IN IONIAN HONEYMOON.
Pericles had made the short passage from Samos to Miletus with two of
his triremes.
Hipponicus, who was trierarch of the second ship, had requested
permission to accompany his commander. With him was the beautiful
Theodota.
Thus the charming dancer again threateningly approached Pericles’
horizon.
The Milesians received the Athenian commander with delight, celebrated
his arrival with magnificent entertainments, and honored the victor of
Samos with a gold laurel wreath.
Pericles felt as if he had breathed a sultry atmosphere ever since he
stepped upon the coast of Asia Minor. He had entered the land of the
statue of Diana with the thousand breasts, of gigantic temples, whose
Hellenic forms blended with the colossal, monstrous architecture of the
East, the land of the priestesses of Aphrodite, of luxurious,
effeminate music, the land of the mother of the gods, whose festal
dances on the Tmolus partook of the mysterious madness of the Orient,
the land too of her foster-son Dionysus, the god of joy, who by his
nature and appearance, delicate and effeminate in form, yet full of
courage and ardor, with his luxuriant wealth of curls crowned by a
Lydian mitra, and clad in ample bright-hued garments, proved himself a
true son of Asia Minor.
If the sultry atmosphere the Athenian felt was anywhere on the Ionian
coasts of Asia, it pervaded the streets of wealthy, superb Miletus,
famed for its roses. Here one heard the Persians and the satrap of
Sardis mentioned, as the Athenians spoke of the Megarians or
Corinthians; Persians and other Orientals were seen in the streets. The
costume of the men of Miletus and their charming wives was rich and gay
as the plumage of Eastern birds, yet exquisitely tasteful. Pericles saw
garments borrowed from the Persians, others from the Egyptians. They
were of every color—purple, crocus yellow, sea-blue, the hue of the
violet and hyacinth, even the vivid tint of flames. He saw the
Milesians wrapped in the texture of Persia, decked with the jewels of
India, dripping with the perfumes of Syria.
During their stay in Miletus, Pericles and Hipponicus enjoyed the
hospitality of her richest and most distinguished citizen, Artemidorus.
The latter took them to his magnificent country-estate, near the city.
Not far from this rural seat was a myrtle grove, amid whose dusky
recesses, musical with the notes of birds, legend related that the
goddess Aphrodite sometimes appeared in bodily form.
Oriental magnificence reigned in Artemidorus’ apartments. The walls and
furniture were decked with gay Persian stuffs. Gold glittered, ivory
gleamed, the air was full of the perfume of sandal-wood. Throngs of
beautiful female slaves moved about the house. Some, from the shores of
the Caspian sea, were dazzlingly fair like marble statues, others brown
as the bronze figures in Artemidorus’ house, and others still, a
shining black, like the ebony tables inlaid with gold in his rooms.
Nothing was lacking that could satisfy the mind of an Asiatic Greek in
Aspasia’s native city.
“You other Greeks call Ionia a hot-bed of luxury,” said Artemidorus to
his guests, while doing the honors of his table, “and I understand our
beautiful Milesian women are even more dangerous to Athenians, than the
gallant Milesians are to the Athenian women——”
Pericles smiled.
“Don’t forget,” continued Artemidorus, “that Ionia is not merely the
hot-bed of luxury, but also of poesy, nay even of wisdom; for we have
given you other Hellenes—in addition to our beautiful women—Thales,
Herodotus, and, if we do not arrogate too much, Homer.”
“Who believes,” replied Pericles, “that the vigorous development of the
Hellenic intellect can ever flag, even amid the oppressive atmosphere
of the rose-couch of pleasure?”
“Say rather, that nowhere else does it develop more luxuriously!” cried
Artemidorus. “There is no progress of men and nations without what
zealots call luxury.”
On the evening of the second day Artemidorus conducted his guests to
the myrtle grove near his magnificent villa, which he had himself
beautified till it resembled a sort of pleasure-garden. The lovely
Theodota, who had been invited as the friend and companion of
Hipponicus, was striving with all the power of her dark eyes to bewitch
Aspasia’s lover.
Accompanied by their host, Pericles, Hipponicus, and Theodota wandered
through the charming wilderness of blooming myrtles. As the grove
extended over a gentle slope, many places, where the ground had been
stripped of trees, afforded a beautiful view of the city, the blue sea
and the islands, which lay as if for a defence before the four harbors
of Miletus. At such spots Artemidorus ordered Oriental carpets to be
spread or a purple tent to be erected by the slaves who accompanied
them, that they might rest, take refreshments, or listen to the soft
music of Lydian flutes, which at Artemidorus’ bidding, vied with the
nightingales in delighting the ear.
Male and female slaves, in the garb of Silenus, peopled the forest,
here and there pouring brimming goblets for the party out of
wine-skins; as Hebes, who did the same thing, or as nymphs, who
proffered flowers and fruit in horns of plenty. Three of the fairest of
the latter performed, on an open spot of turf, a charming dance in
which the Asiatic tympans used in the festivals of Cybele were noisily
beaten, causing a sort of bewilderment and rapture to take possession
of the senses.
A tiny lake in the midst of the grove was peopled by all the forms of
Hellenic fable associated with the sea. Fish-tailed mermaids were seen
crowned with rushes, sirens reclined on rocks, singing soft, alluring
harmonies in rivalry with the Tritons, who were blowing their shells.
Even the prophetic old man of the sea, Proteus, was not wanting, and
gave predictions to all who asked. Pericles approached and desired to
hear some oracle from his lips.
“If necessary, I won’t neglect to hold you fast,” he said jestingly,
“as is customary with those who question you—that you may not slip away
under the disguise of fresh transformations.”
The old man willingly answered Pericles and delivered the following
oracle:
Seek ’mid the nests of nightingales, where blooms the fragrant rose,
The favoring gods thy happiness have bound a captive there,
Seize it as thou didst seize on me, hold it both firm and close,
So only ’twill be thine for aye—for fleeting ’tis as fair.
Pericles did not understand the meaning of these words. When, after the
conversation he looked around for his companions, they had disappeared;
so he walked on a short distance alone. The birds, that flew from twig
to twig, from tree to tree, singing their sweetest songs, lured him
farther into the forest. But here magpies, starlings and parrots,
perched among the boughs, accosted Pericles with “Accept our
compliments! Rejoice! Come, pray come,” and other strange sayings.
Chattering thus, they flew on beside him. Soon Pericles fancied that
instead of single birds, he heard a whole choir of nightingales singing
at some distance. At the same time the perfume of roses, which must
have proceeded from a large enclosure of blossoming flowers, reached
him apparently borne on the breeze from some distant spot. Strangely
enough, the odor of Indian perfumes seemed to blend with the scent of
the roses.
Half involuntarily, Pericles continued his walk in the direction from
which came the fragrance of the roses and the warbling song of the
nightingales. He did so unintentionally, for he no longer thought of
Proteus’ prediction. Here and there he saw something light gleaming
through the branches in the dusk of the grove. The birds, which flying
from bough to bough and singing, had hitherto seemed to bear him
company, were now silent and appeared to be looking down at him with
mischievous eyes. In place of their song, there was a louder rustle of
wings in the tree-tops and sounds like subdued tittering, as if
fluttering Loves were laughing at the pedestrian.
Pericles now saw the luxuriant enclosure of roses, whose perfume had
reached him at a distance. Between the branches he distinctly beheld
the glimmer of that mysterious something, which seemed made up of
purple, gold and a dazzlingly-white robe. Approaching, he succeeded in
obtaining a better view of the arbor.
Amid this luxurious display of roses a most charming scene appeared
before his eyes.
Surrounded by a throng of lovely boys, clad in purple garments, with
gold wings fastened on their shoulders, and silver quivers containing
golden arrows hanging by their side, stood a woman’s figure robed in
dazzling white, with a gold girdle around her waist, twined with
garlands of roses. Pericles could not see the fair face distinctly; for
just as he approached the little gods of love were vying with each
other in weaving rose-wreaths around the woman’s head, breast, nay her
whole figure, till she almost disappeared beneath them. Pericles
thought of the legend his Milesian host had related, that in this grove
the goddess Aphrodite sometimes appeared in bodily form, and was not
disinclined to take this beauty, half buried under roses, for a
divinity.
After the golden-winged boys had completely entwined her slender figure
with roses, they drew her gently by them to a couch of flowers, firmly
fastened the ends of the garlands to the stems and branches of the
bushes, and then dancing in sportive mirth around the captive, pelted
her with blossoms gathered from the drooping boughs of the thick hedge.
At sight of the stranger, the little Loves ran laughing away, leaving
the prisoner alone. Pericles entered the arbor, and the captive begged
the new-comer to release her.
Pericles broke one of the chains, pushed aside the roses which covered
the fair one’s head and face, and his eyes met the radiant glance of
Aspasia.
His first feeling was that of unutterable joy. But the next instant
amazement that such a surprise should be prepared for him asserted
itself. Already a question concerning the circumstances, which had
rendered so unexpected a meeting possible hovered on his lips.
But Aspasia, shaking off the rose-chains, now rose, saying in the
bewitching accents of her silvery voice:
“Know, my dear Pericles, that I too, like Socrates, have my demon,
which in decisive moments, whispers to me not only what I am to leave
undone, but what I must do. When your last letter from Samos reached
me, containing the news that peace had been concluded, of Theodota’s
arrival, and your intended journey to Miletus, this demon instantly
commanded me to go on board a ship without delay and seek you in Samos,
or if you were not there, at Miletus. Perhaps the demon wished to
bestow on me the double happiness of not seeing Miletus without you,
and meeting you in my native city. I came here, applied to your host
Artemidorus, heard of the surprises the beautiful Theodota wished to
prepare for you in this grove of Aphrodite, and the arrangements
already made with the assistance of the generous Artemidorus; but
thought it advisable, after a secret agreement with the latter, to
undertake the part Theodota intended to play. So you must attribute it
to Artemidorus, that the gods of love delivered me, instead of
Theodota, fettered into your hands.”
“You have made the legend of Aphrodite’s appearance in this grove
true,” replied Pericles; “to me you are the goddess of love, the
goddess of happiness, and above all, permit me to add, the goddess of
surprises.”
“Can there be happiness without surprises?” cried Aspasia.
Confidential conversation detained the pair some time in this beautiful
spot. Like all lovers, after a long separation, they had a thousand
things to say.
But when kisses threatened to supplant words, and twilight began to
close in, the Loves again sprang out of the bushes and made a feint of
binding Pericles also with the fresh garlands they had woven.
“Beware of these little fellows!” said Aspasia. “It is time to go and
bid each other farewell for to-day. Your way is longer than mine; for
Artemidorus has given me for a residence that charming little
summer-house. It is only a few paces from here, but the thick myrtles
half conceal it. I shall go there. But you, my dear Pericles, can
return to Artemidorus, your friend Hipponicus, and the beautiful
Theodota, the bright-eyed Corinthian.”
At these words the little cupids burst into a merry laugh, weaving
their chains still closer around Pericles. The latter joined them, and
at last even Aspasia herself shared their mirth, while the Loves wound
themselves, Aspasia and Pericles into a laughing group, which fettered
by roses and drawn gently onward by the tiny sprites, vanished amid the
rose and myrtle bushes, while the stillness of night spread over the
deserted grove, and only the nightingales sang and the flowers exhaled
their perfume.
Pericles found a sweeter happiness with Aspasia, than he would have
enjoyed with the bright-eyed Corinthian.
The most blissful hour of love is not the one when an impassioned pair
first pour forth their feelings, but the time of meeting after a long
separation. The first embrace is like the flame of green wood—not
without thick smoke and violent crackling; but when lovers meet again
the fire of joy blazes high, clear and undimmed.
When Pericles and Aspasia walked hand in hand next morning through the
dewy garden, they looked like two beautiful human flowers, freshly
sprinkled with glittering dew. The love in their hearts could no more
be exhausted, than the sweet melodies in the throats of the song-birds,
or the perfume so lavishly exhaled from the opening roses.
They ascended one of the little heights, which afforded a wide view of
city, sea, and shore, the meadows of the Mæander, with the palms, pink,
laurel, and agnus castus on its winding banks, blue Latmus in the
distance, and the lake of Biblis, with bright-hued water-birds
fluttering above its rushes. But Pericles let his gaze wander over the
battlements of the city, rest a moment on the proud Athenian triremes
lying in the harbor, and then rove farther away to the spot where,
veiled in mist, lay Samos, the place where he had spent a year of his
life in manly toil for his native land. Then his eyes returned to the
beautiful city, and he praised the bright, luxurious splendor of its
appearance, the gay, vivacious temperament of its inhabitants.
“Yes, Miletus is beautiful and her inhabitants are joyous,” replied
Aspasia. “But patriots remember the time when she was not only wealthy
and luxurious, but proud and independent, when she sent out her
colonies to the distant coasts of Pontus. That time has fled. Miletus
is no longer independent and bows before mighty Athens.”
“You utter these words almost bitterly,” replied Pericles smiling, “but
consider, that if Miletus were not Athenian, she would be Persian. It
was not your kindred Hellenes who destroyed her power, but the Persian,
when he overran these coasts. Nay, if the Athenians had not fought at
Salamis and Marathon, a Persian satrap would now be ruling here in
Miletus as well as in Sardis. Don’t be angry with the Athenian fleet,
which extends its arm protectingly over this coast.”
“Then instead of bearing the Athenian ill-will, I must gratefully kiss
his forehead?” said Aspasia.
She pressed a kiss on Pericles’ forehead as she spoke, and the latter
answered:
“Your golden-winged Cupids avenged Miletus yesterday on the commander
of the powerful Athenian fleet.”
“Don’t repent devoting a week of your active life to the Milesian
strand,” said Aspasia. “Honor the place, which is not only the home of
the most luxuriant roses and softest wool, but also famed for
possessing the most beautiful tales. Could there be anything dearer to
loving hearts than our Milesian fable of Cupid and Psyche?”
“You are right,” replied Pericles; “but,” he continued with a
mischievous smile, “to the best of my knowledge, it was also in this
zone that the story of the ‘widow of Ephesus’ was—”
“Whose meaning,” interrupted Aspasia, “according to the usual
understanding of it, is that women are faithless, wavering, disloyal?
But it is a poor story, which permits only one interpretation, contains
only one truth. Let me take the Ephesian widow under my protection. She
was faithless only to the dead husband. Love is so associated with
life, that love and faith extending beyond the grave, existence bound
up with a corpse, is a chimera. The bloodless shades of Hades ought not
to be permitted to feed on the blood of the living.”
Such was the conversation between the pair. Then Artemidorus came,
addressing jesting reproaches to Aspasia for detaining his guest, and
after inviting them to a collation, conveyed them in a dainty chariot
drawn by white horses to the far-famed temple of Apollo, which stood at
some distance from the city, and the precincts of the temple of Cypris
on the flat land near the sea-shore, surrounded by reeds, over which
yellow halcyon birds hovered. They drove along the beautiful coast, and
on the way back entered a boat to be rowed over the deep blue waves to
a richly-wooded island, which Artemidorus’ slaves instantly transformed
into a little paradise, spreading soft, gay carpets and offering every
kind of delicious refreshment.
Artemidorus now resigned the care of his guest entirely to Aspasia, and
his reverence for Pericles, as well as the lavish generosity natural to
him, induced him to give his fair countrywoman all the external
assistance she could need, to spice the idyllic solitude of the myrtle
grove with the ever-varying charms devised by a love exhaustless in its
inventive power.
Aspasia used this assistance as freely as the power with which nature
herself, even more lavish than the wealthy Artemidorus, had endowed her
in her charming character, skilled in the exercise of every spell.
The loftiest and most ennobling pleasures of both mind and senses were
enjoyed by these two souls, so favored by the gods. Pericles had
created and executed much that was great, Aspasia had inspired many
beautiful and imperishable things, by casting the kindling sparks of
her intellect and beauty in every direction. But the most beautiful and
lofty deed performed by both, was in loving and being happy—happy as no
dull-minded clods, but only those natures akin to immortals, can be.
The things they inspired, created, performed, might please mortals; but
the Olympians themselves looked down upon their love-life with
satisfaction. To realize the idea of human happiness in the joy of life
and love, seemed even to themselves, during these halcyon days at
Miletus, the best part of their destiny.
Indeed, Pericles and Aspasia were enjoying for the first time the
happiness of their love. The latter’s magic hand had created the most
beautiful asylum of undisturbed solitude, a refuge even fairer and more
secluded than the grove and summer-house. The flat, open roof of the
house, above which rustled the tops of lofty pines and cypresses, had
been transformed into a pleasure-garden. Blossoming bushes, and flowers
swaying on lofty stems, surrounded the edge of this asylum, secluding
it from the gaze of the outside world, and purple linen curtains could
be drawn at will in the shape of a tent over the whole terrace. Thus
shut out from the world, the lovers spent blissful hours in this
blossoming asylum, accessible to themselves alone. Here they enjoyed
the retirement of a secluded room, without its oppressive heat; they
had the free air above and were fanned by the sweet, fragrant,
refreshing breezes of the grove. The loneliness of the myrtles, the
solitude of the house did not suffice; like tender doves they fluttered
to the roof, a retired spot amid the blue air, where only winged
creatures could follow—doves, peacocks, twittering and singing-birds.
Here they rested amid the flowers, here Aspasia sang the songs of the
poets, which gained a wondrous charm from her lips, here, singing to
the accompaniment of her lute, she ensnared Pericles in the silvery net
of her tones, the magic of her caressing voice, here she related
charming Milesian tales, here they chatted together, sometimes as
foolishly as children, sometimes as wisely as grey-bearded
philosophers. Here they could draw the purple curtains around them and,
steeped like gods in rosy Olympian light, breathe, transfigured in the
purple dusk. Or they could allow the bright sunlight to pour in from
above, and Pericles beholding Aspasia’s face and limbs steeped in a
white radiance, over which the reflections of the green bushes
flickered with magical effect, gazed at her in amazement, as if he saw
some ethereal vision.
Aspasia, according to the Milesian custom, sometimes wore purple,
sometimes sea-blue, flame-color, or crocus-yellow. She liked to appear
before her friend in different costumes, borrowed garb, bearing,
expression, character, now from one, and now from another goddess or
heroine, and at Pericles’ request executed dances, corresponding with
these varying forms, whose artistic charm far surpassed what he had
admired in the beautiful Theodota.
During these transformations, Pericles could not help thinking of the
oracle uttered by Proteus, when he was on his way, though without
knowing it, to find Aspasia. The verse had summoned and invited him to
the fairest happiness:
“Seize it as thou didst seize on me, hold it both firm and close,
So only ’twill be thine for aye—for fleeting ’tis as fair.”
“I shall have to hold you fast, like the prophetic changing Proteus,
that you too may not escape from me in some one of your
transformations!” said Pericles, jestingly.
“How will you manage to hold me?” asked the Milesian.
“That I hope to hear from yourself!” replied Pericles.
“Perhaps, according to Athenian custom, in a strongly-barred cage?”
“What cage do you mean?” asked Pericles.
“The cage you men call the women’s apartment in your houses,” replied
Aspasia.
“Telesippes may perhaps be secured in these cages, but not Aspasias,”
answered Pericles, after a short pause.
The Milesian’s sole reply was a smile.
She was satisfied with having uttered a word, which might be left to
produce its effect in Pericles’ mind.
One day Artemidorus and Pericles chanced to discuss Aspasia in the
latter’s absence.
“Legends and histories of all ages,” said Artemidorus, “mention plenty
of heroes, who for a longer or shorter period have fallen into the
power of beautiful women. The fair nymph Calypso detained Ulysses years
in her grotto. Dido understood how to win the pious Æneas, and spiteful
Omphale even bound the strongest of the strong for a time to her
distaff. None of these women, however, knew how to fetter forever the
men they had won; their charm grew weak, the chains broke, the wearied
hero took his rusty sword or forgotten club out of the corner, repaired
his half-decayed vessel, and with a hasty farewell left the beauty for
new adventures. So Aspasia’s charm would doubtless also fade, if you
were obliged to remain always with her in this peaceful asylum.”
“Certainly,” said Pericles, “if Aspasia were Theodota, if she possessed
nothing save her exquisite physical charms. But there is something
else, which might well bind a lover forever. I am not speaking of the
means employed by ordinary women, who think they attain this object by
prudish reserve, or the anxiety, doubts and difficulties they cause
their lovers, ere yielding them possession of their hearts. There are,
however, certain favored women, who bind their lovers still more firmly
in spite of the boundless devotion which wrecks the happiness of
ordinary fair ones, nay even by this devotion. If I were to name the
unspeakable charm by which they succeed in accomplishing such a thing,
I could call it nothing but the Charis: [5] the wonderful blending of
grace and kindness, insinuating without being intrusive, sunning the
soul like the smile of a god. This, I believe, is the charm Aphrodite
keeps in her golden girdle. A thousand little clouds rise in the sky of
all lovers, this alone can banish them—all shadows disappear in the
radiance of this sparkling, smiling charm. Its breath softens all
harshness and asperity. Everything will be permitted, everything will
be pardoned, because it inflicts no wounds without instantly healing
them. Aspasia possesses this grace of soul, this girdle of Aphrodite,
and by its power alone sportively baffles all Theodota’s efforts; for I
know women, and am aware how rare, how unique a thing is the skill
Aspasia possesses.”
“I understand you perfectly,” replied Artemidorus, “I have often felt
what you express. The test of a woman and her power is not the pleasure
she bestows, but the way in which she knows how to fill the pauses in a
honeymoon.”
“Aspasia understands how to make some glittering spark of her intellect
flash every moment, like a rocket or a shining soap-bubble, something
that must be caught, and thus wings the dragging hours. She does all
this without effort, constraint, or artificiality, does it because it
is natural to her, and for this reason its effect is irresistible. The
honeymoon of a woman, whose intellect is dull, is filled with sensual
pleasure blended with mortal weariness; that which affords the sweetest
and most lasting enjoyment proceeds only from the soul.”
The day that Pericles was to return with his two vessels to Samos,
whence he intended to pay a short visit to Chios, approached. The
reception given him by the Milesians had made it easy for him to
execute the plans which had brought him to Miletus, so he had devoted
only the smallest portion of his leisure to political transactions, and
spent the remainder in the enjoyment of his secret happiness.
Hospitable Artemidorus gave the departing Athenian commander a banquet,
at which Aspasia was also present.
At this entertainment Pericles said to his host:
“It is no marvel, that the secret charm of this region has seized upon
me also, and I have yielded almost unconsciously for nearly a week to
happy idleness. It is evident, that the Greeks of this coast dwell near
the warm-blooded Phœnicians, who first worshipped the goddess of love,
and the Cyprian isle that afforded this voluptuous goddess the first
resting-place on her victorious progress from the Sidonian bay to
Hellas. While from the south the festal enthusiasm of the Cyprian gods
reaches you, from the north, on the heights of Tmolus, the bacchanalian
revelry of Dionysus and his divine nurse Rhea forces itself upon you.
Thus you are encircled and washed by the surges of the festal mirth of
these gods of joy; like milk from distended udders, the dew of luxury
falls upon you from the cornucopia of these gods and the thousand
breasts of Artemis. The horrible fanatical orgies of the Tmolus are
probably not known to you Milesians merely by hearsay. I should be
surprised, if curiosity had not urged one or another of you to venture
near that mysterious spot in neighboring Lydia, and though perhaps at a
timid distance, watch the fury of the Corybantes.”
Artemidorus’ face darkened and a faint sigh escaped his lips, which
made Pericles glance at him in surprise and almost perplexity.
“Fate once led me there,” replied his host, “and I would willingly tell
you what I saw and experienced, if there were not so many sorrowful
associations connected with these memories.”
His words increased Pericles’ interest and Artemidorus, noticing it,
continued:
“I see I must speak, even against my will, and give my embarrassment
the vindication your features seem to demand, so listen:
“Only a few years ago I called the most charming youth in Miletus my
son. He was endowed with every gift of mind and body, but also
possessed a soaring imagination that knew no curb, and a soul easily
kindled to enthusiasm. There has never been any lack of youths in this
city, who have had their curiosity excited by tales of the frantic
orgies on the Tmolus, and many a lad has escaped from his watchful
parents to join the mad ranks; nay there were times when this impulse
seemed to spread like a sort of contagion. I considered how I could
best avert a similar delusion from my susceptible Chrysanthes. As I had
feared, he too soon showed symptoms of being attacked by this disease.
The time of the Lydian festival was approaching. Chrysanthes became
silent and thoughtful, his cheeks paled, and he looked as if he were
consumed by some secret, feverish impatience. I had determined to treat
him like a prisoner, appoint guards who should watch his every step.
But his condition made me fear his escape, and I soon doubted whether
this unsatisfied longing might not cause him to fall into dangerous
melancholy or mortal sickness, and thought it would be more healthful
if I partially gratified his apparently increasing curiosity, but in a
manner destitute of personal danger to him. I told him I would go with
him to the Tmolus myself, and watch the mystic customs of the
Corybantes. In my company, under my immediate care, the youth would be
safe from every danger.
“A journey of several days brought us to our destination. Accompanied
by a slave, who carried provisions for one day, we entered the wooded,
as yet deserted Tmolus, and waited for the moment when the wild horde
of Corybantes from Sardis should ascend the mountain.
“The riotous spring festival had begun several days before by the
felling of the largest pine on the Tmolus, twining it with wreaths
woven from countless violets which grew in the valleys, and then
dragging the garlanded trunk, amid wild revelry, down to the temple of
Cybele, to offer it as a spring sacrifice to the all-producing mother
of the gods.
“The greatest and noisiest part of the festival was yet to come. A dull
roar fell upon our ears, even before we could distinguish the
approaching throng of Corybantes beneath the shade of the woods. At
their approach, we concealed ourselves in the dense bushes to witness
their proceedings.
“The crowd drew nearer, the noise became deafening. Every one of these
Corybantes, many of whom were nude, others only clad in the shaggy skin
of a wild beast fastened around their loins, carried a tympan, which he
beat with all his might, or a noisy cymbal, or blew on a horn; others
had swords and shields in their hands, which they clashed heavily
together. Above all this din of metal and musical instruments, rose the
shrieks or rather roars, that only permitted us to hear fragments of
the jubilant song in honor of the lost youth Attis, the favorite and
messenger of Rhea, who had now been found again. They sang of the lost
and found Attis, but it was really the germinating power of nature,
which had awaked from her long death-sleep, that these men not merely
celebrated, but allowed to seethe within themselves till it rose to a
perfect frenzy. The procession of fanatics was led by priests of
Cybele, who carried in one hand flaming pine-torches, and in the other
sharp, curved knives, which they swung with frenzied glances. A large
phallus [6] was borne in advance. The pace of these men could not be
called a walk, but consisted of wild leaps and bounds, to the
accompaniment of the noisy instruments. The faces of all were flushed,
many swollen and purple, their eyes seemed fairly starting from their
sockets, and not a few were foaming at the mouth. Meantime they
fiercely shook the long locks, principally woven of false hair, which
hung over their temples and gave them a virago-like aspect. Whatever
wild or tame animals had fallen into their hands on the way, were
dragged along with them. A panther was led at the head of the
procession. Some had serpents they had seized, and now handled as
carelessly as if playing with garlands or ribbons.
“While the frantic train was passing, I saw that Chrysanthes’
excitement was constantly increasing. He did not speak, but his face
glowed, his eyes stared fixedly at the mad throng, and he unconsciously
began to imitate some of the gestures the wild revellers were making.
“Not far from the spot, where we were concealed among the bushes, was a
wide level space, overgrown with herbs and surrounded by enormous
pine-trees. Here the procession stopped, not to rest, but to riot still
more furiously. The phallus and the animals dragged along with the
revellers were placed in the midst, and the Corybantes gathered around
them.
“Obeying an encouraging word from the priests, they rushed upon the
panther and the rest of the animals, tore them first with the hands,
then with the teeth, lapped their warm blood, and put the rest of the
bloody flesh on their thyrsus staves as if on spits. Then, amid a
louder roar of drums, cymbals and crashing metals they began to dance
around the phallus, praising the mighty, all-productive mother of the
gods, the ever-living vigor of growth, the inexhaustible power of love
and pleasure, whose statue appeared before the eyes of all.
“The wild beasts fled from the tumult to the most distant valleys; a
frightened lion, running at full speed, burst through the bush close by
us. Indeed the frantic outcries, the smoking blood of the victims, the
blazing torches, and especially the roar of the drums, could not fail
to awaken either fear or the wildest excitement in the breast of every
animal and human being. I almost lost my senses myself. Suddenly
Chrysanthes made an effort to escape. I gazed at him in terror,
perceiving that in his whole appearance he closely resembled these
fanatics. I held him firmly, but developing a giant’s strength in his
youthful limbs, he released himself, and rushing away, sprang over a
cliff so high and steep, that it is a miracle his bones were not
broken—down, down amid those maniacs he leaped, and was swallowed up in
their whirling ranks; as a drop is absorbed in the flood.
“I stood rigid with horror, motionless, almost senseless.
“The frantic dance went on before my giddy eyes. Some fell as if dead,
rose again, and began once more.
“Again the shouts of the most frenzied revellers, accompanied by
strange signs and gestures, rose above the din. When the tumult had
reached its height, several came forward and obtained a hearing for
words, only a few of which reached my ears. They pointed to the
phallus, shouted with excited gestures that the lifeless image on that
pole, according to the sacred ancient custom, must be supplied with the
warm blood of reality, and it well beseemed the most enthusiastic in
the ranks to present their own as a joyful thank-offering to the
all-producing goddess.
“The sharp, crooked knives glittered ominously in the hands of the
priests of Cybele.
“My senses failed, I saw only a confused throng, the most frantic of
whom were wounding, mutilating themselves with the flashing
blades—thought of my Chrysanthes—and fell fainting on the ground.
“When I recovered my senses, the moon had risen and was shining
brightly, the throng of Corybantes had moved on, the roar of the drums
sounded like distant thunder from the depths of the forest.
“I went to Sardis, the residence of the priests of Cybele, because
there I could first hope to learn something of my Chrysanthes’ fate,
receive my lost son.
“And I did receive him: he was brought back to me on a litter made of
pine branches woven together on the Tmolus—wounded, mangled, bleeding.
“The youth, so full of blooming health and beauty lay before my eyes
like the violet-wreathed pine, felled on the Tmolus by the knives of
the Corybantes as a thank-offering to the all-producing goddess.”
Such was Artemidorus’ tale, which greatly shadowed the gayety of the
banquet.
When it was over, Pericles on finding himself alone with Aspasia, said:
“Miletus is beautiful, and Artemidorus’ story will not wholly cloud the
memory of the blissful days the gods have permitted me to spend here.
But I feel it is time to leave this burning strand for the tossing
ship, I shall not breathe freely again till I inhale my native,
invigorating Attic breezes.”