sophocles, “that
sounded more touching, more womanly than yours.”
“I hope you don’t mean to say, that my voice has a feminine character,”
replied Polus? “I think you must still remember my Ajax.”
“Wretch that I was, to let
The cursed Atridæ ’scape and shed the blood
Of harmless cattle!”
Polus’ voice seemed utterly changed in the delivery of these words.
“That is the deepest, most powerful of all heroes’ voices!” cried the
listeners enthusiastically.
“Well? And my Philoctetes?” continued Polus, “my cry of anguish, when
the old serpent venom glowed within me—my oh! oh! oh! oh! it comes—it
comes—”
Again exclamations arose: “What a voice of sorrow! What a natural
expression of grief, feebleness, faintness!”
“Well!” cried Polus; “but when at the end of the tragedy I began:
“I will but pay my salutation here,
And instantly depart,
Now ye fresh fountains! each Lycœan spring
I leave you now.”
“It was a glorious moment,” assented Hipponicus; “but the finest thing
I have ever seen or heard you do, was when, as Ajax, you stood on the
stage repeating that wonderful soliloquy—”
“You mean,” said Polus, “when in the lonely ravine, just before the
suicide, I thrust the sword point uppermost into the earth—
“There stands my sword, and fixed as it may best
Perform its office—”
“That is it!” cried Hipponicus, “and when you called Zeus, and then the
Furies, and then Helios—”
“Oh, Helios,” interrupted Polus.
“And then, O Sun! who drivest the flaming car
Along the vaulted sky; when thou shalt see
My native soil, O! stop thy golden reins.
Tell the sad story to my hapless sire—”
“And when last of all,” continued Hipponicus, enthusiastically, “you
remember your native soil, the paternal hearth, Salamis, the famous
city of Athens, and your kindred, the Athenian nation—the hearts of
twenty thousand Athenians quivered with a fiery glow! Each breast
thrilled with patriotic emotion, and each individual felt that he
shared the dying hero’s farewell. Hitherto they had been secretly
touched and moved—now they burst into a storm of applause, bestowed on
you, Sophocles, and the heroes of Salamis.”
“You are right, Hipponicus, in praising Polus,” said Sophocles, “but do
not forget to recognize the merits of Demetrius and Callippides. They
too are sought and honored in the Hellenic cities; they too have helped
many of my tragedies to victory. To you, Demetrius,” he continued, “I
will confide the part of King Creon, to Callippides, Ismene. There are
a few minor personages, who, it is true, only appear on the stage a few
minutes, yet I should not like to entrust them to the care of the first
bungler procured.”
“Give them to us!” cried the actors, “we are ready to undertake as many
characters as may be wanted, if they don’t appear on the stage at the
same time. Anything can be played under the masks.”
“Then there is the lover Hæmon,” said Sophocles; “he does not appear
until after Antigone has been led to death.”
“Then give me Hæmon!” cried Polus.
“Callippides must undertake the blind prophet Teresias,” continued
Sophocles. “Then there is a guard and a messenger. These two have long
tales to relate, and stories must always be delivered as well as
possible on the stage. Nothing is more disagreeable than to have them
stammered out by a person, who scarcely understands how to speak. I
have determined to play these two minor characters myself. I often took
part in my former pieces in this way.”
The actors applauded the poet, as if honored by his companionship.
Hipponicus joined them.
“Finally there is Eurydice, Creon’s wife,” said Sophocles; “she appears
and utters a few words at the end of the tragedy.”
“I’ll take Eurydice!” cried Polus.
“She is already assigned,” answered Sophocles. “A person who has never
appeared on the stage and desires to remain unknown, wishes to play
Eurydice.”
The poet’s mysterious manner aroused no small degree of curiosity in
the minds of Hipponicus and the actors, but he refused to give any
further information.
Sophocles then handed to the actors copies of the tragedy, made
suggestions concerning the conception and representation of their
parts, and arranged the costumes in which they were to appear.
Hipponicus introduced the fifteen members of the chorus, with their
leader, to the new-comers, and invited them to attend the rehearsal
which was to take place that day.
Accompanied by the music of the flutes, the chorus, with solemn
melodies and the measured dancing-step specially associated with the
god—because the first commencement of dramatic plays originated with
the expressive dance around his altar—began to repeat the numerous and
beautiful hymns of “Antigone.” While so doing they moved now to the
right, now to the left, stood still, separated, then mingled again. The
didascale, or leader and teacher of the chorus, enthusiastically marked
time with hands and feet, and often when zeal overpowered him, with his
whole body. Sophocles himself often assisted. It had been his task to
compose the melodies for the choral songs, the dance-like motions of
the chorus. Sometimes he pushed the flute-player aside, seized a
stringed-instrument, and accompanied the chorus, to be better able to
guide the singing as well as the majestic movements.
Euripides was in Pyrilampes’ house, Ion in Midias’ and other authors in
other dwellings, all eager to win the Dionysian prize of victory, and
directing, urging, commanding as Sophocles did at Hipponicus’ home.
These dwellings were so many hearth-stones, from which a tumult of
anticipation and eager partisanship spread over the whole city. The
usual interest felt by the Athenian populace on such occasions had been
increased this time to a still higher degree, since the unprecedented
exertions made by Hipponicus and Pyrilampes to secure the triumph, and
the hostilities practised by the two rivals towards each other, which
daily threatened to break out in deeds of violence, constantly occupied
the nimble Athenian tongues. Public affairs, the news from the
colonies, business at the Piræeus, all were set aside, and if an
Athenian fleet had put out to sea against an enemy, it would have been
less discussed than the contest between Hipponicus and Pyrilampes.
Two men, however, met on the Agora, who talked confidentially of very
different matters. These were Pericles and Anaxagoras.
“You are thoughtful,” said the philosopher; “have you a new idea in
your mind, or does some beautiful woman occupy your fancy?”
“Perhaps both,” replied Pericles; “how delightful it would be if we
could dispense with one, namely woman, and devote ourselves wholly to
public affairs, or knowledge, or some great, serious cause.”
“We can dispense with women—we can dispense with everything!” said
Anaxagoras impressively, plunging into a dissertation on the question
of how much better it would be to renounce everything beforehand, since
there is nothing we can certainly and inalienably possess.
Pericles listened quietly, but not with the expression of a man
convinced.
“And if,” said Anaxagoras in conclusion, “you cannot do without a
woman, your wife, Telesippe, sensibly considered, is as good as any
other. She gives you children. What more do you want?”
“You know her,” replied Pericles. “You know she is superstitious,
narrow-minded, and no friend to the Muses. Perhaps this might be
endured, if she only possessed as much consideration as is shown her.
But she is always full of contradiction and prejudice, ever ready to
misconstrue my most well-meant intentions. When, in former days, I
often gave her some dainty undergarment or pretty trifle for her
adornment to please my eye in the house, she took offence and asked:
‘Am I no longer beautiful enough for you, that you consider such things
necessary? If I don’t please you as I am, I don’t wish to please you
adorned!’ Can any one talk more absurdly? Does not even the youngest,
fairest woman gladly adorn herself for the man she loves, and is it not
the natural impulse for lover or husband, to adorn the woman of his
choice? You know too, that it is one of my peculiarities, to carry the
love of cleanliness to a passion. How many bitter words have been
exchanged between Telesippe and myself on account of the pen for
sucking-pigs and poultry, which according to ancient custom, is close
beside the hearth, and is a horror to me, but greatly endeared to her.
She does not understand the feeling of loathing. Doesn’t she offer me
her lips, sullied with the smut or saliva she has just kissed from her
children’s faces? To dabble and soil her fingers and lips
unnecessarily, if the children are ill, seems to her a natural proof of
maternal love. But ought not the mother to be also a wife? Should not a
woman of proper feeling understand how to unite and equalize both
duties? What avails maternal tenderness, the instinct she shares with
every maternal ape, if it remains shut up in the dark depths of nature,
and is not coupled with a correct judgment of what is really
advantageous to the offspring? Have you not often asked: ‘What is the
use of instinct without judgment, without the moral consecration that
raises it from animal to human life?’”
“What you say on this last head is both true and beautiful,” replied
Anaxagoras. “But the ornamented saffron robe and such things, which
Telesippe will or will not wear, are, considered in the light of
reason, folly and wantonness. Such delight in beauty is harmful. A
woman is a woman, I tell you. In the name of wisdom, cease this
extravagant admiration of the beautiful Milesian, Aspasia.”
“Is it my fault,” asked Pericles smiling, “if the gods have endowed
beauty with greater power on earth than wisdom?”
On the day of this conversation something occurred, which, had Pericles
chanced to see it, would have made him perplexed and thoughtful,
perhaps shaken his faith in Aspasia, dimmed the bright glow of his
enthusiasm for her, as a brand on the hearth is extinguished, with
sudden smoke and odor, by pouring water upon it.
Messengers had secretly gone to and fro repeatedly between Sophocles
and Aspasia. Nay, once the poet himself had been seen to glide
stealthily at dusk into the house of Pericles’ fair friend.
But this time it chanced that Aspasia, on returning home, was
accompanied by a man, whom the watchful neighbors, in the gloom,
mistook for Pericles.
But it was Sophocles. On reaching the door, both stood still a moment.
Perhaps they were considering whether the poet might cross the
threshold, or must turn back? At last the latter, in his gentle manner,
asked the beauty:
“Which is most sacred: friendship or love?”
“Probably, in each individual case, whichever is the older”—said
Aspasia, smiling and giving the mysterious question an equally
mysterious answer.
Sophocles then took his leave, and Aspasia entered the house.
The morning after this little incident, Lampon came down from the
Acropolis, where he had been holding a long, whispered conversation
with Diopeithes, and went to see Elpinice.
Scarcely was the priestly office, for which she had summoned the
prophet, completed, when with a mysterious face she turned the
conversation upon Pericles and Aspasia.
These two often exchanged the news gleaned in extensive circles.
“The gods seem to wish to punish the haughty Pericles,” began Lampon.
“What has happened?” asked Elpinice eagerly.
“It is said, that another steals in the dusk of evening to the
Olympian’s fair friend, Aspasia,” replied the other.
“Why not?” cried Elpinice. “She is a hetæra. But who is this other?”
“Pericles’ best friend, the ‘beloved of the gods,’ as he likes to be
called, the smiling tragic poet from the province of Colonus.”
“A woman-hunter,” cried Elpinice, “a woman-hunter and love-maker like
Pericles himself. But the news you bring, friend Lampon, is almost old.
It’s a long time since the poet was first seen with Pericles and
Aspasia. It is well-known, that he is no less in love with the
adventuress than his friend. It was to be expected that he would go to
her. But who has seen him? Who can positively prove it?”
“I saw him myself,” replied Lampon, “and even heard a snatch of the
conversation between the two at the door of the house. If a second
witness is necessary, summon Diopeithes.”
“That is well!” cried Elpinice with heart-felt delight. “This news,
conveyed to Pericles, will give the death-blow to his bond with the
Milesian, which is the centre and shield of all the impiety of Athens,
as this Ionian woman is the great corrupter. She must be supplanted,
expelled, ruined. But who will undertake the office of messenger to
Pericles?”
“Diopeithes thought Theodota would be the best person. For some time
this woman, apparently not wholly without success, has cast her nets
around Aspasia’s lover. If it is she, who gives him proof of the
Milesian’s faithlessness, she can most surely supplant her, by taking
her place.”
“Poor Telesippe!” cried Elpinice. “It would be best that you should
have no rival; but for the present it is gaining much, nay everything,
to get rid of the Milesian.”
“Indeed it is!” replied Lampon. “A beautiful, crafty woman can only be
torn from the heart of a man like Pericles, by a beautiful, crafty
woman. Theodota is far less dangerous than Aspasia. On the contrary,
this venal Corinthian will be wax in our hands. She must lure Pericles
to her house on the pretext of having something important to tell him
about the faithless Aspasia. Then the affair will take care of itself.”
“Success is certain!” cried Elpinice. “Pericles has already cast his
eye upon her. I know it. He has already been to her house once, though
in the company of the Milesian, who was bold enough to take him there.”
“At Alcamenes’ instigation!” said Lampon. “He has been preparing the
way for us. He is one of those, who hate the Milesian, and would reap
advantage from seeing her rejected, humiliated, cast off by Pericles.
He seeks to revenge himself upon the woman who betrayed him. He formed
the plan of supplanting the Milesian in the statesman’s favor through
Theodota’s influence, long before us, but lacked the right weapons to
use against Aspasia. We will supply him with them. But who shall tell
Alcamenes, that he may arrange matters with the Corinthian?”
Elpinice reflected a moment, then replied: “Leave that to me. I know
what way the message must take, to reach the Corinthian’s ears in the
shape we desire.”
From this hour Aspasia had to prepare for serious warfare, not only
against Telesippe, but Theodota.
Elpinice applied to her friend Polygnotus; the latter was on intimate
terms with Agoracritus, Aspasia’s bitter enemy, who delivered the
message from Lampon and Cimon’s sister, to his companions in Phidias’
workshop. These hot-blooded youths found the opportunity for vengeance
on the proud beauty quite too tempting, and he quickly came to an
understanding with his impetuous friends.
In this zig-zag line moved the thunder-bolt hurled against the bond
uniting the best man and the fairest woman in Hellas, a thunder-bolt
first fabricated in the forge of the angry old god Erechtheus on the
Acropolis.
The festival of Dionysus was celebrated in a joyous, noisy fashion. The
last days were dedicated to the contests of the tragic muse.
While the gay comedy of Cratinus was being performed on the stage, amid
the frantic mirth of the spectators, a cloud bringing a light shower of
rain floated from Hymettus over the theatre of Dionysus, and the
high-priest, who sat in his magnificently-carved marble arm-chair in
full view of the audience, was wet on the nose by a falling drop, just
as the saucy Cratinus, amid the laughter of the Athenians, discharged a
feathered shaft of his Attic wit at this very high-priest, Agasthenes.
“It is beginning to rain,” said the high-priest to his neighbor
Pericles, “I think we will stop the play.”
“The shower is passing,” replied his companion smiling.
But another arrow whirred, striking the speaker himself. All the
Athenians laughed and looked at Pericles, who smiled with them.
A third arrow came—an allusion to the new Hera and the new Zeus,
Omphale and Heracles.
Again all the Athenians looked at Pericles. But the latter no longer
smiled, a cloud flitted over the Olympian’s brow. The shaft had struck
Aspasia.
Other plays followed, and thus the greater part of the first day was
spent by the Athenians. Many went away and returned again, others
remained till the end of the performances. The rich had wine, fruit and
cake brought to them by their slaves.
The next day everything began afresh. Again thirty thousand Athenians
sat on the stone benches of the theatre of Dionysus, garlanded
dignitaries on beautifully-adorned marble chairs in the first rows, the
rich men on purple cushions brought with them, attended by their
slaves, the poor with figs and onions in a knapsack to last all day.
Yet the latter felt themselves as truly citizens of Athens, summoned to
behold the most beautiful things, as the others, and talked of
Sophocles, Ion, and Euripides, or cast a searching glance at the tiny
clouds in the sky, to see if any of them threatened to dim or interrupt
the festivities of the day.
Again the first thousands of the thronging crowd were lost like pygmies
in the vast amphitheatre. But at last the whole theatre was packed from
the topmost to the lowest seats, a huge, seething, roaring human
crater. It was almost horrible, enough to make the head swim, to look
down from the upper row on this surging sea of human beings.
Amid the confused roar that arose, a threatening tumult became more and
more audible. The fiery strife between Hipponicus and Pyrilampes was to
be decided that day. The partisans of the two men seemed ready to rush
at each other. If either appeared amid the spectators, a loud outcry
burst from friends and foes, shouts of applause and jeering hisses.
The agonothetæ and mastigophori were constantly compelled, in the
discharge of their duty, to rush from their stations in the orchestra
up the flights of steps that obliquely intersected the rows of seats,
to settle some quarrel, or silence some unruly spectator.
The calmest of the excited throng was Socrates, who had come less to
see the plays than the spectators, and pursue his thoughts about their
conduct.
“There sit thirty thousand Athenians with eager faces,” he said to
himself, “all intent upon listening to a fictitious tale, to amuse
themselves with false tears and feigned sorrow. They are like children,
who listen open-mouthed to idle stories, only the latter do not know
they are pure inventions, while the former do. Whence comes this
strange love of mankind for mimicked, invented things?”
The beautiful Theodota, most charmingly attired, was among the
spectators. Her gaze was constantly fixed on the chair occupied by
Pericles, who did not refuse to sometimes return the ardent gaze of her
dark eyes.
At last the herald’s clear voice, commanding silence, rose above the
roar of the multitude. A libation was poured on Dionysus’ altar. Then
the herald’s voice was again heard:
“Let the chorus of Ion come forward!”
Ion’s tragedy was heard, applauded, and criticised with innate delicacy
of perception by the Athenian populace. A tragedy by Philocles
followed. The pronunciation of the protagonist of the piece did not
perfectly satisfy the sensitive Attic ear. A storm of wrath fell upon
him in the shape of laughter, groans, shrill whistles and stamping
feet. A comedy came next. The scoffer was now master of the world,
elevated even over Zeus and all the Olympic gods. The most unbridled
wit found vent in the most perfect rhymes.
Then the chorus of Euripides came forward.
This author’s work stirred all hearts. The women were touched by what
appealed to the soul, the men by the brilliant thoughts with which the
whole poetic drama was interwoven, as a purple fabric is wrought with
golden threads. The splendid appearance of the chorus was greeted with
exclamations of astonishment and admiration. Rarely had anything of the
sort been seen. Loud applause burst forth at the close of the piece.
Pyrilampes, with his friends and followers, revelled in the
anticipation of certain triumph.
In the short time which elapsed between the representation of this
tragedy and the beginning of the next, a slave suddenly approached
Pericles’ chair and handed him a folded sheet of papyrus. Pericles
unfolded it and read the words:
“Sophocles glides in the dusk of evening to Aspasia’s house.”
Pericles was perplexed. Who had written these lines? They came from
Theodota.
When he looked for the bearer of the curt, strange tidings, the
messenger had vanished.
The clear voice of the herald roused the statesman from earnest
thought.
“Let the chorus of Sophocles come forward.”
And now a tragedy of love was performed before Hellenic eyes and ears,
a tragedy of love in the three forms in which it successively visits
the human heart, fraternal, conjugal, parental. Antigone dies for the
sake of her beloved brother, Hæmon for his bride, Eurydice for her son.
Long, dark mourning robes floated around the tall figures of the
daughters of Œdipus. The masks showed noble, earnest, girlish faces,
the voices sounded soft and touching. Antigone swears to bury her
beloved brother, whom King Creon has cast forth to be the prey of dogs
and birds; she will perform this sacred duty in defiance of human law.
The chorus of aged Thebans robed in purple garments, whose splendor
suited the festival of Dionysus, and with golden circlets on their
brows, performed their majestic evolutions.
The passionate, stormy rhythm.
“By Dirce’s sweetly flowing stream
Ne’er did the golden eye of day—”
burst forth. King Creon, clad in a gold-broidered purple robe, his brow
adorned with a diadem, appeared on the stage, leaning on a sceptre,
surmounted by an eagle. His form, elevated by the cothurnus, towered
far above the ordinary stature of mankind, the mask lent him royal
dignity; he stood there a mighty prince, distinctly visible to the most
distant spectator in the vast building. He asserted the ruler’s power
against the noble girlish figure—but she recognized only the one
supreme duty written in her heart: love—and made the king, who based
his cruelty to her brother on the righteous hatred felt by the citizens
of Thebes towards the dead man, the immortal answer:
“My love shall go with thine, but not my hate!”
Then she went forth to do what she had vowed, and sacrifice the right
of the living to the right of the dead. In a solemn majestic chant, the
chorus reflected upon the presumptuous minds and audacious resolves of
men, and mourned the sorrows of the Labdacidæ. Hæmon, Creon’s only son,
came and pleaded for the life of Antigone, his bride—but the king held
to his decree, there were brides enough, “other soil might be tilled;”
the despairing lover departed, uttering words of dark significance—then
the chorus began the strophe composed on the glowing day, when Pericles
and Aspasia lingered in the poet’s rose-arbors on the banks of the
Cephissus.
“Mighty power, all powers above!
Great, unconquerable love!”
Then, alternating with the chorus, began the touching death-lament of
the daughter of Œdipus, condemned to descend alive into the rocky
tomb—the long threnody was deeply pathetic, and every eye in the wide
circle of listening Athenians grew dim with lofty emotion at this
climax of sorrowful fate—reminded, by the character, of Danæ, who like
Antigone was
“Condemned to change heaven’s cheerful light,
For scenes of horror and of night.
Within a brazen tower long time immured.”
Teresias, the infallible prophet, entered and with solemn warning
addressed himself to the implacable king; at last the Olympians changed
his obstinate temper,—suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible foreboding he
yielded—the chorus were already exulting, in a joyful strophe addressed
to Dionysus, the god of joy—the exultant strains sounded strangely
after the mournful death-chant—but it died away and again gave place to
the dirge, for Antigone had killed herself in the tomb and Hæmon, slain
by his own hand, had gone down with her, embracing her dead body, to
the dark realms of Hades.
Eurydice, the wife of the sorrowing Creon, now appeared, heard from the
lips of the messenger tidings of the united deaths in the rock-tomb of
Œdipus’ daughter, learned that her son was dead. The news broke the
mother’s heart.
The announcement of death from the messenger’s mouth produced a strange
effect on the minds of all, but still more marvellous was the
impression made by the few words the queen uttered.
The multitude listened breathlessly to the close of the sublime
tragedy, which ended, as if with a magnificent final accord, in a
strophe praising moderation.
Great and deep was the impression produced on the minds of the
listening Hellenes by this tragedy of Sophocles, which intertwined
three bonds of love and three deaths. The grave, sombre sternness of
tragic art had never before been so beautifully mitigated—never had the
sublime been so human, the human so sublime.
Never in any tragic work had such a wealth of magnificent melodies been
poured forth upon the listeners; never had the Attic stage witnessed a
representation so harmoniously finished down to the minutest detail,
and never had so well-trained and splendid a chorus appeared before the
assembled Athenians.
When Hipponicus’ chorus had disappeared, and the dramatic contest of
the year was ended, the whole audience with loud shouts declared so
impetuously in his favor, that the umpires, without consultation, at
once announced to the Athenians, who were eagerly awaiting the verdict,
that the author of Antigone, and Hipponicus, were victors in the
department of tragedy. Sophocles and Hipponicus, according to custom,
appeared on the stage to receive a crown of victory from the hands of
the umpires before the eyes of the spectators.
It is impossible to describe the joy and pride of Hipponicus, equally
impossible to picture the fierce wrath of Pyrilampes and his adherents.
As Pericles left the theatre amid the throng, he suddenly saw Theodota
beside him. Her beautiful face was turned towards him a moment with a
most expressive glance, a most significant movement of the lips.
Unseen, she herself slipped a note into his hand.
Pericles read this also. Its contents ran as follows:
“If you desire news of Sophocles and Aspasia, come to Theodota. A slave
will await you under the columns of the Tholus and guide you by a
private way through a back door into my house.”
Before Pericles could consider whether to accept this invitation, he
found himself in the midst of a group of Sophocles’ friends, who were
thronging around the poet to congratulate him.
When the latter perceived Pericles, he released himself and hurried
towards him.
The Olympian, though thoughtful and out of humor, also congratulated
the victor.
“I thank you,” said Sophocles, “but do not speak to me as a friend, but
as a critic.”
With difficulty repressing the subject uppermost in his thoughts,
Pericles replied:
“Do you know what part of your tragedy has given me cause for
reflection? Like many others, I was almost surprised to see the tie of
plighted love accorded the same power, the same rights, the same mortal
earnestness in the tragedy as the bonds of blood, ever held sacred by
the Hellenes from the earliest times. This innovation completely
occupied my mind, and I cannot yet determine whether you have done
right.”
Digressing from the subject, Pericles continued:
“Was it not you, who, under the mask of the messenger, so solemnly
related the touching story of Hæmon’s death? I thought I recognized
your voice? But who spoke Eurydice’s words? What actor was concealed
under the mask of the queen? I know not what mysterious, secret charm
hovered around the scene in which you, as messenger, and that queen,
confronted each other. I have never heard any words uttered on the
stage as the queen spoke them. What man, save Polus, could feign the
wondrous magic of that voice?”
“Not even Polus!” replied Sophocles smiling. “You have spoken of
innovations in my tragedy; know that in the representation to-day an
innovation took place, of which until now no human being was aware
except myself and Hipponicus. For the first time since Thespis put her
car in motion, a real woman appeared to-day upon our stage under the
mask. You shall be the third sharer of this secret, and let it remain
buried among us three for all eternity.”
“And who was the woman, who dared, though unknown, to tread the stage
and defy ancient usage and the good old customs?”
“You shall see her,” replied Sophocles, who disappeared and returned
with a female figure, wrapped and disguised beyond recognition.
When Sophocles, accompanied by this figure, had led Pericles a short
distance aside till they were perfectly safe from the curious gaze of
the crowd, he said:
“Is unveiling necessary for you to recognize the woman, who is not only
the most beautiful, but the most daring of her sex?”
Pericles was perplexed: “It is necessary,” he replied in a cold, grave
tone. With a resolute movement of her hand the female figure drew the
veil aside, and Pericles stood face to face with Aspasia.
He remained silent. The contents of Theodota’s lines now seemed
confirmed. Aspasia, as was evident, had secretly conspired with the
poet, carried out the bold plan in connection with him. To be sure, he
knew the loyal friendship of the noble Sophocles; but Aspasia had given
a fresh proof that her mind, in gay freedom, mocked at all fetters.
All that Pericles was thinking, Aspasia read clearly written on his
brow, in his eyes, as he stood gazing mutely at her.
Answering the eloquent silence with eloquent words, she began:
“Frown not, Pericles, and above all do not be angry with your friend
Sophocles. I compelled him to do what he did—”
“But don’t be angry with Aspasia either,” interrupted the poet, turning
to Pericles, “and above all, know that it was she who made me remember
that friendship is more sacred than love, when it is older.”
“It is my mission to battle against custom!” continued Aspasia, “and
why should you be angry with me because I take no less interest in the
poet’s images, than in the marble statues in Phidias’ work-rooms? I
came to Hellas to find beauty and freedom. Had I sought slavery, I
should have remained at the Persian court and spent my life under the
sleepy eyes of the great king. What governs you at this moment, my
friend, is a delusion, a prejudice, a horrible feeling, unworthy of a
Hellene. Away with it, Pericles!”
At this moment, Hipponicus approached and invited Pericles and Aspasia
to the banquet, with which he intended on the following day to
celebrate the victory of himself and Sophocles.
Twilight was already approaching, when the statesman parted from
Hipponicus, Sophocles, and Aspasia, and walked thoughtfully homeward.
He was thinking of Aspasia, reflecting upon what she had just said to
him. He admitted that she was perfectly right. Love should be no chain,
no slave’s yoke to Aspasia.
But neither should it fetter him. “You can go to see Theodota!” he said
to himself; “perhaps it is not well to be the slave of one woman too
long.” The demands of the free, proud Aspasia, now blended harmoniously
in his mind with the warning words of Anaxagoras. He remembered the
Corinthian’s note, and the slave who was awaiting him under the columns
of the Tholus. True, the tidings Theodota had given him, had meantime
been better explained by Sophocles. But might she not have something to
say?
He came to the columns of the Tholus. The slave approached and led him
through a deserted lane to the enclosure of a garden, where he prepared
to open a little gate. Pericles was standing on Theodota’s threshold.
He could enter, no one saw him. The nightingales were singing in the
bushes.
Suddenly he paused, reflected, and found that he utterly lacked
inclination for a conversation with Theodota. He was surprised at
himself, but told the slave he must defer entering the little gate
until another opportunity. The messenger gazed at him in bewilderment,
as he slowly withdrew.
The moon had risen. The sea glittered in her light, and the peaks of
the mountains of Attica shimmered with a silvery lustre. The air was
soft and refreshing. Suddenly, borne on the evening breeze, fragments
of the choral song:
“Mighty power, all powers above!
Great unconquerable Love!”
fell on the ear of Pericles. Youths, returning from the theatre in the
soft spring night, were joyously singing portions of the song which had
aroused their enthusiasm.
Anxiety of a different kind blended with Pericles’ mental excitement
and thoughts of Aspasia. He almost envied Hipponicus and Sophocles the
laurels of the day. It seemed as if he ought to gird on a sword,
collect a fleet or army, and rush to brilliant victories. The long
peace began to appear destitute of lustre. A sense of oppression stole
over him, from which he only succeeded in escaping by the sight of the
Acropolis glittering before him, and the echoes of the Antigone in his
soul. He had reached that point in the ascending path, where on one
side the huge granite and marble mass of the theatre of Dionysus yawned
in the darkness, while on the other towered the rocks of the Acropolis,
gleaming in the moon-beams. A death-like stillness pervaded the vast
theatre, which during the day had been stirring with active life,
resounding with the highest creations of Hellenic poetry. Pericles
gazed down into the marble abyss, then upward to the height of the
Acropolis, shining in the moon-beams, where the stones of the rising
temple were gleaming. His own person and his own fate almost vanished
from his mind, the slight cloud on his brow passed away, his breast
heaved, and from the depth as well as from the height he felt himself
fanned by a breath of immortal life.