“Never mind, Alcamenes!” said Pericles. “Phidias ought not to be

disturbed in his occupation, even by us, and will not wish us to see

his work, except in the full splendor of completion. We will have

patience for a time, but I don’t intend to wait with Aspasia for the

formal opening of the temple. We should not care to enjoy that

spectacle for the first time, amid the countless throng of Hellenes. I

hope Phidias will conduct us at least a day before into the lonely

sanctuary, and allow us to gaze at his completed statue of the god in

silence.”

“That wish certainly will accord with the master’s desire,” replied

Alcamenes. “Then, if you intend to leave Phidias undisturbed in the

temple, content yourselves with my society and Polycleitus’, who is

more at home on the soil of Olympia than almost any other Greek, and

whose bronze and marble statues are gleaming yonder amid the branches

of the plane and olive-trees in the sacred grove.”

Pericles and Aspasia, with cordial thanks, accepted the guidance of the

two famous men.

They walked together through the vast crowd in the wide, open plain,

that extended between the tree-shaded bank of the Alpheus and the

sacred grove of Attis, where the new temple of the Olympic Zeus towered

amid a forest of bronze and marble statues.

They passed the houses intended for the numerous persons who belonged

to the service of the temple, the inns, which could not contain half

the strangers, the buildings where the war-chariots were kept, the

stables where noble steeds and mules were neighing. The larger portion

of the multitude had encamped in tents in the open air.

After walking a few steps, they came to the superb tent of the embassy

from Sicyon, somewhat farther on to those which sheltered the envoys

from Corinth, Argos, Samos, Rhodes and others. Around these tents

thronged many persons, especially those connected with their owners by

the ties of nationality. Then they were told: This magnificent tent

belongs to the rich Periander from Chios, that to wealthy Euphorides

from Orchomenus, the third to Pauson from Eretria. The occupants of the

tents stood at the entrances, talking and gesticulating eagerly

together, greeting their friends and inviting them to rest under the

shade of the purple linen. Strangers, sunburnt youths, approached,

endeavoring to prove themselves the sons and relatives of former

guests, by showing one half of a broken ring, whose other half was in

the hands of those whom they accosted.

Booths of every description adjoined the gay city of tents.

The populace surged to and fro. All the various Greek dialects blended

confusedly together. People did not always understand each other.

Beside the harsh tones of the Peloponnesian, the broad accent of the

Theban, the heavy one of the Megarian, echoed the soft Ionian and

Æolian tongues. Amid the crowd of Hellenes, the eager, bright-eyed

Athenian and grave, gloomy Spartan were especially conspicuous, and

were often seen to measure each other with hostile glances.

The gigantic forms of the athletes also moved to and fro. People

pointed them out, and mentioned their names and victories.

Before the tent of the embassy from Chios, Pericles saw a boy weeping

bitterly, while an old man, perhaps his grandfather, vainly strove to

console him. Pericles asked the cause of the tears, and learned that

the lad had been excluded from the contests of the boys on the charge

of effeminacy, because he had come to Olympia with long hair and a

purple robe. Aspasia, in tones of mingled scorn and anger, without

fearing those who might hear, blamed the gloomy, old-fashioned

strictness of the Elis inspectors of combats, then caressingly stroked

the boy’s dark curls, saying:

“Don’t cry! Pericles from Athens will intercede for you with the

Hellanodicæ.”

The wide space became more and more densely crowded. Pericles and

Aspasia, in passing along, saw groups thronging around sculptors, who

publicly exhibited their works, or rhapsodists, or a clear-voiced man,

who mounted a sort of orator’s platform, to read aloud to the listening

Hellenes the histories he had composed of Greek cities and islands. Or

they pressed around some excellent musician, or men of haughty bearing

clad in magnificent purple robes, Sophists who sought here in Olympia

to increase the renown of their name, and were ready to declaim to the

throng on any subject; or some insignificant little man, on whose bald

crown the perspiration, under the burning sun of Elis, glittered like

morning dew-drops, and who offered for general examination an

astronomical chart, a work of great ingenuity and toilsome calculation.

An aged, white-haired Spartan gazed at the eager bustle with a gloomy,

dissatisfied expression. “I like the time, when Olympia was nothing

more than the place for testing the manly strength of the Hellenes,

while now it is abused as a spot for exhibiting effeminate arts. When I

was a boy, nothing was sold here except necessary food, and articles

especially required for the festival, such as ornaments, fillets,

wreaths. Now the booths bristle with useless trash; we have a great

fair here, at which the tradesfolk from all the cities and islands wish

to offer their most tempting wares. The place swarms more and more with

rhapsodists, musicians, sculptors, sophists, and other people of that

sort, and soon the great purpose of the Olympic festival will disappear

amid exhibitions and displays of unmanly rivalry, with which the

Athenians and other Hellenes of the lowlands, the islands, and the

Ionian coast try to press forward. Ambitious fools! Each wants to

parade in some way, make himself conspicuous. See, yonder are some

Megarians scrawling their names on the bark of the poplars, to do

something to secure immortality.”

“And I see some people gathering the beautiful, bright-hued pebbles

from the sand of the sacred stream,” replied his companion. “I must get

some too, to take home to my boys.”

At these words the Spartan’s friend disappeared among the poplars on

the banks of the Alpheus. The former looked after him, shaking his

head.

At this moment, drowning every other sound, arose the loud voice of the

herald, who passing through the city of tents from time to time,

succeeded in fixing the eyes and ears of all the Hellenes upon himself

for a moment. He was the universal mouth-piece of the Greeks, and

announced the most diverse events: “The Panormitans and Leontines

solemnly inform all the Hellenes of the treaty of peace they have

concluded, after the settlement of their quarrels.” Then: “The

Magnesians announce to the Hellenes, that they have formed a perpetual

defensive alliance with the Larissæans and Demetrians.”

Again his sonorous shout echoed on the air: “The Lechæans, in the

presence of the whole Hellenic nation, thank the Pliasians for the

assistance rendered in the conflict with the Cenchreæns.”

“That was worth while!” exclaimed a Cenchreæn. “Do the Lechæans really

suppose we feared them and the Pliasians? By Heracles! They’ll hear a

different proclamation from the herald, at the next Olympic festival.”

“Admirable bragging!” replied a Lechæan who stood near. “Never mind! We

still have arrows enough to cover the whole Cenchreæn city.”

“And we spears enough,” retorted the Cenchreæn, “to spit all the

Lechæans!”

“Be off!” cried the Lechæan furiously, “or you won’t recognize your own

face in the mirror to-morrow.” He raised his clenched fist.

The Athenian caught his arm. “What does this mean? Let the Cenchreæn

alone or you’ll have to deal with me.”

“Why, just see,” said a Samian in the group of spectators who crowded

around the pair; “the Athenians even want to ingratiate themselves with

the Cenchreæns, and we know their designs, when they sneak into favor.”

“Yes, indeed we do!” cried several Spartans and Argives.

“For some time,” exclaimed one of the Argives, “the Athenians have been

making extraordinary efforts, to win friendship on the isthmus and at

the entrances to the Peloponnesus!”

“Have they time?” asked one of the Spartans, grinning. “Has the great

Pericles, the Olympian, finished his magnificent temples, propylæa, and

gold and ivory statues of Pallas? And does the Hera of the Athenian

Olympian desire to extend her domain beyond the pine forests of the

isthmus?”

“She has already sent her friends and champions in advance!” cried the

Argive, pointing over his shoulder towards Phidias’ workshop.

The Athenians would not submit to be laughed at, and the wordy war

threatened to grow fiercer and more general.

Suddenly a man’s voice was heard. Powerful, melodious, and wonderfully

impressive, it instantly gained a hearing from all.

“Whose is the Hellenic tongue,” cried the speaker, “that derides the

new temple and statues of the Athenians? Whatever praiseworthy thing

has been created at Athens, has been created for the honor of the whole

Hellenic name. Remember that for centuries our forefathers, no matter

of what race, have always maintained peace in this spot, where the

sacred waves of the Alpheus flash in time to the festal Olympic songs

of the whole Hellenic nation. We have ever met here for peaceful

contests; this was sacred soil, here dwelt divine peace. The

Panhellenic festival within the temple precincts of our common god,

Zeus, unites us. Keep the peace, Hellenes, on the Pisatian meadow. No

weapons must clash, no clang of metal be heard here, save the tinkling

of broken halves of rings fitted together, by which Hellenic guests

from every land affectionately recognize each other.”

At these words the shout “Pericles!” rang through the crowd. “Pericles

of Athens! Pericles, the Olympian!” Fathers lifted their sons to show

them Pericles. He had at first been recognized only by a few. Now that

he had spoken, now that the thunder of his Olympic oratory had

resounded, he was known by the whole Hellenic nation. Shouts of

applause echoed across the Alpheus, and the waves of the stream seemed

to plash in harmony.

Pericles withdrew from the crowd by entering the sacred grove Altis,

accompanied by his friends and Aspasia. Here they wandered amid temples

and sanctuaries of every kind, statues, tripods, monumental columns,

beneath the rustling foliage of olive, white poplar, plane, and

palm-trees. A gilded goddess of victory, placed between two gilded

prize vessels, flashed with dazzling lustre on the summit of the new

temple of Zeus. They examined Alcamenes’ sculpture on the rear

pediment. He had represented the battle of the Lapithæ and Centaurs,

and in so doing given freer rein to his predilection for animated life

and manifold variety of attitude and gesture, than at the Acropolis of

Athens.

Guided by Polycleitus and Alcamenes, Pericles and Aspasia examined the

countless wonders of the sacred grove.

At last they ascended a flight of steps, leading northward from the

Altis to a wide terrace. This terrace extended along the southern base

of the hill of Cronus to the Stadium. Upon it stood a row of so-called

treasure-houses of different cities, in which they deposited the

offerings intended for Olympia.

Ascending the hill of Cronus from the treasure-houses, Pericles and

Aspasia saw the sanctuaries that adorned it. From the summit they had a

most beautiful view of Olympia. Below lay the sacred grove Altis, with

its temples and statues; beyond it the majestic river Alpheus flowed

through the plain; on the right was the river Cladeus, flowing from the

Pisatian mountains to mingle its waters with the Alpheus; on the left

was the Stadium, and farther down, bounding the sacred grove, the

Hippodrome, the scene of the Olympic contests. At the right of the hill

of Cronus, nearer the northern exit of the Altis, they saw the

buildings which formed the centre of the government of Olympia, and

where the umpires, as well as the athletes themselves, swore to observe

the laws of the contests before the statue of Zeus Harkios, armed with

the double lightnings. Beyond, nothing was to be seen on all sides

except the circle of towering mountains, beneath whose shelter lay the

sacred plain of Olympia.

The men of the party gazed at the scene with delight, but Aspasia began

to complain of the burning heat, and the numerous gnats that tormented

them.

“How does it happen,” said she, “that the Hellenes chose for their

athletic contests the season of midsummer, and this sultry, marshy

lowland?”

“Their founder, Heracles, didn’t mind gnats!” said Alcamenes smiling.

“Nor we men until now!” added Pericles. “But since our attention has

been called to it, I must agree with you, Aspasia; the countless tiny

blood-suckers are certainly annoying.”

Returning through the Altis, Pericles and Aspasia lingered near

Polycleitus’ statues.

Meantime the throng and bustle between the Altis and the Alpheus had

constantly increased. Countless victims were offered towards evening at

the flower-wreathed altars of the gods in the Altis. The athletes were

seen watching for omens of their success in the entrails of the

slaughtered animals. The largest throng of spectators gathered around

the festal burnt-offering on the famous ancient altar of Zeus.

The performance of these sacred rites lasted until far into the night,

amid the sound of music, by the light of the moon, which was

approaching its full. Everything was done in magnificent style, and yet

in perfect order, amid a silence that commanded reverence. Not until

midnight were the torches in the sacred grove extinguished, while the

last flames on the sacrificial altars died glimmering away. Then no

small part of the throng hurried to the race-course, to secure places

and wait for the grey dawn and the commencement of the games.

The next morning Pericles and Aspasia ascended the hill of Cronus.

Pericles’ eyes rested upon the crowded Stadium, of which he had a

distant view, with the interest such a spectacle always obtained from

the Greeks. He had only renounced the pleasure of mingling with the

spectators for Aspasia’s sake.

The Milesian’s eye did not turn with the same satisfaction to the spot

where physical strength, excited to almost murderous eagerness, was

struggling in the dust and sun.

“Why does your glance wander almost contemptuously to those rejoicing

spectators?” asked Pericles.

“Does it not seem,” said Aspasia, “as if the Hellenic nation, which has

become so eminent in many things truly beautiful and magnificent,

reserves the highest of its crowns of glory for the athletes of

Olympia? Ought strength of arm and nimbleness of foot, to be considered

the highest of all excellencies on Hellenic soil?”

“I understand,” replied Pericles; “you are the champion of womanhood,

and everything that refines, ennobles, and beautifies life; but here

the rude masculine nature celebrates its triumph.”

“Such wrestling and pugilistic contests, where men fight each other

till the blood streams from their mouths, is a true Dorian spectacle,”

replied Aspasia. “You are right, I hate these games, for where virility

goes beyond its mark, barbarism does not seem far distant. I fear the

rude charm of this spectacle will ensnare the minds of men more and

more, and at last lead them again to barbarism.”

“You go too far,” replied her husband, smiling.

The conflict of opinions between Pericles and Aspasia was destined to

receive a still greater stimulus by a little scene of which they became

witnesses.

The evening of that same day, accompanied by Polycleitus and Alcamenes,

they were strolling near the Stadium, Aspasia gazing at the places so

new to her, when it happened that just as they sat down to rest on a

stone bench, a party of athletes, who had taken part in the contests of

the day, met another group, and all entered into an animated

conversation. The battles of the first day were fought over again in

words, and each success underwent a severe scrutiny. Those who were

vanquished explained by what accident their opponents had become

conquerors, and how the victory had merely hung by a hair, or accused

their foes of having violated the laws of the games; but this was

usually of little avail, and they were sometimes compelled to hear the

jeers of their companions.

“No matter, worthy Theagenes,” one said, “you must bear the thumps you

received from Nisostratus. You look very pitiable with the oil-soaked

rags around your broken head, and diffuse the odor of a lamp-post.”

“Scoff on!” said the person addressed, a youthful wrestler and

pugilist, who had received a good drubbing, and therefore wore a cloth

soaked in oil wrapped about his head. “Scoff on!” he continued; “I’ve

tried now what flesh and blood can bear. I received blows on the head,

which I believe, would have crushed a block of stone. Yet do you

suppose I feel any discomfort except a little heat? At the utmost, a

few harmless bumps have swollen. But my spine is beginning to ache a

little—very possibly from the violence, with which I fell backward on

the ground in the wrestling match.”

“It’s evident you are a novice,” said the others, “since you don’t yet

know that the head is the least, and the spine the most sensitive part

of the body.”

“Your spine will recover in three days,” said one, “but look at

me—where shall I get back my teeth? If I had spit them out, when a blow

from Meleager’s fist struck me, I should have confessed my loss, so I

preferred to swallow them. It’s disagreeable to carry one’s teeth about

in the stomach, instead of in the mouth.”

“You’ll digest them!” said Cnemon the Bœotian. “An athlete’s stomach

must digest teeth.”

“I shall hardly get as much flesh on my limbs from them as you have!”

replied Theagenes. Cnemon was really an elderly coarse fellow, who had

absorbed the juices of many cattle, calves, and lambs. His ears were

crushed by numerous blows, the flesh on his broad arched breast and

back seemed like brass, he resembled a hammered bronze statue. The

muscles on his arms stood out round and firm, like the pebbles in a

river-bed, which have long been rolled and rounded by the waves.

“Do you suppose,” he cried, “that I’ll yield to any of you because I’m

a little clumsy, and not so light footed? I’m no racer, but a man who

can no more be overthrown than an iron column. If the earth itself

trembles—I stand firm.”

Cnemon laid a disk on the ground, and continued:

“Well! Is there any one of you who can push me down?”

The athletes, one after another, vainly tried their strength. Cnemon

moistened the disk with oil till it was very slippery, but still stood

his ground.

Then he stretched out his right hand, holding the fingers, also

extended, pressed firmly together. “Now try to separate the little

finger from the rest!” he exclaimed.

They attempted to do so, but the fingers seemed soldered to each other

like metal.

“That’s nothing!” boastfully exclaimed Stenelos the Argive. “I can stop

a team of four horses at full speed, by grasping the spokes of the

wheels.”

“And I,” said Thermios the Elian, “once seized a stallion by the hoof

at Pylus, and when he tore himself free, I held the hoof in my hand.”

“These are feats of strength,” said the Thessalian, Enagoras, “but

equal what I once did at Larissa—I stole the sandals from the feet of

the famous runner, Cresilas, in the midst of the race.”

“What?” cried the Spartan Anactor, “does the light-footed Thessalian

boast in the presence of boxers? What will your swift legs profit you,

if I hurl you face downward on the ground?”

“My fists are no worse than my legs!” exclaimed the Thessalian, “and if

I should touch you, you can gather up your bones from the sand.”

“Silence!” cried the Spartan, “or I’ll crush your eyes out, as a cook

mashes a cuttle-fish.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces,” replied the Thessalian, “till the ants carry

you away in crumbs.”

“You fight with words!” exclaimed Cnemon the Bœotian. “That is not the

custom of athletes. Put it to the test.”

“That we will!” cried both.

“Very well!” said the burly Theban, “but what do you mean to do? Will

you race together, or belabor each other with your fists? They are

trials by no means to be despised. Meantime, do you know the athlete’s

best test, in which all, be they runners, pugilists, or anything else,

meet on common ground?”

“Well?” asked the Spartan and the Thessalian at the same instant.

“The athlete’s best test,” said the Theban, stroking his stomach, “is

the power of digestion. Think of Heracles; he killed lions by dozens

among the mountains, but he also consumed a bull at one sitting. Here

is Rhodus, men, fight here. Have—I won’t say an ox, for what would

Heracles be, if he did not remain the only man of his kind—but have a

large fat wether roasted, divide it into two equal parts, and eat it at

one sitting. He, whose stomach first refuses its service, must admit

himself conquered, for he will be the weaker of you two.”

“Quite right!” ran through the group; “Anactor and Enagoras must

undergo the great test of athletes before our eyes. We’ll bring the

wether at once and roast it on a spit.” Anactor and Enagoras agreed. At

the same time several went away to get the largest wether they could

find.

The scene had progressed thus far under the eyes of Pericles and his

companions, when Aspasia rose from her seat, saying: “Let us go,

Pericles, I no longer have strength to witness these Olympic games.”

The rest of the group smilingly rose, and set out on their return.

“Aspasia’s feeling towards these athletes,” said Alcamenes, “seems to

me neither more nor less than the right and natural impulse of a woman,

who is thoroughly healthy in body and soul. What real use are these

immensely powerful men? Are they more effective in war than others? Do

they mow down the ranks of the enemies, like the Homeric heroes? No!

Experience opposes it. Are they adapted to be of service in improving

the human race? No! Experience contradicts that also. They are good for

nothing, except the feats they perform in the Stadium, amid the

approving shouts of the spectators.”

“Yes,” replied Pericles, “the usefulness of the profession the athletes

practise, is not realized in their own persons. Yet the advantage

derived from that exhibition of strength, and the undue honor paid it,

is great and priceless, in so far as it vividly reminds the Hellenic

nation, that the powers of the body are no less capable of being

increased and developed than those of the mind. There is more danger

that man will neglect his physical, than his mental training, for he is

constantly urged to intellectual activity by a secret impulse and the

pressure of necessity. The cultivation of the body he leaves to nature,

unless stimulated by some external spur.”

As Pericles uttered these words, the party had reached the sacred grove

and were nearly opposite to some statues of famous victors, from the

hand of Polycleitus.

Aspasia, fixing her eyes upon them, said:

“In looking at these works of Polycleitus, the sculptor seems to me to

be of my opinion in these disputes. He has not vouchsafed to represent

the excess of strength or the unyielding bulk of the limbs, but places

before us images and types of just proportions, the harmonious,

fully-developed figure. It always appears to me that Polycleitus is to

be commended, because he does not, like Phidias, despise human nature,

but gives it the honor that is its due, and as Phidias represents

divine nature in its most sublime form, he most clearly realizes

unpretending humanity.”

This eulogy produced a less pleasant impression on Polycleitus’ mind,

than Aspasia expected.

“The artist,” he replied, “is dependent upon the wishes and needs of

those who claim his skill. The Elians also seem to believe, that

Phidias alone can worthily represent the gods, since they summoned him

to Olympia. Not so the Argives, who wish to try me, their countryman,

and have commissioned me to make the gold and ivory statue of Hera for

their great temple at Argos.”

Aspasia could not succeed in soothing the visible ill-humor of the

sculptor, who, in a short time, on some trivial pretext took his leave.

“You have now served as a spur to stimulate Polycleitus to do his best,

and make the Hera of Argos worthy the Zeus of Olympia,” said Alcamenes

smiling.

“He may execute an admirable statue in emulation of Phidias,” replied

Aspasia.

“But as Phidias, after once stooping to earth with his Lemnian Pallas,

quickly soared back again to Olympus, and since then has done penance

at the feet of the Olympic Zeus, Polycleitus, I believe, will speedily

return from Olympus to earth and his own peculiar domain. True, the

imaginative Peloponnesian suggests in his statues little of the

activity and depth of the soul; but do not Athenian artists also leave

something to be hoped for and desired? May I confess, that I sometimes

see in dreams visions of the gods no Phidias, Alcamenes or Polycleitus

has yet realized with the chisel. Last night, Apollo, dearest to me of

all the divinities, the god of light and music, appeared before me. He

made himself manifest under the guise of a marvellous, slender,

youthful figure, victorious and bewitching, moving with a bold yet

graceful stride. The dragons of gloom, mortally wounded by the mere

sight of him and the bow in his out-stretched hand, writhed before him.

Who can chisel the god as I beheld him? Not you, Alcamenes! Yet you are

the most ardent of all our sculptors, and with ever-youthful mind

devote yourself to life and its charms. That is why life reveals its

mysteries to you, and in your statues its mighty breath ruffles the too

level surface of pure form.”

Alcamenes’ eyes sparkled enthusiastically.

“The Arcadians have long intended to build a temple to your favorite

god, and applied to Phidias to adorn its frieze with sculpture. The

latter sent them to me. But the Arcadian mind is circumspect, and they

will doubtless wait many a year until the god, with his fatal darts,

causes them to fulfil their vow. If they then remember their plan and

me, the carving on that frieze shall bear witness, for all futurity, of

the flame to which you encourage me to give free course, Aspasia.”

“Be wholly yourself,” said Aspasia, “do not heed the words of the cold

and stern, and you will create something at which even the

fault-finders will gaze with wondering admiration.”

From this moment, the last spark of ill-will towards Aspasia vanished

from Alcamenes’ heart.

The following day some trifling accident led Pericles to go out without

Aspasia, leaving her in the society of Alcamenes, Polycleitus, and some

other friends he had met at Olympia. After a long interview, all took

their leave except Alcamenes, who continued the conversation with his

usual vivacity.

More and more ardent became the young sculptor’s words and looks.

But Alcamenes not only displayed his admiration of Pericles’ wife, now

that he found himself alone with her, but—apparently unconsciously and

involuntarily—adopted a tone which had a shade of familiarity. Was he

justified by the courtesy, with which the art-loving Milesian had once

admitted to friendly intercourse Phidias’ most talented pupil?

Aspasia noticed this touch of familiarity with a feeling of offended

pride.

Impetuous Alcamenes began to make comparisons between the contours of

her mature and youthful charms, speaking of them as people discuss

things, with which they are thoroughly familiar.

This also offended the high-spirited Aspasia.

Alcamenes took her hand, scanned it with the eye of a connoisseur,

praised its beauty, and said it was an inexhaustible source of artistic

instruction to him.

Aspasia withdrew it, reminding him that Theodota would be no less

inexhaustible in instructive charms.

“You are angry with me, because I have praised Theodota!” cried

Alcamenes.

“Have I ever made you suffer for it?” replied Aspasia coldly; “did you

find me hostile, when we met each other here again? Have I ceased to

cherish expectations that do you honor, and urge you, as the most

talented sculptor, to the attainment of the highest goal? I knew you

hated me, but to me Alcamenes’ art and Alcamenes himself are wholly

separate. I have returned neither your love nor your hate.”

“Your words may seem cold and sensible,” replied Alcamenes, “but secret

emotion gives them a keen and bitter point. You are still angry with me

on Theodota’s account. Forgive the sin I committed! What you call my

hate, was the vengeance of love.”

“Long before your hatred became apparent to me, I told you what I have

just recommended to your consideration—that there is a line between the

interest a man’s mind takes in anything, and that felt by his heart.”

“Is it so with women?” asked Alcamenes, smiling insolently. “I repeat:

you are angry with me on Theodota’s account. It was perhaps also a deed

of vengeance, that you have rekindled the same old fires within me.

Once more, forgive, and do not condemn the ardor you yourself have

usually praised in Alcamenes’ nature.”

With these words the impetuous fellow suddenly embraced Pericles’ wife.

The proud beauty measured the aggressor with a look, that recalled him

to his senses.

At this moment Pericles entered, and read what had happened in the

expression of Alcamenes’ face.

The latter took his leave in great embarrassment and rushed away, his

heart filled with fresh wrath against Aspasia.

Pericles looked very pale.

“Is explanation necessary?” said Aspasia. “You read in Alcamenes’

features—”

“It seems,” replied Pericles, “that Alcamenes treated you as people

treat a woman, who—”

“Say no more!” cried Aspasia.

“I know,” continued Pericles, “the line you draw, according to

Protagoras’ meaning, between your beauty and yourself. I know the

precept, according to which woman’s veil might be shrivelled to a

fig-leaf. You see he has a different opinion of the sacredness of the

fig-leaf. He is wrong, you say; but his view of the matter, not yours,

decides his manner of treating you. You know the man’s ardent, but not

ignoble nature. He will now be doubly incensed against you, and

increase the number of your open enemies.”

“He will apparently find an unexpected ally in this hostility!” said

Aspasia.

After a few more bitter speeches and retorts, Pericles left the room.

Aspasia stamped indignantly.

“This accursed Peloponnesian soil is bringing me misfortune,” she

murmured.

But fresh courage soon returned. “This is only a passing cloud,” she

thought, “which will sail harmlessly across the clear sky of love. The

fire will blaze more brightly after the new heat, than before the

chill.”

Aspasia was not disappointed. But does not an uncomfortable residue of

old ashes linger in the breast, beneath those brightly-blazing flames?

Does love forget all it forgives?

Pericles and Aspasia were Phidias’ guests at Olympia. He had lodged

them in one of the spacious apartments of his workshop, though he

himself remained invisible. He was constantly engaged in the temple,

superintending the completion and erection of the huge gold and ivory

statue, and refused to see them, but had promised, through Alcamenes,

that they should be the first of the whole Hellenic nation, to whom he

would reveal the greatest work of his hands.

The eagerly-anticipated hour was approaching.

A glowing summer day was followed by a sultry evening, with a

threatening thunder-shower. Dark flying clouds had gathered around the

lofty mountain-peaks. After darkness had closed in, one of Phidias’

slaves came to Pericles, saying that he had been ordered to conduct him

and Aspasia into the temple of Zeus. The Arcadian girl, at Aspasia’s

request, accompanied them. They passed through the sacred grove of

Altis, which lay in deep shadow under the clouded night-heavens. The

place was deserted; only a faint rustle echoed through the tree-tops.

They reached the temple. The slave opened the doors, led them into the

inner hall, conducted them to a raised platform at the end where they

could sit down, then withdrew, closing the doors behind him, and left

the three alone in the darkness. A faint glimmer of light fell through

the opening in the roof from the dark, clouded sky, but did not reach

far into the hall.

They waited silently, almost timidly. Suddenly the veil of gloom before

their eyes was rent asunder, and they started, dazzled by an

indescribable vision of light. The curtain that divided the back of the

hall from the front had been drawn aside, and the three spectators

beheld, in the bright glow, the colossal gold and ivory statue of the

Olympic god. He was represented seated on a glittering,

richly-ornamented throne, yet touching the temple-roof with the august

head, whose nod, according to the singer’s words, shook the heights of

Olympus.

Around the ivory limbs of the ruler of the gods hung a golden mantle,

enveloping the left shoulder, arms, and lower portions of the body.

This golden cloak sparkled with bright enamel, a decoration of tiny

figures and blooming lilies seemed embroidered on its surface. The

olive-wreath on the Olympian’s locks was of gold enameled with green.

In the left hand he held a sceptre, which artistically wrought of

various precious metals, and sparkling brightly, inclined slightly

forward, and was supported by the floor. The out-stretched right palm

held a goddess of victory, formed of the same materials as the statue

of the god himself. Four pillar-shaped feet, between which stood small

columns, supported the superbly-decorated throne, gleaming with gold

and marble, ivory and ebony. The flat front was colored dark-blue, a

background well suited to display the lustre of the gold and ivory.

Beautiful, significant carvings surrounded the god and the throne on

all sides. An eagle perched on the sceptre, golden lions adorned the

supports of the stool, on which rested the feet of the ruler of the

gods, sphinxes emblems of the fathomless counsels of Zeus, upheld the

arms of the throne. On the sides, painted by Pæonius, glittered, in

bright hues, the deeds of the famous son of Zeus, Heracles. Other

heroic forms appeared, and also representations of all the contests of

Olympia.

On the wide surface of the socle, above which rose the throne itself,

the fairest of Zeus’ daughters, golden Aphrodite, ascended from the

foam of the sea.

The Olympian’s face was divinely gentle, yet full of indescribably

sublime earnestness. The mild benevolence was wonderfully blended with

stern power and grave wisdom, but the expression of supreme power was

the predominant and prevailing one.

Aspasia, almost terrified, hid her face on Pericles’ breast. This

luminous vision inspired her with a sort of awe. Here there was nothing

womanly blended with the divine nature, as in the figure of the

virginal Pallas Athena. The grave, stern, lofty power of the ruler of

the gods was here raised to its summit.

Aspasia felt something like a sudden pain in her breast at the

spectacle.

The Arcadian girl was also greatly startled; but instantly recovered

herself and gazed up at the god with the confidence of a child.

The storm had slowly risen. Through the opening in the temple-roof,

they saw the lightning flash across the sky and heard the roll of

distant thunder.

Aspasia wanted to draw Pericles away with her, but he remained absorbed

in silent contemplation. He, too, was accustomed to receive a pleasant

impression from sculpture, but now saw himself confronted with the

sublime in a form never before imagined. There was something like a new

revelation in this statue.

The thunder rolled nearer and nearer.

Suddenly a flash of lightning darted through the opening in the

temple-roof.

Pericles and Aspasia were blinded for a moment; when they recovered

their sight, they saw a marble tablet, on which the twelve Olympic

divinities were carved in relief, cleft and blackened by the

thunder-bolt.

Zeus’ countenance had shone for an instant with Titanic majesty in the

glare of the lightning. It seemed as if his hand had hurled the dart,

that shattered the inferior Olympic deities.

Now his face beamed with such quiet dignity, that the terror roused by

the lightning melted at the sight. The god appeared so great, that even

the lightning played around him like faint, feeble sparks.

“This god of Phidias’,” said Pericles, absorbed in thought, “has grown

above the temples of the Hellenes. His head towers towards the

unattainable, the infinite—”

Half-constrained, Pericles at last yielded to Aspasia’s urgency, and

both went in search of Phidias.

The latter, unseen, had watched the pair, while they stood gazing at

the god.

Then, to avoid speaking, he disappeared and remained concealed.

When the husband and wife thoughtfully returned to their lodging,

Aspasia shook from her mind the impression produced by the solemnly

sublime spectacle, as a bird shakes the glittering rain-drops from its

light wings.

Not so Pericles.

But Aspasia did not rest, till she had banished the Olympic sternness

from his brow.

At last the supernatural, solemnly sublime spectacle, beheld amid

lightning and thunder, receded into the background, and admiration of

the peerless sculptor obtained mastery in his soul.

Even with closed eyes, the Arcadian girl saw herself in her sleep that

night surrounded by streams of light, the sparkle of gold, the gleam of

ivory, and the flash of lightning strangely blended together.

Pericles started restlessly from sleep several times. He had dreamed

that Phidias’ seated god had risen to his full height, and shattered

the temple-roof with his head.

Aspasia had another strange dream.

She saw Zeus’ eagle fly down from the sceptre to the socle, and peck

out the eyes of golden, smiling, joyous Aphrodite’s doves.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CHILD OF LIGHT AND THE PRIEST OF DARKNESS.

The Peloponnesian journey of Pericles and Aspasia formed a strange

contrast to their Ionian honeymoon. On the gay strand of Miletus,

victorious womanhood with soft arms drew the Athenian hero into her

magic circle; here, amid towering mountain peaks, the manly Dorian

spirit approached Pericles, accompanied by many things well suited to

awaken serious thoughts. Here nature herself filled his soul with

solemn awe, here the ancient relics of a heroic past, compared with

which later generations could not help feeling themselves a feeble

race, accosted him; here amid scenes, whose legends were inseparably

connected with the old heroic world, a worship and rivalry of virility

was fostered, well suited, as Aspasia felt, to rouse, sustain, and

develop opinions in the soul of the Greek, which would rather injure

than aid the victory of beauty and womanhood in every department of

life. In the shepherd’s lonely mountain meadows Pericles had beheld a

simple, idyllic existence, untouched by the breath of the new

civilization, and which fostered views, feelings, presentiments, that

perhaps only awaited the decline of the true Hellenic spirit, to weave

a grey, formless mist around the bright Greek world. Even the

Athenian’s art, placing his last and noblest work in the temple of the

Olympic ruler of the gods, seemed to seal forever the triumph of lofty

sublimity over graceful beauty.

These emotions and influences affected Pericles differently from

Aspasia. Their minds were not wholly alike, and the nature of their

relation to the outside world also differed. Aspasia was working,

giving, active in all directions; Pericles, without impairing his manly

vigor, was receptive, allowing every external influence to act upon his

noble Greek soul. Like the Hellenic nation itself, he was placed, with

his extreme susceptibility, between the opposing powers; and, like the

Hellenic nature and Hellenic mind, experienced, by the constant

transition of these influences and contrasts, a development, a mental

history, whose limit and issue were not yet to be seen, while Aspasia

stood immovably and changelessly firm in the inmost depths of her

nature—as the powerful champion of the gayety and beauty of Hellenic

life.

Was there not reason to fear, that through this trifling contrast,

hitherto concealed by the rose-garlands of love and happiness, the

exquisite harmony of the love-life that united the handsome, noble pair

on the very summit of human existence, might some day be shadowed?

Doubtless the peril was imminent, but the roses of love and happiness

now seemed fadeless, gifted with a magic, eternal perfume.

Pericles still remained susceptible and receptive, Aspasia active and

expressive.

They often attacked each other’s opinions in conversation, and Pericles

frequently believed he had drawn his beloved wife into his views and

mood. Finally, however, he usually perceived that it was she who had

converted him, that it was impossible wholly to resist the potent spell

in the hands of this peerless woman. He constantly allowed himself to

be led back from the summit of free, wide, views of life. The beautiful

harmony between the two souls was constantly restored, they continually

realized afresh the ideal of Hellenic life at its highest summit of

development, and afforded a spectacle on which the Olympians looked

down with satisfaction.

Aspasia admirably understood how to manage her husband’s moods. Whether

she would always be able to stifle the newly-budding germ of his inner

life, check the progress of his mental development, it was as yet

impossible to determine.

This only is certain, that Aspasia always understood how to blend the

mirthfulness of Anacreon’s songs with the earnestness aroused in

Pericles by the hymns of Pindar, and between these two the real Greek

spirit always maintained its ground.

The past had cast a fleeting shadow over Pericles’ conjugal happiness,

in the little incident connected with Alcamenes. Aspasia breathed more

freely when, on their return from Olympia to Athens, they left the soil

of the Peloponnesus behind. She did not suspect, that still more

unpleasant events awaited her in Attica, just before reaching the

desired goal.

While Phidias was creating his Zeus at Olympia for all Hellas, as he

had formerly at Athens created Pallas Athena for the Athenians, his old

associate and friend, Ictinus, had been employed in Eleusis, the Attic

city of mysteries, where he had been summoned to erect a new temple to

Demeter for the celebration of the great ceremonies.

As the time for this celebration was close at hand, Hipponicus, who at

this festival held the office of a Daduchus, long hereditary in his

family, had just moved to Eleusis, occupying a country villa, which,

like many other rich Athenians, he possessed in the neighborhood of the

beautifully-located city, which was situated near the sea, opposite the

ford and island of Salamis. The hill-sides were covered with the houses

of the residents and vast temples, surrounded by extensive grounds.

During his stay at Eleusis, Pericles became Hipponicus’ guest.

The first day was devoted to the inspection of the large new temple

completed by Ictinus, and which, being intended for the celebration of

the mysteries, contained numerous subterranean halls and labyrinthic

passages of vast extent, the scene of the secret rites only the

initiated were allowed to behold.

The subject of the Eleusinian mysteries was one against which Aspasia

resolutely directed the sharpest arrows of her mind and wit. Everything

that shrank from the light, sought the darkness, surrounded itself with

the veil of secrecy, seemed to her connected with superstition and

fanaticism, and she thus perceived in these ceremonies peril to the

free, aspiring spirit of the Hellenes.

When she blamed the Athenians for the reverence and holy awe felt for

these mysteries, Pericles said:

“Perhaps the awe experienced by the Hellenes, is the natural timidity

the human mind feels in the presence of the secrets slumbering

undeveloped in its own depths. Who knows how many revelations of the

human intellect will yet be brought forth from the sacred abyss?”

“I wish to hear nothing about the revelations of the future,” said

Aspasia. “The revelation of the present is the revelation of beautiful

humanity, and everything that might follow would be only a

degeneration. Let us cling with mind, soul, and every fibre of our

being to the beautiful, bright present.”

Pericles referred his wife to the Daduchus Hipponicus, asking whether

this man, whose body constantly grew more corpulent, whose cheeks

constantly glowed with a deeper crimson, showed any trace of

fanaticism? Yet he was not only one of the initiated, but even the

holder of a priestly office at Eleusis, one of those who consecrated

the mystics.

Aspasia replied, that those who led others into the domain of

superstition and fanaticism were rarely free from the sentiments they

inspired, though it sometimes happened that the holders and

transmitters of holy secrets were like the mules, that here and there,

according to ancient custom, were used as bearers of sacred

temple-vessels or statues of the gods, but received no part of the

divine blessing they carried on their backs and gave to others.

“Harmless Hipponicus,” Aspasia added, “seems to me to belong to this

latter class.”

Hipponicus was proud of his office of Daduchus because the Hellenic

nation regarded it as an honor. But he really felt attracted by no

secret impulse, no personal inclination, towards the other things

associated with and required by this dignity, only by the circumstance

that he belonged to the family from which the Daduchi of Eleusis were

chosen, and the choice had fallen on him.

He defended the mysteries against Aspasia’s attacks as a cause he

represented, but without growing excited over it.

Averse to philosophical discussion, he contented himself with showing

Aspasia a painting that adorned his dining-room. The picture was

executed by Polygnotus, and represented Ulysses’ visit to the realm of

shades. Hades was depicted in all its terrors, and the living prince of

Ithaca walked fearlessly amid the pallid ghosts.

As Pericles looked at the picture with Aspasia, he noticed, as one of

the initiated, that its details contained many references to the

mysteries of Eleusis. Hipponicus assented to the remark, and said to

Aspasia:

“It is allowable to betray this much, that the way to the holy light of

Eleusis leads through Hades, through the terrors of Erebus. As for the

uninitiated, and those who obstinately disdain to allow themselves to

be consecrated, their fate in the nether world is very easily shown in

this very painting.”

Hipponicus then earnestly advised Aspasia to allow herself to be

initiated, reminding her that, according to the universal belief of the

Hellenes, those initiated into the mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis,

walk after death through the fields of the blessed, while the

unconsecrated were destined to languish throughout eternity in horrible

darkness and desolation.

“I have often heard so,” replied Aspasia, “and it always sounded like

the jarring notes of a tuneless cithara, or the noise of a sharp iron

instrument drawn over glass. It is marvellous to what things even

Hellenic ears can become accustomed. I know there are people who, when

they feel the end of life drawing near, quickly have themselves

initiated, and many hasten to have their children, even at a very

tender age, made sharers in this salvation.”

“I have myself been initiated, like almost all the Athenians,” said

Pericles, “and would gladly share these secrets with you, as well as

all others.”

“I understand,” replied Aspasia, “that superstition affords a

sufficient motive for the foolish to be initiated, and curiosity for

the wise. But, as a woman, I have a double right to curiosity. What

must I do, Hipponicus, to share the consecration.”

“It is a very easy matter. You must go next year to the minor

Eleusinian festival at Athens, receive through the intercession of some

one already consecrated the minor initiation, and six months after

proceed in the Eleusinian procession from Athens to Eleusis, to be

initiated into the great consecration and behold the real mysteries.”

“What?” cried Aspasia, “must I restrain my curiosity so long? I must

wait for the minor Eleusinian festival, and then see six months elapse,

before the mysteries are revealed to me? Are you not one of the

Daduchi, Hipponicus, and, as such, can’t you procure me the favor of

receiving the minor initiation at the same time with the great one?”

“Impossible!” replied Hipponicus.

“What prevents you?” asked Aspasia.

“The interval between the two consecrations is appointed by sacred

custom,” replied the Daduchus.

“You can help me evade the sacred custom, if you only choose to do so!”

replied Aspasia.

“The Hierophant is a stern, severe man, like Diopeithes at Athens,”

said Hipponicus. “Shall I bring down the wrath of the chief priest upon

my head?”

Aspasia persisted in her request, but the Daduchus repeated his

“impossible.” He was a foe to unpleasant complications, and felt no

inclination to rouse the whole Eleusinian priesthood. He liked peace

and comfort.

The next day the Eleusinian procession came from Athens to Eleusis.

Pericles, Aspasia and Hipponicus were among the spectators, as the

throng, numbering thousands, passed along the sacred road. While

Aspasia’s eyes wandered over the sacred relics borne in the procession

and the throng of mystics themselves, all garlanded with myrtle and

ivy, and carrying in their hands ears of corn and farming utensils in

honor of Demeter, giver of the fruits of the earth, suddenly, by the

light of the burning torches—for the arrival of the Eleusinian

procession took place in the darkness of evening—Telesippe’s dull eyes

and flabby cheeks appeared amid the motley throng of faces.

Telesippe’s husband, who through Pericles’ influence was the

newly-elected archon Basileus, who had the charge of overlooking the

Eleusinian mysteries, marched in the company of the Athenian priests

and superior magistrates; Telesippe, with head erect, walked by his

side as Basilissa, the sharer of his religious dignities and functions.

The wife of the chief archon looked very stately, and as her glance,

roving haughtily to the right and left, fell upon her former husband

and the Milesian by his side, she raised her head still more proudly,

while a contemptuous expression appeared on her pouting under lip. Her

countenance was as solemn, as if she were standing at the Lenæan

festival as “the mystic wife of the god,” in the temple of Dionysus, at

the head of the inferior priestesses, performing the mysterious

ceremonies, rites no masculine eye was permitted to behold, and

concerning which she received from the participators a vow of silence.

When Aspasia beheld this woman, so proudly supported by the

consciousness of her priestly dignity, and hurling the arrow of scorn

from disapproving eyes, the old hatred and sharp-tongued ridicule

stirred in the Ionian’s breast.

“See,” she said to Pericles smiling, “see how proudly the estimable

Telesippe walks along, her well-rounded limbs covered with sleek fat!

After being wedded to two mortals, she has now become the mystic wife

of the god Dionysus! But I should be surprised if the youthful god did

not soon yield her to another, nay to Silenus, his round-bellied

comrade; for whom she seems exactly created.”

Some of this sharp-edged ridicule reached Telesippe’s ears. But it was

still more distinctly heard by Elpinice and the seer Lampon, who walked

behind her in the procession, and had also looked the Milesian sharply

in the eye. Glances of ill-suppressed indignation were cast at the

insolent speaker, and a silent vow to hasten a long-resolved vengeance

was taken at the same moment in three wrathful souls.

During the night the festal dancers rioted on the coast of the

Eleusinian bay, led by the god Iacchus with a blazing torch. The light

shone over the flowery meadow, and the enthusiastic chorus whirled

around the god, stamping on the ground in the dance and shaking their

waving locks, crowned with myrtle-wreaths, amid which were ripe

berries. The ranks, swinging their torches aloft, crossed each other in

manifold curves. One mystic frequently handed a torch to another. This

mystic glare was considered sacred, and the sparks showered from the

torches were supposed to purify the souls of those they touched in

falling.

With the closing in of the evening, that ended the preliminary festival

and preceded the mysteries in the temple, the mystics prepared for the

sacred rites by various purifications, libations, sacrifices and other

sacred customs.

Meantime Aspasia had repeatedly renewed her entreaty, that Hipponicus

would use his influence to have her initiated into the mysteries.

Hipponicus reminded her, that the celebration of the mysteries took

place under the direction of the archon Basileus, Telesippe’s husband,

and as he had the control of the Eleusinian priests, his wife, as

Basilissa, commanded the priestesses of Eleusis during the time of the

mysteries.

All this seemed only to stimulate Aspasia’s obstinacy, but she would

scarcely have overcome his resistance, had he not finally fared like

Alcamenes at Olympia. He did not keep in the house for days, in vain,

the firebrand that had already once scorched his heart. Mindful of the

incident with Alcamenes, Aspasia would probably otherwise have guarded

against fanning this flame afresh, and thus conjuring up a danger that

appeared momentous on Pericles’ account. But she had resolved to

thoroughly investigate what she must combat, in order to fight with

greater success. She noticed with satisfaction the ardor of Hipponicus,

whom she usually despised; it was a guarantee that he would fulfil her

request.

It was even so. The Daduchus at last consented to give Aspasia the

minor consecration, she ought to have received six months before at

Athens. He knew how to win over the mystagogue, whose duty it was to

introduce and prepare the novices at the minor Eleusian festival at

Athens.

The Daduchus, after certain preliminary ceremonies of purification,

ordered Aspasia to step on the fleece of a lamb sacrificed to Zeus, and

the mystagogue then taught her various customs and formulas, which she

required in the temple to prove that she was initiated, in order not to

be refused admittance with the mystics into the interior of the

sanctuary. Finally he made her swear, that she would forever maintain

inviolable silence about everything she would hear and see in the

temple of the great consecration.

All the mystics were not introduced at once when the days of the

consecration came, but one division followed another.

Pericles and Aspasia were among the first throng admitted.

A smile hovered around Aspasia’s lips as, guided by the mystagogue, she

entered the inner hall of the sanctuary with the throng, and saw the

Hierophant with the rest of the chief priests and assistants, arrayed

in glittering emblematic garments, with diadems resting on the waving

locks that floated freely over their shoulders—tall, aged men, of

venerable aspect, displaying mysterious symbols, among them the

Daduchus with a torch in his hand.

Still more charming was the fair Milesian’s smile, when the “sacred

herald” raised his voice before the assembled mystics, summoning every

one who had not received the consecration to retire, as well as every

one whose hands were not free from guilt, and who was not worthily

prepared to behold the sacred light of Eleusis. Lastly, all took a

solemn vow to maintain eternal silence about what they would see and

hear, after which a question was whispered into the ear of each mystic,

which only that particular individual could answer, and which he

answered in an equally low tone in the questioner’s ear, while the

solemn hymn to the goddesses of Eleusis was sung by an invisible

chorus.

The subtle smile still hovered on Aspasia’s lips, when the mystics were

led into the interior of the temple, where certain holy objects,

remnants of primeval days, emblems of the blessings and mysteries of

the Eleusinian service of the gods, were shown them, and then offered

to be touched and kissed, while being explained by the Hierophant.

With the same smile she watched the pantomimic representations of the

holy legends, vivid and affecting when seen in the mysterious, dusky

light of the temple, accompanied by the music of stringed instruments,

flutes, and songs.

The throng of mystics was now conducted down flights of steps into

subterranean vaults and passages, where they were soon surrounded by

total darkness. The pilgrimage began, a long, toilsome, aimless

wandering in nocturnal gloom. Only the Hierophant’s voice, uttering in

grave, dignified tones significant maxims and exclamations, served as a

guide through the dark labyrinth.

Suddenly a dull roar was heard, as if the foundations of the earth

trembled, amid which blended wails, groans, rushing water, rolling

thunder. Timid surprise, awe, and fear now succeeded the quiet gaze of

the crowd of mystics, drops of perspiration stood on their foreheads.

Terror constantly increased; for horrible shapes, monsters of the

nether world, were momentarily illumined by the glare of lightning-like

flames, whose tints were red, blue, white, or livid and awful, flashing

alternately from the ground. There were Gorgons with horrible heads,

Echidnæ crawling like serpents, strange chimeras, blending the forms of

the lion, goat, and snake, Harpies with huge jaws and protruding teeth,

pale, blood-thirsty Empusæ, barking Scyllæ with dogs’ heads, and the

horrible figure of Hecate.

The terrible apparitions grew still more awful, until at last,

surrounded by a livid glare, Thanatos, god of death, appeared throned

on dead men’s bones, clad in a black robe, his brow garlanded with

asphodel, in his hand a reversed torch, beside him a pale steed, on

which he traversed vast distances.

Around him were his faithful followers, Eurynomus, the demon of

corruption, one of the spirits of Hades, whose office was to gnaw the

flesh of corpses to the bones. He sat on carcasses like an eagle or

vulture, and greedily closed his teeth on the mouldering flesh.

Farther on, grouped around pallid Thanatos, were the plague, pale,

emaciated hunger, the fury of war Enyo, sickly love-madness, and Ate,

the furious demon of folly, blindness, and sin.

Aspasia still smiled, but the smile was no longer charming, and her

face was pale as marble.

At a sign from the Hierophant, the Daduchus lighted his torch at one of

the livid flames flashing from the ground, and, while the music of

flutes and the invisible chorus sounded still more terrible, a gloomy

cave, filled with mephitic vapors, received the throng. A dull roar,

like that of a torrent, echoed from the distance, blended with a loud

barking, which seemed to come from a triple-headed dog.

As the mystics traversed the long, horrible way through the cave, they

saw, as if in a dream, a wide, monotonous, gloomy domain, dripping with

the dews of sleep and encircled by mournful streams.

The baying of the triple-headed dog of Hades was silenced by the sacred

herald’s staff, and the throng of mystics beheld, with horror,

Persephone’s grove of the dead; where, in the livid light, stood

willows and silver-poplars, pallid and motionless, with drooping

boughs.

Then came the field of Asphodel, overgrown with the mournful flower of

death, whose pale blossoms swayed dreamily on their lofty stalks.

Above this field the shades, the souls of the dead, hovered to and fro,

like visions of a dream, or smoke, intangible, destitute of human

speech, but filling the wide space with a low, monotonous hum. They

were only half conscious, as if sunk in dreamy, waking slumber, only

aroused by a proffered draught of the fresh-steaming blood of a victim.

Night-birds whirred through the air, but these too were shadowy and

ghost-like. Shadowy also, with transparent bodies, the fish glided

noiselessly to and fro in the streams of the nether world. These

streams, which surrounded Erebus, were Acheron, the river of eternal

woe; Cocytus, the river of tears; Pyriphlegethon, the river of fire,

and the night-black waters of the Styx.

The mystics, conducted by the sacred herald, walked dreamily through

the twilight of the floating, wavering world of shadows, until, with a

noise like thunder, a huge brazen door crashed open before them.

Across the brazen threshold they entered Tartarus, the abode of souls,

who were not permitted to float over the field of Asphodel in a half

slumber, feeling neither joy nor sorrow, but were dragged by the

avenging Erinnyes into the deeper gulf of Hades, filled with

lamentations.

To be bound forever to a rolling wheel—to be forever threatened by

overhanging rocks just ready to fall—to eternally stretch out the hand

with unfulfilled longing towards boughs laden with fruit, that

constantly escaped—to perpetually roll up a mountain a stone that

continually rolled down again—to toil with desperate energy to dip up

constantly escaping water in a pail full of holes—to expose entrails

continually renewed to a vulture’s bite, and the limbs to the lashing

of the Erinnyes’ serpent scourge—to be forever a plaything in the hands

of these Stygian shapes of horror: this was the lot of those, whom the

throng of the initiated beheld with a shudder in this realm of anguish.

The images of these tortures of the nether world were various, but most

numerous of all were the symbols of vain perpetual striving and

aspiration.

Thus those summoned to the consecration were led, with souls filled

with fear, through the horrors of the abyss, the sufferings of life,

and the terrors of death.

Through all these apparitions and scenes of horror, the Hierophant’s

voice was heard, raised in solemn tones of warning and interpretation.

Still more horrible grew the subterranean darkness, still louder the

wails and groans of the tortured. The rivers of the nether world began

to roar, the whole realm of darkness seemed to groan in a heart-rending

death-gasp, in which the upper world appeared also to unite, and the

voices of all living creatures to blend in a prolonged wail of agony.

Suddenly a wondrous light burst from the bosom of the most intense

darkness.

Pleasant scenes appeared, meadows strewn with golden flowers; sweet

voices resounded, happy groups of dancers hovered over the bright

fields.

Here Persephone’s palace beckoned invitingly in the brilliant glow. On

its threshold, holding a lyre on his arm, stood Orpheus, the ancient

sacred singer of mysteries, his lips proclaiming mysterious tidings.

Behind him the boy Demophoon smilingly greeted the mystics from the

midst of the purifying flames, with which his divine nurse, Demeter,

had surrounded him, to the terror of his mortal mother.

Above the golden doors of the temple hovered, illumined by the most

brilliant rays, the emblem of the winged Psyche, no longer brooding,

shadow-like, in Hades, but soaring upward above fields of Asphodel, out

of Tartarus and Elysium into the kindred divine ether.

The pilgrims from the nether world were conducted through the

temple-gates. Here the unuttered part of the mysteries was revealed.

Here glowed before them, according to each individual’s power of

vision, the full sacred light of Eleusis.

The day succeeding Aspasia’s initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries,

found the Milesian in a bewildered, strangely-altered state. Her

excitement almost rose to the height of fever. In an eager conversation

with Pericles about what she had seen and heard by his side, she strove

to restore the lost harmony of her mind. As there are night-birds and

other creatures of darkness, whose eyes love gloom and cannot bear the

light, there are also children of light, who are only at ease in the

golden rays of the kindred and familiar element, and whose pupils

cannot endure to gaze down into the black gulf of night. Aspasia was

one of them. This pilgrimage seemed to her a look into the darkness, a

glimpse of the black night, and what was called the holy light of

Eleusis did not appear to her like light, but a different kind of

obscurity, for it was gloomy and led to gloom. She could only imagine

the light as cheerful. To her light was only that which brightened and

made glad. The livid, cold, ghostly, and then glaring, dazzling rays

the Hierophant of Eleusis had cast into the depths of life, appeared to

her a base counterpart of the real roseate light. The fantastic arts,

bordering upon magic, of the Eleusinian priests, she called jugglery

and confused symbolical nonsense.

She was agitated, seized with an oppressive restlessness and urged to

opposition in a way never felt before.

Meantime it had remained no secret to the strangers, especially to the

Athenians who thronged Eleusis, that Aspasia had been allowed to be

initiated into the mysteries by her husband’s side. Even the minor

circumstances of this initiation were soon learned by those, who

followed the Milesian’s acts with the sharp eyes of disapproval. The

worst of her foes, whom she had just again insulted and roused to

vengeance, remained in Eleusis, among them Lampon, the officious

Lampon, who had won a still higher place in Telesippe’s confidence and

favor since she became the wife of a man high among the priesthood, and

was exactly adapted to be the tool of the revengeful wife and her

intriguing friend. Lampon soon wrested from the unsuspicious mystagogue

the secret of the bold expedient, in defiance of the sacred law, to

which Aspasia owed her initiation. Through him the news reached her

enemies.

The archon Basileus, as guardian of the holy laws, was speedily

informed of the sacrilege, and a storm gathered over the heads of

Aspasia and her accomplice, Hipponicus, who against priestly rule had

helped her obtain the consecration.

Aspasia as yet knew nothing of the impending trouble, and ere she

obtained tidings of it, an unpleasant event of a different nature

occurred in Hipponicus’ house.

She was seated with her husband and their hospitable host at the

morning meal. Sacred usage required a certain degree of abstemiousness

during the celebration of the mysteries, and Aspasia therefore took

still greater pleasure in urging on the old reveller, Hipponicus, by

gay toasts and songs, until he was more mindful of the inspiring god

Iacchus than of stern Persephone. He applied himself industriously to

the beaker, and his eyes sparkled more and more brightly as the

charming woman took the field against the mournful solemnity of the

mysteries, nay against all melancholy, even the gloomy idea of duty, to

which she opposed the bright claims of life and joy.

Pericles withdrew to visit one of his colleagues, and Aspasia went to

her room.

Suddenly Hipponicus, much intoxicated, appeared before her and began to

load her with reproaches.

“Woman,” he stammered, “your name is ingratitude. Didn’t I release you

from evil complications at Megara? What was my reward? Haven’t I again

plunged heels over head into danger, by smuggling you, contrary to all

sacred customs, into the mysteries? And am I to have no reward for that

either, not the smallest? Why, if your mind is so free, are you so

reserved towards me? Do you fear your husband? He is absent. Or the

gloomy idea of duty? You have just made it ridiculous. Am I not young

and handsome enough for you? Then take this ring with its precious

gems! It cost two talents in cash. Do you know whether Pericles will

always love you, whether he may not some day cast you off, like

Telesippe. Everything in the world changes and varies. Rely upon

nothing! Seize the present! Take the ring, fair woman! Take the ring

with the gems, that cost two talents! Do you know how long you will be

charming? You are beautiful still, but the time will come when you will

be old and ugly. Take the ring, fair woman, and give me a kiss in

exchange.”

The drunkard shrank back for a moment before Aspasia’s wrathful eyes.

Then he grew angry, and muttered:

“Who are you? Eh, who are you? A hetæra from Miletus, by Demeter! Since

when have you attempted to be a Spartan wife, an austere matron? Oh!

you prude, who once, without coyness, served the youthful Alcamenes as

a model.”

Aspasia trembled, and turned pale with rage against the insolent

drunkard. Again she pushed the staggering man back, hastily threw her

upper garment around her and rushed out of the room, out of the house,

to meet her husband, Pericles.

She had scarcely left the villa, when Diopeithes’ pliant friend, Lampon

the seer, entered.

He was sent by Diopeithes, who had arrived in Eleusis the day before.

When those inspired by mortal hatred towards Pericles and Aspasia first

heard the news of Aspasia’s unlawful initiation, they instantly

determined to accuse her and the Daduchus before the sacred council,

and most of them rejoiced that they could plunge the much envied

Hipponicus into ruin, as well as the woman they hated.

But Diopeithes himself, the real head of this hostile party, was of a

different opinion, and devised a plan that did honor to his cunning. He

would gladly have exposed Hipponicus to the accusation and sentence of

condemnation, but calculated that, if not accused and condemned, he

might be more useful to the party.

“If we accuse him at once,” he said, “the powerful Pericles will aid

him with all his influence, and even if he does not escape wholly

unpunished, he will receive a much milder sentence than we desire.

Perhaps he may get off with a fine, easily paid by the richest man in

Athens. He will pay it, and remain precisely as he is now. It will be

quite different if we do not call him immediately to account, but let

the indictment for the present hover as a perpetual threat over his

head. We will let him know that we possess his secret, and have the

power to ruin him as soon as we choose. This will render him yielding

in everything. A man like him, who values his ease above all else, and

for whom no price is too high to escape an annoyance or entanglement,

will become a helpless tool in our hands from mere anxiety. His

influence at Athens and the power of his riches are great: it will be

better to conduct this water over our wheel, than our enemy’s.”

After addressing these words to his companion, the crafty, malicious

priest sent Lampon to Hipponicus’ house.

The seer found the Daduchus in a strange condition. He was intoxicated,

and at the same time violently excited by rage at what had just passed

between him and Pericles’ wife.

Nevertheless Lampon entered into a conversation with Hipponicus, and

frankly told him it was known that, contrary to one of the sacred

rules, he had initiated Pericles’ wife into the mysteries.

Hipponicus was so greatly startled by these words, that he became

almost sober, but his anger against the Milesian burst forth with

double fury. He began to curse her as a temptress and corrupter.

“Seize her!” he exclaimed, “break her on the wheel, put her in the

pillory, spear her, do whatever you choose with her, she deserves it.”

Lampon heard these expressions of wrath with delight, and after

craftily increasing to the utmost the man’s rage and fear of the

ruinous indictment, he made the disclosure that those who could arraign

him were ready to secretly enter into an agreement with him, and asked

if he would accept their invitation to an interview. Hipponicus

breathed more freely, and promised in advance everything that could be

asked. The time and place for the meeting were instantly arranged

between him and Lampon.

During this conversation, Aspasia was hurrying through the streets of

Eleusis. Her rapid pace was soon checked by the crowd, and she could

not fail to notice that she was recognized. She found herself the

object of attention that perplexed, confused, and alarmed her.

The throng of people assembled in Eleusis had been excited against

Aspasia by her enemies in every possible way. The rumor of her unlawful

initiation went the rounds of the populace. There were some who

ventured to say loudly, that Pericles’ wife had once been a hetæra from

Miletus and Megara, had been driven from the latter place with insult,

and, on account of this past, her initiation was a sacrilege.

Exaggerations and tales of the most foolish kind, as usual, ran from

lip to lip, arousing contempt and anger.

The crowd through which Aspasia pressed, with anxious haste, was

animated by these feelings.

There was no lack of insolent persons who curiously followed her, nay

walking behind her, even uttered insulting words that could not fail to

reach her ear and wound her.

“What is the news in Athens?”

“Nothing, except a woman there carries spear and shield, and the men

are womanish.”

“It can’t be denied that Athens is ruled by a woman.”

“By Pallas Athena, you mean?”

“No, by a Milesian hetæra. It is said that Pericles is going to have

her statue placed on the Acropolis.”

“Poor Pericles! He never could resist women. He was Elpinice’s lover

too, and it is known that she bribed him with her elderly charms.”

“Is the Milesian the same person he wandered with in Asia Minor several

years ago?”

“Yes, indeed; they say he made a pilgrimage with her to the under

petticoat of Omphale, the hero conqueror, which is hung in the temple

of Diana at Ephesus.”

“But how could it have entered his head to take this same woman with

him into the rude Peloponnesus, where she can’t possibly feel at home.

Kittens, says a proverb, like a soft place to sleep.”

“It is said the gnats at Elis were very uncomfortable to her, and I’ll

wager the gadflies of Eleusis will please her still less.”

“In truth their buzzing seems to suit her very badly.”

“Ah, these tender chickens from Paphia’s nest, who have slept on purple

cushions from childhood, these Ionians, with the melting eyes and

pliant arms, without a bone in their bodies, full of gentleness and

love—what do they seek in battling Olympia or grave Eleusis?”

Such were the malicious taunts, that echoed from the crowd constantly

increasing behind Aspasia.

When this had lasted for some time, she suddenly stood still, threw

back the covering that veiled her head, so that her face was wholly

visible, and calmly gazed with radiant eyes at the throng around her.

Then her lips parted and she answered the staring populace.

“Years ago, I once stood a helpless woman in the streets of Megara,

surrounded by the crowd, guiltlessly insulted, guiltlessly persecuted

with looks and words. I was watched with eyes that glowed with hatred,

for the hostile Dorians pressed upon me. I was mocked with unjust

words, grasped with rude hands, for the rude, fierce Dorian mob

surrounded me. To-day a crowd encircles me in the streets of Eleusis.

But I raise my head quietly and calmly, for I think most of those who

encircle me are Athenians. It is no Dorian throng, but an Ionian one,

whose worst shaft, I believe, is the insolent glance of the eye, and

the heedless word that always springs readily from the keen-edged

tongue. But why do you crowd around me? Why do you stare at me? I have

intruded unbidden into the mysteries of Eleusis, you say? Do not be

paltry in your thoughts, clear-minded Athenians, and do not too readily

follow the hints and words of those who hate the light and love the

darkness, those who would fain sell you into the gloom! Men of Athens!

Pay not too much honor to the gloomy pair of goddesses at Eleusis, and

remember your own Pallas Athena, the goddess of light, the true and

worthy protectress of the Attic land and nation, whose statue, in its

brilliant radiance, dispersing all the brood of night, towers on your

citadel.”

As Pericles’ wife uttered these words, with her bright face fearlessly

raised to the throng pressing around her, the men looked at each other,

saying:

“By the gods, this Aspasia of Miletus is a beautiful woman, and we must

forgive her many things.”

Then they separated a little, and allowed her to quietly continue her

way.

The friends of Diopeithes, who chanced to be among the crowd, were

still more enraged with the Milesian, went to the priest of Erechtheus,

and reported that Aspasia had boldly uttered contemptuous words about

the sanctuaries and venerable goddesses of Eleusis before the assembled

populace.

The hour for the interview with Diopeithes, to which Hipponicus was

invited, had arrived.

A number of men, with sullen faces, declared enemies of Pericles, were

assembled with the priest.

The trembling Daduchus consented to everything. Relying upon his

declarations and the outbursts of his anger against Aspasia, which

Lampon had witnessed, Diopeithes henceforth numbered him among his

allies and accomplices.

For his sake, they said, the accusation against Aspasia in a matter

very dangerous, according to the Athenian laws, should be deferred so

long as he showed himself worthy of consideration. The conspirators

thought the bold, irreverent remarks made by Pericles’ wife about the

Eleusinian goddesses, before all the people, would be sufficient to

ruin her. The charge of impiety, contempt for religion, could be

brought against her at any moment.

There were present men belonging to the party of oligarchs, who said

that they must go still farther, must not be satisfied with assailing

the Milesian, who after all was nothing but a woman, but attack

Pericles himself. They referred to the ruinous transformation in the

community which had emanated from him, the unlimited authority of the

people gained by his compliance, and held in check by nothing save the

personal influence of the popular strategus. Thus Athenian affairs were

exposed to the discretion and pleasure of a single individual. Others

thought men like Anaxagoras, Socrates, and the Sophists, were the real

root of the mischief in the state. These would have taught the

Athenians to think freely and speak audaciously of the gods and divine

things, seek them above everything else. There were also, among the

adherents of Diopeithes, foes and enviers of Phidias and his school,

who wished to see the persecution extended to them.

Diopeithes’ eyes sparkled at the mention of all these names. All were

equally hateful to him.

“We shall understand how to seize them all,” said he, “either

successively or at once. But let us craftily watch for a suitable

opportunity, wait for a favorable mood of the Athenians. Meantime let

us quietly do everything according to a fixed plan, to prepare for the

ruin of the guilty ones.”

Such was the speech made by the priest of Erechtheus. Many things were

then considered and discussed among the assembled group.

Aspasia did not return to Hipponicus’ house that night; the following

morning, just before leaving Eleusis with his wife, Pericles went once

more to the Daduchus.

He spoke to him of the bold insult he had offered Aspasia. Hipponicus

apologized on the plea of intoxication, for which Aspasia was herself

partly to blame, since by Anacreon’s songs and gay conversation she had

encouraged him to Dionysian freedom. Then he complained bitterly of the

embarrassment and danger, into which he had been betrayed by his

complicity in Aspasia’s unlawful initiation into the mysteries.

Pericles deplored these embarrassments and promised his protection. But

Hipponicus was not to be soothed.

Yet when Pericles, shrugging his shoulders, took his leave, the

Daduchus followed him to the door, glanced anxiously around several

times, then whispered in his old friend’s ear:

“Be on your guard, Pericles! Evil things were planned by Diopeithes

yesterday evening. I too was present—forced to be so—for the rope was

round my neck. Beware of Diopeithes, and make him harmless, if you can.

They want to ruin Aspasia, Anaxagoras, Phidias, and yourself. The

blood-hounds have me in their power—I was obliged to assent to

everything proposed—but may dogs and ravens rend in pieces the priest

of Erechtheus and all his followers!”

CHAPTER VII.

ASPASIA’S SCHOOL.

Years had passed since little Alcibiades wounded one of his companions

in the Lyceum, by a cast of his disk.

The boy had grown into a youth and reached his majority, for he had

attained his eighteenth year. According to Athenian custom, he had been

introduced into the popular assembly with the other youths who became

of age the same year, had been conducted, armed with spear and shield,

to the sanctuary of Agraulos at the foot of the Acropolis, and there

taken the solemn vow with which new Athenian citizens consecrated

themselves to their native land—he had sworn not to use his weapons

discreditably or desert his companion in battle, to fight for the

sanctuaries and common welfare, that the commonwealth should, if

possible, descend to later generations with increased power and honor,

to obey the laws given by the people, and not suffer any one else to

violate or cancel them.

But for the present, the native land to which young Alcibiades vowed

fealty by this oath, made very moderate claims upon his zeal and

efforts. The Peribolan service the Athenian youths, who had just

attained their majority, were called upon to render, consisted in

little expeditions for the interior security of the Attic country, and

these were considered a pleasure rather than a burden.

The community allowed Cleinias’ son ample leisure to enjoy the

pleasures of the golden days of youth. Young Callias, who called his

father a niggard, had also grown up, and Pyrilampes’ son Demos, famous

for his beauty, was also of the opinion that his father did not know

how to make a proper use of his wealth. These three were inseparable.

Xanthippus and Paralus were sometimes drawn in to help play some wild

prank by Alcibiades, who grudged them the renown of virtue, but were

forced to be content with a minor part. In the first place Telesippe’s

children lacked intellect and cleverness, and secondly their purses

were not so full as those of the sons of the two richest men in Athens,

or even Alcibiades’, who on attaining his majority had come into full

possession of his father’s property.

Alcibiades felt a peculiar affection for the young foreigner, whom

Pericles had brought from the Samian war and reared in his own house,

with his two sons and ward. But all the latter’s efforts to draw the

dreamy, taciturn, somewhat clumsy youth into his gay circle, failed.

This same youth began to be the object of attention, not unmixed with

awe, on account of a strange disease that attacked him. He developed

the mysterious tendency known by the name of somnambulism. In the dead

of night, when every one was asleep, he rose from his couch, walked

with closed eyes through the moonlit peristyle, then ascended to the

flat roof of the house, wandered about there for a time, and finally

returned to his bed as unconsciously as he had left it. The news of the

sleep-walker in Pericles’ house spread through Athens, and from that

moment he began to be regarded with a certain touch of fear, as a

person under the influence of evil powers.

If the boy Alcibiades had attracted general attention from the

Athenians, he was naturally still more discussed when his chin became

rough with the tender down of manhood. His whimsical conduct formed the

daily topic of conversation, and after prematurely learning the charm

associated with the reputation of an agreeable, good-for-nothing

fellow, he not only imposed no restraint upon himself, but if he

committed one wild prank, over which the Athenians shook their heads,

made them forget it by inventing another still more outrageous. He knew

that even the fault-finders secretly admired him. It often seemed, as

if he were trying to discover whether he could do anything to make the

Athenians really angry with him. Vain effort! No matter how wanton his

conduct might be, he himself was always lovable.

Hipponicus still persisted in the idea that the fairest maiden in

Greece, his daughter Hipparete, ought to become the wife of the

handsomest Hellenic youth. He therefore made himself as agreeable to

Alcibiades as possible, invited him frequently to his house, and

treated him with almost a father-in-law’s affection.

Alcibiades made sport of him, as he did of every one else, and teased

him with insolent jests. One day Hipponicus sent him a

deliciously-cooked fish on a gold platter. Alcibiades kept the platter,

and thanked Hipponicus by saying: “You are too kind to send so nice a

fish besides the gold platter.”—Hipponicus laughed till his stout frame

shook, and praised the wit of his daughter’s future husband to

everybody.

The lovely girl herself, whose father had constantly pointed out

Alcibiades as her future husband, was secretly in love with the

handsome fellow. She had seen him several times at the public

festivals. But he scoffed at the fair young maiden and preferred the

beautiful, clever hetæræ, whose number was constantly increasing in the

Athenian city.

Theodota, in particular, initiated the youth into all the mysteries of

the gayest life. About ten years had passed since Alcamenes had asked

the rich Corinthian for the beautiful woman, in payment for his

admirable statue. She was perhaps no longer the fairest, but still the

most famous of her companions.

To Alcibiades she was the centre of a seething whirlpool of gayety and

pleasure—only the centre, however, while the circles constantly

widened.

Diopeithes rubbed his hands contentedly, saying:

“Theodota will ruin Pericles’ promising ward for us.”

But real health, strength, and beauty are apparently sometimes

incorruptible.

The dissolute Alcibiades bloomed like a rose in the morning dew. His

cheek had the bloom moralists think it their duty to give to virtue,

while not unfrequently the virtuous go about with the sallow faces and

lustreless eyes the moralizer generally depicts when, with flaming

words, he paints the frightful picture of the sensualist.

Theodota at first fulfilled her task towards the pleasure-loving youth

with cheerful alacrity, but soon more passionate feelings began to stir

in her heart. Poor woman! While it seemed the most enviable bliss to be

loved by Alcibiades, it was certainly the worst misfortune to love him.

Alcibiades attained his majority a few days after Pericles and his wife

returned from their journey to Elis. Although the youth, on taking

possession of his father’s property, ceased to be an inmate of

Pericles’ house, habit and affection, together with the charm Aspasia

could not fail to exert over him, often brought him back to the

threshold of the dwelling where he had grown up.

Need it be mentioned, that the spoiled favorite of the Graces thought

he might even venture to approach Pericles’ beautiful wife with a shade

of the kind of homage learned in Theodota’s school? But the lovely

Milesian was still too young to find immature men attractive, too

sensible to consider them desirable, and far too proud, in spite of the

youth’s remarkable beauty, to allow herself to be harnessed before the

triumphal car of a stripling with a downy beard. She well knew that no

woman, not even she herself, could really catch, bind, and rule this

impetuous youth. Far greater than the equivocal satisfaction of

increasing the number of hearts he had won, was the charm of the

thought of avenging her sex on him, and punishing him for the

inconstancy she gave him no opportunity of testing in her own person.

Therefore it did not occur to her to adopt the tone of maternal

tenderness, apparently justified by the difference in age, beneath

which the wooing of an elderly woman often conceals itself, or to seek

the role of confidant. She answered his civilities merely by entirely

overlooking them, treating him with maternal severity rather than

maternal tenderness. This bewildered the victorious, spoiled conqueror.

He felt secretly indignant, but the high regard he paid the Milesian

was not diminished, but on the contrary unconsciously increased. So he

was constantly drawn back to Aspasia, and pressed upon her the role of

confidante she was far from seeking.

One day a rumor spread through Athens of a fresh prank of Alcibiades,

better calculated to attract attention and employ every tongue than any

of his previous ones. It was reported, that during a trip to Megara in

the company of his chosen comrades, to transact some business, he had

stolen a young girl whom he now kept concealed as a prisoner in Athens,

to the no small wrath of the Megarians, who were always hostile to the

Athenians.

Many already spoke of the open warfare, which would break out between

Athens and her Dorian neighbor on account of this trick of an Athenian

youth.

Alcibiades, when questioned, by no means denied the truth of the

affair, and at last told the whole story in detail, nay with delight,

to his maternal friend Aspasia.

“We had grown tired,” said he, “of the wearisome Peribolan service in

the country districts, though we sometimes obtained a little variety by

carousing with the vagabonds and robbers we should have caught, and

instead of these preferred to hunt a Thracian maid in the groves of

Phelleus or a sturdy Acharnian.

“So I determined to take a little sea-voyage of a few days, with my

friends Callias and Demos. A long time before at our mutual expense, we

had had a handsomely-ornamented, roomy, pleasure-boat built, which we

sometimes used for fishing. We went on board this vessel with three

pretty Ionians, who knew how to play and sing, a couple of

hunting-dogs, some nets and javelins, for we intended to row along the

coast, landing here and there to hunt. We passed through the straits of

Salamis. Our boat, the ‘Bacchante,’ danced merrily over the waves. Her

gayly-painted prow, which terminated in a Bacchante astride of a gilded

panther, glittered in the sun. We had garlanded the mast with ivy and

myrtle, as if it were a thyrsus. The bottom of the vessel was covered

with carpets and soft cushions. We chatted, jested and sang; one of the

three beauties played the flute, another the cithara, a third clashed

cymbals, till the sea echoed the mirth and singing, and we were obliged

to drive away the inquisitive dolphins, by striking them on the head

with our oars, to keep them from jarring or overturning the barge.

“Coasting along the shore, we passed numerous country-houses and

lingered a short time before one, to give the beauty who occupied it a

serenade. We sang and played. The fair one was delighted to hear the

music echoing from the sea, and see her young friends crowned with

garlands. She stood smiling on the balcony of the house. We tossed up

wreaths and kissed our hands to her, then went farther out to sea. The

sun scorched, but we knew how to protect ourselves. Taking our upper

garments, we stretched them over our heads like an awning. This made

the barge look as if it were gayly supplied with sails and pennons, and

the reflection of the purple in the sea dyed the waves. It seemed as if

the clear, bell-like laugh of a siren must be heard. Those were Halcyon

days, during which calms prevail and the halcyons brood. We had left

the straits of Salamis behind, and the Megarian shore appeared on our

right. Here the coast began to be lonely and monotonous, from time to

time the sound of a shepherd’s flute reached us from the mountain

heights, and we saw herds of cattle, lambs and goats grazing. We landed

here and there, and enjoyed ourselves in many ways. We caught fish with

hooks, lowered by long lines dropped from the rocks on the shore, and

even caught some wild geese, ducks and bustards with snares.

“Just as we had entered our boat again to continue our way to Megara,

we met a pleasure-barge no whit inferior to ours in elegance and

luxurious adornment. In this superb vessel sat an elderly man, and by

his side a beautiful girl, at sight of whom my heart kindled. The

meeting was only too short. The two barges glided swiftly past each

other; the Megarian turned around a projecting cliff and thus vanished

from our eyes.

“We again landed, in a spot that particularly allured us. Close by was

a wood, which our dogs instantly rummaged. In a few minutes they

started a hare, we seized our nets and javelins and, in the hope of

securing the animal, followed it, leaving our friends near the barge.

The hare was driven away from the woods into the fields and pastures;

but as the dogs, baying loudly, pursued, they raised a great commotion

among the shepherds and flocks. It happened that one goatherd’s animals

were scattered by the dogs rushing through their midst, and the

startled goats ran down to the sea. Enraged by this dispersal of his

herd, the fellow seized a sharp stone lying near, threw it at one of

the dogs and wounded him fatally in the head. It was my faithful

Phylax, endowed with all the qualities of an admirable hunter.

“When we saw the incident from the distance, we let the hare go and

rushed furiously after the goatherd. But meantime the latter had

summoned other shepherds to his protection, and we found ourselves

confronted by a threatening band. At this moment a slave came running

from a neighboring country-house to ask, in his master’s name, what

this uproar meant. When we learned from the slave’s words that the

shepherds were in the service of the owner of this country-house, we

asked to speak with him to obtain satisfaction for the wounded animal.

Following the slave we approached the country-house, a handsome

dwelling that seemed to be the property of some rich man, and were no

little surprised to see, strolling in the garden near the mansion, the

very same old man and lovely child we had just met on the sea. We told

the old man the story, and said we meant to take vengeance on the

shepherd. The grey-beard, as a Megarian and foe of the Athenians,

answered with sullen words. The shepherds, many of whom had followed at

our heels, complained with loud outcries of the damage done their

fields, the dispersal of their herds. Joined by the household slaves,

who were encouraged by a sign from their master, they pressed upon us

and amid violent abuse of the insolent Athenians, compelled us, by

superior numbers, to retire without satisfaction.

“Greatly as the incident excited me, I had not neglected to cast a few

glances at the youthful beauty, who had watched the conflict from the

garden with mingled curiosity and terror. While returning with my

companions, I told them of my resolution to avenge myself on the

contemptible Megarian. I supposed the beautiful child to be some

purchased slave; my plan was to remain concealed in the neighborhood

with my companions for a time, watch for some moment when the

country-house was unguarded and the girl alone in the garden, then

hastily seize and bear her away.

“The desired opportunity came sooner than we had hoped. Before the

second day elapsed we had grasped the girl, stopped her screams by

fastening a bandage over her mouth, and borne her swiftly to the barge

concealed beneath the cliff.

“Under the protection of the gathering dusk, we fled, with our fair

prize on board, from the Megarian coast.”

“And the young girl?” asked Aspasia.

“Accommodated herself to her fate,” replied Alcibiades, “though she was

no slave, as I supposed, but a freeborn maiden, the niece of the

accursed Megarian. Her name is Simaitha, and I call her the fairest of

all Hellenic—not women, but maidens.”

Megara! The word had a strange sound to Aspasia’s ear. She had listened

to the bold youth’s story with evident interest, and now asked numerous

questions about the young girl. Alcibiades gave an enthusiastic

description of her.

Aspasia asked to see Simaitha. The youth willingly acceded to the

request, and brought the Megarian to her. The girl’s beauty was so

remarkable, that Aspasia marvelled, but in character she was like an

unpolished gem. Had she not been reared in Megara! It was time for her

to be snatched away, if this pearl were not to fade in seclusion.

The rich Megarian had received her into his house when a little child,

and treated her better than a slave, but not like a daughter.

He seemed to have intended to rear her solely to be the helpless tool

of his pleasure. The old Megarian bore no resemblance to the noble

Milesian, Philammon, whom Aspasia had so warmly praised in relating the

story of her youth to Pericles. Simaitha hated him, and declared she

would rather kill herself than go back to his house. Aspasia’s keen eye

perceived the germs of womanly charms of the highest order, in the

character of this young girl, who had scarcely passed her fifteenth

year. Her eyes were as radiant with intelligence, as her features with

beauty. Aspasia longed to develop the beautiful bud, and speedily

forming her plan, said to Alcibiades:

“This girl is yours, not so much by the robbery you committed, as her

own firm resolve not to return to the Megarian’s house. But you are not

yet worthy of her. Noble maidens, nay even Hipponicus’ affected little

daughter, are far too good for youths like you. Women of Theodota’s

stamp exist for the striplings of your character; you can, so to speak,

sow your wild-oats with them. For the rest, you would not fully enjoy

the possession of Simaitha as she now is. You would soon weary of her,

for the germs of those qualities which are necessary, if disgust is not

finally to win the mastery over love, are not yet developed in her

character. Leave the child to me for a time. Trust the treasure you

have won to my care, put out your capital at interest—you will receive

it in due time from my hands with its value enhanced tenfold.”

Alcibiades was too young and too fickle, to find it a difficult task to

deliver the young girl to Aspasia’s care.

“I am ready to put out my precious treasure at interest,” he replied.

“I know I shall be richly repaid for the short sacrifice, which will

not be complete, since you will doubtless allow me to see the lovely

child in your house.”

“Why not?” answered Aspasia, “you can be a constant witness of her

progress.”

Simaitha was brought to Aspasia. Pericles had at first refused his

consent; but his disposition was wonderfully indulgent and, at

Aspasia’s repeated entreaties, he at last gave the desired permission,

coupled with the condition that the young girl’s stay in his house

should last only until the question of surrendering her to the

Megarians should be positively decided. Had not the Megarians been so

bitterly hated in Athens, Pericles’ compliance in granting the maiden

an asylum in his house, out of love for Aspasia, would doubtless have

been more sharply condemned than was really the case.

People had long since began to talk of Aspasia’s school, and the name

was now better justified than ever.

There were no less than four young girls in the earliest bloom of

maidenhood, who lived in Aspasia’s house under the immediate training

of the Milesian. Her nieces from Miletus, who had already been with her

some time, were joined by Cora, the Arcadian girl, and the young

stranger from Megara.

The name of school harmonized perfectly with Aspasia’s secret plans.

Her personal efforts to ennoble and free the women of Athens had been

attended with very doubtful success. But the ardent longing of her soul

gave her no rest. She thought she had convinced herself that it was

vain to try to transform mature women, the influence, she believed,

must begin in early youth.

She did not wish to train hetæræ, but champions and allies, adapted by

their intellect and beauty to gain influence as she herself had done.

The school she established should keep alive what she transmitted, and

diffuse it to wider circles. Through the operation of united powers,

according to her belief, prejudices would at last be shattered, and the

victory of intellect, beauty and womanhood secured.

Not in the foreground, yet not wholly alien to the thoughts of the

aspiring though calculating Milesian, was the idea of the advantages

which might arise from her school in other respects. Her pupils, like

their mistress, might obtain for husbands powerful and influential men,

who would strengthen Pericles’ authority and oppose the efforts of his

enemies.

Did Pericles’ wife feel no scruple about gathering around her a number

of young and charming girls, under her husband’s eyes? Nay, this proud,

lofty soul, striving for a living influence, was elevated far above

paltry considerations and petty feelings; she was not content with

personal success like an ordinary woman, but lived and labored for a

great idea. Besides, she knew that Aphrodite’s girdle was still in her

power, that it had lost none of its old magic in her hand. She knew she

would long remain the mistress among her pupils, that the latter must

become what she was. With regard to Pericles, she had a firm conviction

that nothing in the world would break or weaken the power of the spell

with which she had ensnared his heart, and custom only made the

stronger.

A caprice of nature had denied Aspasia the joys of maternity. She

endured it without complaint. If she had not been permitted to train

daughters into her own likeness, fate offered her a compensation in

these promising girls, on whom she could try, to her heart’s content,

the magic power of her shaping hand.

The Muses and Graces seemed to descend from Olympus and enter Aspasia’s

service, as teachers in her school. There was given the great lesson of

how nature is refined by noble art, and art must again become nature.

There the unity of everything beautiful was understood and realized;

there music became a dance of the soul, and dancing a music of the

limbs—there beauty became poetry, and poetry beauty.

Aspasia’s endeavor was to rouse her pupils’ intellect through and for

the sake of beauty, and then free their awakened minds.

But not only every kind of art served as a means of waking

intelligence, many of the possessions of wisdom, knowledge, and science

were borne like fructifying pollen, on the wings of Cupids, into

Aspasia’s school. Nothing, except sternness, severity, gloom, was

excluded. Gayety was proclaimed to be the chief law of beauty and life.

The principal lesson Aspasia taught her pupils, was the folly it would

be to expect to win every success by their charms. She showed them that

these would not long remain lovable, if dependent solely on themselves,

and told them beauty was a virtue and must be learned, practised,

cultivated, like any other. She made them perceive that intellect was

the spice which, blended with beauty, kept it fresh. “A silly beauty

soon grows old,” she said, “the charm that vulgarity surrounds like a

dismal swamp, soon fades. Nothing so quickly destroys the bloom, as

dull vegetation in mindless monotony. To be beautiful was not a

condition, but an act. Beauty was the highest activity, and its

efficiency depended upon the harmony of all the noblest agencies—upon a

pleasant and harmonious activity of the body and soul. It was no dead

object of admiration, no motionless light, but like the sunbeams, a

living dance of rays, a shower of sparks.”

“Beauty cannot be directly bestowed,” she used also to say, “but

ugliness can be everywhere stifled, subdued, diminished. You cannot too

frequently cast a glance into the mirror—not to see how beautiful you

are, but to surprise yourself in some moment of ugliness. Only in that

way will you learn that no one is always beautiful, and no one is

always ugly—that the flower of every beauty changes its form and color

a hundred times a day, that left to itself it wavers helplessly,

destitute of support or firmness; that a beauty, who sure of herself,

can venture to fold her hands in her lap, is a dream of fools, and that

to be beautiful is a difficult art even for the loveliest woman. Let

not ugliness approach you under any form. Its shapes and disguises are

countless. Ugliness is a demon with which we must struggle every day,

if he is not to gradually overpower us. But most frequently of all, he

turns his deadly weapons against the bloom of the body, from behind the

shelter of the soul.”

Aspasia did not content herself with warning words, but actively aided

her pupils in the strife against the malicious, threatening demon,

pursuing the germs and traces of everything ugly, as the bailiff

follows the thief. As school-masters hold a staff or rod, she carried

in her hand a little silver mirror, and held it before the culprit in

whom a spark of physical or mental ugliness appeared. Thus she taught

the young girls self-control, suppression of every disfiguring caprice

or passion, calmness, cheerfulness, noble symmetry of body and soul.

One of Aspasia’s nieces, Drosis, developed a brilliant natural talent

for dancing, Prasina, on the contrary, showed principally skill in

singing and music. But Aspasia did not permit either to devote herself

exclusively to the cultivation of such one-sided dexterity. She desired

each to seek to please, not by the exercise of any one art, but by a

harmoniously-developed personality. Devotion to a single art, she said,

always led to neglect of the personality itself and its harmonious

development.

Drosis was naturally bewitching by her grace. Her figure was tall and

elegant, so ethereally light that she seemed, like a nymph, incapable

of crushing a blade of grass or flower in walking over the fields. Her

limbs possessed the slenderness, youthful delicacy, and graceful

softness, which is far more alluring than voluptuous roundness.

Prasina resembled her, but had the advantage of the clear, silvery

voice, with which she charmed every ear, while singing the songs of

Sappho. Can there be anything sweeter than the voice of a girl of

sixteen? Prasina’s sweet, melting, impassioned tones surpassed the

songs of the nightingales in the valley of the Cephissus.

But charming Drosis and ardent Prasina were soon outstripped by the

beautiful development of the budding maiden Simaitha. The loftiest

charm of Hellenic form was embodied in her figure and features. Even

the masters of the art of sculpture had scarcely dreamed of such

marvellous purity of outline. She possessed the indescribable

clearness, the lustrous yet somewhat dreamy freshness of the eye, that

sometimes appears with a bewitching charm in girls of very tender

years. But Simaitha most nearly resembled her mistress in mind and

soul, as well as personal beauty. She seemed closely allied to her by

the manner in which her thoughts and feelings were developing, and

appeared destined to be no less perfect an embodiment of the real joy

and beauty-loving Hellenic spirit, than was the Milesian herself. She

grasped Aspasia’s thoughts with fervent enthusiasm, and her

intelligence surpassed that of her companions. She loved the arts, and

seemed to possess Aspasia’s incomparably keen and appreciative eye for

sculpture. She also resembled her mistress in placing no value on any

single personal talent, but developed all her powers in beautiful

harmony. Thus she was the pearl of the Milesian’s school. Aspasia loved

her with almost a mother’s tenderness, and fixed her fairest hopes upon

her.

And Cora, the Arcadian girl? It was hard to say whether she ought to be

included in Aspasia’s school. When the latter brought her from her

Arcadian home, the very crudity of the material tempted her to exert

her skill upon it. But this simplicity seemed to increase faster than

the power of Aspasia’s forming art. Cora was the butt of her

companions, who degraded her almost to the level of a servant. Yet

there was something in the girl’s nature, which would not suffer her to

sink entirely into a slave. She was not charming, possessed no symmetry

of figure, was not even gay, but grave and thoughtful, and the peculiar

traits of character she had brought to Athens remained unchanged. But

she startled those who surrounded her by occasional flashes of

intelligence and wit, which always bore traces of originality, and

thereby aroused special interest. She seemed like a creature from some

strange world, hitherto unknown.

Aspasia found it advisable, contrary to Athenian custom, to allow her

pupils, in spite of their youth, free intercourse with the world and

society. Her house was visited by men of commanding intellect, whose

conversation early roused the young girls’ minds from the dull

atmosphere of the commonplace. But feminine guests were not excluded.

If any of these distinguished men wished to introduce a fair friend

into this circle, the request was willingly granted. Among those who

availed themselves of this permission was the young sculptor and

architect, Callimachus, who had brought from Corinth to Athens an

orphaned girl named Philandra, of remarkable beauty, whom he tenderly

loved and intended to make his wife. Philandra, being of humble origin

and still very young, lacked the culture requisite to make her worthy

of him. How could she obtain this better than through intercourse with

Aspasia’s circle, and the latter did not disdain to extend the

influence of her school beyond the precincts of her house.

Philandra’s beauty was nobly proportioned, but somewhat voluptuous. She

revealed a passionate, impetuous nature, and her stately figure made

her seem older than her years.

Thus what might be termed a feminine Olympus was founded in Aspasia’s

home. Alcibiades called the young girls by the names of the goddesses

they most resembled. Artists drew inspiration from them for beautiful

pictures, poets for graceful verses. But wantonness and everything

ignoble was banished from this circle. Aspasia’s glance could hold even

the bold Alcibiades in check, and the priestess of beauty always kept

the reins of noble moderation in her hand. She was ever mindful of what

she owed the honor of her husband’s house, and knew how to avoid

increasing his doubts about the school she had assembled around her, to

the point of discord and strife.

One day Alcibiades invited Aspasia and her young companions to take a

voyage in his pleasure-barge. The Milesian accepted, on condition that

none of his wild companions accompanied him.

On a fresh, bright summer morning Aspasia entered the vessel, with

Drosis, Prasina, Simaitha, and Cora. Callimachus and Philandra joined

them, the latter bringing a friend named Pasikompsa, who, like

Philandra herself, had been introduced to Aspasia, and was considered

by the latter worthy to be an associate of her pupils. No one else was

in the barge except a few rowers.

They coasted along the shore, and soon reached the beautiful bay of

Salamis. On the left was the green island, sparkling in the morning

dew, on the right the Attic strand, to which descended the Ægaleon

hills.

Nothing can afford more harmonious and pleasurable excitement to the

soul, than an excursion on a sunny blue sea, and there could be no blue

more exquisite than that of the bay of Salamis. Thus the party on

Alcibiades’ galley were delightfully rocked by the sea and the waves of

joy. Above their heads was the blue sky, beneath them the ethereal blue

of the sea; they floated as it were between the heavens, swaying in a

divine azure. Whether the blue of sky or sea was most beautiful they

could not say, nor did they care to ask—they only saw that the birds

sometimes plunged for a moment from the blue air into the blue sea, to

taste its charm, while the fishes, on the contrary, sometimes leaped

gayly a moment from the sea to dip their heads into the blue air, as if

to obtain a fleeting draught of bliss.

The party on Alcibiades’ barge resembled these gay birds and fishes,

rejoicing in the charms of sea and air. They absorbed all the bliss,

yet gave it as little thought as the birds and fishes. Aspasia’s

charming young companions gazed down from the deck into the beautiful

waves, but only to see their pretty faces mirrored in them. Cora alone,

when gazing into the water, saw not her own face but the sea itself. In

her mind alone the spell of the sea was vivid and conscious.

The other girls were reflected in the sea, but the sea was reflected in

Cora.

The impression produced upon her mind almost rose to terror, for she at

last began to listen with a sort of dread for the sounds from the

bottom of the water. When the others smilingly asked if she heard the

voices of the alluring sirens rising from the depths, she assented, and

the merry laughter of her companions echoed far over the waves.

Perhaps tempted by the melody of these voices, a dolphin gliding along

the surface of the water accompanied the voyagers. A little bird that

had wandered too far from land, perched on its back a moment to rest,

without being noticed by the fish.

Just as the silvery laughter at Cora again rang out from Alcibiades’

barge, a large merchant-vessel passed. As it came very near, the crew

of the merchant-man and the party in Alcibiades’ barge could see each

other distinctly. The former were rude and savage in aspect, and gazed

sullenly, almost threateningly, from under their bushy brows, like

hawks, at the flock of doves in Alcibiades’ galley. But as the

merchant-man rowed much faster, it soon left the barge behind, and the

gay company paid no farther heed. Callimachus thought it was a Megarian

trading-vessel.

They stopped in a small bay, and determined to land to spend some time

on the tempting shore. It was the very spot where people point out the

rock-chair of the Persian king, Xerxes, on the side of the Ægaleon

mountains sloping towards the sea, the rock-chair on a lofty part of

the shore the great king occupied when he reviewed his fleet before the

decisive battle, and from which, first in the proud consciousness of

victory, then with increasing terror, he gazed down at the battle

tempest of Salamis.

Callimachus and Alcibiades accompanied Aspasia and the young girls up

to this seat in the cliff, and Alcibiades invited Aspasia, as the most

honored guest, to seat herself in it. She accepted it, and Callimachus

took his place by her side. The young girls and Alcibiades reclined

around her in a graceful group.

Clumps of sea-weed and myrtle-bushes, full of dark and light berries,

grew between the cliffs.

A wondrous atmosphere of peace brooded over the sunny land and

sparkling sea. Seen from this elevated spot, Salamis looked doubly

charming. Between the island and the main-land lay the motionless blue

waves. Silvery, glittering streaks here and there furrowed the azure

surface, like shimmering bridges. There was no sound save the low

rustling and grating of the slowly advancing and receding waves upon

the sand below, and from time to time the scream of a sea-gull hovering

around the cliff.

“By all the sea-nymphs!” said Alcibiades, “it is as peaceful and silent

here as on the Sicilian shore. One might think the amorous Cyclops

Polyphemus must be sitting somewhere near, gazing out upon the water

where the image of Galatea is reflected, as she wanders over the flood.

The rude shepherd’s dog runs barking down to meet her, but the nymph

laughingly splashes the messenger of love with a rolling surge, so that

he retreats whining.”

Indeed, a blissful stillness prevailed, which seemed as if it never had

been and never could be interrupted.

Aspasia cast a glance from her rocky seat towards the mountains of the

Peloponnesus.

“If it is possible,” she said, “to wash away from my soul all the

peevish gloom I saw and experienced beyond those mountains, this hour

will enable me to do so. The sea and air are too radiant for melancholy

to gain any victory here. I boldly challenge you to battle, rude

Peloponnesus.”

“And I too!” cried Alcibiades, clenching his fist at the mountains of

Argolis.

“So do we all!” exclaimed the young girls laughing.

At this moment Aspasia’s eye, wandering towards the right, rested on

the Megarian vessel, which now seemed very small in the distance. It

appeared to be motionless. Aspasia’s proud, almost contemptuous glance

roved quickly away. Her eyes flashed with a spark of the arrogance that

filled the heart of the Persian king, when he sat on this rocky throne.

At a sign from Alcibiades, a slave brought a skin containing a

delicious cordial, and soon beakers clinked against each other and

songs echoed on the air. The joyous melody sounded sweetly amid the

beautiful sea-solitude, and echoed far over the peaceful bay.

Urged on by the Dionysian spirit of revelry, the young girls dispersed,

some wandering along the shore, some among the cliffs, where fragrant

plants grew amid the stones. They were like hovering butterflies,

teased and caught by Alcibiades.

Now they ran with merry shouts after some dead sea-creature, a polyp or

dolphin, which formerly, dashing through the salt waves, had terrified

the smaller fishes and borne the daughters of Nereus on its back, but

at last been cast by a foaming wave in some fierce storm on the rocky

strand. Then they sat down and Alcibiades told marvellous

hunting-tales—for instance, how he had once caught on the sea-shore a

large polyp and a hare at the same time. Drawing the polyp out of the

water he hurled it on the land, where it chanced to fall upon a hare

sleeping among the sea-weed, which was instantly seized by the polyp’s

hundred arms.

Meantime Callimachus was talking with Aspasia.

The artist’s relation towards Pericles’ beautiful wife was of a

somewhat singular nature. A cordial friendship bound him to Alcamenes,

and being informed by the latter of everything that ever occurred

between Agoracritus’ rival and the fair Milesian, he had brought with

him from Corinth a prejudice, nay almost a secret anger against

Aspasia. After the violent scene between Alcamenes and Aspasia at

Olympia, of which Callimachus had also heard, he had joined his friend

in a sort of league of vengeance against Aspasia. At Athens he

approached the Milesian and, attracted by her magic spell, half forgot

the thought of vengeance.

Aspasia herself turned the conversation upon Alcamenes, and praised the

flight of his transforming imagination.

“You do well,” she said, “to be on friendly terms with this man, and it

seems to me that a certain kinship of souls has drawn you together.

For, like him, a desire to direct art into new channels seems to

animate you.”

Aspasia in these words alluded to the fact, that Callimachus no longer

contented himself with the chisel, but worked with the auger, executing

the details of his labor with a wonderful diligence, a brilliant

perfection, never before witnessed.

“If people acknowledge, that the art of sculpture has advanced by the

industrious use of the auger,” said Callimachus, “I might also prove

the kindred art of architecture profitable. My mind has long been

occupied with a matter apparently very easy and simple, but in

which—you’ll smile when you hear what it is—I cannot succeed.

Progressive art seems to me to require a richer decoration for our

pillars. The Ionian spiral is the utmost we have accomplished. That has

satisfied us for centuries. Isn’t it time to venture above it with some

bold design?”

“In the East,” replied Aspasia, “I saw the form of leaves and flowers

applied with refined imagination to the decoration of capitals. We are

timid, as you justly remark. Why don’t you venture upon what you think

necessary?”

“Will you believe,” answered Callimachus, “that I have racked my brain

about this matter? I have invented hundreds of forms, but hitherto not

one has fully satisfied me.”

“Why do you seek to invent, discover, and draw the new form entirely

from your own imagination?” asked Aspasia. “Nature is a great teacher,

the architect as well as the sculptor must obtain his best designs by

watching her. Keep your eyes open, and what you seek will meet you.

Then you need only grasp it correctly and shape it to your wants.”

At this moment the pair were interrupted by the young girls, who said

they had discovered a small monument in a pretty secluded nook of the

rocky shore, and wanted to show it to Aspasia.

Aspasia and Callimachus accepted the invitation, and allowed the girls

to guide them to the spot, where they had found the little monument. It

lay concealed amid the rocks, and was almost hidden by an overhanging

cliff. It consisted of a plain narrow stone, on which a short

inscription was carved. On the slab stood a dainty basket, filled with

faded wreaths and flowers. Aspasia tried to read the inscription, and

deciphered half of the name of a young girl, but the task was

difficult, for a luxuriant acanthus had not only covered the slab with

its large, exquisitely-shaped leaves, but grown half over the basket.

Its fresh, living green formed a striking contrast to the dead,

withered flowers.