THE QUEEN OF THE SYMPOSIUM.
For several days after Hipponicus’ victory and the ensuing conversation
with Aspasia, Pericles was the prey of various emotions, aroused by the
Milesian’s love of freedom, and during this time the thought frequently
arose: “I will accept the charming Theodota’s invitation. Why should
this woman bind me in chains she does not recognize?”
But this idea speedily became merged in the stronger one of Aspasia
herself, her free, proud nature, and the possibility of losing the sole
empire over her heart. The new emotion could not easily assert itself,
in the presence of the ardor to which this thought gradually fanned
Pericles’ love. This effect had been foreseen, nay calculated upon by
Aspasia. But Pericles continued to struggle with himself, and the
conflict did not lack fresh excitement.
Hipponicus, who was doing everything in his power to make the
magnificence of his wealth and the splendor of his entertainment, the
theme of conversation, did not rest until Pericles and Aspasia had
consented to attend the banquet in honor of his victory.
When the appointed day arrived, the most distinguished and famous men
in Athens assembled at his house.
Scarcely had the guests appeared, when Hipponicus began to display the
magnificence of his dwelling. He led them through the various
apartments, showed them his gardens, his baths, his wrestling-ring—a
gymnasium in miniature—his fish-ponds, his noble steeds, his dogs, his
rare birds, the cocks and quails kept for the pleasure of seeing them
fight with each other. He pointed out the monument he had erected over
a favorite dog of the Melitan breed.
He said his house was like a tavern, always full of guests; he fed a
dozen parasites daily at his table. “The fellows have grown so fat,” he
added, “that I’m sorry you can’t see them to-day, but I took it into my
head to have only the most distinguished men in Athens at my board.”
One of the guests, with a slight touch of malice, asked for his wife.
Hipponicus replied that she was well, but he did not wish to disturb
her in the woman’s apartment. Everybody knew that his only care for
this lady was to adorn her with jewels and pearls, and sometimes have
her drive through the streets, according to the new fashion, in a
carriage drawn by Sicyonian steeds. For the rest—also according to the
new fashion—he devoted himself to a foreign friend, and it was said
that at present the far-famed Theodota enjoyed his homage.
He also mentioned to the guests his children, his son Callias, whom he
said he had just sent to Delphi to have his hair cut, and, according to
ancient custom, consecrated to Apollo; and his little daughter
Hipparete, whose beauty and goodness he could not sufficiently praise,
and whom he seemed to love warmly. “This child,” said he, “will grow up
to be the fairest and noblest of all Athenian maidens, it will be hard
to find a bridegroom worthy of her. As for beauty, I know of no boy in
Athens, who promises as a youth to compare with this maiden, except
your ward, little Alcibiades, Pericles. I have seen him several times
in the wrestling-ring, and he can boast of holding almost the same rank
among the lads, that Hipparete does among the little girls. They seem
very suitable in age too. Well, who knows what the gods may decree,
when these two buds have opened? What do you think, Pericles? However,
there is plenty of time to talk about it.”
Amid similar conversation, Hipponicus ushered his guests into the
spacious, beautifully-decorated dining-hall. The cushions, on which the
Greeks reclined at table, were arranged in a large circle. It is
scarcely necessary to mention that the carpets spread over them were
rich and gaily embroidered, the round pillows that supported the arm,
magnificently wrought in colors, the silver, gold, and even jewelled
vessels on the side-boards attracted the eye even more by their beauty
of form than by their costliness, that perfumes rose from equally
beautiful vases filling the whole apartment with odors which delighted
the senses; and that the walls were painted with pictures representing
scenes of pleasure. There were groups and scenes, amid which were
delineated countless Loves gracefully riding doves and sparrows. The
floor was still more worthy of notice. At first it seemed entirely
covered with the fragments of an elegant banquet—fruit-rinds of the
most various hues, bones, bread-crumbs, the combs of cocks, brilliant
feathers plucked from birds, remnants of every description. But on
looking more closely, it was discovered that all these things were
skilfully represented by colored stones, inlaid in fine mosaic. Large,
magnificently-painted jars were placed in suitable positions for the
further decoration of the hall, and opposite to the entrance stood a
flower-wreathed altar, on which burned a flame diffusing perfume.
Hipponicus invited his guests to take whichever cushions they pleased.
At first they sat erect; slaves approached with silver basins and
ewers, unfastened their shoes or sandals, and holding the basins under
their bare feet, poured over them the contents of the silver ewers,
which instead of water contained fragrant wine, made still more spicy
by the mixture of odorous oils and essences. Their hands were also
sprinkled and wiped with fine napkins.
Hipponicus’ guests, accepting their host’s invitation, had taken their
places on the cushions in pairs, as accident or friendship dictated.
The truth-seeker Socrates sat beside the philosopher Anaxagoras, the
sculptor Phidias beside Ictinus the architect, the poet Sophocles
beside the actor Polus, the sophist Protagoras beside the physician
Hippocrates.
Protagoras had just arrived in Athens, and was visiting Hipponicus. His
coming had attracted much attention, for his renown in Hellas was daily
increasing. He was a native of Abdera and therefore a Thracian, yet
also an Ionian, for Abdera was settled by Ionians. He was said to have
been a porter in early youth, until a philosopher discovered and
developed his talents. Since then he had travelled extensively, had
even drawn from the fount of Oriental wisdom, and now crossed the sky
of Hellas like a dazzling meteor. He understood everything; the science
of gymnastics, music, oratory, poesy, geography, astronomy,
mathematics, ethics, politics; and wherever he went, had an immense
concourse of curious inquirers. Wealthy youths paid enormous sums to
enjoy his instruction. His appearance was well calculated to charm the
eye, for he had the dignity of a king, wore magnificent garments, and
had a bewitching gift of eloquence.
This Protagoras joined the young, but very skilful and sagacious
Hippocrates, a nephew of Pericles.
By a somewhat singular accident, the reserved Polygnotus, who did not
feel wholly at ease in this circle, had for a neighbor the saucy
Cratinus, famed as a boon-companion as well as a comic poet. Yet,
unlike in temperament as the two men might appear, there was one point
of contact and fellowship. They were the only persons not united to the
assembled company by ties of friendship, and owed their invitation
solely to Hipponicus’ desire to see around him the men most
distinguished in every profession. Polygnotus, Elpinice’s friend,
cherished a secret grudge against Phidias. So these two, Cratinus and
Polygnotus, looked doubtfully at each other and whispered together, as
they saw Aspasia, at Hipponicus’ invitation, take her seat between the
host and Pericles on a special cushion, where, after the fashion of
women, she sat erect, while the male guests, resting the left arm on a
pillow, reclined on the left side. Cratinus and Polygnotus secretly
asked each other why such honor was shown to a foreigner, a hetæra? The
other guests thought differently. They were friends of Pericles, formed
the brilliant throng of his followers, knew Aspasia’s worth and power,
and had ceased to wonder at anything. Protagoras, though he saw Aspasia
for the first time, had been so completely enthralled from the first
glance, that anything would have entered his mind sooner than the idea
of taking offence at her presence.
At a sign from Hipponicus, a small table was moved before each pile of
cushions, some dishes were placed upon them, others passed around, and
the meal began.
As these distinguished guests had all assembled for the first time in
Hipponicus’ house, the latter had resolved that nothing which could do
honor to the Athenian market should be absent from the banquet.
“If I have made it my duty to receive so many distinguished men at my
table,” said Hipponicus, as his guests prepared to take the dainty
viands, “I certainly ought to entertain them as well as possible. But
you know, though we Athenians have made so much progress in other arts,
we are still somewhat backward in that of dining well, although it
seems to me by no means one to be neglected. For my own part, I have
always prided myself on being a gourmand and should consider myself
fortunate, if I could do something towards raising Attic cookery to a
higher degree of perfection. I see some of you smile somewhat
scornfully, as if you wished to say that our Athens needs nothing of
the sort, and may be called upon to lead the nations in other arts, but
not this. Allow me to tell you that this is an error. For if you appeal
to our beautiful marble, excellent clay, and similar things, I can
easily prove that you will nowhere find better salt, oil, vinegar and
aromatic herbs, which are always the most important ingredients in the
hands of skilful cooks. To say nothing of Attic salt, which is famous
in a two-fold sense, everybody knows that nothing can be compared with
the fruit of the Attic olive, that the herbs of Hymettus are the most
aromatic, the honey of the Hymettus is the most delicious in the world.
“I regret that, in order to obtain a really excellent cook, I was
obliged to get one from Sicily. This man, named Anacharsis, is really a
master of the rare art, and I might call him a Sophocles or Phidias in
the culinary department. Nobody so well understands how to spice the
first dishes to excite the appetite. The sauces in which he has set
before us sausages, giblets, boars’ liver and little birds, will
satisfy the most critical. You will also be able to judge of his skill
in disembowelling tunny-fish, eels, murænas and sucking-pigs and then
stuffing them again, to the delight of the palate, with field-fares,
eggs and oysters. His hares and deer, partridges, snipe and pheasants
you will find as admirable, as his cakes prepared with milk and honey
and filled with fruits of various kinds.
“You might have, I repeat, an opportunity to judge the work of this
skilful man; but you all—especially you Athenians—constantly have your
minds too much occupied with other things, to test such a matter with
genuine appreciation, and acknowledge the value of this art. The
parasites are really the only gourmands and appreciative
table-companions. Luckily, the number of these experts in the art of
dining well at other people’s expense, is daily increasing in Athens.
As I said before, I have a dozen such critics daily at my table and
can’t do without them, for it is tiresome to enjoy even the best things
alone. You should see with what earnestness these people attend to
their duties, how they smack their tongues and lift their eyebrows when
my cook surprises them with a new invention, or a delicate variation of
some old dish, perceptible only to the connoisseur. You are certainly
not of this sort, but while letting the best productions of my
admirable Anacharsis slip over the bridge of your palates, one is
thinking of this, another of that subject; Pericles of his public
business and a new colony he desires to send forth, Sophocles of a new
tragedy, Phidias of the frieze of the Parthenon, Polygnotus considers
how the walls of this dining-room might have been better painted, and
Socrates secretly dismembers an idea, instead of the partridge he has
on his plate.”
Thus Hipponicus gave vent to his feelings, and the guests smiled gaily
at the good-humored reproof.
The host then rose, and with dignity scarcely less solemn than when
performing the office of Daduchus at Eleusis, offered the usual
libation. “To the good spirit!” he cried, poured a few drops of wine on
the floor, drank some himself, ordered the goblet to be refilled and
passed around the circle of guests, commencing at his right hand. A
solemn silence prevailed during this libation, which was accompanied by
the low, subdued music of the flutes.
Then the little tables were removed and the floor cleaned.
Dessert was served, and with it all kinds of confectionery intended to
awaken a desire for drinking, and at the same time goblets and the
large vessel for mixing wine and water were brought in. Chaplets and
fragrant garlands of roses, violets and myrtle, were passed around the
circle, the guests twined them about their heads, the pæan in honor of
Dionysus was sung, and a libation of mixed wine, in honor of all the
Olympic gods, poured into the flames on the flower-wreathed altar.
“You know, valued guests and friends,” Hipponicus began, “what the
beautiful old custom requires of us. Will it be agreeable to you to
choose the symposiarch, or do you prefer to let him be appointed by
drawing lots?”
Phidias, Ictinus, Anaxagoras and several others instantly protested
against drawing lots, fearing, they said, that the choice might fall on
them, and feeling little vocation for the office of a symposiarch, a
leader and arranger of social pleasures.
“If it is necessary to choose a symposiarch,” said Protagoras, “I know
not to whom we should first offer this honorable office, save to the
most distinguished of so many distinguished men, the great Pericles.”
The latter smilingly declined, saying:
“Choose Socrates! He knows how to direct clever conversation, why
shouldn’t he also understand how to manage a symposium?”
“I don’t know whether I understand how to direct clever conversations,”
replied Socrates; “but this I do know, that even if it were so, it
would be presumption in me, either in a conversation or a symposium, to
assume the part of director in the presence of my teacher and mistress,
Aspasia, whose victorious wisdom is sufficiently well known to all
present here. I admit custom requires us to choose a king of the
banquet, and that Aspasia is a woman; but I don’t know why sex should
have aught to do with the character of a symposiarch? Hipponicus
desires this symposium to be unique in its way—very well, let us
support him in his design, and choose a queen, instead of a king.”
The revellers at first seemed bewildered, but soon eager assent greeted
Socrates’ proposal on all sides.
“It will be strange, though perhaps wise,” said Aspasia, “to choose for
monarch of the symposium, one who does not drink. What is the wine that
now fills our goblets?” she continued.
“Thasian wine of the best kind,” replied Hipponicus, “such as is poured
out in the Prytaneium of Thasos. The wine has the most delightful odor,
but its sweetness proceeds from the wheaten flour, mixed with honey,
thrown into the casks according to certain rules.”
“Honey-sweet, perfumed wine of Thasos!” cried Aspasia, “thou art worthy
of being drunk to the health of the two men whose victory this banquet
celebrates! Fellow-revellers! Drain your beakers to the health of
Hipponicus and the author of Antigone, whose brows are wreathed with
the garlands of victory.”
All the company gaily drank the toast, and the goblets were refilled at
the command of the queen of the feast.
“Thrax!” cried Hipponicus to one of the attendant slaves, “bring the
list of wines prepared for this symposium and give it to the queen of
the banquet. You will find on the same tablet, Aspasia, the games and
amusements at our disposal in this house to-day. May it please our
sovereign to choose what seems to her the most beautiful and fitting,
and conjure it up by a word or look, as if by some magic wand.”
“Will you have a cithara brought to me?” asked Aspasia. “As queen of
the revel, I will presume no farther than to give the key-note for the
mood and harmony of this symposium.”
Hipponicus instantly ordered a slave to fetch a cithara ornamented with
gems and ivory.
The fair Milesian took it, and began to sing to its accompaniment, the
following lines:
“With violet garlands crowned, with Syrian spikenard scented,
Sprinkled with gold and roseate drops of Dionysian dew,
With melody of lute and voice through all the world extended,
Hail, beauteous pleasure, loftiest gift this wide earth ever knew!”
Then she ordered the lute to be passed to Socrates, but the latter
said:
“Since the office of symposiarch includes the duty of giving out
riddles for the amusement of the company, I expected that Aspasia would
test our penetration in such matters. What, viewed closely, is this
praise of the enjoyment of life, which she has sung to the
accompaniment of the cithara, in order as she says, to give the
key-note of our symposium, save a tempting enigma? This fair Milesian
really seems to me like a sphinx with an abyss beside her, into which
she will plunge us all, if we do not solve her riddles. How I envy the
excellent Hipponicus! He seems to understand pleasure and the enjoyment
of life better than any of us, and so perhaps is the only one capable
of correctly interpreting the riddle Aspasia has sung. Surely one can
best give instruction in the art he most skilfully practises.”
All eagerly shouted in assent.
“That is true! Hipponicus is the man to teach us about pleasure and the
enjoyment of life.”
“If troublesome philosophy cannot be wholly avoided in this symposium,”
began Hipponicus with a mischievous smile, “I thank the gods that the
conversation turns upon this subject instead of any other; for this is
really the one upon which, as Aspasia observed, I may presume to say a
few words. You doubtless remember how I strove to show you, that
scarcely anywhere in the world can the art of eating and drinking be
carried to greater perfection than here in Athens, if we only desire.
The proposition may also be made, that on this soil, under this
Hellenic sky, people are born to be happy. But I wish to show you, that
here in Greece it is easy to unite the pleasantest life with wisdom,
virtue, piety, reverence for the gods, or whatever else you may please
to call it. The Hellenic gods require everything except renunciation or
sacrifice of the joys of life. They don’t even ask it of me, though I
am of priestly race, and once a year have to exercise the office of
Daduchus at the festival of the mysteries of Eleusis. The rest of the
time I spend in Athens to my own satisfaction and that of my native
land, without having it occur to the gods or anybody in the world to
reproach me for it. If poor Diopeithes upon the Acropolis is my enemy,
and says evil things about it, it isn’t because I like a good table, am
fond of fair women and making myself comfortable, for he would gladly
do the same, if he did not lack means; but merely because the
Eleusinian priestly race has outstripped his in power and splendor, the
Eumolpidæ have surpassed the Eteobutadæ. If Diopeithes lives a
dissembler, he does so on his own account; the Hellenic gods do not
trouble themselves about it, and though I keep a better table than he,
I can boast of being equally devout and pleasing to the gods. Is there
any one who will assert, that I am not pious and do not revere the gods
as much as any man in Athens? Zeus Herkeios has his altar beside my
domestic hearth; in the niche behind the door stands Hermes Strophaios,
the divine guardian of the door-hinges; before it is the usual shrine
of Hecate, and the cone-shaped column of Apollo Agyieus, the guardian
of streets, and beside it the laurel sacred to the god, as a protection
against witchcraft and epilepsy. On the door itself, from one
Pyanepsian festival to another, hangs the blessed olive-branch, which
wound with white wool, is consecrated in the temple of Apollo at every
festival; nor does it lack the inscription placing the house under the
protection of the gods, and surmounted by the usual Medusa head to
guard the entrance from all evil. I neglect neither suitable gifts to
the gods, purifications, propitiations, prayers, sacrifices, nor large
contributions to increase the splendor of the festivals, and have just
spent five thousand drachmæ to fit out as magnificently as possible the
chorus our Sophocles needed for his ‘Antigone.’ So who can come forward
and say I am no pious man, and do not honor the gods according to the
customs of our forefathers? We Greeks are a devout nation, and I am a
Greek. That is why, as is right, I stand in awe of the gods, but do not
fear them. There are many in Tartarus who suffer the worst punishments
on account of various crimes, but I do not remember one among them who
suffers because he was a high-liver or man of the world. Is there one?
No! So once more: I am a devout man and need not fear the gods. I fear
nothing in the world except thieves and house-breakers, who might run
away with my treasures, my pearls and precious stones.”
All the company began to laugh and applaud these last words of
Hipponicus; but he continued:
“They are wisely building a treasure-house for the government money on
the Acropolis, under the protection of the guardian goddess of the
city. But how is a patriotic man, like one of us, to secure his
property? I don’t deny that, since I’ve employed six thousand slaves in
my silver mines, and my riches are daily increasing, I am somewhat
anxious.”
“Be comforted, Hipponicus,” cried Pericles. “I’ll intercede with the
people to allow you to build a treasure-house for yourself in the
Acropolis. You have deserved it, by the excellent speech you’ve just
made, if not on any other account.”
Again all the company applauded and praised Hipponicus and his speech.
But the mocking wit and unwearied reveller Cratinus asked:
“If, noble Hipponicus, you really don’t fear the gods, only thieves and
nothing else in the world, what do you think of dropsy and other
consequences of a devout and at the same time pleasant life? Also the
gout, which, as I unfortunately know by experience, is connected with
too liberal a besprinkling with Dionysian dew? Have you no dread of
these? Or do you rely wholly on your friend Hippocrates, the excellent
physician, whom you wisely invite to your table?”
“You have guessed it,” replied Hipponicus; “in these matters I depend
entirely on Hippocrates, with whom, as with the gods, I like to stand
on a good footing. I also leave it to him to determine whether dropsy,
vertigo, and similar things really proceed from what is termed the
enjoyment of life.”
“Not exactly,” said Hippocrates smiling. “True, it is not to be denied
that the fatigue connected with the enjoyment of life may cause dropsy,
vertigo and similar diseases. As for pleasure in and of itself—and this
alone is probably what is being discussed in the present
conversation—it must be considered conducive to health. Pleasure is a
peculiar condition of mind and body, that flushes the cheeks, brightens
the eyes, quickens the breath, makes the blood course easily through
the veins, stirs what is stagnant, rouses the animal spirits, increases
all the powers, and puts the whole constitution in a state of
beautiful, active harmony. Pleasure is so healing a medicine, even to
the sick, that I don’t know whether a more effectual remedy can be
found among all the herbs, plasters and potions we physicians employ.”
Laughing and applauding, the revellers swore never to trust themselves
to any other physician than Hippocrates.
“Wise master of the art of healing,” cried Cratinus, “you have entirely
soothed me. Now I understand it; how could I, whom people call the
friend of the bottle, ever since I wrote a comedy in which full bottles
form the chorus, how could I have defied the attacks connected with the
pleasure of drinking, if the remedial power of that pleasure had not
sustained me? Were I symposiarch, instead of yonder lovely foreigner,
who probably understands the works of golden Aphrodite better than
those of Bacchus, I would instantly order a double drink in honor of
the wisest of all physicians, Hippocrates!”
“Thrax!” said Aspasia to the slave standing beside her, “give Cratinus
a goblet twice the size of ours. And now let us drink the toast in
honor of Hippocrates.”
When all had pledged Hippocrates, and Cratinus had drained his goblet,
Polus began:
“I don’t know how pleasure could be discussed among us, without
recalling the words you heard from the mouth of the messenger in the
tragedy we are celebrating:
“When pleasure is no more,
Man then is but an animated corpse,
Nor can be said to live: he may be rich,
Or decked with regal honors; but if joy
Be absent from him, if he tastes them not,
’Tis useless grandeur all, and empty shade.”
“I praise mirth,” said Sophocles, “not merely because it makes life
pleasant, but because it renders it beautiful. Many terrors dwell in
the depths of existence, and the question has often been asked whether
it was not better, not to live. But since we do live, we must seek to
cover the gulf of life and its terrors, as far as possible, with the
flowers of beauty and her twin brother joy. The boundary of man’s
existence is a narrow one, but within these bounds we are permitted to
be men, and develop pure humanity nobly in a little circle. To be a
true man is to be generous and gentle, and this bright gentleness
becomes the limit, within which he divinely feels his existence. To be
called generous and gentle, as well as beautiful and gay, is the pride
of the Hellenes.”
“I thank you for this remark!” said Pericles. “I have sometimes been
reproached for being too mild and forbearing in war, but I thought I
was merely acting as a Hellene. If there are battles again, either on
sea or land, I shall ask the Athenian nation to give me the author of
‘Antigone’ for a fellow-strategus.”
“Sophocles a strategus?” cried several of the company.
“Why not?” said Sophocles smiling, “my father was an armorer. That
indicates I was born for a strategus.”
“Do you expect the troops to embark and stand out to sea soon,
Pericles?” cried Hipponicus.
“It is very possible!” replied Pericles.
“I’m content, but I hope you’ll take no other admiral-galley, on which
to win new laurels, than the one I shall equip as trierarch.”
“I will choose no other,” replied Pericles. “But let us not suffer
martial enthusiasm to gain the upper hand at so peaceful a banquet. It
would be discourteous, if before passing to other matters, we did not
ask Anaxagoras whether he approves or rejects what has been said here
concerning pleasure.”
“If you want my opinion,” said Anaxagoras, “I will not withhold it.
What you have stated shows your desire to secure as many beautiful,
good, and pleasant things as possible. But I maintain that true,
genuine happiness does not come from without, but is found in the
depths of the inner life. Happiness is not synonymous with pleasure;
and is so far from being dependent upon outside things, that it exists
in the greatest perfection without them. Voluntarily submitting to
universal reason, destroying self-will, is the shield of wisdom,
virtue, and all true happiness, the firm citadel of apathy, where
enthroned without desires of any kind, the passionless man, who is
sufficient for himself, proves unconquerable even by the powers of
fate.”
Anaxagoras’ words made a singular impression. Pericles listened with
the thoughtful attention he always bestowed upon the outpourings of his
old friend’s heart. A slight shadow flitted over Aspasia’s brow. Her
eyes encountered the glance of Protagoras. As if by some secret
understanding, the gaze of the fair woman and the sophist met, and when
the brilliant rhetorician looked around the circle, ready to answer the
philosopher, the light sparkling in Aspasia’s eyes, seemed striving to
kindle his thoughts, wing his words.
“Stern and harsh,” he began, “ring the words of the sage of Clazomenæ
in this spot, where but now, amid the sound of joyous songs, the mirth
of the festival surged around the flower-wreathed altar of Dionysus!
But even he—mark it well—even he, the stern, harsh philosopher, has
spoken of happiness as man’s highest goal. Only he thinks differently
of the means that lead to it. And indeed happiness has many names and
forms, and numerous are the paths leading to its sunny heights. Many
find their pleasure in the intoxication of the senses; others, urged by
a loftier nobility of the soul towards the beautiful, rise to purer
spheres of enjoyment, and a third class is that of the godlike men, who
dwell above clouds and winds in eternal serenity. Do you know to which
of these three methods of procuring happiness I give the preference? To
none, but to him who understands how to follow each of these various
ways according to place and time! When goblets beckon and bright eyes
sparkle, let us follow the merry wisdom of Hipponicus; when marvels of
beauty gleam before our eyes, and humanity displays its noblest
development, we will share the glorified joy of Sophocles; when the sky
darkens, when unavoidable sorrow and disaster throng upon us, it will
be time to say to garlanded pleasure: ‘Farewell,’ and gird ourselves
with the divine equanimity and beautiful repose of the wise Anaxagoras!
To be capable of sacrifice is praiseworthy—but we will only practise
this art, when we require it. When it is time to rejoice, we will
rejoice. Whoever understands how to enjoy wisely, will not lack the
wisdom of renunciation. He will make pleasure his slave, not be the
slave of pleasure. He will make things yield to him, not succumb to
them. And if that which is set by wisdom as the limit of our pleasures,
is nothing more than the natural, legitimate standard of pleasure, and
joy, stifling in its own excess, is no longer joy, but its opposite, so
that its limits are not external, but internal; why talk of virtue and
temperance as things alien, even hostile to pleasure? Renunciation,
sacrifice, virtue without joy may become familiar to the thoughts of
the Hellene, but never to his soul. Even ordinary toil, working at
trades, and labor to supply common needs, he considers unworthy of him.
That is why the slave, the barbarian works for the Hellenes. The more
ignoble portion of humanity must sacrifice itself for the nobler, that
the ideal of an existence really worthy of the dignity of mankind may
be realized. Were I a law-giver, a second Lycurgus or Solon, and the
tablets of the law were put unwritten in my hands, I would seize them
and with a golden stylus place at the top the words: Mortals, be
beautiful—be free—be happy.”
Protagoras gazed steadily at Aspasia while speaking, rejoicing in the
encouragement that beamed upon him from her face. Assent was almost
universal throughout the circle, and Pericles said he would place the
next colony that left Athens under Protagoras’ command; for he seemed
well suited to regulate a community according to the Greek spirit.
“Happy Protagoras,” Socrates began, “happy Protagoras, who is permitted
to transmute the gold of Aspasia’s silence into the ringing coin of
alluring words. If I have understood your speech, as well as you read
the language of Aspasia’s eyes, you seem to regard wisdom as one of the
means for the promotion of pleasure, which so to speak, can be kept
ready and drawn out of the pocket when there is nothing better at
hand—”
“What is wisdom?” interrupted Protagoras. “Question a thousand men, and
what one calls wisdom, others will term folly. But ask them what causes
pleasure and what disgust, and all will be of the same opinion.”
“Do you really think so?” replied Socrates. “If it should be put to the
test—”
“Allow me to take it upon myself to answer Socrates,” interrupted
Aspasia—“though not with words, for how could I presume to take my
place by Protagoras’ side, when wisdom was under discussion? I will
meet the perpetual doubter and questioner with the means which, as
queen of the symposium, are at my disposal to test the objections he
has last uttered.”
“But first,” she continued, “let the lips, which have perhaps grown dry
in the heat of conversation, be moistened with fresh dew.”
At her command, fresh wine was mixed and the guests drank still larger
potations.
“This wine is from Lesbos!” said Hipponicus, “the flower of the vine!
It is less fragrant than the Thasian, but its flavor is still better.”
“It is both mild and fiery, like the soul of its countrywoman, Sappho!”
cried Protagoras, tasting the contents of his goblet with the tips of
his lips.
The beakers, by Aspasia’s command, were drained in honor of the Lesbian
poetess and refilled, while the eyes of the revellers began to sparkle
still more brightly.
“Now let those enter,” said Aspasia, “who are ready to make us feel the
emotion, concerning which, according to Protagoras, all men are united,
but in Socrates’ opinion not.”
Female flute-players, dancers, and jugglers entered the hall, all young
and charming, all wreathed, perfumed, jewelled and exquisitely dressed.
The flute-playing began in soft, sweet notes, and to its accompaniment
first commenced the pantomimic dances. Theodota’s performance, so
greatly admired by Socrates, he now saw multiplied by a group of lovely
figures. After these dancers had charmed all eyes by their art, the
feats executed by the jugglers exerted a bewildering, fascinating
influence. When the latter, dancing in time to the music, skilfully
tossed and caught a number of hoops or balls, or were whirled around on
the potter’s wheel, the swift movements of the slender, girlish figures
possessed an enchanting grace. But when they commenced the sword-dance,
performing their feats of jugglery while dancing between the blades,
fastened point uppermost in the ground, and turning somersaults forward
and backward over the glittering steel, a sense of pleasure mingled
with fear thrilled the spectator. When one of these slender, charming
maidens, clad in a short, closely-fitting dress, which clearly revealed
her beautiful proportions, supported herself by resting her hands on
the floor, and with a graceful curve of the body threw her feet over
her back and head to fill a goblet from the vessel standing before her,
grasping it with the toes of the left foot, while she seized the handle
of the jar with the toes of the other; or in the same position
discharged an arrow from a bow—it was not merely astonishment at the
skill displayed, but admiration of the marvellous freedom and almost
superhuman flexibility developed in the limbs, which put Hipponicus’
guests in ecstasies of delight.
When the dances and games were over, and the jugglers, musicians and
dancers had retired amid the enthusiastic applause of the guests,
Aspasia said:
“What we have seen appears to have given pleasure to all, and we are
unanimous in this emotion, while formerly, when discussing a dogma of
wisdom, we could not agree. The test on which it depended, as you said,
Socrates, is therefore settled—”
“You well know, Aspasia,” replied Socrates, “that no one in the world
is more willing to be taught than I. Allow me, however, to ask
Protagoras one more question. If, as he instructed us, there are
various kinds of pleasure, and we call whatever procures it a blessing,
there are doubtless various kinds of blessings, among which one is
supreme. But to discover this supreme good among other good things, and
thereby secure the highest pleasure amid other pleasures—for pleasure,
as we have said, is not the blessing itself, but produced by the
possession of the blessing—doesn’t it require a little discernment, or
penetration, or wisdom, or whatever the faculty may be called?”
“You see this man is driving you into a corner, Protagoras,” replied
Aspasia smiling, “but it is my duty to see that the strife does not
grow too violent. I have been forming a little plan against this
belligerent Socrates for the last half hour. I don’t think it
advisable, that he should occupy the same pile of cushions with
Anaxagoras, and thus constantly draw fresh vigor and pugnacity from his
master’s presence. Nay, it seems to me, in general, that Hipponicus’
guests have paired off in a manner dangerous to the general welfare,
and favorable to secret conspiracies. I have repeatedly noticed Phidias
and Ictinus whispering together, and see Cratinus put his lips to the
ear of his neighbor, Polygnotus, far more often than is necessary. By
virtue of my authority as queen of the revel, I shall order a universal
change of seats and companions.”
“So be it!” cried the joyous revellers; “we will gladly obey you. Let
us hear how you intend to pair us.”
“Very well,” said Aspasia; “Hipponicus must bid Socrates rise, and
himself recline beside Anaxagoras; loquacious Polus can take his place
by silent Ictinus; saucy Cratinus shall have for a neighbor gentle
Sophocles. Phidias must join Polygnotus. But whom shall I place with
Socrates? I can’t possibly let him recline by Protagoras’ side, on the
contrary, I must remove these two opponents as far from each other as
possible. So what can be done, except to ask you, Protagoras, to take
my place here, while I sit beside Socrates?”
Aspasia rose and seated herself on the lower edge of the pile of
cushions where Socrates lay.
The guests had cheerfully obeyed the directions of the queen of the
banquet, only they now secretly and loudly envied Socrates his
companion.
The close vicinity of the beauty exerted a singular influence upon the
young man himself. If Anaxagoras’ presence, as Aspasia expressed it,
had aroused belligerent emotion, this charming woman awakened a desire
for peace and harmony.
“What does this mean?” cried Aspasia, bending towards Socrates and
looking at his wreath, “many leaves have already fallen from your
garland. That is a sign the wearer has some secret love-trouble. Is it
your latest friend, the saucy boy Alcibiades, who vexed you? Well, I
have come to answer you. What were the doubts you wished to have
solved?”
Socrates, basking in the light of Aspasia’s eyes, fanned by her breath,
intoxicated by the rustle of her garments, answered:
“Aspasia! I had doubts—and they were beautifully arranged in my head in
battle array. But just as I was about to send them forth in the best
order, a flower-wreathed barrier was pushed forward, so that it seems
as if they must fall over it and break their legs. Shall I say what
appears doubtful to me, Aspasia? There is at this moment only one
thing, and that is that you are sitting beside me.”
Old Anaxagoras, who meantime had silently addressed himself to the
beaker, glanced with a somewhat scornful smile at the friend, who thus
shamefully laid down his arms.
“You see, Anaxagoras,” said Socrates, “I have fallen in battle for a
good cause, and you, the old man for whom I really drew the sword, must
now bear me out of the conflict. Avenge me, if you can.”
“Why not?” replied Anaxagoras, after another draught from his goblet;
“I feel by no means like an aged Priam, to maintain a timid silence in
the presence of this young Achilles. I would fain say a few words to
you, Protagoras.”
“Stay!” cried Aspasia, “if you intend to utter words of import, permit
me to do my duty and wing your tongue with the most fiery and delicious
of all wines, the blissful fluid pressed from the grapes of Chios,
which has been reserved till now.”
So saying, Aspasia ordered the most famous of all the Greek wines to be
offered.
The goblets were emptied, and from this moment there was no one in the
circle who, elevated far above the sphere of sober reason, had not
fallen a victim to the inspiring power of Dionysus.
Anaxagoras began to talk somewhat confusedly about pleasure, virtue,
knowledge, and universal reason.
As if to incite him to collect his thoughts, Aspasia herself offered
him a beaker of the Chian.
The philosopher drank, and his speech grew still more confused; he
began to stammer and nod. At last his head sank on his breast. A few
moments more, and the old man was quietly asleep.
A merry laugh rang through the ranks of the revellers.
“What have you done, Aspasia?” they cried. “You have disarmed and
lulled to slumber the last champion of stern wisdom.”
“At a joyous banquet,” replied Aspasia, “it beseems stern wisdom to
nod. But this noble old man has not fallen asleep unwatched by the
Graces. See what a beautiful sight is presented by the spectacle of the
grey-haired sage breathing in quiet slumber. I propose that we all take
off our garlands to put them on the head and shoulders of the sleeper,
and thus bury this peaceful sleeping wisdom.”
All obeyed Aspasia’s command, and in a few minutes the philosopher’s
head was buried under flowers.
Socrates continued to drink without becoming intoxicated, but feigned
to be so in order to whisper the strangest things into Aspasia’s ear,
unrebuked.
Grave Phidias told the boy who filled his goblet, that he wanted to use
him as a model for one of his figures on the inner frieze of the
Parthenon. Cratinus uttered secret imprecations, and said to his
neighbor Sophocles:
“This sorceress, this Circe, this Omphale shall remember me! She makes
me drink even Chian from the large goblet. So long as I was sober, I
didn’t notice anything, but now I see her design.” Polygnotus assured
his neighbor, that with the exception of Elpinice, he had never seen a
woman so well formed as Aspasia.
“Pericles,” said Hipponicus pathetically, “Pericles, you know how I
have always honored you, how much gratitude I owe you for releasing me
years ago from the bonds of beautiful, but quarrelsome Telesippe. Do me
that favor about the treasure-house on the Acropolis—for I employ six
thousand slaves in the silver-mines, my wealth is daily increasing, and
people are not safe from thieves. And when your ward Alcibiades grows
up—my little daughter Hipparete—the fairest of all virgins—”
“Never mind!” said Pericles with a good-natured smile. He was the only
one in the whole company entirely untouched by the power of Bacchus—not
because he had drunk less, but because his constitution was as strong
as his nature was gentle. He conversed with Protagoras about politics,
the changes of popular government in Athens, the colonies to be sent
out, the possibility of a speedy war. But Protagoras gazed frequently
at the beautiful Milesian. Finally the silent Ictinus, inspired by the
Chian, surprised the revellers by commencing a pæan to Dionysus, which
was sung in chorus by all the others.
Thus the waves of social pleasure, winged by the gifts of Bacchus, the
charms of the senses, the spell of the Milesian’s mirth, and spiced
with the flower of Hellenic intellect, rolled on at the symposium until
the dawn of morning.
Then the brilliant Protagoras rose, saying:
“Aspasia, as you know, has yielded her place to me. I will take
advantage of it to assume the dignity of symposiarch, and invite you to
drain this last beaker in her honor. She has held high aloft the banner
of beautiful pleasure, victoriously defended the kingdom of innocent
mirth against the assaults of sternness and the harshness of wisdom—has
ever, just at the right moment, battled against foes, now with the
gifts of the goblet, now with the aid of Eros and the Graces, has
lulled the truth-seeker’s questions to rest, and buried the
philosopher’s grey head under flowers—has guided us all pleasantly over
the flood-tide of the Dionysian waves of joy. Innocent intoxication has
no peril to noble Greek brows, and does not injuriously penetrate the
brain, but casts its silvery mist like dew upon the leaves of the
garlands, with which we shade our heads. So let us drain the last
beaker to the honor of the fair and wise Aspasia.”
Protagoras ceased speaking, and was joined in the pledge by the
distinguished men who, though assembled at the banquet as garlanded
revellers, were grouped around Pericles and Aspasia in the field of
fame, as the shining stars of ancient Hellas.
When the last goblets had been emptied, the men, after clasping each
other’s hands, left the house in the grey dawn.
“Are you, too, satisfied with the symposiarch Protagoras praised?”
Aspasia asked Pericles, when she found herself alone with him.
“From this day I shall admire you more than ever,” replied Pericles,
“but do not you fear I may love you less?”
“Why?” asked Aspasia.
“You have something for every one—what is left for Pericles?”
“Myself!” answered Aspasia.
He kissed her forehead, and she clasped him in a joyous embrace.
“I know not” said Pericles as he left her, “whether I should rather
rush into the field of action far away, or spend a honey-moon of love
alone with you in idyllic repose.”
“Perhaps the gods may grant one or the other, or even both, at some
fitting time.”
The Milesian closed her beautiful, weary eyes that morning with the
consciousness that she had approached nearer to her goal. She
remembered the hour when she had been obliged to leave Pericles’ house
in humiliation, thought of the proud Telesippe, who supposed herself so
unassailable, so immovable in her sovereignty over the domestic
hearth—and said to herself that her secret and open plans were maturing
to fulfilment, and she should yet triumph in her mission of planting
forever on the ruins of custom and prejudice the banner of freedom
beauty and joy.