SAMOS.
“I shouldn’t have thought it,” cried old Callippides, standing in the
midst of one of the numerous groups of Athenians, who assembled in the
great market-place of the Piræeus, were eagerly conversing together—“I
wouldn’t have believed it, for when I passed the statue of Athena on
the Acropolis a short time ago, I saw the goddess’ spear covered with
chirping crickets. That means peace, I said to myself. To be sure, the
next day a weasel ran across the Pnyx, just before the popular
assembly—”
“Do you mean to croak misfortune, old man?” cried the others.
“Samos may lead other allies to revolt,” replied the old man,
“rebellion may be stirred up against us, Sparta may interfere, a
general Hellenic war may arise. A great deal of tinder is stored up, as
people say. After all, what is it to us whether the Samians or the
Milesians possess Priene?”
“The dignity of Athens must be maintained!” cried a youth impetuously,
extending his hand and raising his head proudly. “Samos and Miletus, as
members of the league, must lay their disputes before Athens, the head
of the alliance. Samos refuses to do this, and therefore Pericles is
enraged against the Samians—”
“And in his wrath has requested the popular assembly to give him the
gentle Sophocles for a fellow-general!” said one of the men smiling.
“On account of Antigone!” cried others. “He has done right. Long live
Sophocles.”
“You know nothing about it!” said Sporgilus, the barber, whom curiosity
and the excitement of the times had urged to the harbor. “You know
nothing about the matter, you don’t even know how this Samian affair
originated, and who really contrived it.”
“Long live Sporgilus!” shouted several. “Hear Sporgilus. He’s one of
the people, who always know in the morning just what Zeus has said to
Hera during the night.”
“May a boil as big as my fist come out on my nose,” cried Sporgilus,
“if what I am telling you isn’t the exact truth. Aspasia has persuaded
Pericles. I am sure of it—just listen to me. The day after the Milesian
embassy arrived here, I was standing in the market-place, when the
ambassadors passed, looking about them as if they wanted to ask
something. At last one came up to me, and said: ‘Here, my Athenian
friend, can’t you show us where the young Milesian, Aspasia, lives.’
The men evidently supposed I didn’t know them—but I did. I should have
recognized them by their smooth manners and costly dress, if I hadn’t
seen them elsewhere. I directed them as courteously as I could,
described the Milesian’s house and the way to it, for which they
thanked me most cordially and walked straight towards it. It was
already dark. They slipped into the Milesian’s house. Do you mark it?
The ambassadors, I tell you, have secretly bargained with the Milesian;
then she coaxed Pericles and inspired him with great indignation
against the Samians—”
“There it is!” cried one of the listeners. “Sporgilus really does know
what Hera has said to Zeus. But—there is Pericles with his companion
Sophocles—no doubt he is training him for his new office.”
In fact the two men were now walking in a somewhat deserted spot,
absorbed in confidential conversation.
“You will astonish the Athenians,” said Sophocles; “they would have
expected Pericles to be inclined to anything at this moment, rather
than that. He seemed completely absorbed, in the works of peace, the
promotion of internal prosperity, and—love for the beautiful Aspasia.”
“My friend!” replied Pericles smiling, “is it any marvel, that the
strategus is unwilling to leave all the laurels to those who are
working with trowel, chisel and stylus? I confess I have long felt
secretly troubled and restless. I seemed idle amid all this activity,
and the soft fetters of roses which bound me, sometimes appeared almost
humiliating.”
“What?” replied Sophocles, “do you count it nothing, that you are
always the busiest of the busy, that everything which has been done and
created, has only been rendered possible, promoted, and helped forward
to a prosperous end, by your exertions?”
“It does not satisfy the expectations which may be formed of us!”
replied Pericles. “I don’t wish to be merely a helper, I want to
accomplish something myself, and therefore, as a strategus, can only
seize the sword again. Why should I alone remain untouched by the
beautiful fire of ambition burning all around me?”
“And yet you desire to share your martial renown with me?” asked the
poet after a short pause.
“Rather than—the favor of a charming woman!” replied Pericles, looking
his friend sharply in the eye.
The latter started. “An idea suddenly begins to dawn upon me, a strange
light is thrown upon the real cause of my election as strategus.”
“Everything that happens in the world, dearest friend,” replied
Pericles smiling, “has a hundred causes, not one. Who can say which is
the most important.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to leave me behind and take Aspasia with you to
Samos?” asked the poet.
Pericles smiled again. “Be comforted,” he said at last, “we shall
merely take a little pleasure-trip, a sea-voyage of a few weeks; for
any serious resistance by the Samians to the might of Athens is not to
be thought of. Samos is a beautiful city, you will be charmed with it;
Melissus, the commander of the Samian squadron is, as you know, a
philosopher of the Eleatian school, whose acquaintance you will perhaps
have the pleasure of making; and if we sail past Chios, we will visit
your fellow-poet, Ion, the tragedian, who dwells there in delightful
leisure.”
“You intend to visit Ion?” cried Sophocles; “remember he bears you no
good-will, since you were his rival with the fair Chrysilla.”
“My treatment of a person,” replied Pericles, “will never be influenced
by his regard for me, but by mine for him. Ion is a worthy man. He will
entertain us with the best of his native Chian, though you have been
his rival in tragedy—”
“And you, I repeat,” interrupted Sophocles, “his rival with the
beautiful Chrysilla, who now, to the best of my knowledge, lives with
him in Chios.”
“Never mind Chrysilla!” said Pericles.
The poet gaily submitted to his fate, and Pericles began to instruct
him in the duties of his new profession.
If at that time a sheet covered with writing was seen in Sophocles’
hand, it was no sketch of a tragedy, choral song, or hymn to Eros or
Dionysus, but lists of the seaworthy crews he had collected, or the
rich citizens he must invite to command certain ships as trierarchs and
defray part of the cost of their equipment. He now found himself
dragged by Pericles away from the charming solitude of the green valley
of Cephissus, to the armories and military havens of Zea and Munychia,
to the tumult of the Piræeus, where the dreaded sea-dragons of the
Athenian navy were drawn into the sea, the bustle of the arsenals,
where there was a perpetual scraping, planing, hammering, nailing and
creaking. At first it was almost horrible to the beauty-loving poet to
hear the outcries of the oarsmen and sailors, among whom, being still
idle, there were constant quarrels about the flute-players, sometimes
ending in broken heads. His ears rang with the shrill whistle of the
boatswains, the shouts of the oarsmen; for the trierarchs daily raced
in the Gulf with the triremes already equipped, to try which vessel was
the best and sailed fastest.
When the day of departure arrived, the high-decked ships with
sharply-pointed keels, triple banks of oars rising one above another,
towering prow, and stern shaped like a swan’s neck, gaily painted and
ornamented with statues of Pallas and other emblems, floated boldly in
well-ordered ranks on the blue waves. At the blast of a trumpet a
solemn silence ensued, during which the herald, standing on the deck of
the admiral’s galley, uttered a prayer, repeated by all on board the
different ships, and in which the people on shore joined; the smoke of
sacrifice rose into the blue morning air, the whole army poured
libations from gold and silver goblets, and began to sing a pæan, the
sails were unfurled to the wind, the fleet moved, the sea foamed under
the strokes of countless oars, and accompanied by the blessings of the
spectators, the long train of vessels passed out of the harbor in to
the open sea. Now the poet Sophocles became a strategus heart and soul,
and his own hero Ajax could not have set forth from Salamis for Troy
more proudly, than he himself now left Colonus for Samos.
At the end of a few weeks, a swift vessel arrived at the Piræeus,
bringing reports from Pericles to the council and popular assembly. The
commander of the ship that conveyed this news, secretly delivered, not
as trierarch, but as a personal friend of Pericles, a letter not
intended for the public. It was written by the latter to Aspasia.
The lines ran as follows:
“I know not how it happened, that my breast scarcely ever heaved more
proudly than at the moment I left the harbor of Athens with the fleet,
and again felt the open sea beneath me. As I stood on the ship’s deck,
and the winds of the Ægean fanned my brow, it seemed as if a breath of
freedom touched me and I had regained myself. Regained? A foolish word!
Had I lost myself? I don’t know—unless it were to you, Aspasia. For a
moment it really seemed as if, during the last few weeks, I had
stretched myself a little too luxuriously on the rose-couch of love. I
was almost angry with you about it. But when I recollected myself, I
was forced to acknowledge that I was doing you the greatest injustice,
and that, on the contrary, it was precisely the influence emanating
from you, never enervating, but always inspiring, that had sent me
forth from quiet Athens to the field of action.
“So I no longer feel ashamed of my love for you, nor the ardent
yearning I have to see you again, though it almost wrought me evil.
“I found the Samians ill prepared for battle, and surprised them when
only half ready. I was almost ashamed of so easy a conquest. There
seemed to be nothing more to do, so I was making arrangements to return
to Athens, hoping that the rapidity of the victory would secure me some
renown. Did the wish to regain what I had left at home have some share
in this speedy return? I am not aware of it, but shall not venture to
deny the possibility. At any rate, the haste with which I wished to
return did not prove so profitable, as that I had shown in setting out.
I learned that we advance rapidly to the field of battle, but must be
cautious in retiring.
“But why should I tell you of things, which are probably already in the
mouths of the whole populace of Athens? Our fleet is burning with the
longing to retrieve the lost naval battle; even the gentle Sophocles is
glowing at this moment with the fire of Ares. I have sent him to Chios
and Lesbos to bring the ships of the allies; other reënforcements are
on the way.
“Send me news of yourself and my friends in Athens, by the same
trierarch who delivered this letter, and be assured I am no less
anxious to hear from you than you are to have tidings from me. Tell
Phidias he must not allow himself to be disturbed in his creations by
the noise of war. It will be the greatest joy of our return, if the
lofty columns of the temple on the Acropolis, far advanced towards
completion, gleam before us.”
Such were the contents of the letter Pericles sent Aspasia. The
Milesian answered as follows:
“I am glad you so quickly resigned the thought, that the bold Pericles’
nature had of late been made effeminate by Aspasia. On the contrary,
must I not reproach myself for having, by my intercession for my
countrymen, helped urge you to the field of action, as you call it?
“A short separation did not seem to me wholly unprofitable; for you
appeared to be growing a little weary of peace, pleasure, and love for
Aspasia. Now you no longer feel ashamed of the desire to see me and
your friends once more. The longing to behold a dear one is always
strongest, directly after the person has been left or lost. I fear you
will be able to endure the separation more and more easily the longer
it lasts, until finally, like Agamemnon before Troy, you will be
content to lie off Samos ten years, if necessary.
“My longing to see you, on the contrary, cannot be weakened by time,
for it is nourished by inactivity and solitude. You have left me almost
as lonely as if I were your wife; you have taken cheerful Sophocles
with you, and sent brilliant Protagoras, in charge of a colony, to a
distant land. Only Socrates remains, and he sometimes seeks my society;
but whether from distrust of me, himself, or you, never except
accompanied by some other person, and always appears with a man almost
as eccentric as himself. This man is the tragic poet Euripides, a
younger rival of our Sophocles. He and Socrates are inseparable, and it
is even rumored that the latter helps him with his tragedies, because
they are so rich in thoughtful sayings. But this is foolish. They are
so much alike, that I don’t know what one need borrow from the other.
Both are dripping with wisdom. What Socrates is among thinkers,
Euripides is among poets: hypercritical and eccentric. A book-worm too:
he has collected a vast number of volumes, and is completely devoted to
the Muses. For the rest, he looks like all poets—a prematurely-old face
on an ever-youthful, active body. He is reserved, sullen, and rude in
character, and associates only with Socrates and the Sophists.
Socrates, however, influenced him so far, that he became curious to see
me.
“‘This man,’ said Socrates, when he introduced him, ‘is the admirable
tragic poet, Euripides, whom I hope you will doubly admire, when you
hear that his father, Mnesarchus, was a tavern-keeper, and his mother,
Cleito, a huckster of vegetables. You must know too, that he was born
on the island of Salamis, on the very day of the great Persian battle.’
“‘A great omen!’ said I.
“‘That is possible,’ replied Euripides, ‘but what the gods originally
intended I should be is not yet perfectly clear.’
“Then he told me in detail—for after he once began to talk, he became
tolerably loquacious—how his father, in a dream, received a promise
that his new-born son would emerge victorious from famous contests. His
father, like a true Hellene, interpreted this to mean victories at
Olympia or Nemea, and had him carefully instructed in gymnastic arts;
indeed, when a boy, he really won a prize at the Panathenaic festival;
but he gradually developed more taste for books than for wrestling or
throwing the discus, and finally, instead of a garlanded Olympian
athlete, became a candidate for the prize of tragic poetry.
“‘How does it happen,’ I asked, ‘that in all your tragedies you
interweave remarks against women, and are universally called a
misogynist?’
“‘I am married!’ he replied.
“‘Is that a reason for hating all women, even those to whom you are not
bound by ties of this nature?’
“‘Socrates brought me to you,’ he answered, ‘to cure me of my misogyny.
I now esteem but one woman on earth; my mother, Cleito, the former
vegetable-huckster—I say former, for I have now prevailed upon her to
give up the business and manage a little country-estate I own.’
“I expressed a wish to make this woman’s acquaintance.
“‘If it will not bore you to hear the story of my birth in a grotto on
the shore of Salamis, during the great battle—for she spares no one who
approaches her—it will be an easy matter to gratify you,’ he said.
“A few days after, accompanied by a female slave, I visited the
secluded, modest country-house where mother Cleito reigns—its stillness
is only interrupted by the resounding lines of her poetic son, when he
retires to this rural solitude to be entirely undisturbed—found the
worthy woman among her hens, ducks, and sucking-pigs, and told her I
wished to hear the story of her son’s birth at Salamis during the great
naval battle.
“Sincerely delighted, the little mother said with evident pride:
“‘That is a tale, lady, I have told even the great Themistocles.’
“Then, after driving away the hens and doves, she invited me to sit
down on a grassy bank in the garden.
“‘Oh, child,’ she said, ‘it was a day of horror, when the Persian
troops burst into our sacred Athens, burned everything, slew the people
at the altars, and shot lighted arrows, dipped in pitch, from the Hill
of Ares to the Acropolis, until all the temples were in flames, and the
immense volume of smoke floated in black clouds over the sea. But while
the city was burning, the men vowed that they would die with arms in
their hands under the smoking ruins, the women wailed, and measureless
lamentations arose because Athens, sacred Athens, would be burned,
effaced from the earth, Themistocles, the naval hero, came forward and
extending his hand towards the sea and fleet, shouted: ‘There is
Athens!’ and urged all the men to go on board the ships. Beside him
stood the long-bearded priest from the temple of Erechtheus, who
announced that a highly-significant miracle had happened—the sacred
serpent had disappeared of his own accord from the burning temple, a
sign that the protecting divinity of the city, Pallas Athena, and all
the gods had left it, and the Athenians’ native land at this moment was
on the sea, on the ships of Themistocles’ navy.
“‘While the men all went on board the ships, it was pitiful to see the
women, children, and old men rush into the boats, which were ready on
the coast and by the ford of Salamis,—many upset, because they were
unable to hold the crowd of fugitives.
“‘Not even the dogs would stay in the deserted city; they plunged into
the sea and swam beside their masters’ ships as long as they could. You
must know, child, that this was just before the birth of my son; but I
succeeded with a throng of others, in safely reaching the shore of
Salamis, where several women and children, among them I myself, sought
shelter for the night in a cave in the rocks. It was a very unquiet
night, for all the Greek ships had gathered around Salamis, and shouts
rang from galley to galley all night long, so that it would have been
impossible for even those free from care to close an eye. Besides, it
also chanced to be the time of the festival of Iacchus, when, as night
is waning, the statue of the god is borne by torch-light across the sea
in a great festal procession, from Ægina to Eleusis. Themistocles did
not wish this celebration to be omitted from fear of the Persians, so
just as the Greeks were arranging their ships in battle array, the
beautifully-decorated vessel bearing the sacred statues of the Æacides
came across from Ægina, and the whole bay glowed in the light shed by
the torches, so that all the Greeks on the galleys were animated with
still greater courage, because they saw that the native gods still
ruled. When morning came and I dragged myself to the shore with other
women, the ships of the Hellenes were already drawn up for battle, the
whole Euripus was swarming, and the great Persian fleet, stretching
farther than the eye could reach, was sailing slowly from Phalerum.
“‘My strength failed and I was obliged to return to the grotto, where I
lay deserted on my bed of sea-weed, for the women, who had shared the
shelter with me during the night, ran away. All the women and children
at Salamis had husbands and fathers on the ships, and were standing
crowded together on the cliffs, gazing at the galleys, wringing their
hands and praying to the gods. I now heard a shrill flourish of
trumpets, then a pæan sung by thousands of voices—though the sounds
were subdued by the distance ere they reached my ears. Then it seemed
like a terrible hurricane rushing through a dense olive wood, with
thousands of tree-tops crashing—but it was the crash of the ships
striking against each other, intermingled with the war-cries of our own
troops and the Barbarians, echoing faintly from the distance. How long
this lasted I know not, and I can tell you nothing about the battle,
daughter, for I didn’t see it; I was tossing helplessly all day on my
couch, longing for some refreshment, and at last fell fainting into a
slumber which might well have been my last. Suddenly, amid my
death-like sleep, I heard loud shouts of joy from the women, recovered
my consciousness and remembered that I was in Salamis. Many a sudden
outburst of lamentation mingled with the exulting shouts, for not only
were countless fragments of galleys washed up on the strand, but dead
bodies, among which many of the women recognized a son or husband. Many
of those wounded in the battle, and many of the crews of the shattered
ships, who were nearer the shore of Salamis than the Athenian coast on
the opposite side, escaped to the island, bringing the message that the
Persians had been defeated and were flying across the sea, leaving the
smoking ruins of Athens, and we might return to our rescued city that
very day. Just think, child, how I felt, when my husband, Mnesarchus,
who was among those that had landed, came rushing into the grotto as
unexpectedly as if the gods themselves had guided him, shouting:
‘Athens is free again, Athens is ours again!’ He was about to rush on
with the joyful tidings, when he suddenly caught sight of me and the
new-born babe. Imagine the scene! He could not speak, only seized the
little fellow, lifted him in his arms and fairly danced about with him,
in his twofold joy as conqueror and father. Then he dashed away to
bring me water and other refreshments, until at last, though slowly, I
recovered from the death-like exhaustion into which I had sunk.
“‘The next day a great festival was celebrated on the island in honor
of the victory. Youths, crowned with garlands, danced around the
trophies, while the Persian was flying with the remnant of his hordes
to the distant East. Mnesarchus, with his new-born son in his arms,
went through the crowd, showing the child to all the Greeks and telling
them it was born on the day of the battle. When Themistocles himself
came up and heard the tale, he said: ‘Praised be the Athenian mothers,
who give us new citizens during the battle, to make amends for those
who have fallen in defence of their native land,’ and gave orders that
a hundred drachmæ should be paid to Mnesarchus. So everything passed
off happily, and Mnesarchus called the boy Euripides, in memory of the
fact that he was born on the day of victory in the Euripus, the
sea-ford of Salamis.’
“This was the story worthy mother Cleito told me, precisely as I have
written it for you.”
A few days after Aspasia’s letter had been sent to Pericles, news of
victory came from Samos, and with it another missive for Aspasia.
“You are matchless, Aspasia, and always wholly yourself. Was it
accident, or by some secret design, that you told me in your letter
about that mother at Salamis. When your lines arrived with the
reënforcements from Athens, my fleet was already drawn up in line of
battle before the Samian ships. I read the story of Cleito and, full of
enthusiasm, gave the signal of attack.
“We conquered. But I shall avoid giving you a description of the
battle. How could I, in presence of the memory you have so vividly
conjured up of the heroic deeds of Salamis, boast of my petty Samian
success, by which their fleet has been rendered harmless, though the
resistance of the city itself is not yet broken. We are besieging it by
land and water. This Samos is a powerful city, and very magnificent in
its appearance; but her greatest and most famous temple, as you know,
is dedicated to Hera, goddess of marriage, and in this temple are
reared whole flocks of the bird sacred to this divinity, but hateful to
us both.
“Sophocles too, has read your letter, with great delight in the story
of Cleito. As he was among the youths and boys, who danced around the
trophies at the festival in honor of the victory, of which Cleito
speaks, while Æschylus was among the warriors, these tragic poets all
have their share in the honors of Salamis—though Euripides’ is surely
the least, since he merely chanced to be born.
“I have questioned Sophocles about Euripides, and asked him what he
thought of the latter’s hatred of women. Sophocles replied that
Euripides only hated women, because he loved them. If he didn’t care
for them and could do without them, he wouldn’t trouble himself about
them, would not speak of them, it would be a matter of indifference to
him whether they were good or bad. So says Sophocles, therefore I think
the renown of curing Euripides of his misogyny will be a very trifling
victory for you.”
Aspasia answered this letter in the following manner:
“Your victory before Samos has given the Athenians great cause for
rejoicing, in which I secretly joined with all my heart; only you have
clouded my share of the common joy by the modesty with which, in your
letter, you withheld the description of your naval battle. I am
generally content if you do not fill your pages with public or military
affairs, but confine yourself to what concerns your own person; yet it
is said that this very battle shows you in the full splendor of your
rule and influence, that you personally destroyed the hostile
commander’s ship. It is not these things that are important to me, but
you yourself, the clear idea of your nature, which reveals itself to me
in them, so that I seem to behold you with my bodily eyes.
“The building of the Parthenon is progressing with almost incredible
rapidity. It is certainly desirable to build with full coffers, as
Callicrates used to say.
“A few days ago an accident happened on the Acropolis, which created a
great deal of excitement. A workman fell from the scaffolding and was
mortally wounded; and as this occurred in the very spot to which
Diopeithes had given an ill name, as ‘belonging to the nether world,’
the minds and tongues of the Athenians were powerfully stirred. The
implacable priest of Erechtheus points proudly to the fulfilment of his
prophecy, and predicts further misfortune. May the gods avert it!
“He still looks gloomily from the threshold of his ancient temple at
the cheerful Callicrates, and wishes him a sun-stroke. But Apollo’s
warmest shafts recoil from the brow of this indefatigable man. Pallas
Athena holds her shield over him. He banters his foe whenever he can,
and if the hostile looks grow too disagreeable, manages to have his
workmen raise a cloud of dust near the Erechtheum, which compels the
priest, rubbing his eyes, to retire within the sanctuary.
“A mule has now become involved in the quarrel between the two men.
Among the animals, which have been occupied for several years in daily
trotting up and down the Acropolis, bearing stone and other burdens to
the summit, was one, that partly from age, partly from an injury
received, became unfit for work. Its driver wanted to spare it and
leave it behind in the stable. But the good beast wasn’t content with
that, and even blows could not prevent it from doing the labor to which
it had been so long accustomed, and trotting up and down with its
companions, though it carried no load. This it now does faithfully
every day, and everybody knows ‘Callicrates’ mule,’ as it is called,
because the latter has taken the useless but willing animal under his
special protection. The creature moves idly about on the Acropolis, and
in its strolls sometimes comes too near the Erechtheum, nay, has even
ventured to snuff with its unhallowed muzzle the sacred herbs planted
near the walls, so Diopeithes hates this most trusty of all the
laborers on the Acropolis, even more than he does Callicrates, and it
is impossible to foresee what complications may yet arise out of the
matter.
“Farewell, my hero, and don’t think always of Cleito’s tale, Salamis,
and Themistocles, but sometimes of your Aspasia. Neither Hera, nor all
the peacocks of Salamis, should keep me from hastening to you, if you
desired it.”
Not long after, Aspasia received the following lines:
“Are you angry with me for withholding the description of my naval
battle? You don’t wish to wholly give up seeing me command before
Samos. In and of itself a naval battle is better worth beholding than
any other spectacle, and I confess, that whenever I have been obliged
to cope with an enemy at sea, much as my duties claimed my attention, I
always found time to gaze admiringly at the beauty and grandeur of the
scene afforded by a conflict between the winged colossi on the open
sea. Fortunately mother Cleito only gave you the minor details of the
battle of Salamis, but could not describe the contest itself, so I will
venture to briefly relate the history of the fight before Samos; but on
condition that this story of military affairs shall be the only one you
will lure from me during the campaign.
“I met the Samian fleet coming from Miletus at the island of Tragia.
[3] Expecting my attack, they occupied a circular position to prevent
my doing what I always attempt in a naval engagement—assaulting the
enemy’s ships unexpectedly from one side. I sent out several bold
sailers to circle around the enemy, and by means of pretended attacks
and feigned flight here and there lure a vessel from its place in the
hostile ranks. A tolerably strong wind also sprang up, which by raising
a heavy sea, contributed to break the close circle of the Samian fleet.
“Our ships were drawn up with wings curving towards the enemy’s flank,
ready to attack any ship that might venture out of the hostile line.
“Meantime the Samian commander, while his vanguard was engaged in
battle, succeeded in forming the rear of the shaken and half-destroyed
circle into a straight line, with which, while at his command the
vanguard retired, he dashed forward in close order.
“For a moment the shock of this phalanx threw our front rank into
confusion. The broad Samian vessels, with their beak-shaped prows and
countless oars, looked like monsters creeping towards us on a thousand
feet—only this creeping was swift as the wind. After a few minutes,
during which I too hastily brought up my scattered galleys in order,
our phalanx confronted the Samian one in an equally close, firm line.
“The real battle now raged fiercely. Rushing forward with loud shouts,
the Samian galleys and our own dashed impetuously into each others
ranks, so that every Attic ship attacked, every Samian one defended
itself, on both sides. If the Samian vessels resembled menacing swine’s
snouts, ours looked like sea-serpents, nimbly winding between these
snouts and dealing fatal bites on the right and left. In the closer
order, the terrible engines of war began to play from ship to ship,
catapults and scorpions [4] hurling missiles, and the horrible
dolphins, long beams tipped with blocks of metal, which raised above
the hostile vessel, by a well-calculated fall shattered the mast or
crushed the deck, and holding the ship like an iron grapple, made it
the prey of the assailant. While the attention of the crew of a hostile
galley was occupied by a shower of arrows that covered its deck, light
boats swarmed around it below, whose crews shattered its oars with
axes.
“When, at last, keel pressed still nearer to keel, and the lofty decks
of our own galleys and those of the foe touched, their united surfaces
soon formed a battle-field, where the heavily-armed troops fought with
sword and lance, hand to hand. The boldest could not be restrained from
leaping from their own ship into the nearest hostile galley. Some of
our men succeeded here and there in cutting down the crew, taking the
trierarch prisoner, getting possession of the helm, and forcing the
defenceless oarsmen to row the captured vessel out of the Samian line
into the Athenian ranks.
“However praiseworthy heroic courage may be in such hazards, I
disapproved of too impetuous an exercise of personal bravery, always
endeavoring in a naval battle to spare the blood of the combatants as
far as possible and let the ships fight, rather than the men. Why
should the latter destroy each other, when the former, with bold,
swift, skilful manœuvres, can decide the conflict? I passed between the
ships of the fleet, shouting to the trierarchs to fight more with the
beaks of their vessels and iron-tipped beams than with swords and
lances, and to consider their ships a weapon rather than a citadel.
They understood me, and as the Samians had withdrawn numerous disabled
ships from the ranks, while the others pressed closer together, it
became easier for the galleys of our out-stretched wings to dash
against their flanks.
“The universal aim was now to sink the enemy’s ships. It had really
become a battle of the ships themselves. Besides the weight of their
beaks, and the strength of the iron-tipped beams on their keels, we
used in this battle a contrivance invented by myself, the ‘iron hands,’
which seized and held many a Samian vessel in an indissoluble embrace.
The dull roar of the ships’ beams crashing against each other mingled
with the light crackle of snapping oars, when, with swift,
well-calculated course, a ship, grazing close by a hostile galley,
crushed its projecting oars like dry branches.
“The Samians wavered and were thrown into disorder, but did not fly.
Enraged by this obstinacy, weary of the long conflict, I was on the
point of giving orders to have some transport ships, loaded with tow
and brushwood, lighted and sent into the hostile ranks to burn the rest
of the refractory fleet, when suddenly a huge block of stone whirled
towards the mast of my own vessel, but missing it struck the steersman,
who fell from his seat with his head crushed. In rolling down, the
block also shattered the helm and everything near it. The stone had
been hurled from the galley of the Samian admiral, by which I perceived
that the latter wished to have a personal battle with me. But in the
state of my rudderless ship resistance was impossible. Unnoticed by the
enemy, I hastily descended a ladder from the stern of the ship to a
boat, and quickly stood on the deck of another galley, the ‘Parthenos.’
While the admiral was attacking the rudderless prey to capture me,
supposing me to be still on board, I dashed on the Parthenos with the
speed of an arrow, against the side of the Samian galley, which pierced
with a large hole, began to take in water, lurched sideways and sank.
The admiral himself was one of the few, that amid a rain of arrows from
our men, who raised a loud shout of victory, escaped with great
difficulty by swimming. The Samians now yielded, and the victory was
ours.
“On the evening of that very day, the Samian commander, Melissus, came
on board my vessel under a safe-conduct, to arrange terms of peace, but
offered such conditions that people would have supposed I was the
conquered party, had I accepted them. He said that the Samian fleet was
vanquished, but the city was ready to stand a long siege. Besides,
Phœnician reënforcements were on their way, and moneyed assistance had
been offered by the Persian satrap at Sardis. During the whole
conversation, Melissus showed tenacity and obstinacy, such as only a
philosopher can develop. He is a tall man, somewhat advanced in years,
and the stamp of a profound thinker is so plainly impressed upon his
brow, that it seemed almost incredible that I saw in him the man who
had just commanded a fleet, and whom I had beheld swimming with the
agility of a youth, through waves filled with the fragments of vessels.
I soon perceived in him only the philosopher of the school of
Parmenides, so renowned throughout all Hellas. I can’t exactly say how
it happened, but our conversation gradually became a philosophical one.
The fact is, that he was at last eagerly explaining to me that if
anything was, it was eternal, but the eternal was unlimited in extent,
that real existence was one and infinite, comprising everything in
itself, for if there were two or several infinites, they must limit
each other and therefore were no longer infinite, and the universe must
be homogeneous, for if there were dissimilar qualities, it would no
longer be one, but many things, and that could not be, for diversity
existed only in appearance, related only to the perception of the
senses, not the thoughtful contemplation of the mind—
“As if by accident several other strategi and trierarchs, who had been
anticipating with great curiosity the result of our discussion of terms
of peace, now came forward; but when they heard that the Samian
commander and I had been talking about the boundlessness of the
universe and the infinitude of existence, they were utterly bewildered,
and we ourselves could not help laughing on perceiving that we, who a
short time before had been fighting furiously with ships’ beaks and
deadly missiles, were now engaged in an argument of such a nature.
Having frequently heard the propositions uttered by Melissus from the
lips of Zeno in Athens, and being much interested in these Eleatic
controversies, I was at no loss to find answers to Melissus, and our
conversation had really almost assumed the shape of a philosophical
argument.
“‘How much better it would be,’ I said to Melissus, as we shook hands
with each other in parting, ‘if we Hellenes, as far as our language
extends through the coasts and isles, could be united by one mental
aspiration, nay, even into one political community.’
“The gloomy Samian’s grey eyes flashed with anger.
“‘You doubtless hope Athens will lure all the Hellenes into her
precincts, and willing or not, unite them in one community,’ he said
with a bitter, scornful smile.
“I understood and honored the feelings of the man, who was fighting for
the independence of his island.
“It is the fate of all well-meant thoughts and intentions to be
thwarted by the opposition of petty interests, really intended to be
merged in greater ones. We are poorly rewarded for forming the idea of
one grand whole, and striving to realize it. If I exhort the Hellenes
to unity, they perceive in my words only the Athenian love of conquest,
or even designs of personal ambition. So in the best wishes and labors,
one feels driven back and limited to the customary, narrow domain. Thus
at times all external acts and efforts seem worthless, and I then take
refuge in the pure sphere of thought, where the mind may indulge in a
boundless flight. When in the quiet night I stand on the deck of the
motionless vessel with the star-sown sky above—the masts towering into
the vast infinitude of the ether—nothing audible save the low, dreamy
plashing of the waves against the vessel’s keel, amid the breath of the
night-wind, I remember Melissus and no longer merely think, but feel
the infinite, original unity of all existence.
“More frequently than you may believe, I think of you, of my friends at
Athens, and the work which under their hands is approaching completion.
Now that the hardest labor here has apparently been performed, and a
possibly long and wearisome siege condemns me to a quietude that almost
resembles inaction, I may perhaps venture to confess my longing for
Athens, without being ashamed of it.
“The mishap that befell the workman on the Parthenon, by which
Diopeithes profits in so malicious a fashion, has greatly troubled me.
I have sent to request Hippocrates to take charge of the unfortunate
man, if he is still alive, and if we succeed in saving him and
confounding Diopeithes, I vow to have an altar erected on the Acropolis
to Pallas Hygieia, in token of my gratitude.
“As for Callicrates’ worthy mule, I am of the opinion that it should be
considered a creature whose assiduity has rendered it worthy of
belonging to the Athenian community, and to guard against the peril of
Diopeithes’ enmity, I have obtained for it the privilege of being
permitted to graze wherever it chooses, and all property it
appropriates or injures will be made good to the owners at the public
expense.”
Before Aspasia had found an opportunity to answer this letter, she
received a few more lines confirming the tidings of the misfortune
which had befallen the Athenian camp before Samos, while Pericles went
to meet the Phœnician fleet.
Pericles merely alluded to these things in a few words. Then he
continued:
“Will you believe it possible, that an event could happen among
Hellenes such as befell me, when I went among the soldiers besieging
Samos from the land side, who had also suffered not a little from the
attacks of the Samians. Loud lamentations greeted me, as I entered the
camp. The priests were engaged in offering a sacrifice to Zeus, the
deliverer. In the circle formed around the altar and the priests, I saw
fifty Samian prisoners standing with fettered hands. I asked what these
people were doing, and learned that the prophet who was assigned to the
army by the government, had announced that it was the will of Zeus that
the fifty Samian prisoners should be solemnly offered up to him as
victims. They were just ready to execute the sentence of the seer. I
approached the priest and prophet, declared in the presence of the
whole army it was a lie that the Hellenic gods desired a human
sacrifice, and contented myself with stamping the foreheads of the
fifty Samians with the mark of a hog’s snout like the prows of the
Samian vessels, in revenge for the insult they had shortly before
offered our prisoners, by branding them with the owl.
“We shall now besiege the city again and attack it from the land side
with battering rams and catapults.
“The letters I receive from Telesippe, are full of complaints of
Alcibiades.”
Aspasia answered Pericles as follows:
“Your two last letters, my dear Pericles, have brought me a great deal
of important news—over much of which I could joyfully exult, and other
things that could not fail to inspire anxiety, though but a passing
fear. But why should I too deeply lament the change of external events,
when this mutation only makes the changelessness of your beloved self
the more clearly apparent? You have done what I desired,
unintentionally described yourself. How poor are words, how much more
warmly a kiss imprinted on your brow would tell you what I feel! The
day swiftly passes in thinking of you, and singing Sappho’s songs to
the accompaniment of my lute.
“Phidias and his assistants are unwearied. Absorbed in their task, as
if inspired by some demoniac power, they only half listen to what is
happening in the world outside of their work. Forgive them, for they
are toiling also for you and the renown of your name throughout all
futurity.
“I too hear a great deal about the boy Alcibiades; for he is beginning
to attract the attention of the Athenians. Many throng around him in
the wrestling-ring, or wherever he appears. But he cares for no one
except Socrates, possibly because the latter does not flatter him. A
short time ago, while he was crossing the street with his pedagogue,
carrying in his breast a quail, his favorite pet, a large crowd again
pressed upon him. While compelled to notice these people the quail
escaped, and as the lad became greatly excited, half Athens started in
pursuit of the bird. That’s the way with the Athenians. Yet if they
caress Alcibiades, it is partly because he is the ward of Pericles, the
great Pericles, who after the victory of Tragia is more than ever the
hero of the day.
“Diopeithes is secretly hostile to you, so too is Elpinice, and your
wife, Telesippe. With them are the old-fashioned fellows, with fringed
woollen robes and hair tied up over their heads, the vain old
conquerors of Marathon, grumbling, peevish men, and the Spartan
fops—who wear long hair, practise gymnastics, starve, never wash, and
rattle their gnarled staves on the stones in the street—together with
many of the wiseacres who go about barefooted in ragged cloaks, but
raise their eyebrows, bury their noses in their uncombed moustaches,
and carry their chins in the roll of skin puffed out beneath them as if
it were a bag. All these people, in your absence, mean, according to
the old proverb, ‘to gather unwatched wine.’
“Theodota, I hear, continues to swear that the sword-fish, Pericles,
will yet struggle in her net. Secret threads appear to be constantly
woven between this woman and our enemies. Elpinice runs her feet sore
to stir up all her friends against me. I am openly persecuted by her
and your wife; they see I am helpless and defenceless, and think me a
certain and easy prey.
“Euripides seems to wish to belie what your companion Sophocles said of
him. He is always grave, gloomy, and sullen. Yet, in Socrates’
presence, he made me the confidante of his conjugal destiny, and gave
me a description of his wife, which I need not repeat, for the poet’s
spouse is the faithful counterpart of Telesippe. But now hear what
resolution Euripides has formed, to release himself from this
insufferable companion. He intends to send the woman away and form a
better tie, in accordance with the dictates of his heart. Pericles, my
beloved hero, what say you to this manly determination?”
After some delay, Pericles wrote:
“I know not whether I deserve the praise for generosity you lavish upon
me. I am full of bitter indignation against these stubborn Samians, and
when the time comes shall make them atone for their obstinacy.
“During these days of inaction and impatience, noble, cheerful
Sophocles, who also proves an admirable fellow-strategus, is a doubly
desirable companion. He is always employed with the best success,
especially on peaceful embassies. As mediator, he works as if he were
in possession of some magic spell, which does not surprise me, for his
nature is so winning that he is universally beloved. He stands loyally
by my side, to work against the rebellious spirit, which in a long
campaign so easily steals into the minds of soldiers. Sometimes the
laws of humanity are to be supported, sometimes a vexatious prejudice
must be dispelled. You know how much yet remains to be done in this
respect, even among our Athenian populace.
“If a thunder-storm comes up and a flash of lightning strikes our camp,
or the steersman of my ship loses his head during a solar eclipse, I am
obliged to recall all I have learned from Anaxagoras concerning the
natural origin of such phenomena, to soothe the terrified fellow.
“But I am telling you about my industry in uprooting the prejudices of
others, forgetful that you sometimes blame me for being addicted to
similar ones. You ask Telesippe’s husband what he thinks of Euripides’
bold resolve? I will tell you verbally, when I return to Athens.”
For nine months the stubborn island city resisted, and many a letter
passed between Samos and Athens, bringing fresh tidings to Pericles and
Aspasia.
At last the Athenian commander wrote to his Milesian friend.
“Samos has been taken by storm, the obstinacy of Melissus is broken,
peace concluded. The Samians will deliver up their ships, and pull down
their walls.
“Yet it is impossible for me to return immediately to Athens. I must
proceed under sail to Miletus, where many things are to be settled.
“The delay, however, will be brief, and we shall meet again in a few
weeks.
“Joy reigns throughout the fleet, and some of the trierarchs are
celebrating the victory in the company of their friends, several of
whom came from Athens to Samos during the tiresome siege. These fair
ones have vowed, after the conquest of Samos, to build at their own
expense, in the city of the famous temple of Hera, a temple to the god
of love. They seem determined to fulfil this vow. Theodota arrived here
a few days ago, at the request of Hipponicus, who is a patriot as well
as a man of the world, and would not allow himself to be represented by
another on the ship, whose command fell to him, but joined the naval
expedition in person.
“Farewell! In Miletus, your native city, I shall always think of you.”
When Aspasia had read Pericles’ letter she grew thoughtful, then formed
a hasty resolution.
One day later she went to the Piræeus with a female slave, and entered
a vessel which was just ready to sail from the harbor of Athens to the
Ionian coast.