DIOPEITHES AND HIPPARETE.
Aspasia went in disguise on board the ship, which conveyed the Athenian
commander from Miletus to his fleet off Samos. As the trireme passed
out of the harbor into the glittering open sea, the Milesian gazed back
at the blooming Ionian coast. Flocks of cranes and long-necked swans
were flying over the meadows, and flapping their rustling wings,
alighted on the shore. But Aspasia’s glance rested on the vanishing
battlements of her native city. Her soul was full of the proud
consciousness that here, where her eyes first saw the light, she had
sealed the fairest triumph of her life and drawn the magic bond of love
more firmly than ever, nay indissolubly, around the most famous Hellene
of her time. Pericles too looked back at the vanishing strand of Ionia
with sparkling eyes: he was recalling the happy days spent there,
during which his peerless friend, like a feminine Antæus, seemed to
have absorbed a twofold power of charming from contact with her native
soil.
“I could almost lament the departed Milesian honeymoon,” he said; “if I
were not soothed by the thought that I am bearing you away with me as
its fairest spoil.”
“Happiness and love will follow us everywhere,” replied Aspasia; “there
is only one thing we shall leave behind, never perhaps to be
regained—the blissful retirement we enjoyed here, and our beautiful
freedom from all narrowing bonds.”
Pericles bent his head and gazed thoughtfully into vacancy.
“After returning to Athens,” continued Aspasia, “you will again be the
statesman on whose acts all eyes are fixed, an Athenian citizen bound
by the rigid rules of custom, and Telesippe’s husband—while I—I shall
once more be the stranger, the homeless woman protected by no law, I
shall be, as your wife and her friend express it, the hetæra from
Miletus.”
Pericles slowly raised his head and looked her sharply in the face.
“Have you ever desired anything else, Aspasia?” he asked, “have you not
constantly derided marriage as slavery, and mocked at the women’s
apartment as a prison?”
“I don’t remember, Pericles, that you ever gave me the opportunity to
decide whether I preferred the position of the hetæra, or that of the
Athenian wife.”
“And if I should,” replied Pericles, “if I offered you the choice, what
would be your answer?”
“I should tell you, that I would choose neither, that I will
voluntarily be neither a hetæra, nor an Athenian’s wife.”
Pericles was perplexed.
“An Athenian’s wife?” he repeated; “so you do not disdain every
matrimonial tie, but merely the Athenian one; tell me, where is the
ideal of the marriage-bond you approve to be found in the world?”
“I don’t know,” replied Aspasia; “I believe it has no existence, but I
cherish it in my heart.”
“And what would be necessary to realize your ideal?”
“If there is to be marriage,” replied Aspasia, “it must be founded on
the law of freedom and the law of love.”
“And what can I do to realize this ideal with you?” replied Pericles.
“You must grant me all the rights of a wife, without depriving me of
any of those you have hitherto bestowed upon the object of your love.”
“You wish me to repudiate Telesippe and install you in her place as
mistress of my house? I understand that, but the remainder of your
demand is vague. What do you mean by the rights, of which I must not
deprive you?”
“Above all, that of acknowledging no law between ourselves save that of
love,” replied Aspasia. “Then I shall be your equal, as the woman you
love, not a slave, like the wife. You are the master of the house, but
not mine; you must be content with the sacrifice of my heart, without
fettering my mind and condemning me to dull inactivity in the solitude
of the women’s apartment.”
“So you will offer me your heart,” said Pericles, “but the charm and
influence of your mind must be common property as before? You will not
give up the pleasure of remaining in contact with everything, that can
excite your imagination and occupy your intellect.”
“Even so!” cried Aspasia.
“If we wished to attempt such a bond, do you know whether the essay
would be possible, viewed not merely from the stand-point of custom,
but also from that of love.”
“If it seems to you impossible, who compels us to form it?” replied
Aspasia smiling, as she bestowed a tender kiss on her friend and began
to speak of other things. The trip to Samos was quickly made. After
Pericles had given certain orders for the guidance of the fleet, he
again went on board a trireme to set sail for Chios.
“What,” cried Aspasia jestingly, “have you so great a desire to see the
fair one, who was once the object of your love and now, so far as I am
aware, lives with the poet Ion at Chios?”
Pericles smiled as if at a jest.
This time Sophocles accompanied Pericles, and was no little surprised
to meet the Milesian in her old disguise on the ship.
She was once more the charming youth, whose secret was disclosed only
to a few. At Chios, the land of the finest grapes that ripened under
the Greek sky, and whose inhabitants were called the richest people in
all Hellas, lived Ion, a native of Chios, who had won many a laurel at
Athens with his tragedies. True, he was said to have gained the favor
of the citizens by means of several casks of Chian wine, which he
distributed among the people at the performance of his first tragedy.
He was one of the wealthiest men in Chios, as this generosity proves,
and as such possessed considerable political influence in his native
island.
Ion had not been on good terms with Pericles, since the two men were
rivals for the charming Chrysilla’s favor, and the poet still remained
unfriendly, though the fair one had at last become his and followed the
rich man to his own country. Pericles regretted this lingering enmity
in the mind of his former rival; for it was his mission to obtain from
the Chians some by no means unimportant concessions to Athens, and now
could not help fearing that the influential Ion might oppose him out of
personal dislike.
Sophocles undertook to effect a reconciliation between Ion and
Pericles, and no one was so well suited by nature to act as mediator as
the amiable, universally-popular author of “Antigone.” His appeal to
his fellow-artist succeeded so admirably, that the latter instantly
invited Pericles to come to his house with Sophocles, and considered it
an honor to entertain the two Athenian commanders.
Pericles could only remain in Chios from one morning till the next, and
after having devoted the greater part of the day to political business,
prepared, accompanied by Sophocles, to accept Ion’s invitation.
But the pair did not go to Ion’s house alone.
Aspasia had insisted upon following her friend, in the disguise of a
slave, and thus remaining near him ready to render any service, after
the custom of the slaves who attended their masters.
The Milesian’s secret design was to make the meeting between Pericles
and the beautiful Chrysilla harmless, by diverting their attention from
each other. Pericles consented to the disguise, attributing its motive
to a pardonable curiosity to see Chrysilla.
Ion occupied a country estate in the most charming location of the
sea-shore, where the land rose first abruptly, then in a gentle ascent,
surrounded by sunny vineyards, full of the ripening gift of Bacchus.
He led his guests out upon a terrace, situated on a rocky promontory
washed by the waves, and roofed with interlacing vines, from which hung
tempting clusters of Chian grapes, between which the eye was afforded a
charming view of the glittering sea and blooming neighboring islands.
Conducting his guests to this lovely spot, after their eyes were
satisfied with gazing at the beautiful prospect, he invited them to
recline on soft cushions and entertained them with delicious viands.
The finest wine was poured into silver drinking-cups.
Chrysilla was present, still as blooming as a rose, though the
roundness of her limbs had developed, during her stay in Chios, into
such plumpness that the Athenians’ delicate taste missed perfect
symmetry. She resembled a proud, full-blown rose; but the rose is only
the most voluptuous and fragrant, not the fairest of flowers.
Ion, who was really a man of pleasant temper, gay and fond of
amusement, received Pericles in a friendly manner and with unfeigned
cordiality. He drained the beaker, in which foamed the most fiery
liquor of his casks, to the health of Pericles and his famous
companion, Sophocles. But when Ion was about to bestow enthusiastic
praise on the two men and the success obtained before Samos, Sophocles
declined to accept any share of the eulogy, saying that all the credit
belonged to his friend Pericles.
“Yet,” he continued, turning to Ion and some of the aristocratic
citizens of Chios, whom the latter had invited to the banquet, “you
would be wrong, if in Pericles you principally admired the statesman
and soldier. News of the fame of his enterprises and creations goes
through all Hellas, but rumor speaks only of those qualities, which
attract attention and make a noise in the world. I, on the contrary,
since our companionship in the battles before Samos, can say more of
his nobler, less conspicuous virtues. You know of the victories he
gained there, but you do not know that when each of the fifty Samians,
whom he sent as hostages to Lemnos, secretly offered him a talent for
his release, he rejected these proposals, as well as the sums with
which the Persian satrap sought to bribe him. Others will tell you how
many hostile ships he sunk, how many enemies he has slain—but I will
speak of the lives he spared from compassion, his efforts to save the
blood of his own troops. I have often heard him say jestingly to the
soldiers, that if it depended upon him they should live forever. He
invented ‘iron hands’ for his ships, that those of flesh and bone might
be spared. You know he is a hero in the hours of strife; but I tell you
that in the hours of repose he is a philosopher, and whenever there was
leisure in the camp explained to his warriors the various phenomena of
wind, weather, and eclipses of the sun and moon, till many thought him
a sorcerer. Of his learning and vigor in philosophy they have so high
an opinion, that many now assert he defeated the Samian commander
Melissus, a well-known philosopher, less by his skilful strategy than
by murderous syllogisms. There was no man more gentle, no man more
severe, no one more feared, no one more beloved in the camp than he, no
one more silent when speech was superfluous, and no one more eloquent
when it was necessary. I wanted to tell you this about Pericles, that
you may praise the noble, excellent man, not always the soldier and
naval hero. Though he deserves commendation in the latter characters,
it should not be unconditional, since, as I hear, after doing well
before Samos, he behaved far less bravely at Miletus, nay almost forgot
his fleet and duties as commanding-general, and lay at anchor in that
bay several days longer than was necessary, which I consider an error
in strategy.”
Ion and the other listeners smiled at the conclusion of Sophocles’
speech, but Pericles instantly replied:
“My fellow-commander and friend wishes to persuade you to number me
among the philosophers, rather than the great commanders. Gladly would
I, in order not to return like with like, assert on the contrary, that
he should be included among the great commanders rather than the
philosophers; but the fact is too apparent for concealment, that he is
in the same situation as myself: namely, he doesn’t understand too much
about generalship and matters pertaining to naval life. He will find it
easier all his life, to impress upon his mind the names of all the
nereids of the sea, than those of the various parts of a well-built
Athenian trireme. But during this expedition he composed a magnificent
pæan to Asclepius, which is sung on the whole fleet and, as all the
steersmen and rowers declare, rendered us most excellent service during
storms at sea. Even as his pæan soothed the waves and made the gods
favorably disposed towards the sea-voyage, his whole nature is like
oil, that soothes all harshness, smooths all excitement. The men on his
ship do what is right, even if he gives a wrong order, and think him a
man beloved by the gods, though inexperienced in naval affairs. If
anything escapes my lips which people consider wise, they believe I
obtained it from the philosopher Anaxagoras; but when Sophocles opens
his mouth, all are convinced that the gods themselves suggested in a
dream what he says. Such, men of Chios, is the nature of my
fellow-commander Sophocles. I meant to have praised him and should
thank the gods, if the eulogy he poured forth on me were as well
deserved, as that I bestow on him in these words.”
Thus, excited by the fiery spirit of Bacchus and concealing cordial
feeling under the mask of graceful jest, the two Athenian commanders
praised each other before the gay company, beneath the clusters of
grapes on Ion’s beautiful sea-terrace.
“It is enough to make me blush,” said Ion, “to see men like Pericles
and Sophocles, who are occupied in great things and toiling incessantly
for the public welfare, while I myself live in seclusion, devoted
wholly to the pleasures of existence and the Muses. Yet I think, in
addition to praiseworthy and beautiful action, there is also a
praiseworthy and beautiful leisure. I have chosen the latter.”
“Surely a leisure, which produces beautiful fruit, must be called
beautiful,” said Sophocles. “The Athenians have not forgotten your
tragedies—”
“Nor your Chian wine!” added Pericles.
“I know,” replied Ion, with a good-humored smile, “you Athenians say I
tried to purchase your applause in the theatre with my wine, but say
whatever you choose, except that the liquor was bad. If you don’t
praise my Chian, you will wound me far more than if you censure my
tragedies.”
“We see these tragic poets possess the gayest temperaments,” said
Pericles, “while in their tragedies they are fond of dealing with the
most sombre and gloomy subjects, being constantly occupied with the
wrath of the gods, ancient curses, hereditary guilt, horrible
dispensations of fate, and similar things.”
“It is precisely because we are gay,” replied Sophocles, “that we
boldly enter upon gloomy themes; we struggle with and would fain
conquer them. We fight bravely with the old blind powers of nature and
destiny, in order to release human affairs, as well as we can, from the
spell of a sinister necessity. In the clear, starry nights I spent on
board of my trireme before Samos, my mind was much occupied with that
suffering old Theban. I followed his course as, urged by despairing
remorse for involuntary guilt, he deprived himself of sight and
wandered forth in exile, but gradually attaining clearness and freedom
of mind, finally shook off guilt and remorse, raised his grey head with
the pride of an innocent man, and from a criminal became the judge of
those who committed crime, not involuntarily and ignorantly like him,
but knowingly; not by the external curse of fate, but by the secret
denial of noble human emotions.”
“What you say, my friend,” replied Ion, “contains your well-known
enthusiasm for your native province, for it was there that your
grey-haired sufferer went to rest.”
“I willingly confess it, and consider it a favorable omen of my duty as
a tragic poet, that these ancient tragic complications should meet
their solution in the province where I was born.”
“Honor your native province,” said Pericles; “but permit me to remind
you that not merely your birthplace, but all Athens is the soil where
old complications are unravelled, old guilt expiated, and ancient
darkness melts away in the presence of the goddess Pallas Athena! On
the gracious soil of Athens, not only the grey-haired sufferer, but the
youth Orestes, lashed by the furies, found deliverance from his curse;
nay you all know the gulf near the unfinished temple of the Olympic
Zeus, and we willingly believe the legend, that the waters of the
Deucalion flood flowed into this abyss.”
During this conversation the sun had set—the wide sea glowed with
crimson light, and the last golden rays illumined the interior of the
vine-wreathed terrace. Ion’s guests eagerly breathed the mild,
refreshing evening breeze blowing over the waves. The host ordered the
beakers to be filled again, and the wine in the silver goblets
sparkled, as if it also mirrored the crimson radiance of the setting
sun.
Pericles would allow his beaker to be filled by no other hand, than
that of the slave he had brought with him. The youth performed his
office of cup-bearer with a grace that did not escape the eyes of Ion,
the fair Chrysilla, and the other guests, whose attention had already
been attracted by the beauty of his features. The slave seemed to also
consider it his duty to pour wine for Sophocles, a service the latter
smilingly accepted with evident satisfaction.
“The cup-bearer you have brought has but one fault, Pericles,” said he.
“What is that?” asked Pericles.
“He is in such a hurry to offer the goblet,” replied the poet, “I would
prefer he should linger a little, to allow us to look into his eyes,
which seem to me well worthy of notice.”
The youth blushed, as he saw the gaze of the whole company directed
upon him by this speech. Sophocles smiled at his embarrassment, and
cried in the words of an old poet:
“How beautiful, on purple cheeks, the light of Eros shines!”
“What do you say to those lines by Phrynicus? How do you like the
purple cheeks?”
“Not at all,” replied the youth, who had quickly regained his
composure. “It seems to me poets praise things in their verses, which
they wouldn’t consider by any means beautiful in reality. I think a
cheek painted with actual purple, would be hideous—”
“What?” cried Sophocles, “then you probably would not admire the rosy
fingers of Eos in Homer?”
“Certainly not!” replied the young slave. “If my fingers were as red as
roses, my master Pericles would think I had soiled them, and command me
to wash my hands.”
“Would that all critics were slaves like you!” cried Sophocles.
Pericles laughingly rallied him with having at last found his judge.
Many jests were thus bandied to and fro, while glances animated with
the fire of Dionysus flitted hither and thither, and meantime invisible
Cupids kindled a harmless little interchange of jealousy. Pericles
thought his friend Sophocles guarded the fair slave’s secret too
little, while the latter seemed to perform the office of cup-bearer to
the poet with greater zeal than was necessary. Aspasia, on the other
hand, fancied she had noticed that Chrysilla’s eyes met Pericles’ gaze
very frequently, and the latter sometimes allowed his glance to linger
on the well-rounded limbs of Ion’s friend. But this state of affairs
soon changed. Chrysilla had really sought Pericles’ eyes, from pure
feminine desire to learn whether she had wholly lost her power over the
man, who once paid homage to her charms. But the handsome slave, who
attracted all eyes, could not long fail to gain her notice, especially
as he seemed resolved to lavish his most ardent glances on Chrysilla.
Thus he at last succeeded in fixing her eyes almost exclusively upon
himself. In this endeavor he was assisted by Sophocles.
Ion had at first watched the interchange of words and looks between
Pericles and Chrysilla with a slight feeling of discomfort, and was no
better satisfied when his friend’s attention was diverted to the
stranger; but gave her also some occasion for anxiety, by showing the
almost mysterious influence exerted upon him by the vivacious intellect
and beauty of this very youth.
Fresh goblets were brought. As Sophocles received his from the handsome
cup-bearer, he looked sharply at the edge, then turning to the slave,
said:
“I must complain, for the first time, that you do not perform the
duties of your office with sufficient care. I see a little speck on the
brim of this glass, which you have neglected to wipe away.”
The youth was about to pass his finger lightly over the spot where the
little speck rested, to brush it off.
“Such things ought not to be touched with the finger, but must be
lightly blown away with the breath.” He held the goblet towards the
youth, who smilingly stooped to blow off the speck as the poet desired.
But the latter held it in such a way, that the slave was obliged to
bend his head as near his as possible, so that the golden-brown hair
almost glittered on his breast. He breathed the intoxicating perfume
rising from it, felt a light touch on his cheek, as the head was bent
and raised again, and touched his lips to the very spot on the brim of
the goblet, that the rosy mouth had brushed.
Pericles had noticed this incident with a watchful eye. “Friend
Sophocles,” said he, “I didn’t know you were so excessively particular,
as to make such an ado over a tiny speck.”
“Rather confess,” replied Sophocles, with a smile of satisfaction,
“that you now see you were mistaken in pointing me out before all this
company, as a very poor strategist and tactician. But calm yourself, I
have obtained the satisfaction I desired, and promise to rest content
with this little proof of my capabilities.”
He held out his hand to Pericles, who warmly pressed it.
The shadows fell, but the clinking of the drinking-cups and the sounds
of animated conversation echoed from Ion’s sea-washed terrace until far
into the night. The crimson glow had gradually faded from the waves,
but still sparkled in the refilled, foaming beakers of Chian wine.
Strangely enough, Pericles’ handsome, vivacious, ready-witted
cup-bearer had at last become the centre of the whole circle. Every one
wanted his goblet filled only by his hand, every one sought to catch a
glance from his sparkling eye, a sportive word from his lips. When
Chrysilla expressed a wish for a particularly beautiful bunch of
grapes, that hung from the espalier, the ever-agile and willing
cup-bearer hastened to pluck and offer it to the lady. Chrysilla
blushed, blushed in the presence of the slave—and no one marvelled. Ion
did not approve, but thought it perfectly intelligible. Thus at last
everything revolved around the disguised Milesian. Though she made a
jesting pretense of serving, she ruled.
Finally Ion, who had used his delicious wine no more sparingly than had
his guests, asked Pericles if he would not sell this slave?
“No,” replied Pericles, “I intend to give him his freedom, and will do
so now—this very hour. He shall have worn these clothes for the last
time. Here, before your eyes, I grant him his liberty.”
All present enthusiastically praised this resolution. Beakers were
drained to the cup-bearer’s health, and his liberation was sealed with
the juice of the finest grapes.
But one in Ion’s gay company, Pericles himself, had at last become
grave and thoughtful.
“You pronounced my release with a solemnity, that was noticed even by
those who knew it to be a jest,” said Aspasia smiling, as they were on
their way home from Ion’s.
“It was no jest,” replied Pericles; “it is my wish that you never again
use a masculine disguise, never again humiliate yourself.”
“I am curious to learn how you will spare the stranger, the so-called
hetæra from Miletus, from humiliating herself.”
“You will learn,” said Pericles.
The next morning the Athenian commander returned to Samos, and without
delay ordered the fleet to prepare to set sail the following day for
the homeward voyage to Athens.
This command was hailed with joy, and next morning at daybreak the
victorious Athenian squadron, proudly decked with pennons, sailed out
of the Samian harbor, to the accompaniment of rejoicing songs, into the
open sea, steering westward to return home after an absence of eleven
months.
“I think you conquered at Chios the horror which seized upon you after
Artemidorus’ tale the last evening in Miletus, and did not need, as you
supposed, Attic breezes for the purpose,” said Aspasia to Pericles at
the hour of departure.
“Yet,” replied Pericles in joyous excitement, “my soul is full of
longing for my native shore, and some lines I heard from Sophocles’
lips are continually ringing in my ears:
“Melicertes, son of Ino, and thou, Leucothea, fair
Mistress of the emerald flood, ever swift thine aid to lend,
Daughters of Nereus, Poseidon, and ye, rushing surges, bear
Me on. West wind of Thrace, mildest sea-sovereign, send
Thy messenger to waft me o’er the wide salt waters. There
Is my loved Athens. Gods of the sea, from every peril me defend.”
Favorable winds aided the first day’s voyage, and the islands of the
blue Archipelago were passed under a cloudless sky. This sail through
the Archipelago was full of delight to the lovers. How they enjoyed
gazing over the ship’s side as she cleft the waves, which close at hand
looked meadow-green, but farther out merged into a dazzling blue,
glittering with countless silver sparks under the sunbeams. Sea-gulls
hovered around the mast on their long, white-bordered pinions, and
schools of dolphins followed the shining track of foam left by the keel
in its passage through the water. Gambolling saucily, they beat their
bifurcated tails, rolled in the eddies of the waves, leaped above the
surface and then buried their shining black bodies under the surges.
At nightfall Pericles ordered the fleet to anchor before Tenos. The
monotonous song of the oarsmen died away, and with it the plashing of
the sea furrowed by the keels; stars sparkled in the clear, shining
ether, and in the east the moonlight cast its silver bridge across the
waves.
Pericles stood musing on the vessel’s deck, while all around him sank
into slumber.
A soft, warm hand stole into his.
“Why do you gaze so thoughtfully into the waves?” asked Aspasia. “Are
you longing to see the ambrosial daughters of Nereus, who wander with
rosy feet through the crystal flood?”
The silvery tones of her voice roused the dreamer.
He answered with a kiss, and both began a tender conversation, amid
which, as if lulled into a dream, they gradually beheld in the clear
moonlight, the wide sea peopled with living forms. The daughters of
Nereus rose from the depths, riding on sea-animals, the Tritons pressed
after, sea-trumpeters, blowing hymeneal songs on shells; amidst them
came the sea-nymph Galatea. She raised the purple train of her robe
from the flood, and allowed it, swelled by gentle breezes, to flutter
like a sail.
In the first grey dawn of morning, Pericles and Aspasia suddenly heard
the music of stringed instruments from the distance. It sounded like
the lyre of Orpheus, which, according to ancient legend, when the
singer died, was flung into the sea by the Mænads and borne onward
through the waves of the Ægean, where its notes are sometimes heard by
mariners during a calm, echoing over the tide. The sounds that reached
the lovers’ ears seemed to proceed from the lyre of Orpheus drifting
masterless on the sea, until they noticed that the music came from
Sophocles’ trireme, which passed them as the fleet again began to move
in the first dusk of morning. The friends greeted each other, and
Sophocles accepted Pericles’ invitation to pay him a visit on his ship.
There they talked of Athens, of meeting their friends again, and of the
great Panathenaic festival, which would take place directly after their
return. Aspasia heightened the eagerness with which Pericles and
Sophocles anticipated the surprises Phidias and his assistants, after
working constantly during this long time, would prepare for the
returning soldiers.
When day had fully dawned and the first sunbeams sparkled on the waves,
sacred Delos, the “star of the sea,” the island of Apollo, rose on
their left, shining in the crimson dawn, and kissed by the first rays
of the god to whom it was sacred. Not without secret emotion did
Pericles gaze at the ancient, revered island pearl of the Archipelago.
He thought of the day when, like a gift of the god, the rich golden
treasure floated from this isle to Athens. Nor would the sailors allow
the island beloved by the god to be passed unhonored. From the lofty
decks of the whole Athenian fleet a loud pæan to Apollo, the patron
divinity of the Ionian race, echoed loudly over the wide sea, sparkling
in the light of morning.
But from this time the songs and shouts on the ships never died away,
joyous excitement everywhere prevailed, for to-day the crews were to
reach their native strand, and the nearer they approached the desired
shore, the more swiftly the triremes, urged by swelling sails and
doubly vigorous oar-strokes, seemed to rush through their liquid road.
Hours elapsed, Tenos and Andros were already far behind. Veiled in
light, silvery mists, the heights of Eubœa appeared northward above
Ceos. At the left, in large, bold, rugged outlines, surrounded by the
same silvery vapor, rose the pine-covered mountains of Ægina. A
delicate rime seemed to cover everything.
Between the two islands, jutting far outward and girdled in the
background by a range of noble heights, the coast of Attica rose from
the waves.
Countless eyes sought it—it was hailed with joyful emotion. But
distance at sea is deceptive. The sun was low in the west before the
fleet gained the wave-washed promontory of Sunium, towering steeply
upward, with the marble temple of Pallas, supported by columns,
gleaming on its lovely shining height.
The Athenian fleet swept in a wide curve around this southern cape of
Attica, entering the magnificent Saronic Gulf, on whose right was their
native strand and the beckoning battlements of Athens, on the left the
mountains of the Peloponnesus, behind which the sun was setting. Both
near and distant objects glittered through a golden, rosy mist. The
mountain heights and the air above them, the sea and the ships, were
all suffused in the magical light of the last hour of day. Everything
was gleaming in purple and gold except at the southwest, where a black
cloud had gathered. Suddenly it burst like a sheaf of fire, and the
mountains of Argos stood wrapped in crimson flames. Calm and grand, the
heights that crowned Athens rose opposite to them on the right—the long
ridge of Hymettus, the pyramidal summit of Pentelicus, the bold rocky
dome of Lycabettus.
Now, surrounded by the city, appeared the sacred height of the
Acropolis, so dear to every Athenian. All eyes turned towards it. But
the holy summit was changed. White marble pinnacles, strange to the
long-absent soldiers, gleamed through the light veil of mist in the
last rays of the setting sun.
This time the Athenian sailor did not gaze from his vessel’s deck
towards the glittering head and shining spear of the colossal statue of
Athena, all eyes on the returning fleet were fixed on the new,
glittering white pinnacles, which flashed through the dusk on the
summit of the Acropolis.
A loud shout rang from ship to ship.
“The Parthenon! The Parthenon!”
At the very hour, that the eyes of the returning victors were fixed
upon the height of the Acropolis, a secret and almost miraculous event
was transpiring in the venerable Erechtheum, opposite to the proud
pinnacles of the new Parthenon.
The greatest and most magnificent festival of the Athenians, the
Panathenaic, celebrated once in every three years, was approaching. At
this festival, according to ancient custom, a beautifully-woven carpet,
the so-called peplos, was offered to the revered Athena Polias, the
protecting goddess of Athens. This peplos was woven on the Acropolis
itself, in the sanctuary of Athena Polias, which was connected with the
Erechtheum. Four young girls, scarcely beyond childhood, chosen from
the most aristocratic families, made this sacred peplos, living within
the precincts of the temple on the Acropolis, and following many
another sacred custom connected with the ancient and somewhat
mysterious worship in the Erechtheum. On a certain night, not long
before the Panathenaic festival, two of these young girls were selected
to carry into a rock grotto, near the Ilissus, through a secret
subterranean passage, something no one was permitted to see, and which
it was said not even the priests knew, bringing back to the sanctuary
of Athena Polias something equally unknown and mysterious.
Among the young girls selected this year for the office of
arrephori—the name given to the chosen virgins—was Hipponicus’ little
daughter Hipparete, whose budding charms and modest manners her father
had praised when, at the banquet given in honor of the victory, he
suggested to Pericles the idea of forming a marriage-tie between this
lovely child and the charming boy Alcibiades. In fact Hipparete was the
very ideal of a real Athenian maiden, a rose-bud not yet opened, who
with all her childishness, showed traces of a thoughtful, dignified
character.
Hipparete now lived on the Acropolis, with the playmates who had also
been summoned to render the same service to the goddess. The young
girls were treated as if they belonged to the temple. There was even a
special place, where they were allowed to amuse themselves in playing
ball. The priestess of Athena Polias exercised a certain supervision
over them, but as the sanctuary of this goddess was connected with the
Erechtheum, the young girls also lived under the eye of Diopeithes,
beside whom the priestess of Athena Polias was a mere insignificant
shadow.
He gave all the maidens frequent directions and exhortations; but
talked most frequently to Hipponicus’ little daughter, seemed to bestow
special favor upon her, and always praised her more than any of the
others. He often engaged her in long conversations concerning her
father, his domestic affairs, and the guests who came to his house.
Hipparete answered with the frankness of a child, and when he once
jestingly asked if her father had chosen her future husband, gravely
replied that he wished to betroth her to Pericles’ young ward,
Alcibiades.
“Pericles’ ward?” cried Diopeithes, the pleasant expression his
features wore suddenly changing to a sullen, sneering one.
The priest’s hostility towards Pericles, and all whom he regarded as
companions, advisers, and followers of this man, had been constantly
fostered since his conversation with the seer Lampon. Through the
priestess of Athena Polias, a mere tool in his hands, he maintained a
connection with Elpinice and Telesippe, and by them learned whatever
happened in the circle of his enemies.
The evening, on which this mysterious rite was performed, had arrived.
The two young girls chosen, Hipparete and Lysiske, were clad in costly
white robes embroidered with gold, which it was their fathers’ duty to
bestow for this festival, and which, after having been used, remained
the property of the temple.
Thus adorned, the two maidens were conducted to the innermost sanctuary
of Athena Polias, and here, amid various ceremonies, received from the
priestess, in the presence of the priest of Erechtheus, and others who
had come as spectators of the holy rite, the two covered vessels they
were to bear through the secret passage into the rock sanctuary. With
the left hand they held the vessels to their breasts, and in the right
carried a lighted torch. Before they set out, the priest of Erechtheus
gave them exact directions concerning what they had to do, exhorted
them to banish from their minds any frivolous curiosity concerning what
was concealed in the vessels, to feel no fear of anything that might
meet them on the way or in the grotto, or allow themselves to be
interrupted in the performance of the sacred ceremonies. He told them
they were under the protection of the god Erechtheus, the wards of the
goddess Herse, into whose sanctuary they were descending, and charged
them to have no fear if the god himself should appear to them on the
way in his serpent form, as he had once done in ancient times to the
arrephori. Unless they violated the sacred mystery, or did not perform
the sacred rites faultlessly, they would have no cause to fear the
anger of the god. Under any other circumstances, they might expect
favor and salvation.
The two girls set forth on their way. Hipparete had listened to the
priest’s words with eager, childish faith, and was full of joyous
courage. Lysiske, who was still younger, walked beside her more
timidly. They descended together into the subterranean passage, in
which many steps were hewn. Lysiske glanced timidly around, Hipparete
encouraged her.
At last Lysiske began to wonder what was in the two sacred vessels.
“I can imagine what we shall bring back,” said Hipparete. “What can
Herse, goddess of the dew, give us except dew? Or perhaps dew-sprinkled
branches or flowers?”
“But what are we carrying down?” asked Lysiske again.
“I don’t know,” replied Hipparete. “If we are to bring up something
wet, we shall probably carry down something dry or fiery, for if it is
damp in the lowlands, everything on the mountain heights is withered
and dry.”
“No!” said little Lysiske thoughtfully, “we are certainly carrying down
a big owl, like those that build their nests in the walls of the
Erechtheum, and shall bring back a hideous serpent, for snakes live in
the lowlands.”
“Have no fear of serpents,” replied Hipparete; “you know the god
Erechtheus appears under that form, and will protect and bless us on
our way.”
The numerous steps were at last descended, the goal of the walk gained,
and the two young girls passed through a rock gate-way into the
sanctuary. The grotto was lighted by a lamp, whose red flame flickered
before a stone statue of the goddess.
Performing the ceremonies they had been taught, the young girls placed
their vessels before the goddess, and prepared to lift and bear away
the closely-covered ones that stood ready for them.
While doing so, their eyes wandered to the back of the grotto, where in
the dusk a huge serpent with upturned head lay coiled.
Lysiske started, turned pale, trembled and sought to fly. Hipparete
detained her, and gave her the vessel, with which, without looking
back, she hastened away. Hipparete raised the other vessel and prepared
to leave the grotto. Just at that moment a strong breeze blew from the
end of the cave, extinguishing Hipparete’s torch and the red flame of
the lamp, so that the young girl stood in total darkness. Her heart
would also have been filled with dread, had not a friendly voice
reached her, bidding her remain as fearless as before.
“For thy noble courage and pious faith,” continued the voice, “the god
will bestow on thee, oh! child, a gift which will secure thee the
blessing of the gods and the highest happiness throughout thy life.”
The flame of the lamp now rekindled of itself, and in the spot where
the serpent had raised its head appeared the god, no longer under a
terrible aspect, but in the form of a stately hero. He invited the
young girl to approach. Hipparete fearlessly obeyed. Drawing her
towards him, he pressed a kiss upon her brow, which beamed with the
radiant purity seen in the half-unfolded leaves of the tree, when they
have just burst from their brown buds after a warm spring rain.
“Have you never heard,” he asked, “of the homage gods have paid to the
daughters of earth? Have you never heard of Alcmene, Semele, Danæ?”
The speaker’s lips quivered as he uttered the words, and the hand that
stroked the young girl’s waving hair also trembled.
“Have you never heard,” he continued, “of the maiden to whom Zeus
descended, and who did not fear the god?”
He put his arm around the young girl, who listened devoutly, her clear
eyes mirroring only the eager expectation of a childish heart,
anticipating the wondrous gifts the god had promised to bestow.
Suddenly, glancing towards the back of the grotto, she said:
“The serpent form is still there—only it is smaller now, much smaller.”
Hipparete uttered the words very quietly, without the slightest emotion
of fear. She had been exhorted not to fear the serpents on her way, and
she did not fear them. She knew they were merely the mask beneath which
the god Erechtheus concealed himself. She had not dreaded the larger
serpent, why should she shrink from this small one?
But the god by her side was startled. The false Erechtheus began to
tremble before the wrath of the real one. He gazed fixedly into the
corner, and saw a serpent writhing there. The child felt sure no harm
could befall her, that she was under the protection of Erechtheus; but
the god himself trembled under his divine mask, trembled before the
venomous reptile.
At this moment the noise of a throng of people echoed from without, as
they hurried past the grotto on their way from the Ilissus to the
Piræeus, shouting exultantly:
“The fleet from Samos is entering the harbor. Pericles is here! Long
live Pericles, the Olympian!”
With a gloomy flash of the eyes, a wrathful quiver of the lips, the
priest of Erechtheus rose, unmasked first by his fear and then by his
rage, and hurriedly prepared to lead the child out of the grotto.
Hipparete, mindful of her duty, lifted the sacred vessel from the
ground. The priest grasped her hand and conducted her up the dark
passage, to the place where a secret corridor wound through the
interior of the Erechtheum. There he left her, bidding her keep silent
about all she had seen in the grotto; then the blessing of the god
would not fail her.
Hipparete entered the lighted hall of the temple, and placed her sacred
vessel at the goddess’ feet, then silently meditated upon the god’s
appearance.
And Diopeithes?
He went forth to strive to conciliate Erechtheus, by preaching
reverence for the ancient gods still more ardently than before.
While these events were occurring on the silent height of the
Acropolis, the returning fleet had entered the Piræeus. The Athenians
had rushed in crowds to see and greet the new arrivals. Evening had
closed in, but the shore of the harbor glittered with torches, and the
spectacle became all the more magnificent, as by the glow of these
lights the hundred proud triremes of the victorious navy came sweeping
over the dark waves.
The glare of light gave a strange aspect to the lofty masts, the white
sails, the golden statues of Pallas, and the fantastic forms of the
ship’s prows, adorned with shields wrested from the foe, the ornaments
of the hostile ships destroyed, and other trophies.
Shouts of joy hailed the triremes from crowded stone dykes.
The disembarkation followed. When the strategi landed, all pressed
around Pericles. The loudest shouts greeted him, some persons scattered
flowers in his way, and even loaded him with garlands.
To escape these greetings, Pericles accepted Hipponicus’ invitation to
take a seat in the carriage drawn by noble Thessalian steeds, which had
been sent to meet the rich man at the Piræeus.
Aspasia had been compelled to part from Pericles. A litter awaited her.
She entered it, closely veiled, and was borne to the city.
Meantime the moon had risen and poured her light upon the sea, the
coasts, and the city.
Pericles, silent and absorbed in thought, reached the city in
Hipponicus’ equipage. There, at a sudden turn in the road, glancing
upward, he saw close before him the summit of the Acropolis.
He started. A slight tremor ran through his frame. Directly before his
eyes appeared the vision he had seen glimmering at a distance. Gleaming
white in the moonlight, strongly relieved against the night heavens,
full of sublimity in the marble majesty of pediment and columns, the
newly-completed work of Ictinus and Phidias stood on its airy height.
The spell, which even at the present day seizes upon the souls of those
who gaze upward for the first time at the ruins of the Parthenon at
Athens, thrilled the soul of Pericles at that moment.
END OF VOL. I.
ASPASIA
A ROMANCE
OF ART AND LOVE IN ANCIENT HELLAS
BY
ROBERT HAMERLING
From the German by MARY J. SAFFORD
IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. II.
NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1882
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAP. PAGE.
I.—The Panathenaic, 1
II.—Owls on the Acropolis, 28
III.—The Thesmophorian Festival, 52
IV.—The Arcadian Girl, 78
V.—The New God and his Lightning, 117
VI.—The Child of Light and the Priest of Darkness, 145
VII.—Aspasia’s School, 171
VIII.—Callicrates’ Mule, 202
IX.—Conflicts and Victories, 237
X.—Festival of Dionysus, 266
XI.—The Satyr and the Bacchante, 303
ASPASIA.
CHAPTER I.
THE PANATHENAIC.
When a great man is honored by his native land, praised by the world,
and all offer him reverence, love, and homage, there is often one spot
where his greatness shrivels, where he feels small, where cold or even
disapproving eyes meet him.
This spot is his own hearth-stone, his house, the bosom of his family.
Pericles too felt a strange, chilling atmosphere when, his ears still
ringing with the joyful greetings of the Athenian populace, he again
crossed the threshold of his home after a year’s absence. He too, like
the victorious Agamemnon, was received on the threshold by an angry
wife.
Telesippe did not think of avenging herself on Pericles, as
Clytemnestra did on Agamemnon, or destroying him by a shirt of Nessus,
as Deianeira killed the faithless Heracles. Her mind was petty, so too
was her anger, her hate, and her revenge.
In the presence of the Erinnyes who sat beside his hearth, what did it
avail Pericles that he had conquered before Sardis, sunk the hostile
commander’s galley? While the Agora was ringing with his fame, he was
compelled at home to endure Telesippe’s contemptuous, angry words,
Telesippe’s disapproving look.
And Elpinice? The first time she met Pericles after his return, she
accosted him as follows:
“For shame, Pericles! My brother Cimon conquered the Persians, the
Barbarians, but you have shed Greek blood, and allow yourself to be
applauded as the oppressor of your own kindred.”
Silently, without vehement retaliation, but in the gentle manner
natural to him in his intercourse with others, Pericles allowed the
strife that had entered his existence with Aspasia, to press onward to
a decisive goal. He had at first supposed it would be an easy matter to
keep the rights of the woman he loved apart from those of his wife. Had
not Telesippe also thought so? Had she not contemptuously scorned the
Milesian hetæra, who might win her husband’s heart, but must leave the
rule over his hearth to his lawful wife? Had she not driven the
intruder away from the threshold of her home, and was not the latter
compelled to yield?
But matters had progressed. Pericles himself was no longer the same.
The idea of a marriage-bond of a new kind had not been cast, like a
glimmering spark, into his soul in vain.
The days during which the greatest of all Athenian festivals were
celebrated, had returned.
The population of the rural districts flocked into the city, for the
festival was what its name implied, and what its founder Theseus
intended it should be—a constantly-renewed fraternization between the
whole population of Attica. The guests even came from distant regions,
the allied cities and islands, the colonies, nay from all Hellas.
But Athens had never before witnessed so large an assembly of native
and foreign visitors within her walls. This time, in addition to the
attraction always exercised by the Panathenaic festival, there was
universal curiosity to see the wonderful Parthenon, opened for the
first time, and the unveiling of the marvellous statue of Pallas
Athena, wrought by Phidias of ivory and gold.
The usual contests took place for several days prior to the great
festal procession. In the lowlands by the Ilissus the young heroes of
the Athenian gymnasia wrestled for the prize of victory. The most
skilful boys contended first, then the bravest youths, and then the
most experienced men. In the strife between the boys, Alcibiades,
Pericles’ ward and the favorite of all the Athenians, conquered, to the
great joy of Pericles, but the vexation of Telesippe, who hated the
lad, because he threw her own two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus, who
possessed little talent, completely into the shade.
How this youthful victor glowed, as he gazed at the other contests at
which, to his sorrow, he was only allowed to be present as spectator,
not as candidate for the prize. Accompanied by Pericles himself, he
stood on the plain lying westward of the Piræeus outside the city,
enviously watching the clouds of dust grow wet with the steaming breath
of the flying steeds, and seeing the contestants in the Hippie arts
standing in the chariots, beside each rider a companion armed with
helmet and shield, who while the coursers dashed around the
race-course, sprang down, ran steadily for some distance, vying with
the speed of the chariot, then with an equally firm leap, bounded back
to it again.
And how the lad was attracted by the famous sword-dance of the youths!
How his eyes sparkled at the mimicry of war, as keeping time to music
they went through all the manœuvres of a battle, exhausting every
method of attack, defence, evasion, in a sort of dancing-step, in
harmony with the rhythm of the rushing melody, during which swords were
clashed against uplifted shields, so that the clear sound of the metal
united to the accords of the music, and sometimes the melody of
victorious pæans, awakened a sort of martial enthusiasm and excitement
even among the spectators. As Alcibiades, infected by this excitement,
began to imitate the movements of the dancers and seemed glowing with a
desire to join their ranks, Pericles could not help thinking of
Artemidorus’ tale, and the scene when the Milesian suddenly beheld his
son Chrysanthes snatched away from him on the Tmolus, into the mad riot
of the Corybantes. In fact the noise of the sword-dance could not have
failed to recall that of the Corybantes on the Tmolus, had not
everything there been fierce and cruel, while here everything was
presented to the eye with grave and noble moderation.
But the night too had its festival—the great torch-race, with which the
Athenians honored their gods of light, Hephæstus, Prometheus, Pallas
Athena. Only the handsomest and most agile youths in Athens were
permitted to contend. The object was to bear the torch, still burning,
to the goal; whoever had his light extinguished must retire from the
ranks. Whoever ran slowly, to spare the flame, was spurred on by the
eager, derisive shouts of the people.
The Athenian families chose from their midst the handsomest old men and
stateliest men of middle age to adorn the procession. The youths and
maidens were also selected; but blooming youth needed less severe
scrutiny than middle life and old age, to afford the eye only graceful,
beautiful and noble forms.
The contests closed with musical competition.
Pericles, fostering every form of talent with equal zeal, had
introduced into the Panathenaic festival contests in the art of playing
flutes and stringed musical instruments. Among the offices and
dignities with which he was invested, was that of a director of the
public games and festivals of Athens.
At dawn on the day of the real festival, when according to ancient
custom the so-called peplos was offered to Athena, the guardian goddess
of the city, in the Erechtheum, and the victors in the Panathenaic
combats were to be crowned in the new Parthenon, the procession formed
in the Cerameicus.
The whole vast space was thronged with portions of the procession, all
moving towards the place of meeting, which afforded a scene of motley,
gay, and brilliant confusion. Here stood the beautiful horned bullocks
destined for the sacrifice, yonder the strong, elastic, fiery nature of
the noble steeds displayed itself in a shower of sparks from the
stamping hoofs. Beside the rearing horses stood youths, holding the
glittering bridles with powerful hands, occupied in curbing them, or
making them move in graceful caracoles. Thus the eye was perpetually
delighted with living groups, models of strength and symmetry. The
motley throng dispersed. The procession formed and began to move to the
accompaniment of trumpets, flutes, and stringed instruments. First came
the hecatomb of victims, hundreds of splendid cattle intended to be
slain on the Acropolis for an offering to the goddess, and then served
up to the populace for a festal banquet. They were magnificent animals,
fat and thick in the neck, with hanging dew-laps, their horns
beautifully curved like the two sides of a lyre, garlanded with wreaths
of flowers and gilded at the tips. Strong youths led them, controlling
with steady hands the struggles of the rebellious beasts. The cattle
were followed by rams, no less strong and beautiful, with splendid
horns and superb fleeces.
Behind these animals, with their drivers, attendants, and the
sacrificers, came bearers of other gifts of the most diverse kinds:
they carried cakes on flat dishes, and liquor partly in wine-skins and
partly in large, handsomely-shaped vessels.
Next followed a brilliant train of Athenian matrons and maidens, clad
in rich festal robes, bearing gold and silver sacrificial vessels,
which were kept year after year in a certain place, and only displayed
on such occasions. Dainty baskets filled with flowers, fruits, and
frankincense were carried on the heads of some of the virgins, who were
adorned with golden ornaments. Chosen from the fairest daughters of
Athens, at once slender and stately, charming and dignified, these
basket-bearers delighted every eye by the grace of their attitudes,
movements, and gestures. They were girlish buds, still chastely folded,
but sparkling with the dew of youthful freshness. Concealed during the
year, like the golden vessels, and secluded from the eyes of the world
in the women’s apartment, they were now brought forth to shine in the
light of the festal day. The festival disclosed what was usually kept
from every eye, displayed and unveiled everything brilliant and
beautiful. To-day the god of love discharged his arrows, to-day the
eyes of fair maidens and youthful suitors met.
Next to the magnificent sacrificial vessels were borne the still more
superb gifts, which had never been more numerous: beautiful vessels,
glittering gold and silver shields, richly-ornamented tripods of
graceful shape, and even statues from the hands of admirable masters.
All these things, carried openly, sparkled with dazzling lustre in the
sunbeams.
The virgins’ procession closed with the pretty, delicate, childish
figures of the Arrephori in the festal robes they had worn during the
sacred rites on the Acropolis, among them gentle, devout, courageous
Hipparete.
Now followed the bearers and attendants of the gifts and victims
offered to the goddess by the Athenian colonies, or the cities and
islands allied with Athens.
Then came the most important of all the gifts, the centre of the whole
procession, the ample, superb peplos. It was not borne by human hands,
but stretched like a sail over a magnificent ship that moved on wheels.
Must not this carriage, in the form of a ship of remarkable size and
beauty, have been intended to remind the spectators of the naval power
of Athens, and at the same time of the sea-god, whose worship was
formerly associated with that of Erechtheus and Pallas? Was not the
peplos made the principal object in the Panathenaic procession, instead
of the superb ship, to recall the victory of Pallas Athena, goddess of
light, over the gloomy wielder of the trident? The part taken by the
goddess of light, in the battle between the gods and the giants, was
represented in the glittering gold embroideries, skilfully wrought on
the purple or crocus-yellow ground of the fabric.
Stretched over the mast of the stately vessel, this gold-wrought
picture of the battle of the gods of light against the rude primeval
powers, glittered in the sunshine before the eyes of the populace.
Behind the magnificent ship with the peplos, proudly walked the victors
in the Panathenaic contests—the musicians with their stringed
instruments, the conqueror in the torch-race, holding in his hand the
lighted torch, with which, according to ancient custom, was lighted the
fire for the great sacrifice to the goddess on the Acropolis; the
victors in the chariot-races, with their magnificent equipages, drawn
by four horses, each chariot containing the driver and his companion,
armed with helmet and shield; then came, bearing olive-branches in
their hands, the procession of handsome, dignified old men, who had
conquered in the trial of masculine symmetry. These men with silver
hair, who had preserved the dignified beauty and freshness of body and
soul until so late in life, were looked upon as noble examples by the
Athenian youths. The mounted Ephibi followed, the young men of Athens,
slender figures with dark waving hair and sparkling eyes, sitting their
noble steeds like well-trained riders. Next came all the men of Athens
capable of bearing arms, led by the Strategi and Taxiarchs: the
heavily-armed troops, and cavalry, composed of men of noble birth in
glittering armor, on the handsomest and most fiery steeds—for the
wealthy and aristocratic Athenians appeared on horseback in peaceful
processions, as well as in the field—then an endless procession of
citizens, led by various dignitaries: the archons, the members of the
council, the chief priests, the people arranged by districts, men and
women in festal garments with myrtle-boughs in their hands, and behind
them the foreign residents, the women carrying oak-branches, in token
of being under the protection of Zeus Xenios, the god of hospitality.
Other wives and daughters of foreigners walked behind the Athenian
women, whose protection they enjoyed, carrying parasols in their hands
to hold over their patronesses’ heads, when the procession stopped in
the burning sun, or small daintily-shaped chairs without backs, on
which they might sit when the train halted.
The procession now moved from the outskirts of the Cerameicus, through
the finest streets in the city, up to the Agora, which was strewn with
oak-leaves and otherwise decorated: the duty of the slaves on this day.
Here it halted for the first time, and the mounted squadron of
aristocratic Athenians in glittering armor performed various manœuvres
and exercises in the vast square, which formed almost the finest part
of the whole spectacle.
While the procession remained in the Agora, part of the train of
victims, with its attendants, branched off to go in advance, and offer
the usual preliminary sacrifices, one on the hill of the Areopagus, and
the other at the altar of Athena Hygieia.
After these sacrifices were completed, the procession with the hecatomb
and ship bearing the peplos, again moved forward, passed through the
most aristocratic streets and by the most famous sanctuaries, at which
a short pause was made, doing honor to the god by a sacrifice or
singing a pæan.
When it reached the place where the way led up the hill of the
Acropolis, the steeds and chariots, which could not follow the
procession up the wide, but steep road, or find room on the plain at
the summit, were left behind. Yet there was no lack of bold riders, nor
even of chariot-drivers, who with their brave steeds accompanied the
procession, keeping in the middle of the broad road, for the furrowed
pavement here lessened the danger of slipping for horses’ hoofs as well
as chariot-wheels.
On reaching the Acropolis, the procession halted between the Erechtheum
and the newly-completed temple of Pallas Athena. The peplos was taken
into the Erechtheum and, amid the singing of a pæan, the great
sacrifice of the hecatomb began before an altar standing in the open
air on the eastern side of the Parthenon.
But no glance from the multitude sought the dusky hall of the
Erechtheum, where the ancient statue of Athena Polias, standing on a
flower-wreathed throne, received its customary tribute, the peplos; the
holy rite of sacrifice also remained unheeded: every eye turned towards
the gleaming marble splendor of the temple, whose doors were to open
to-day for the first time, to the gaze of the Athenian nation.
The first impression produced by the new edifice was a radiant vision
of light. Nearly the whole structure was glittering marble, shining in
the purity of its virginal whiteness, from the stones of the foundation
to the last daintily-carved tile in the roof. The remainder was
decorated with golden ornaments or bright colors. The wondrous
building, steeped in sunshine, stood on the height, extending in a long
quadrangle surrounded by pillars, from the western to the eastern side.
Noble, clear, and symmetrical in its proportions, it yet seemed to soar
upward from its strong foundation. Even this foundation, with the
marble steps leading to it, rose above the heads of the spectators. The
temple itself, with its forest of marble columns, the carvings on its
frieze, the spirited colossal marble groups, which peopled the broad
pediment as if with a throng of wondrous figures, the gleaming
ornaments in gold and colors, whose glitter here and there outshone the
snowy Pentelican marble, seemed as if it were rising towards the virgin
goddess into her native realm of light, the ether sacred to her.
But, during the first few moments, nothing so strongly attracted the
eyes of the Athenians as the large marble groups, which filled the
broad space of the two pediments. The spectacle was overpowering; for
the superb figures represented resting, standing, walking, not in
bas-relief, but in statues, separated from the background, seemed about
to step forth and descend to the Athenian populace, so beloved by the
gods. Symmetrical in bearing and movement, they appeared full of
healthful, vigorous life.
The moment immediately after Athena’s birth from the brain of Zeus, was
depicted on the pediment on the eastern side. In the centre of the
group were the god, the goddess, and the Titan Prometheus, who cleft
Zeus’ head to aid the birth of the goddess of light—on both sides Nice
and Iris hastened away with the joyful message, while goddesses and
heroes met them, eagerly listening to the tidings; in the left corner
rose Helios with his fiery steeds, in the right the goddess of night,
with her coursers, was disappearing in the waves of Oceanus.
The western pediment contained a group representing the contest between
Poseidon and Pallas Athena for the possession of the Attic country. In
the centre were the two divinities—impetuous Poseidon, who had just
struck the rock with his trident and called forth the sacred spring,
opposite to him Pallas Athena and the olive-tree which grew at her
command; beside her the rearing steeds for the triumphal procession;
the divinities and heroes of Attica joining the goddess, Poseidon
attended by his sea-tritons. From these figures of colossal size,
carved in marble, the eye wandered to the smaller sculptures on the
frieze above the columns, where in the long succession of metopes was
represented the battles of Hellenic champions with fierce Centaurs; and
thence, through the columns surrounding the temple, to the carving on
the inner frieze encircling the external marble of the hall within.
As his gaze rested on this, the Athenian’s eye began to sparkle still
more brightly; for here was the reflection of the festal procession,
chiselled in marble—scenes from the Panathenaic procession and the
preparations for it: groups of beautiful, modest maidens, youths on
rearing steeds, pairs of horses dashing proudly along, battle-scenes of
the Agones, [7] the presentation of the peplos, and amid all the
beautiful human forms, the Olympic gods, who had emerged from their
invisible, unapproachable sphere, as witnesses of the magnificent
festival. So simple, so noble appeared every figure, despite its
beauty, that they seemed to say from the marble to the Athenian nation
for all futurity: “Maintain beautiful symmetry, and let your lives
constantly develop into the noble simplicity, loveliness, and purity,
that confront you here in the marble forms from Phidias’ studio—”
When the victims of the hecatomb had been offered, the highest
dignitaries in Athens marched forward, in the presence of the expectant
throng, up the steps to the doors of the temple, where they formed in
two lines. In the centre stood Pericles and the archon Basileus.
Then the wide, richly-ornamented metal doors of the temple opened. The
interior, with its glimmering columns and the new, sublime statue of
Pallas Athena by Phidias, shining amid the sacred gloom, were revealed
for the first time to the Athenian populace.
The members of the procession began a song of praise to the goddess.
When it had died away, Pericles came forward and from the steps of the
temple addressed the throng.
“In ancient times,” he said, “Pallas Athena had poured forth a wealth
of temporal blessings upon the cradle of the Athenian, and as the
bestower of the nourishing olive-tree, the giver of the first
blessings, the founder and promoter of the prosperity of the Attic
country, was honored in the venerable, but shapeless wooden statue of
the Erechtheum. Then came the time when Athens girded on the sword,
battled in the van of Hellas with the Barbarians, and strengthened by
conquest, soared upward to the full development of her might. As a
symbol of this period, the colossal statue of the goddess towered on
the Acropolis far over land and sea. Now a time has commenced, when the
goddess develops her inmost and deepest nature, and with it bestows the
fairest portion of her blessings on the Attic country and nation. She
now desires to reveal herself as the goddess of light-giving ether, in
whose presence darkness melts away, the thoughtful, meditative
divinity, around whose brow free thought hovers with beautiful
clearness, the fosterer of all beautiful trades and arts, and every
blessing emanating from the mind. As such Phidias now represents her, a
Pallas Athena of peace. Above this new statue of the goddess has been
reared the new temple worthy of her, no priestly house of sacrifice,
but a Panathenaic festal dwelling, in which, released from priestly
limitations, she can reveal the real light and power of her nature.
This temple significantly surrounds the goddess, completing the
revelation of her own nature and that of the nation she protects; for
the character of the divinity and her chosen people will soon be
blended into one. So, revering the ancient customs of our ancestors,
the peplos will still be offered to the venerable wooden statue of the
guardian of the city, but the goal and central point of the Panathenaic
festival will henceforth be the Parthenon. Henceforth the victors in
the Agones must receive the prize from the hand of the magistrate
sitting at the feet of the goddess, and the nation will turn to the
carvings on the brilliant temple, to receive into their souls the
emanations from the goddess’ inmost nature, and fill their minds with
the lofty and important truths, which speak with marble tongues from
walls, pediment and frieze. In these sculptures the Athenian will read
the story of his own existence, read it in the heroic pæan carved in
stone of the victory of light and intellect over darkness and savagery.
Becoming conscious of its strength, the Hellene’s mind will kindle with
noble aspiration to be worthy of the monument he has planted here for
all ages.”
After these words from Pericles the populace enthusiastically repeated
the pæan to the virgin goddess, and, amid the song and the music of
flutes and stringed instruments, which accompanied the procession, the
band of young girls at a sign from the archon Basileus, conducted by
him, were the first to ascend the steps and pass through the open doors
of the Parthenon. It was fitting that the new sanctuary of the virgin
goddess should be first trodden by virgin feet. The maidens were
followed by the youths, and while the former stood on the right and the
latter on the left of the statue, amid the melody of the pæan, the
bearers of gifts, clad in festal garments, entered the temple and laid
the offerings at the goddess’ feet. Other gifts, especially gold and
silver shields, were hung on the architraves of the pillars. The
victors in the Panathenaic contests were now led across the threshold,
attended by the umpires and highest dignitaries in Athens.
Louder rose the sound of flutes and stringed instruments, still more
inspiring was the pæan, as the radiant statue of the goddess stood
directly before the eyes of those conducted into the temple and the
crowd of Athenians, who flocked after. The gaze of all was fixed upon
it.
The colossal figure of the divinity gleamed with a lustre as dazzling
as the temple; the undraped portions were formed of ivory, all the rest
of gold. The grave, beautiful face, shaded by a heavy gold helmet, from
beneath which fell luxuriant curls, gazed thoughtfully into space. The
features wore a meditative expression, which seemed to melt into a mild
radiance. At the left of the goddess rested the shield, peacefully
lowered, no longer victoriously uplifted. The spear leaned idly in her
hand. She seemed no longer a combatant, but a conqueror; in her
out-stretched right hand she held, as one bears a dove or a falcon, a
statue of winged victory, that extended to her a glittering gold
wreath. Under the shelter of the shield coiled the sacred serpent,
symbol of the earth-born, but divinely-guarded primitive power of the
Attic country and nation. On the goddess’ breast was the ægis with the
radiant Gorgon head. Beneath the curve of the towering ornament of her
helmet was carved a sphinx, and on the right and left griffins, emblems
of thoughtfulness, penetration, and watchfulness. Many another
significant ornament strove to fully interpret the goddess’ nature—on
the outer side of the shield, the battle with the fierce Amazons, on
the inner the struggle with the defiant giants, on the edge of the
sandals the savage Centaurs; everywhere strife with dark, evil powers.
The magnificent temple was a fitting sanctuary for the superb statue. A
double row of gleaming columns, twined with festal garlands, ran
through the interior, dividing it into three apartments. In these side
chambers a second row of pillars, above the first, formed an upper
story, an open portico. The flat roof, resting on this upper row of
columns, had a wide square opening in the centre, so that the light
fell from above into the windowless interior and upon the statue. This
brightness, streaming from above, was wonderfully suited to the dignity
and divinely mysterious stillness of the temple—the glimpse of this
opening and the blue sky above divested the mind of the oppressive
sensation produced by the magnificent and powerful carving. The falcon
and eagles, the fiery steeds of Helios, and the thunder-clouds of Zeus
passed over it, and in the changeful play of light and shade, now
steeped in golden radiance, now bathed in cool white moonlight, anon
veiled by temporary twilight, the goddess’ face seemed to gaze downward
from her height with varying expression, by turns grave and gentle. In
the noble grandeur of the temple, there was nothing which could have
diverted the spectator’s gaze from the goddess; everything led the eye
to her, even the succession of beautiful glittering gifts between the
columns. There was no trace of the scattered ornaments, diverting the
attention, with which other ages and nations have striven to adorn the
abodes of their gods. The vast, sublimely beautiful statue stood alone
in the marble hall, pervaded with its atmosphere of radiant light and
mysterious stillness.
After the new temple of Athena had been offered and consecrated to the
goddess by the Athenian nation, amid enthusiastic songs, accompanied by
the music of flutes and stringed instruments, and the rich gifts had
been laid at her feet, the distribution of prizes to the victors in the
Panathenaic contests commenced. They were summoned by the umpires, and
as the trophies were awarded first to the victorious boys, then the
youths, and then the men, it happened that the fourteen-year-old son of
Cleinias, Alcibiades, as victor among the boys, was the first one
called to receive the prize in the newly-opened Panathenaic temple. The
proud, joyous lad obtained a beautifully-formed amphora, adorned in
brilliant colors with a representation of the youthful Heracles
destroying the serpent. This exquisite vessel was filled with oil from
the sacred olive-tree of Pallas Athena, in the garden of the Academy.
The victors in the other Agones received similar gifts; but those who
conquered in the musical contests obtained golden garlands.
When the distribution of prizes was completed, the treasure of the
Athenian commonwealth was conveyed into the storehouse at the back of
the Parthenon, before the eyes of the populace. This building which,
enclosed by the pillars of the Parthenon, adjoined the temple on the
western side, was a solid, windowless chamber, that could be lighted
only by a lamp, and in whose mysterious gloom the coined and uncoined
treasure of Athens, with jewels of every kind, costly vessels used for
display, and even public documents of special importance, were
henceforward to be preserved under the charge of the treasurer of the
Athenian people.
Among the throngs who crowded the height of the Acropolis, to gaze at
the newly-revealed splendors of the Parthenon, were many who came from
other countries, among them a man from Sparta.
As the latter was about to enter the new hall of the temple, an
Athenian youth, who had watched him for some time, seized his shoulder,
exclaiming:
“Away from this threshold! Dorians are forbidden to enter here.”
Indeed, an old decree prohibited men of the Dorian race from entering
the sanctuaries on the Athenian Acropolis, and the outspoken foes of
Athens were sometimes reminded of this law. As a large crowd of people
had gathered around the Spartan, and the youth repeated the envious
remarks he had heard from the latter’s lips, all took sides against the
foreigner, and he was compelled to leave the place.
Thus the enmity which formerly divided the two great Hellenic races,
sometimes blazed significantly, though only in lightning flashes.
But there was also an Athenian on the Acropolis, who watched the festal
throng surging around the new Parthenon with looks of wrath and envy.
This man was Diopeithes, priest of Erechtheus.
True, according to ancient inviolable custom, the peplos had been
carried into the Erechtheum, offered to the wooden statue of Athena
Polias. But the rite was hastily and coldly performed, while the
Athenian populace turned towards the newly-erected temple, the
priestless sanctuary of Pallas Athena. Not to the Palladium sent down
from heaven to the city of Athens, not to the goddess of his sanctuary,
had the Athenians paid their homage, but to the frivolous showy statue
of Phidias. At the feet of this new statue, not in his temple, were
laid the costly offerings. The gods of the Erechtheum were angry, and
their priest with them.
As on the day when Pericles and Aspasia, accompanied by Sophocles,
wandered over the summit of the Acropolis and saw the foundation of the
now completed structure, Diopeithes was standing engaged in
conversation with one of his confidantes at the door of the Erechtheum.
Even as on that day, when talking with Lampon about the corruption of
the times, he now suddenly saw the man he hated, with the same Aspasia,
walking on the height, accompanied by Phidias, Ictinus, Callicrates,
Sophocles, Socrates and other distinguished Athenians, who with
Phidias, inscribed on their banners the Homeric saying: “Pallas Athena
never suffers me to tremble.”
As the hour of the great festal banquet had arrived, in which the flesh
of the slaughtered hecatomb of cattle and the remains of the
preliminary sacrifices were served up to the populace, moistened with
lavish gifts of Dionysus, this chosen group now wandered over the
Acropolis to gaze undisturbed at the newly-finished building.
Phidias’ countenance was not grave and thoughtful as usual, a radiant
expression rested on his brow.
Pericles expressed his great delight that, after watching the
commencement and gradual growth of this work, he had now, on returning
to Athens after a year’s absence, been surprised by a completed
structure whose splendor he had never anticipated; and again extolled
the genius by which so much that was great and beautiful had been
finished in so short a number of years, been produced as it were, by a
single brain.
Phidias replied that the miracle had not been performed by a single
brain, but the thousand skilful hands that served it. Yet they had not
so much served a single head, as the one spirit which animated all with
the most beautiful harmony.
While the men, in their joyful excitement, drank in the charm of the
newly-created temple with enraptured eyes and gave utterance in words
to their emotion, Aspasia gazed at the work of Phidias, Ictinus, and
their assistants with an eager, sparkling glance, nay even with flushed
cheeks, but in silence.
Her muteness perplexed even Phidias, the most silent of men, who at
last, turning to her with a smile peculiar to him, said:
“If my memory does not deceive me, the beautiful Milesian has long been
considered by many the best judge in Athens of everything relating to
matters of art. She has also, to the best of my recollection, never
been backward in expressing her opinions. How happens it that she, a
woman, shames us men to-day by her silence?”
All looked earnestly at Aspasia, mutely making themselves sharers in
the question.
“You are right to remind me that I am a woman, Phidias,” replied
Aspasia. “As such I am not always so calm as you men, and in my
thoughts there is less rigid sequence and order than in yours. Woman’s
temperament is mobile, and you must take heed that you have not
ventured too much in granting to me, a woman, apparently the only one
of my sex, the right of free thought and speech. Here stands the
wondrous new structure, vast as a mountain, beautiful as a flower, and
what a wealth of finished work is at the same time spread out and
revealed before my eyes! Everything is so graceful in its dignity, so
multifarious in its noble simplicity, so stirring in its repose, so
mature in its youthful freshness, so profound in its naturalness, so
bright in its solemnity, so human in its divinity, that the mind of
every man can be in no other condition than that of the utmost
satisfaction and absence of all farther desire. But a woman’s nature,
like a child’s, prompts her, when receiving in her hand one article she
wants, to stretch out the other for another, and perhaps follow a third
with her eyes. If I were a man, I should be satisfied at this moment
with enthusiastically praising Phidias as the first, the greatest of
all the Hellenes. As a woman I have another wish to utter, nay, an
accusation to make. Have you no fear of golden Aphrodite’s anger,
Phidias? You seem to me to be ever seeking to embody in human form the
lofty, the pure, the divine; and if the divine did not always happen
also to be beautiful, I believe you would not trouble yourself about
beauty. Never do you seek it; the loveliness that charms the senses,
kindles the heart, has no echo in your soul. You disdain to represent
feminine beauty for its own sake, as poets so enthusiastically do, when
they sing of Aphrodite. Your mind is always steeped in holy austerity,
and your soul hovers, like the eagle, only over lofty heights. Oh!
Eros, has thou no arrow for this man? Why, oh! Cyprian goddess, dost
thou not bind him with thy golden chains, that he may consecrate his
chisel to thy charms, and through him thy inmost nature be revealed, as
that of his goddess, Pallas Athena, has been disclosed in these
images?”
“In truth,” replied Phidias, “I have hitherto found protection from the
arrows of Eros and the fetters of Aphrodite beneath Pallas Athena’s
shield, and doubtless owe it to her that my art has not become
effeminate. Accuse the Lemnians, however, Aspasia, if having just
completed the statue of the virgin goddess for the Parthenon, I do not
now devote my art to golden Aphrodite. The Lemnians do not ask an
Aphrodite, but have long urged me to make them a bronze statue of this
very Pallas Athena.”
“Your words fill me with greater hopes than you suppose,” answered
Aspasia, after a thoughtful pause. “To-day, while Pericles was
addressing the populace, I heard him allude to the progress made from
the insignificant, shapeless wooden statue to the mighty colossal
Athena, and thence to the virgin goddess of the Parthenon. Who would
not believe that the Pallas of the Lemnians will also surpass the
virgin of the Parthenon? Who would doubt that the more you create, the
more warmly, the more brilliantly the fiery waves of life and beauty
will leap from the bronze or marble? After you have carved the warrior
form, half masculine, half feminine, and the thoughtful virgin, what is
left except woman?”
“Whether I shall advance or deviate from my course by listening to the
suggestions of a beautiful woman, I know not,” replied Phidias. “But
what you ask seems to lie in my path.”
“Do you, to whose eye no Hellenic woman would deny the sight of her
charms, represent woman and her loveliness,” continued Aspasia, “and
announce to the Greek nation, as the last and highest message: Only in
the garb of beauty will wisdom conquer all hearts.”
Such was Aspasia’s conversation with Phidias. Pericles now began to
discuss with the sculptor and Ictinus the plan of the magnificent
porticos, which were to complete the coronation of the mountain on its
western side, and which, according to the views of these men, ought to
be no less sublime and gorgeous than the Parthenon itself. But they
constantly turned back to gaze at and enjoy the finished structure, the
carvings, the superb offerings. The work of one and another of Phidias’
pupils was singled out—here Alcamenes was praised, yonder Agoracritus,
and thus each one of the countless sculptors, who with eager zeal had
united their powers.
Phidias now conducted Pericles and the rest of his companions to the
work of Socrates, son of Sophroniscus, the group of Graces, which the
truth-seeker had undertaken to carve for an offering to the temple on
the Acropolis.
They beheld the three virgins, sculptured in marble, embracing each
other. Spite of a strong resemblance, they were yet dissimilar. One was
charming, the second noble, but severe, the third thoughtful.
When the spectators wondered at this diversity, the sculptor, a shade
of sadness resting on his face, replied:
“I thought you would not consider this difference strange, but
perfectly natural. Why should we imagine a trio of Graces, if all three
are one and the same? I sought to trace the deep meaning of this
trinity, for I did not doubt that three diverse traits of character
must be united in the nature of the Graces. But I could not succeed in
discovering what these three different qualities were, until Alcamenes
took us to the beautiful Theodota. Scales fell from my eyes, when the
Corinthian successively danced Aphrodite, Hera, and Pallas. What is
Aphrodite’s nature except physical beauty, what Hera’s save loveliness
of soul, goodness, morality, and what Pallas’ except intellectual
beauty or truth? So I learned, that body, soul, and mind must unite to
form the perfect nature of the Graces.
“This is what I learned from Theodota, but would not disclose when you
questioned me, because I longed to express the idea my mind had
grasped, not in words, but sculpture, like Phidias. I have not
succeeded. If I had, these words would not have been needed. I have
toiled with the marble, yet must now use speech. You, Aspasia, do not
require words to express your opinion; I read it in your looks.”
“What do you read?” asked Aspasia.
“You tell me: ‘Turn back, investigator, from statues and living forms
to thoughts, ideas, and words—’ I will do so. From this day forth, I
will lay aside the chisel, or rather offer it as a gift to the wise
goddess, instead of the work of my hand. I will shatter this image of
my wretched art, content if the thought that created it lives on and
will be embodied in the minds, souls, and emotions of the Athenians,
instead of in lifeless marble.”
“Nay, Socrates,” said Pericles, “offer your chisel to the goddess, that
in future you may pursue only your real mission, which no other can so
well perform. But leave this group uninjured; for although formed less
by the artist’s hands than the sage’s intellect, this group places
before the eyes the noblest goal of the Hellenic spirit—body, mind and
soul united and transfigured into the fairest flower of the Graces.
More impressive expression cannot be given to the efforts hitherto made
by us all, or a more worthy incitement to fresh creation and action!
Here, before this piece of sculpture, is the spot to clasp hands, in
renewal of the bond which has united us. Here, too, it seems to me,
before the group of the Graces, is the place to thank our noble Aspasia
for what she has promoted in unison with us, not so much urging with
words, as directly animating us by the inspiration of her nature,
which, as you all know, streams into our souls like a sunbeam, ever
kindling something new and beautiful. Let her be the model from which
you carve your new statue of Pallas, Phidias; for she not merely tells
you, but has proved to you and to us all, that wisdom, robed in the
garb of beauty, is invincible.
“Usually,” continued Pericles, “the footprints of beauty are
fleeting—it comes and goes like the sunlight or the fructifying rain.
The beautiful graciousness, emanating from Aspasia’s nature, will
remain with us as a carefully-guarded treasure. You no longer see
before you a stranger, at whom the shafts of envy may be aimed with
impunity, or who may be insulted with abusive names. From this day
forth she is my wedded wife. The marriage-tie that united me to
Telesippe has been peacefully sundered. Hereafter Aspasia will rule my
hearth in her place. I know the Athenians look askance at a
fellow-citizen, who brings a foreigner into his house as his wedded
wife. I know our law even denies the scions of such a marriage the
rights of Athenian citizenship. Yet I have wedded Aspasia. The bond I
have formed with her, however, is a new one, a marriage which—I know
not whether husbands or wives are at fault—has never yet been realized,
hovers before the minds of both. Our community has recently experienced
many changes, but if public life is regenerated, why should not
individual, domestic existence yearn for a new birth? To me and to
Aspasia, this day, which displays the life of Athens on a glittering
pinnacle, will be at once a turning-point and high festival of our
existence. Athens and all Hellas strive under new stars towards new
goals: we will both do the same within the narrow circle of the inner
life. Here, as well as there, the moving spirit, mind, and thought are
the same. Here, as well as there, I believe, the same thing will be
verified in the same way.”
Before any of the friends could give utterance to the emotion Pericles’
words had aroused in the minds of all, Aspasia clasped her husband’s
hand, replying:
“What you say is true, Pericles; I arrogate no power of words, nor of
conscious wisdom. If, in connection with you, I have fostered anything,
the influence emanating from me was merely that of womanhood,
permitted, for the first time, to express itself freely, without
reserve, untrammelled by the fetters of sex. If I am an envoy, it is of
womanhood. Perhaps the world, hitherto bound by the harsh chains of
masculine character, must be born again of woman’s nature, to strip off
every remnant of the barbarism of ancient times. As a scion of the
Ionian race, I am, voluntarily or not, the champion of the Ionic nature
against the stern, harsh Doric character, which would stifle the
fairest flower of Hellenic life, if it obtained the victory. Woe betide
the beautiful gods of Hellas, if it ever gains the upper hand.—If I am
really summoned and able to toil and battle for a cause, and have, as
you say, proved myself an intercessor for the beautiful and feminine
with the masters of sculpture, I would fain, essaying other sides of
life, declare open warfare against every prejudice, every custom that
has become meaningless, every narrow-minded or gloomy opinion, every
thought unworthy the dignity of man. Striving to obtain allies, I will
apply to those of my own sex. They will listen to me, for I shall be
the wife of Pericles.”
The group of friends listened to Aspasia’s words with thoughtful,
earnest sympathy. Diopeithes, the priest of Erechtheus, concealed in
the shadow of a column, also heard them. His lips curled scornfully,
and a burning glance of hatred rested on the Milesian.
The friends now began to enthusiastically express their joyful
interest, and praise the purpose of the noble pair.
Socrates alone remained silent, as he often did from modesty, when he
found himself in a circle of distinguished men.
Pericles smilingly asked:
“What does our friend of wisdom think of the bond, formed here in the
presence of his Graces?”
“Only this one thing is clear to me,” replied the son of Sophroniscus,
“that our Athens will be the most highly praised of all the cities in
the world. All else is unknown and veiled in darkness. But we will hope
for the best in every direction, from the favor of Father Zeus and his
glorious daughter, Pallas Athena.”
CHAPTER II.
OWLS ON THE ACROPOLIS.
If it is true, as related by legend and the famous author of the
Eumenides, that on the Athenian Acropolis Prometheus brought down fire
from heaven and delivered it to man, it is not surprising that at the
mention of the Acropolis many see in imagination only a lofty height,
steeped in a pure radiance, and crowned by the gleaming marble of the
Parthenon.
But there were also owls on the Acropolis.
There were owls in Athens—so many of them that the saying, “carry owls
to Athens,” might be used as a synonym for a superfluous action.
These birds were sacred to Pallas Athena, belonged to her, as the birds
of thought-producing, meditative night. Though night itself is dark,
ideas germinate and mature in the wakeful brains of men better than in
glaring day. Not infrequently night yearns to be something in itself,
something better than the light to be born of it, and then assumes a
hostile attitude towards the day.
So it happens the birds of night, the owls, have become enemies of the
light.
There were many of them on the Acropolis, and they preferred to build
their nests in the space between the cornice and the roof of the
ancient Erechtheum, together with lizards, mice and serpents.
They were the favorite birds of Diopeithes, priest of Erechtheus, who
was engaged in eager conversation with a man, and at the same time in a
somewhat singular performance.
This occupation consisted in walking up and down the steps of the
Parthenon in a very excited manner. Before the entrance of the temple,
to render the ascent easier, smaller steps had been hewn in the wide
lofty ones. Up these smaller steps went Diopeithes, counting them as he
walked, and mentioning the number aloud.
After he had pointed out the number of steps to the man, by going over
them and counting them aloud, he said:
“You know the rule in regard to the number of steps before a temple,
established among the Hellenes by the devout and well-considered custom
of many years. According to ancient usage, the number is uneven, to
secure the favorable omen of stepping on the first and last one with
the right foot.”
“That is undoubtedly true,” replied the person Diopeithes addressed.
“Very well,” continued the latter, “you see the men, who built this
Parthenon, supposed they would never need the favorable omen. The
number of these smaller steps is even. They may have sinned against the
sacred custom from intentional defiance, or been cursed with
forgetfulness by the gods; but what they have erected betrays itself at
the first glance as an impious work, displeasing to the Olympians. And
I say—in its whole design it is an insult, a humiliation, a scoff at
the gods. Why, just see! Since the close of the Panathenaic festival,
since the victors in the contests received their prizes, since the
people gaped till they were weary at the gold and ivory lavished on
Phidias’ statue, the festal temple, as they call it, is shut, the
statue of the goddess covered, that it may not gather dust till the
next festival, and instead of priests, treasurers daily go in and out,
carrying on their business of counting the money received and paid.
Thus, oh shame and sacrilege, instead of pious words the base jingle of
gold and silver pieces rings all day long in the goddess’ ears!”
At this remark, the man with whom Diopeithes was conversing, and whose
appearance showed him to be a foreigner, began to inquire eagerly about
the extent, value, and amount of the coined and uncoined treasure
stored in this building under the protection of Pallas Athena. The
priest did not withhold the information he could give.
“You Athenians have gathered a goodly amount of savings, or rather let
us say, a goodly amount of booty,” observed the stranger. “But it seems
to me the store will soon be exhausted, even in times of peace.”
“It won’t last long,” replied Diopeithes.
“But I see,” continued the stranger, “that, though the costly temple is
just completed, a new work is commenced with the same haste and zeal, a
magnificent entrance to the Acropolis, sumptuous porticos no less
superb than the Parthenon itself.”
“And no less meaningless, no less superfluous!” exclaimed Diopeithes.
“That is just the sin of the insolent men, who now guide the destiny of
Athens. They let the sanctuary of Erechtheus, which even the Persians
only ventured to partially destroy, fall to ruins, and erect instead
magnificent halls, filled with the frivolous work of the troop of men,
who have flocked to Phidias from every part of Hellas.”
“Is Pericles omnipotent?” cried the stranger. “How happens it that of
all the famous Athenian generals and statesmen, not one, so far as I am
aware, escaped the fate of banishment, while Pericles has maintained
his supremacy unassailed for a long series of years?”
“He is the first statesman,” said Diopeithes, “to whom the Athenians
allow time to ruin them.”
“May the gods forbid! I am a harmless man from Eubœa, and wish the
Athenians all prosperity.”
“Why dissemble?” asked Diopeithes, looking the stranger quietly in the
face. “You are the Spartan, whom they turned away from the threshold of
the Parthenon at the festival. I witnessed the incident and instantly
recognized you, when wandering over the height of the Acropolis, you
addressed a few questions to me. Ay, you are a Lacedæmonian, and when
you say you wish Athens every good, you utter a falsehood. But fear
nothing from me! There are Athenians whom I hate far more than the
whole Spartan race. You are doubtless aware, that here in Athens the
enemies of innovation, the friends of the good old times, are called
friends of Sparta. Nor is it unjust.”
Almost involuntarily the Spartan extended his hand to the priest of
Erechtheus.
“Do not suppose,” continued the latter, “that the number of those, who
secretly bear ill-will to Pericles in his new Athens is small. Come
with me! I will show you a spot around which, no less than about the
Erechtheum, implacable spirits of vengeance hover.”
With these words Diopeithes led the Spartan to the edge of the western
slope of the Acropolis, and pointed to a rugged, gloomy, jagged rock,
which, separated from it only by a ravine, towered opposite.
“Do you see that steep cliff, whose masses of rock seem to have been
heaped together by the hands of Titans?” asked Diopeithes. “Do you see
the steps hewn in the stone leading to a square chamber, which has rows
of seats like the steps. From this place another flight of stairs, also
cut in the rock, leads down into a deep, dark ravine, from whence
gushes a black stream. In that ravine stands the sanctuary of the
gloomy goddesses of vengeance, the serpent-haired Erinnyes, and the
square chamber on the hill-top is the place of the meeting of the
ancient, venerable tribunal, established by the gods themselves, which
we call the Areopagus. The sanctuary of the Erinnyes is entrusted to
the gray-haired members of this council; in their hands are placed
ancient statues and relics, on which rests a mysterious obscurity, and
with which is connected the welfare of the nation. They alone know what
the dying sufferer Œdipus whispered into King Theseus’ ear, when on the
mountain of Colonus he found in the grove of the Eumenides the goal of
his long pilgrimage. The disputants, whose cause these judges decide,
are placed between bleeding fragments of victims, and the magistrates
take an oath, calling the most horrible curses upon themselves and
their families if they determine otherwise than according to the
strictest justice. After hearing the case, they silently drop their
lots into two urns, the urn of mercy and the urn of death. Their duty
was at first to judge intentional murder, but in former times they were
also called upon to punish immorality, innovations in the government
and the service of the gods, and even permitted to penetrate the inmost
secrets of families, to bring hidden guilt to light. They sentenced
parricides, incendiaries, those who needlessly killed a harmless beast,
boys who pitilessly blinded a young bird. Permission was given them to
protest against the decrees of the whole nation. Is there any cause to
wonder, that this shield of ancient times, this stronghold of pious
custom established on the Hill of Ares, has long been a thorn in the
side of the ruler of the new Athens? Pericles was the first who
ventured to defy this sacred power, limited its privileges, diminished
its authority, rejected its influence in public affairs. But as the
fiery arrows of the Persians flew from this very Hill of Ares against
the citadel and ancient temple of the Acropolis, so now the angry
glances of the Areopagites, pregnant with maledictions, rest upon
Pericles’ new sanctuary.”
“But the great mass of the Athenians love Pericles,” said the
Spartan—“they believe him a sincere friend of popular government.”
“I don’t think Pericles foolish enough to be an honest friend of
popular government,” replied Diopeithes. “A man intellectually
prominent is never a sincere friend to popular rule. How could it
afford him pleasure, to voluntarily share with the unreasoning mob the
power he has once wrested from it, allow himself to be disturbed and
impeded by narrow minds in his best plans, his noblest enterprises?
Pericles, like all these demagogues, flatters the people in order to
use them to carry out his ambitious plans. Perhaps enough of the golden
treasure in the storehouse of the Parthenon will be left to make a
crown, which he will put on at a Panathenaic festival before the eyes
of the assembled people, at the feet of Phidias’ goddess. Prepare,
Lacedæmonians, to do homage to the king of the Hellenes and his queen,
Aspasia, by offering a clod of Spartan soil and a jug of water from the
Eurotas.”
The priest glanced around him as he uttered the last words. “Let us
go,” he said to the Spartan. “I see people approaching, to mark out the
place for the new porticos. I should be accused of a conspiracy with
Lacedæmon, if we were seen talking together.”
So saying, the priest of Erechtheus disappeared with the Spartan behind
the columns of the Erechtheum, where they conversed confidentially for
a long time.
A few days after the Panathenaic festival, Telesippe, separated by
mutual consent from Pericles, left her former husband’s house, and
Aspasia was installed in her place as his wedded wife.
Telesippe did not quit the house humiliated; but with head proudly
erect went forward to meet a destiny for which she believed herself
born, but whose fulfilment she had not ventured to hope.
The beginning and end of her lamentations had always been: “I might
have become the wife of the archon Basileus!”
When Pericles had resolved to part from Telesippe, he could not help
thinking how he could best lessen the painfulness of the impression
this determination would produce upon his former wife, and remembered
how often she had spoken of the archon Basileus. The present magistrate
was a friend of Pericles, somewhat advanced in years, but still
unwedded. Pericles went to him and asked if he were not inclined to
marry. The dignitary, a quiet, unassuming man, said he was not averse
to forming a marriage-tie, if a suitable bride could be found.
“I know a woman,” said Pericles, “who is exactly suited to a man like
you. She is my own wife. For me she has too little of the cheerfulness
a much-tried statesman needs to refresh him after his daily cares, and
too much of that austerity and dignity of character, which would
doubtless attract a grave man of priestly dominion, like yourself. I am
on the point of separating from Telesippe, but should esteem myself
very fortunate, if I knew that she will go from my house to that of a
better husband, and there find what she missed in my home.”
The archon Basileus took these words as seriously as they were
intended. His objection that an archon usually wedded no one but a
virgin, Pericles removed by promising to exert all his influence with
the Athenians to have this violation of an ancient custom pass
unpunished. The Archon then announced himself ready to conduct
Telesippe, as his lawful wife, directly from her present husband’s
house to his own.
Pericles informed his wife at the same time of his own resolution to
separate from her, and the archon Basileus’ intention to make her his
wife.
Telesippe heard the decision coldly and silently, and retired to the
women’s apartment. But when she saw her two sons, whom she was now
compelled to leave, she clasped them in her arms and wept. She thought
of the children she had borne Hipponicus, of his casting her off and
her being compelled to abandon them forever; of the children she had
given Pericles, whom she was now forced to leave and go forth to wed a
new husband. She seemed to be unlawfully pushed from house to house—
But to be the wife of the archon Basileus! To reach the goal of her
ambition! To secure the once lost happiness of her life! True, this
would only afford satisfaction to the rejected wife, not the mother.
Through the woman’s foolish pride she still felt the anxious throbbing
of the unreconciled mother’s heart.
When the moment came in which Telesippe left her husband’s home, and
pressed the last kiss upon the foreheads of her sons, whom she was now
compelled to leave forever, Pericles suddenly felt overpowered by a
strange emotion—it seemed to him that no sacred tie which had once
united two human hearts could be sundered, without shedding some of the
heart’s blood.
Telesippe had borne him children, children whose faces had the impress
of his features, his character. How could a man fail to hold forever
sacred the woman, who had given him children who bore his features? On
the brows of Telesippe’s children shone the stamp of their mother’s
unsullied honor. This heritage she left to her husband and her sons.
Pericles first became clearly conscious of it when she quitted his
house.
He had parted from her with a cold, quiet clasp of the hand; now he
again seized the hand of the woman, who had given him children, and a
tear fell upon it. Long after Telesippe had gone, Pericles stood with
his head bowed in thought, pondering over one of those questions no
human wisdom has ever solved.
Strangely and intricately entangled are human rights and duties.
The die was cast for Pericles and his married life.
The turning-point in his domestic existence had a twofold face, like
almost every earthly event. Telesippe’s stern departure was followed by
Aspasia’s joyous entrance. Her coming gently dispelled the shadow from
Pericles’ thoughtful brow, and diffused light and splendor to the
remotest corner of the house. Aspasia came attended by all the smiling
spirits of youth. A fresh, fragrant breeze swept away the oppressive
atmosphere of the house.
The venerable household gods had gone with Telesippe. Aspasia brought
new ones. She placed in the peristyle joyous Dionysus, smiling
Aphrodite, and the bright guardian deity of the gay Ionic race, Apollo,
director of the Muses. The Graces too did not lack an altar in this
house, where a fitting sacrifice had been so long denied them.
The spirit of innovation, that everywhere followed Aspasia’s steps,
accompanied her into Pericles’ dwelling. Within a short time this house
was transformed into a gay and luxurious abode. Artists were summoned
to adorn the walls of the rooms with charming pictures. Henceforward,
not merely the things which ornament and beautify life, but even those
that minister to the daily wants of existence, were supplied by
artists’ hands.
Hitherto Pericles’ style of housekeeping had been very simple; now this
simplicity displeased him. Nothing is more delightful to a lover, than
to make the home of the woman he loves as charming as possible. No
husband decorates his house for himself; but for a beloved wife even
the miser will become a spendthrift. Pericles joyfully aided Aspasia to
transform the abode of his new happiness into a temple of beauty.
The finely-developed sense of what is pleasing to the eye, suitable and
harmonious, peculiar to woman, and which she exercises in the choice of
her dress and ornaments, Aspasia possessed to so remarkable a degree
that Pericles felt as if under the spell of an enchantress, and
entreated her not to transform him, like everything else around her.
Yet he was already transformed. Without having become a weakling, he
now developed a sense that had hitherto slumbered in the ever restless,
active man. The woman he loved, or rather love itself, taught him to
recognize and value the contemplative poesy hitherto unheeded. What had
pearls and jewels formerly been to him? Now he could long watch a gem
glittering in a gold bracelet on Aspasia’s lily-white arm, becoming
absorbed in the sparkling colored light, as if it were some wondrous
revelation.
What had fragrant perfumes, all the sweet odors in the world, formerly
been to him? Now his appreciation of the most delicate scent that he
could detect near the woman he loved was aroused, and each variety
corresponded in his mind with a different, keen delight. What had
colors been to him? At best a fleeting charm, of which he was scarcely
aware. And now? What life, what magic to his eye dwelt in vivid red,
fiery yellow, enchanting blue, lovely green, when they floated around
Aspasia, or her rosy limbs were relieved against them, in their
dazzling whiteness.
No matter how long and happily the bond of love and limitless devotion
may have united two hearts, the tie Hymen weaves around them affords a
new happiness, hitherto unknown. Marriage, like love, has its special
honey-moon. To daily lose each other and daily meet again, may give
spice to the honey-moon of love, but the consciousness of being always
in the presence of one’s fairest happiness is enviable.
Whoever inveighs against marriage, does not know love.
Each day now had its special pleasure, its special brightness, its
special bloom. Aspasia was always everything to Pericles, yet ever
changing—in the morning his rosy-fingered Eos; in the evening his
Selene, dropping sweet slumber on his eyelids; during the day his Hebe,
who filled the beaker of life. She was the Hera of the “Olympian,” but
never needed to borrow golden Aphrodite’s girdle. Nay more, she often
seemed to command the reverence due a mother, and at other times he
loved her with a feeling akin to that bestowed upon a child.
If lifeless ornaments, gems, pearls, perfumes, brilliant colors, gain a
new charm through love, what exalted life, what a new, fresh spell must
poesy and music obtain for loving hearts. What a wealth and variety of
charm and pleasure Aspasia, so skilled in witchery, must have drawn
from these sources!
If she sang to the accompaniment of a lute, or read aloud from some
roll of MS., as she had done to Philammon when a child, Pericles knew
not which most delighted him—when, with glowing cheeks, she became
wholly absorbed in her art or the poet she was reading, or when, with
saucy petulance, she constantly interrupted her music or reading with
childish prattle, superfluous love questions, or pretty blandishments.
The Athenians, as a rule, had no real home. Pericles now possessed one.
Nay, did not even the fact that his sons, Xanthippus and Paralus, were
not Aspasia’s children, tend to increase his conjugal happiness? He
need not share Aspasia’s love with them.
If anything was wanting in the happiness of the wedded pair, it was
perhaps the full, complete consciousness of it. It is not the
fortunate, who perfectly realize their bliss, but those deprived of it.
The gods benevolently mingle a drop of wormwood in every cup of
pleasure; for only shadowed or imperilled happiness is really conscious
of its joy.
The love-marriage of Pericles and Aspasia afforded the Athenians an
inexhaustible topic of conversation. The fact that Pericles kissed his
wife, whenever he left the house or returned home was discussed on the
Agora, in all the booths, all the gymnasia, all the shops of the
artizans and barbers throughout Athens. A man in love with his own
wife! People talked of the white Sicyonian steeds and superb equipage,
which sometimes bore Pericles’ new wife through the streets, of the
transformation his unpretending house had undergone. They discussed the
magnificent new paintings which adorned its walls, especially that
depicting the plundering of Olympus by Cupids. Decked with the spoils
of the robbery, Cupids flitted joyously about; some with Apollo’s bow,
others with the helm and shield of Ares, the gnarled club of Heracles,
the Bacchic thyrsus, the torch of Artemis, the winged shoes of Hermes.
It was even said, that Aspasia prepared the speeches Pericles delivered
before the people. Pericles, the Olympian, the famous orator, smilingly
allowed it, and confessed that he owed to her the happiest
inspirations. Aspasia possessed the charm of ready, fluent speech,
sometimes found in women, united to a silvery, musical voice, and thus
produced upon men the impression that she was a fine rhetorician, from
whom they might learn with advantage.
But it was also rumored among the people, that Aspasia wished to induce
Pericles to strive for royal power. It was said she was unwilling to
remain behind her countrywoman Thargelia, who succeeded in becoming the
consort of a king.
The venerable Elpinice continued to be the leader of the news-mongers
in Athens. She might have been called the living, perambulating
chronicle of the events occurring in Pericles’ house. From her came the
tidings of the kiss the statesman gave his wife at parting and meeting.
She knew Aspasia’s feelings towards Pericles’ children and Alcibiades.
She was able to relate, that Aspasia did not like Paralus and
Xanthippus, troubled herself very little about them, and left them to
the care of the pedagogue, but lavished a mother’s affection on
Alcibiades, and reared him so delicately, that in her hands Cleinias’
son would become a weakling, or something worse.
Was it any marvel if Aspasia was more partial to Pericles’ handsome,
talented ward, than to the sons, who it is true had their father’s
features, but in character were the image of their mother, Telesippe?
Besides Alcibiades, Paralus, and Xanthippus, another boy was growing up
in Pericles’ house, who would not probably be numbered among his
relatives, yet could not be included with the slaves. This lad, whom
Pericles had brought to Athens from the Samian war, occupied a peculiar
position. Nothing more was known of his origin than that he was the son
of a Thracian, Scythian, or some other northern king, that he had been
stolen from his parents by enemies when a child, and then sold for a
slave. Pericles found him at Samos; his interest was awakened by the
boy’s peculiar character and destiny, he purchased him and took him to
Athens, where he had him educated with his own children. His name was
Manes. His features were far removed from the delicacy and nobility of
Hellenic forms; he even bore some slight resemblance to his kindred
nation, the Scythian mercenaries on the Agora. But he was distinguished
by his beautiful, lustrous light-brown hair, bright eyes, and roseate
fairness of complexion. He was silent and thoughtful, betraying a
peculiar sensitiveness in many things.
Alcibiades tried to tempt his new playfellow, infect him with his own
careless gayety. He did not succeed. Manes liked to be alone, showed no
brilliant mental gifts, but eagerly entered into all the branches of
learning taught to him in common with the sons of Pericles. Pericles
himself became warmly attached to him, Aspasia thought him droll, and
Alcibiades made him the butt of his jeers and saucy jests.
It was no detriment to Pericles’ domestic happiness, that his house now
stood more open to his friends, and that Aspasia, intentionally
abandoning the custom of the Athenian women, took part in her husband’s
presence, in the conversation of the men.
Nay, it merely adds new zest, twofold bliss to the happiness of those
who love each other, when after, as it were, wasting hours in a larger
company, they again find themselves alone.
Among Pericles’ older friends, Anaxagoras now retired more into the
background. He was supplanted by the brilliant Protagoras, whom Aspasia
favored, and whose fresh, unprejudiced, boldly progressive views of
life, made him seem a fitting ally for the Milesian. The author of
“Antigone” appeared very rarely in Pericles’ house, either because,
with the delicate tact peculiar to him, he did not wish to fan the
jealousy he well knew his friend already felt, or because he found it
necessary to repress some increasing but untimely emotion, or because
some other charming woman had gained the mastery over him and withdrew
him from older friends. It is not impossible, that all these various
motives influenced him.
If the cheerful Sophocles made himself a rare visitor, gloomy
Euripides, his rival in the domain of tragic poetry, sought Aspasia’s
society all the more frequently. With him came Socrates, still
unchanged in his faithful devotion. Business connected with his
profession sometimes brought Phidias, and Aspasia enjoyed the triumph
of seeing that he did not avoid her society. In his company she
developed a kind of charm well suited to his peculiar temperament, yet
in her conversations with him always reverted to his Lemnian goddess.
She grew excited, even angry. In her opinion, Phidias now stood where
two roads crossed, and she hoped to influence his decision in regard to
the direction he should choose. She made every effort to break the
obstinacy of his view of art.
She repeated the reproach that, as a sculptor, he did not allow
feminine charms to exert their full influence over him.
Phidias really did disdain the so-called models. He carried within
himself the perfect original types of all beautiful forms. Thus his
artist-eye was constantly turned inward, and the older he grew, the
more he relied upon his mental vision. He was too proud to simply copy
reality in bronze or marble. Yet this was exactly what Aspasia desired
of him.
Once, when she had again carried on an animated conversation of this
kind with Phidias, and the latter had taken leave, Pericles said
smiling:
“You seem to be very angry with Phidias, because he will no longer
attend the school of charming reality.”
“Of course,” replied Aspasia. “The only ideals formed in his soul are
those, so to speak, of grave, unconscious beauty. It is time he ceased
to disdain to draw from reality fully developed, conscious loveliness.”
“To what woman would you direct him, that he might draw from the purest
source this perfect loveliness, rejoicing in its own charms?” asked
Pericles. “As Phidias cannot conjure up from Hades the Homeric Helen,
and you are yourself, according to unanimous opinion, the fairest of
all living Hellenic women, I should like to know how you intend to
answer him, if he asks you to what woman you will direct him?”
“I would direct him to a woman, who belongs only to herself,” replied
Aspasia.
“But suppose he should insist upon applying to a woman, who doesn’t
belong to herself?”
“Then he would be obliged to apply to the person to whom she belonged,”
answered Aspasia—“to her master, if she is a slave, or her husband if
she is the wife of an Athenian.”
“And do you think,” said Pericles, “that an Athenian could ever consent
to allow the woman, who belongs to him, to be exposed to another’s
eyes?”
“Why ask me a question you are better able to answer?” replied Aspasia.
“Well then,” returned Pericles, “I will answer it. The Athenian will
never suffer the woman, who belongs to him, to reveal her charms to
another. Feminine modesty should be no empty name; and if the virgin is
chaste by nature, the wife must be doubly so from love, because by
renouncing modesty she does not disgrace herself alone.”
“Your opinion is an ancient one and doubtless correct,” said Aspasia,
“but the reason you assign for it does not seem to me to stand the test
in every respect. You men often commit your wives to the hands of
physicians, though only in your own presence. So it seems, that modesty
is not the highest of all considerations, or every revelation is not
shameless.”
Aspasia and Pericles had advanced to this point in their conversation,
when they were interrupted by two men, whose simultaneous entrance
greatly surprised them.
These men were Protagoras and Socrates.
After the first greetings were exchanged, Aspasia said, smiling:
“Why, how does it happen that two distinguished men whom, ever since
Hipponicus’ banquet, I have feared might be at enmity with each other,
enter the house to-day in such peaceful companionship?”
“I’ll tell you how it happened, if you wish to know,” replied Socrates.
“Protagoras and I, coming from opposite directions, ran against each
other before the door. I had been standing some time on the threshold,
delaying my entrance because, just at the moment I was coming in, a
thought seized upon me, which I could not escape. While I stood there
with my eyes fixed on the ground, Protagoras came up from the other
side. He didn’t see me any more than I saw him, for while my eyes were
bent on the ground, he held his head erect, gazing at the clouds and
the heavens. So our bodies struck against each other; I recognized
Protagoras and he me, and as each of us noticed that the other intended
to enter here, both wished to turn back and let the other go in alone.
But when each declared himself ready to leave the field to the other,
neither would accept the sacrifice, and so we finally hit upon the idea
of coming in hap-hazard together.”
Pericles and Aspasia smiled, saying that they saw a good omen in this
meeting, the more so as they had just been engaged in a sort of
philosophical discussion. The question, that occupied their attention,
was one whose solution might be aided by the opinions of two men, who,
different as their modes of thought might be, were both undeniably
wise.
As Protagoras and Socrates inquired about the subject, Pericles had no
hesitation in explaining the matter.
“We were beginning to argue the question whether a man could be found,
who was willing to disclose the beauty of the woman he loves to a
sculptor’s gaze for the purpose of having it copied. I denied it; but
Aspasia proved to me that we men give our wives into the hands of
physicians, though only in our own presence, and therefore are
sometimes disposed to place other considerations higher than a regard
for modesty. The accident that brought you here is a sign from the
gods, to request you, as philosophers, to decide the matter.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Protagoras, “there are considerations higher than
those of modesty, and motives which can excuse its apparent violation.
One of these motives Aspasia herself has already cited. I will add—what
would become of the art of sculpture, if the most beautiful forms
prudishly denied themselves to the artist’s eye? Beauty’s obligations
are not solely to itself. What nature has so lavishly bestowed she
should turn to the advantage of art. Beauty, in a certain sense,
belongs to the world, and the world will not allow itself to be
deprived of its right. Besides, beauty in its very nature is something
fleeting, something which only exists for its contemporaries, and
cannot be perpetuated and transmitted to posterity, unless the poet
glorifies it in song, as Homer did the wife of Menelaus, or a sculptor
delivers the living charm of loveliness to future generations, so far
as it is possible, in bronze or marble.”
“Then, in your opinion,” said Pericles, “a beautiful woman should be
considered common property, which no one ought to be permitted to
possess alone.”
“Only her beauty—not she herself!” replied Protagoras. “As everything
that may happen in the world depends upon the manner of the event, and
the circumstances under which it occurs, so in my opinion the
exhibition of feminine charms for the promotion of a great artistic
purpose, may take place in a way and under circumstances, which
entirely remove the objectionable part of the matter.”
“And what might these circumstances be?” asked Pericles.