Aspasia and her companions expressed their surprise at finding a

gravestone in such a place. But Callimachus said:

“The existence of this little monument was no secret to me.”

The young girls eagerly asked its origin, and Callimachus replied:

“The man who placed this slab and basket here was my friend, and I am

one of the few to whom he confided its history.

“The friend of whom I speak,” he continued, “was an admirable Athenian

youth, who earned his living by painting vessels and funeral urns with

great skill. While living in Corinth he saw the fairest flower-girl in

the city, and fell in love with her. But a young Spartan, who was

staying in Corinth with some friends, also loved the girl and wished to

make her his own. He succeeded in intimidating her by threats and

violence, and was on the point of bearing her away from Corinth. The

Athenian, furious with rage, fought with his rival and killed him.

Then, to escape the vengeance of the dead man’s friends, he took the

young girl, who returned his love and willingly accompanied him,

entered a boat, and fled to his native Athens.

“The lovers coasted gayly along the shore—the youth’s heart was full of

joy, and the young girl was radiant in the bloom of her bridal beauty.

She had nothing except her loveliness, save the little basket filled

with fresh flowers, just as she had carried it to market in Corinth on

the morning her lover bore her away. The sea-spray dashed around the

boat, and wet the roses in the basket. But as the youth snatched a

saucy kiss from the girl’s lips, the basket fell over the edge of the

boat into the sea. She hastily leaned forward to catch it, but

stretching out her hand too far, lost her balance and fell into the

waves. With a cry of despair, the youth flung himself into the sea, and

after a long struggle grasped the maiden’s body and swam with it to the

shore. Climbing up the cliff, with her senseless form clasped to his

breast with his left arm, he laid her on a level portion of the rocky

strand. Her eyes were closed, her face was pale, vainly he called her

by a thousand loving names. He had saved only a corpse.

“All day long he sat motionless beside the lifeless form, then prepared

to bury it. He hollowed a grave in the spot where he had brought her to

land. What did he suddenly behold among the rocks? The basket of

flowers had been carried to the shore, and was now wedged fast between

the cliffs. He went down, and sighing mournfully, raised the little

basket, still filled with fresh flowers, and placed it, bedewed with

his tears, on the young girl’s grave. He went to Athens and soon

returned, with this simple slab, to the secret grave, around which

murmured the waves of the sea. He placed it here, and again set upon it

the basket with its now withered flowers. The seclusion of the spot

secures it from profaning hands, and the acanthus, as you see, has

undertaken the part of protector, by almost covering both slab and

basket with the tendrils of its superb foliage.”

The young girls listened attentively to Callimachus’ tale, and loudly

lamented the sad fate of the lovers.

But Aspasia, after a pause, said:

“Spite of the sympathy awakened by your story, Callimachus, I cannot

shut out the impression this flat, narrow stone, this monument for

which nature has done far more than art, produces upon me, and will

surely make upon all who behold it. How daintily the foliage of the

acanthus twines above the white marble slab, around the graceful basket

filled with withered flowers. Is not this one of the forms nature

sometimes produces in a sportive mood, yet whose charm sculptors rarely

equal by their inventive powers?”

Callimachus made no reply, but a thought darted through his brain like

a flash of lightning.

He gazed a long time at the basket overgrown with foliage, then turning

to Aspasia, exclaimed:

“Yes, Aspasia—this basket with the tendrils twining gracefully around

it, is one of those forms, for which as you said, the sculptor must

keep his eyes open, because he can learn from them—”

“And because,” interrupted Aspasia, smiling, “he may find in them what

he has long sought in vain.”

Callimachus now enthusiastically poured forth the thought which filled

his mind.

While he explained to the Milesian his idea of the new decoration for

pillars, which was to step forth victoriously into the world of beauty,

and whose renown would be forever blended with Callimachus’ name, the

young girls disappeared to gather flowers, with which they intended to

deck the Corinthian’s grave.

Soon they were again roving merrily along the shore like sea-nymphs,

among whom Alcibiades renewed his rôle of the teasing, pursuing Triton.

Gradually, however, the simplicity and reserve of Cora, who was left

behind on a lonely part of the shore, began to exert a stronger charm

over the impetuous youth than the gayety of her companions.

The lovely Simaitha noticed that he attempted to draw the Arcadian into

gay conversation, jested with her against her will, but without any

touch of jealousy; for she resembled Aspasia in having little room in

her proud soul for such an emotion. She too, seemed only capable of the

love which does not disturb the cheerful repose of the mind. Besides,

what a contemptible rival the shepherd’s child appeared to the most

brilliant pearl in Aspasia’s school.

Transported from the world of reality, the party enjoyed the charming

silence of the bay, which nothing could apparently disturb.

Yet hostile eyes were watching the group from a distance.

When the Megarian vessel passed Alcibiades’ pleasure-barge, one of the

men on board gazed keenly into it, and said, in a hasty, eager tone to

his companions:

“Did you see that Athenian youth roving about with the young hetæræ on

the sea? That’s the bold, worthless ravisher, Alcibiades! I know him.

I’ve seen him several times at Athens. And among the young girls was

Simaitha—the stolen Simaitha!”

“What?” cried the Megarians, greatly excited. “What? Is that the bold

fellow who stole the girl from Psaumias’ country-house, and still

rejoices in his spoil unpunished?”

“Ay,” said the other, “he still enjoys his spoil unpunished, for he is

under powerful protection. As you know, all the efforts of Psaumias and

his fellow-citizens, who demanded the girl’s delivery from the insolent

Athenians, were vain. Don’t these Athenian dogs always believe they can

mock at the Megarian commonwealth? A time will come, to show them they

were wrong in jeering at the Dorian city on their borders. But now,

friends, as far as Simaitha is concerned, we must take advantage of the

opportunity offered. That pleasure-barge, besides the beardless

ravisher, contains only one unarmed man and the few slaves who are

rowing. There are enough of us to capture the galley, if we choose to

attack it, at any rate, to seize Simaitha and carry her back to

Megara.”

This proposal pleased the Megarians, but while consulting how to attack

the barge, Alcibiades’ party landed on the shore of the little bay. The

Megarians perceived this from the distance.

“So much the better!” said their commander. “We’ll hide our vessel near

the shore and follow our prey on the land. Most of us will leave the

galley, and while single ones steal nearer the group, others can lie in

ambush in pairs along the rocky shore, where the party are scattered.

It will be easy to rush out at the right moment, and seize the girl for

whom we have watched. The Athenian youths and their slaves will be

unable to prevent it, nay perhaps will not see it, for if we choose a

moment when Simaitha is separated from her companions, and the men’s

attention is directed elsewhere, we may succeed in carrying her off

unperceived and shall then be safe from pursuit. They won’t know what

has become of the girl, until we have our prize in security. If we were

compelled to use force, the youths might perhaps receive aid from some

Athenian vessel passing this way, and rescue our booty before we could

get back to our vessel, or put out to sea. So let us be cautious, and

watch for a favorable opportunity.”

Such were the Megarian captain’s directions, and the men obeyed them.

They concealed themselves singly or in pairs on the shore, or among the

rocks, and from their hiding-places sharply watched the unconscious

revellers.

The favorable moment for the Megarians was long in coming. At last it

happened, that Simaitha, Drosis and Prasina, gathering flowers,

unsuspiciously approached a rock behind which several of the crew were

concealed. Alcibiades was a long distance away, absorbed in Cora, and

Callimachus was still with Aspasia at the grave of the Corinthian girl.

The Megarians rushed out to seize Simaitha.

The latter, on seeing the savage looking men suddenly coming towards

her, fled screaming with terror. Drosis and Prasina followed, also

filling the air with loud cries for help.

But Simaitha far outstripped her two companions in their flight, and

had already nearly reached the spot where Alcibiades lingered. The

latter, as well as Callimachus and the rowers in the barge, heard the

young girls’ shrieks, and quickly hurried up. Alcibiades always wore a

dagger, and drawing it from the sheath, prepared to rush upon the

robbers with the slaves, who were armed only with oars.

But the Megarians would not leave the spot without some prize. As

Simaitha had escaped, they seized her companions, Drosis and Prasina,

who in their terror, like frightened doves, had not so surely found the

right path by which to fly.

Perceiving the danger in delay, and avoiding open strife for the

reasons already mentioned, they dragged Drosis and Prasina away with

them to the shore, leaped on board their vessel, and were speeding

towards the bay of Megara, ere Alcibiades and his assistants could

enter his barge to pursue them.

Yet the furious youth was about to throw himself blindly into the boat

to follow the robbers. But when he prepared to do so, the young girls

raised a loud outcry, lamenting that they would be left on shore and

perhaps exposed to other lurking enemies. Yet he was prevented from

taking them in the barge and thus pursuing the enemy, by their dread of

being carried out to fall a prey to the foe. Callimachus, the rowers,

and especially Aspasia, urged him to consider that pursuit was

impossible, and plenty of ways and means would be found to chastise the

insolence of the Megarians.

Aspasia had turned deadly pale at the sight of the Megarians’ deed, but

the pallor was quickly succeeded by a vivid flush of anger. Yet she was

the first to regain her composure, and almost smiled as she requested

Alcibiades to return home without delay. All hurried to the barge, to

hastily go back to Athens.

“Vengeance on the Megarians!” cried Alcibiades, standing erect in the

vessel as it pushed off from the shore, and hurling a beaker against

the steep cliff.

“May the pigmy defiance of Megara and her allies be shattered against

the rocky brow of the Athenian Acropolis, as this beaker is broken

against the cliff.”

CHAPTER VIII.

CALLICRATES’ MULE.

According to Aspasia’s supposition, it was an easy-matter for Pericles

to demand the restoration of the stolen girls by the Megarians; for at

that time, from various reasons, the chastisement of the Megarians was

the watch-word of the day in Athens.

But the Megarians answered, that they would not fail to restore Drosis

and Prasina, who for the present were placed as hostages in the keeping

of a distinguished fellow-citizen, as soon as Simaitha, stolen by an

Athenian youth, had been restored to them. But Simaitha herself pleaded

earnestly against this rendition, and found powerful support in

Aspasia. The young girl from Megara had become the Milesian’s favorite.

The Megarians were as much hated at Athens, as the Athenians at Megara.

Pericles had more than one motive for procuring a popular decree, which

prohibited them from entering the harbor or market of Athens, not only

until they had delivered up the young girls, but also given the

Athenians satisfaction in some other matters.

This exclusion from the Athenian market was sensibly felt by the

Megarians, and it was believed they would not long defy it.

Yet, as it was to be feared that the Megarians would secretly apply to

Sparta to seek her active mediation, while a somewhat serious quarrel

with Corinth, and the revolt of the Attic colony of Potidæa aroused a

certain degree of uneasiness among the Athenians, the enemies of

Pericles and Aspasia availed themselves of the opportunity to stir up

the people against them. The public peace of Hellas, they declared, was

threatened by the arrogance of this foreign woman and the

licentiousness of her friends, and now, for the sake of two little

stolen hetæræ, Pericles hurled among the Greeks, like a firebrand, the

popular decree against the Megarians.

Great and popular statesman do not always oppose national laws, because

they know that the people finally follow their guidance with a sort of

blind confidence, and the peril of these laws is counterbalanced by

their personal influence, at least while they stand at the helm. But

the timid ask what will happen, as soon as men of this stamp, perhaps

summoned from the world by death, no longer hold the reins of the

community in their firm grasp. On the other hand, the friends of the

people who are solicitous for the preservation of popular rule,

perceive in this silent subservience of the public to the will and

opinions of a single prominent man the greatest danger to freedom. So

it happened, that the omnipotent Pericles was secretly opposed by the

champions of free popular government, as well as by the oligarchist

party.

Cleon, the tanner, Lysicles, the sheep-dealer, and Pamphilus the

sausage-maker, believed that the wisdom of an individual was more

dangerous to the state than the folly of the multitude, and whenever

they found an opportunity, renewed their warnings to their

fellow-citizens against the “new Pisistratus.”

People of the stamp of Cleon, Lysicles, and Pamphilus already sometimes

ventured to declaim violently against Pericles in the popular assembly.

Pericles did not look indifferently upon the perplexities prepared for

him by many things in Aspasia’s conduct, and Alcibiades’ wanton

behavior. Aspasia was unassailable. The storm may uproot oaks, but not

break down flowers. But Pericles gravely pointed out to Alcibiades the

dissoluteness, by which in part this unpleasant Megarian difficulty had

been caused, admonished him to emulate his forefathers by rendering

service to his native land, and strive for the distinction of

praiseworthy deeds.

“That I will!” replied Alcibiades, in a tone of mingled jest and

earnest. “But who is to blame save you, Pericles, that I find no

opportunity to distinguish myself by glorious deeds? How long must we

drag out our lives in this wearisome peace? Give me a fleet, and I’ll

conquer Carthage and Sicily. But you even refuse the few paltry vessels

with three banks of oars, necessary to restore the two bright-eyed

little maidens, Drosis and Prasina, from their captivity in miserable

Megara. There is nothing left, if I want to serve my native land,

except to go to Sparta and carry off the king’s wife, that I may blend

the Dorian blood with Ionian for the benefit of the Athenians. Surely,

Pericles, I don’t lack the desire for action—”

“Mere gushing impulse, without dignity or earnestness of mind,” said

Pericles, “will never accomplish anything useful, but merely prove

destructive. Your advantages, Alcibiades, are no hope, but a danger to

your native land, so long as they are united with vices like yours.”

“Is it a vice,” cried Alcibiades, “to love pleasure, and isn’t youth

the best time for enjoyment?”

“You are mistaken,” replied Pericles gravely; “youth is not the time

for enjoyment, but the time to prepare body and mind for the pleasures

of life. It is the time to develop the capacity for enjoyment, not to

dull it. You think you are finding pleasure, youthful son of Cleinias.

But your tasting of every cup of joy is nothing more than boyish

wantonness, thoughtless sport.”

“The gods give us but one life to enjoy!” said Alcibiades.

“For that very reason,” replied Pericles, “we ought not to squander,

but to preserve it.”

Such was the tenor of Pericles’ conversation with the youth, but the

latter went from the statesman to his friend Theodota, smilingly

repeated the words, and added:

“I now see my old friend, my beloved Socrates, is really wiser than

Pericles or any of the other wise men in Athens, for he alone

understood long ago—that all warnings of that kind, addressed to

Cleinias’ son, were vain and foolish—”

Some time had elapsed since Pericles and his wife returned to Athens

from Elis, and the priest of Erechtheus secretly entered into a

conspiracy at Eleusis with the enemies of the noble pair.

Diopeithes, however, had not failed to profit by the interval. The

weapons for the first assault were already forged. He had availed

himself of Pericles’ absence from Athens, to come forward in the

popular assembly with the proposition of a law against those who

derided the religion of the Attic country, and the philosophers whose

teachings were opposed to the belief in the gods, inherited from their

forefathers. The priest of Erechtheus stood before the multitude with

the authority of one inspired by a god, and his language was so

impassioned, so spiced with threats and prophecies of evil, that he

actually succeeded in obtaining for his law the decisive majority of

votes on the Pnyx.

Since that day the sword of Damocles hung over Anaxagoras’ gray head.

Diopeithes’ shaft was first aimed at him; but his designs went still

farther. He secretly courted allies and assistants, leagued himself

with Pericles’ enemies of every kind.

The wrath in his soul daily found fresh food, for before his eyes the

hated Callicrates still walked among the swarming crowd of workmen on

the summit of the Acropolis, urging forward the magnificent propylæa,

under the direction of Mnesicles, with the same zeal he had formerly

bestowed on the temple of Pallas. Callicrates was an abomination to the

priest, so too were the laborers, who by day pursued their hated work,

but at night lay asleep in throngs on the piles of stones or sand.

Another abomination was the old mule who, as has already been

mentioned, could not endure the involuntary leisure of its age, but

according to ancient habit, wandered about on the Acropolis, and to

whom had been granted the favor of having all the injuries it might do

by grazing and nibbling the property of others, made good at the public

expense.

Great results spring from small causes, says the proverb.

Grown saucy by the public favor shown by the Athenian people,

Callicrates’ mule, wandering over the Acropolis, continued the unruly

conduct by which it had long since exasperated Diopeithes to the

utmost, fearlessly approaching the sanctuary of the Erechtheum, and

seeming to find nothing so dainty as the plants that grew within the

precincts of the temple. It did not fear the venomous looks Diopeithes

cast at it, and scarcely heeded the blows with which the

temple-servants tried to drive it away. It sometimes snuffed at the

cakes placed by the devout as offerings on the altar of Zeus, which

stood in the open air before the Erechtheum. If Diopeithes complained

of the sacrilege to Callicrates, the latter, shrugging his shoulders,

appealed to the animal’s legal privileges and the willingness of the

public treasurer to make good any damages it might commit. Thus,

gaining little by his complaints, the priest had long since vowed

vengeance against the bold creature.

But the latter, running blindly to destruction and unconsciously

filling the measure of crime, one day ventured through a door

accidentally left open and unwatched, into the inmost sanctuary of the

Erechtheum and Athena Polias. The horrified temple-servants found it

insolently snuffing at a fresh wreath, they had twined, that very

morning, around the ancient wooden statue of the goddess. The next day

Diopeithes secretly lured Callicrates’ mule towards him, and flung the

animal a cake. In the evening of the same day the creature was found

lying dead on the steps of the Parthenon.

One of Callicrates’ workmen had seen the priest of Erechtheus toss the

mule food, and all were convinced that it had fallen a victim to

Diopeithes’ vengeance.

Some vowed to punish him for it, gathered before the Erechtheum, and

loaded the priest with loud invectives. Had not Mnesicles come up just

in time, Diopeithes would have fared ill at the laborers’ hands.

The cup of wrath in the priest’s breast was now full. He could no

longer delay giving vent to it, commencing the great, long-plotted work

of vengeance.

It was a stormy night, the sky was shrouded in darkness and rent clouds

floated over the moon, when three men assembled for a secret interview

in the dreary grotto of the Eumenides on the hill of the Areopagus.

One of the trio was Diopeithes, who had invited the other two to meet

him there; for intercourse with his secret allies on the Acropolis was

too much exposed to the keen eyes of Callicrates.

The second of the three persons, who met on the hill of Ares, was the

oligarch Thucydides, whom Pericles had overthrown. He and Diopeithes

were the first to enter the grotto, and the third now came gliding in,

half disguised, like a nocturnal thief. The oligarch glanced at this

third person with a certain shade of curiosity. Diopeithes had not

mentioned his name. But when the new-comer confronted the other two men

in the secret grotto, and his face became visible in a ray of light

from the moon, which chanced to shine out for a moment, the oligarch

started back indignantly, while a scornful smile hovered around his

lips.

He had recognized the coarse features of the tanner Cleon, who was

mortally hated by himself and the whole oligarchist party, whose rude

violence was exerted on the Pnyx in boisterous speech to carry far

beyond all proper limits the popular rule established by Pericles, but

curbed and directed by his wise judgment

Full of amazement and anger, the oligarch turned to Diopeithes:

“With what man,” he cried, “do you bring me in contact?”

But Cleon also put on an air of astonishment, and smiling derisively,

cried in the same breath:

“You offer Cleon, the man of the people, a strange ally, Diopeithes!”

“I did not invite you here to fight out the old battle between

oligarchy and the popular government,” said the priest of Erechtheus.

“I summoned you to a common warfare against common foes.”

“Shall I fight enemies for the benefit of a man worse than they?” said

the oligarch.

“Shall I destroy foes?” said Cleon, “with the aid of the very person

most hateful to me among them all?”

Such were the exclamations of the two men in the first moment of

meeting.

But, after an hour spent in secret conversation, during which the

crafty, malicious priest of Erechtheus talked most, a keen eye, had one

been watching the rocky hill of Ares on that gloomy night, would have

seen the two men clasp hands, though hastily and without any real

cordiality.

Diopeithes evidently did not meddle with political affairs. He stood on

as good terms with the fierce demagogue Cleon, as with the oligarch

Thucydides. He fought, at least so he declared, solely for the respect

due the gods of the country and their sanctuaries. Neither the

demagogue nor the oligarch had any scruples about supporting him in the

conflict if, as they supposed, they thereby gained a by no means

contemptible ally for the prosecution of their own plans. But in fact

both were merely tools in the hands of the far more cunning priest,

whose sole object was to ruin his personal enemies, Anaxagoras,

Phidias, and Aspasia.

To destroy them, he must entangle them in dangerous indictments, and in

order to indict them had secured a law specially adapted to them. But

to accomplish their condemnation he was obliged to be sure of the

people.

He was compelled to gain influence over the votes of the multitude, but

to do this needed confederates and allies.

This was the cause of his friendships, his secret intercourse with

persons of the most different character. His first, as it were

preparatory assault, was to be directed at Anaxagoras, then a blow,

which could not fail to also strike Pericles, would be dealt Aspasia.

Lastly, the most difficult, apparently impossible thing, would be

attempted, and all powers united to accomplish the overthrow of

Pericles, beloved by the great majority of the Athenian nation.

He traced out all the Milesian’s foes in Athens, and secretly gathered

them around him, divided and commanded them like a well-arranged army,

and used each individual as a combatant and messenger in different

circles.

Through the priestess of Athena Polias, he stood in close relations

with the feminine world of Athens, Telesippe and Elpinice. He formed

connections with gloomy Agoracritus, became the ally of Cratinus,

Hermippus, and other comic poets, who were doubly enraged against

Aspasia, since owing to her complaints, Pericles had at last determined

to limit the lawlessness of the comic stage. His relations extended to

mad Menon, the ex-slave, the eccentric man known to the whole city and

popular with the dregs of the populace, who willingly aided every

intrigue, and cheerfully undertook to stir up the people by malicious,

sarcastic remarks, rude jests, and coarse inventions against the

philosophers and Pericles’ wife.

Scarcely a month had passed since the meeting of the three men on the

hill of Ares, yet the larger portion of the Athenian populace was

pervaded with a leaven of hostility towards Aspasia and Pericles’ best

friend.

As for Anaxagoras, it was agreed that he was a denier of the gods.

There was scarcely a person, who did not remember some bold assertion

he had heard from the philosopher’s lips on the Agora, in the Lyceum,

or some other public place. What had formerly scarcely been heeded, nay

received by some with applause, was thought suspicious by the fickle

populace, now that their mood was changed, and hatred of the

philosopher had been sowed among the people by Cleon, who was secretly

in league with Diopeithes.

Late one evening, when the streets of Athens were deserted, a man

walking with hasty noiseless steps, glancing round him in fear of being

seen, and evidently seeking the protection of the darkness, which

surrounded him from the clouded sky, came from the street of Tripods,

in the direction of the Ilissus.

He was not attended by the slave who, bearing a torch, usually walked

behind a nocturnal pedestrian. When this man had reached the Ilissus,

he crossed it and continued his way to the Itonian gate, where stood

only a few insignificant dwellings.

He knocked at the door of one of these unpretending houses, and

exchanged a few words with the slave who opened it.

The latter led him into the old man’s sleeping-room, a poorly furnished

apartment, where he lay on a couch.

This old man was Anaxagoras, and his nocturnal visitor, Pericles.

The philosopher looked somewhat surprised at the appearance of the

friend whom he had not seen for some time, and by whom he supposed

himself almost forgotten.

“It is no pleasant message that occasions me to disturb your slumber,”

said Pericles, “but it may seem to you a cheering omen, that it is I

who bring it. Nor have I come solely as a messenger, but also as

counsellor and helper.”

“If it is only bad news that brings Pericles to his old friend

Anaxagoras,” replied the old man, “that too is welcome. Say plainly and

without reserve, what you have to tell.”

“The ambitious Cleon, who as I know is secretly instigated by the

priest of Erechtheus, has to-day accused you before the archon Basileus

of denial of the gods.”

“Denial of the gods,” said Anaxagoras calmly, “according to Diopeithes’

law, is punishable with death. A slight punishment for an old man.”

“A venerable gray head threatened,” replied Pericles, “awakens more

sympathy than a youthful one. Yet I would answer for the safety of your

life with my own. I would myself appear before your judges as your

intercessor and, if it should prove necessary, offer my head for yours.

But what I shall be unable to prevent is this, that you will be placed

in prison until your case is decided—and this dreary, pitiless

imprisonment may last a long time.”

“Let me be imprisoned,” replied Anaxagoras. “What will it avail me to

have my feet free, if my words are not?”

“That will pass!” replied Pericles. “Your words will also be restored

to liberty, and the gnawing mouse will obtain the law the priest of

Erechtheus artfully won from the intimidated people, while I was far

away from Athens and could not throw my words into the scale. But for

the present yield to the necessities of the moment. Rise, and bind the

sandals on your feet. Leave Athens secretly, without delay. Everything

is prepared for your flight. Yonder, in the lonely bay of Phalerum, a

vessel waits to bear you wherever you choose. I have arranged

everything with my friend Cephalus, and he will himself accompany you

to your chosen asylum. It is hard for me to come to a feeble old man’s

couch at night, and say: ‘Rise and depart.’ But I must do it. In the

secret gloom of night, I will myself take you down to the bay of

Phalerum, where Cephalus awaits you.”

“I have no important reason for going,” replied Anaxagoras, “far less

for staying; for I am old and all the roads in the world lead to the

final rest of Hades. If the man is waiting for me in a vessel in the

bay of Phalerum, why should I make him wait in vain? Take me to the

Mysian coast, to Lampsacus. There dwell men, who are friendly to me.

There they can bury me and place above my grave the word truth, that

the grandsons of the Athenians may read it when they visit Lampsacus,

and see that on the shore of the Hellespont, near the country of the

barbarians, an asylum was not grudged to truth, and a dying old man who

preached it. Call my slave, Pericles, and tell him to bind the sandals

on my feet, pack in a bundle the second chiton yonder and the few books

I possess, and go with me down to the sea and farther, if he chooses.”

The old philosopher, with Pericles’ assistance, rose from his couch,

let the slave bind the sandals on his feet, put on his chiton, and in a

few moments was ready to set out.

Then the two men, followed by the slave, walked silently through the

Itonian gate under the shelter of the darkness, and down the dreary

road beside the long wall to the bay of Phalerum.

Reaching it, they found Cephalus in a nook surrounded by rocks, where

the sea plashed dreamily upon the shore. The two men greeted each other

with a silent pressure of the hand.

Anaxagoras stood ready to take leave of Pericles, and enter the vessel.

As they clasped hands in farewell, Pericles gazed with deep emotion at

the old man, thus cast forth in the gloom of night into a foreign land

and on a heaving sea.

“Why do you pity me?” said the sage. “Nothing in the world finds me

unprepared. During my long life I have destroyed, bit by bit,

everything in us which is capable of suffering. As an impetuous youth,

I suffered much, saw how alluring was life, but also how frivolous and

vain. Then I gradually threw everything aside, and plunged deeper and

deeper into the quiet gulfs of undesiring contemplation. So I have

grown old and my body is decaying, but the firm pillar of

indestructible peace remains immovably fixed in my soul. You Athenians

imagine you are sending me forth on the unstable sea, and remain behind

on the firm land. But in fact it is I, who from the solid strand see

you tossing on the wild surges of life. To you, my friend, a different

fate from mine has been allotted. You have yearned for beauty,

happiness, gayety, pleasure, authority, fame. You cling to a beautiful

woman, who has ensnared your senses, a woman fair enough to bless you.

I call you blessed, but can I also call you happy? He who enjoys is

blessed, but no one is happy save he who can lose nothing, and whom

life has no power to disappoint, because he asks nothing of it.”

“Fate allots different paths to mortals,” replied Pericles. “I have

aspired to many things, attained many things, but the last moment

closes the account, and death alone settles the sum of life. I cling,

as you say, to a woman. I have formed with her a bond of a new nature,

for the beautiful, free, and noble enjoyment of life. We are united in

testing a new thing, but how the trial will result, I do not yet know.

Many an element of perplexity interferes, a bitter drop sometimes falls

into the cup of joy, and a feeling akin to anxiety steals over me. Have

I perhaps set an undue value on beauty, life, happiness and their

shining promises? Whatever may happen, the die is cast, and my lot must

be manfully fulfilled.”

Thus Pericles and Anaxagoras poured forth to each other the inmost

depths of their souls, as they stood together in the silent night, and

said farewell beside the waves.

Then they remembered their warm friendship of four and twenty years,

and embraced and kissed each other.

Anaxagoras once more glanced back at the dim outlines of the city,

saying:

“Farewell, thou city of Pallas Athena! Farewell, Attic soil, which has

so long been hospitable to me! Thou hast afforded a place for my germs

of thought. Good and evil spring forth at the same time from the seeds

sown by mortal hands, but only the good lasts forever. Calmly, and with

many a wish for thy happiness, I descend into the tossing ship and, as

an old man, again trust to the same surges that bore me in my youthful

vigor to thy strand.”

With these words, the sage of Clazomenæ entered the vessel.

Again he waved his hand to Pericles, then the sound of oars echoed on

the air—there was a low plash of surf—and the vessel glided silently

and swiftly across the gray surface of the water out towards the dark

open sea.

A few sea-birds in the clefts of the rocky shore were roused from their

sleep, fluttered their wings a little, and then slumbered again.

Pericles stood on the lonely strand, gazing after the fast disappearing

ship.

Then, absorbed in thought, he returned to the city, fanned by the first

cool breeze of the gray dawn.

On reaching the Agora, he saw that in spite of the early hour, a throng

of people were pressing around the so-called royal hall.

The crowd were staring at a paper containing a publication of the

archon. It was the copy of a public accusation.

As the throng was great and those in the rear became impatient, a tall

man read aloud in a stentorian voice this impeachment, which was hung

before the official seat of the archon Basileus in the royal hall.

It ran as follows:

“Accusation, signed and defended by oath of Hermippus, son of Lysis,

against Aspasia, daughter of Axiochus of Miletus—Aspasia is guilty of

the crime of not acknowledging the gods of the country, of having

spoken irreverently of the sacred customs of the Athenians, and joined

the debates and views of the philosophers who denied the gods. She is

also guilty of seducing and corrupting young people by dangerous

speeches, especially young girls, whom she has in her house, as well as

leading freeborn women to insubordination and immodesty. Punishment:

death.”

These words echoed loudly over the market-place just as Pericles

passed, unobserved by the throng, whose attention was fixed upon the

royal hall. He turned pale.

“Hurrah!” shouted some one in the crowd. “That will fall into Pericles’

conjugal happiness like a thunderbolt into a dove’s nest.”

“And Hermippus, the accuser!” exclaimed a second. “Hermippus, the comic

poet!”

“That was to be expected!” replied a third. “I heard it myself from

Hermippus’ lips, after Pericles, at Aspasia’s instigation had clipped

the wings of comedy. ‘Ah, well!’ said he; ‘if our mouths are shut on

the stage, we’ll open them in the Agora.’”

Rarely had any accusation excited the minds of the Athenians to such an

extent, rarely had party strife been kindled to such a degree, as by

the indictment of Pericles’ wife, and people looked forward with no

little impatience to the day when the complaint would be officially

dealt with before the Heliastæ.

At the same time Phidias returned from Olympia to Athens, and

Diopeithes was no little enraged to see the man he hated again walking

over the Acropolis, talking with Mnesicles and Callicrates, and aiding

by his counsel the work on the propylæ.

One day Diopeithes, standing behind the pillars of the Erechtheum, saw

Phidias in the company of his former favorite, Agoracritus. The two men

walked up and down for some time between the Parthenon and Erechtheum,

engaged in eager conversation, then approached a block of marble, close

by the priest of Erechtheus, whom they did not see, sat down on it and

quietly continued their talk. It was an easy matter for Diopeithes to

hear the whole.

“The plastic art of the Athenians is beginning to take strange paths,”

said Agoracritus. “On seeking Athens once more after many a pilgrimage,

I find singular work exhibited in the studios of many of my younger

fellow-artists. Where has the old sublimity and dignity vanished? Have

you seen Stypax’s entrail-roaster? We devoted our best efforts to the

statues of gods and heroes, and now all the subtleties of the art are

employed to represent a miserable slave, who is puffing out his cheeks

to blow the fire over which he is roasting entrails. Strongylion’s art

is essaying the task of casting the Trojan horse in bronze. From the

hands of Demetrius I saw an old man with a bald head, swollen veins,

and a beard in which single hairs seemed blown apart from the mass by

the wind.”

“Sculptors would not create such things,” said Phidias, “if they were

not beginning to please the Athenians. Who could fail to perceive the

degeneration gradually stealing into the heart and veins of the

Athenian nation? As in sculpture hideous things are beginning to appear

beside beautiful ones, so on the Pnyx the noisy outcries of a Cleon are

becoming audible beside the Olympic oratory of the noble Pericles.

Formerly we had but one Hipponicus and one Pyrilampes, now we have

hundreds.”

“Luxury and pleasure are gaining too much preponderance,” said

Agoracritus. “And who first publicly preached the message of luxury and

pleasure-seeking? Since Pericles’ friend once snatched the prize from

my—I might almost say your—work in favor of the insolent Alcamenes,

rage against the alluring woman has never left my soul. When she

contemptuously called my Aphrodite a Nemesis, the thought darted

through my brain: ‘Ay, she shall be a Nemesis to you! You shall feel

the power of the avenging goddess!’ And indeed, vengeance is

approaching with slow, but sure and steady steps.”

“The gods will judge equally and justly!” replied Phidias gravely. “And

if they subdue the Milesian’s smiling insolence, they will also punish

the secret malice of that Diopeithes, whose ally your thirst for

vengeance has made you. Whatever we may have to censure and avenge in

Pericles’ wife, do not forget, that but for her brave and encouraging

words, the pinnacles of our Parthenon would not tower here completed,

and that we have had no fiercer opponent of this very work, than the

malignant priest of Erechtheus.”

“So you put yourself forward as the friend and protector of the

Milesian?” said Agoracritus.

“Not so!” replied Phidias. “I like Aspasia as little as Diopeithes, and

shall avoid both by instantly leaving Athens for Olympia, which has

grown dear to me. I have found the Elians more grateful than the

Athenians. I have done enough, it seems to me, for Athens. The remnant

of my days I will consecrate to Hellas, leaving Athens to its Aspasias,

demagogues, drunkards, and spiteful, worthless, revengeful priests of

Erechtheus!”

“You did right to turn your back on Athens;” said Agoracritus, “the

Athenians might perhaps have weakened and corrupted even your

art—according to their latest taste, you would perhaps be compelled to

carve Priapus instead of the Olympic gods.”

“Or the loathsome, misshapen form of yonder beggar, who is basking on

this pure height like a salamander escaped from some marsh!” replied

Phidias, pointing to the well-known cripple Menon, who was lying in the

sun between the pillars.

The beggar had heard Phidias’ words, scowled, clenched his fist, and

muttered a curse.

Phidias and Agoracritus rose, and taking a step farther in the

direction of the Erechtheum, saw Diopeithes standing behind the

pillars.

“Why, see how watchful the owls of the Erechtheum are!” said Phidias.

The embarrassed listener cast a sullen glance of hatred at the

sculptor, saying:

“The owls of the Erechtheum have sharp beaks and talons! Take heed that

they don’t rend your eyes.”

The sculptor merely repeated the Homeric saying:

“Pallas Athena never suffers me to tremble!”

“Very well!” murmured Diopeithes, when the two men had turned away.

“Rely on the protection of your Pallas, I will depend upon the power of

mine. The preparations for the decisive battle between your gold and

ivory botchwork, and the ancient divine statue within the sacred halls

of the Erechtheum have been made long enough.”

He was just turning away, when mad Menon, still abusing Phidias in a

soliloquy, struck his crutch against one of the smooth polished

pillars, breaking off a fragment.

Perceiving this, Diopeithes approached; the eyes of the mad beggar and

the priest of Erechtheus met.

They knew each other.

Menon, as has already been mentioned, had once been tortured with the

other slaves of his accused master. Hellenic slaves were never

questioned before a court, except with the rack. So under the torture

Menon made his deposition, and on the strength of the deposition the

Athenian was acquitted. But from the time of that painful examination,

the slave’s limbs withered and he became a cripple. His master, out of

sympathy, released him, and at his death bequeathed him a considerable

sum, which the half-crazy Menon threw into the gulf of Barathron,

preferring to wander among the Athenians as an idle beggar. Part of the

time he lived on the food placed upon the graves of the dead. When

freezing in winter, he warmed his palsied limbs beside the smith’s

forge or the public baker’s oven. His favorite spot was a gloomy place

in Melitæ, where the bodies of executed criminals and the ropes and

clothes of suicides were thrown. He carefully collected the ropes, and

counted them daily. A dog that had grown mangy, and therefore been

driven away by its master, attached itself to him, and the pair became

inseparable. Menon had a spiteful, malicious nature, and it seemed to

afford him the greatest pleasure when he could cause discord or other

mischief among the people. He seemed filled with a secret desire for

vengeance, and everything he did appeared calculated to avenge slavery

on the free oppressors. The cripple intentionally pretended to be more

insane than he really was, in order to hurl the sharpest truths into

the Athenians’ faces, and especially to be permitted many liberties,

that would not have been forgiven any one in his sober senses. He was

always to be seen on the Agora or in other public places, and had

become perfectly at home on the Acropolis, where he wandered among the

throng of workmen. He liked every spot, where there was a crowd and he

could play his spiteful part.

But he found special enjoyment on the Acropolis, from the moment he

perceived that the priest of Erechtheus, Diopeithes, and the architect,

Callicrates, were bitter enemies. He seemed to find his chief

occupation in fomenting quarrels between the temple-servants and

Callicrates’ workmen, willingly allowing himself to be used as a

tale-bearer or spy. He served both parties, and hated both, as he hated

all men who were freeborn and Athenians.

Diopeithes himself sometimes talked with him, and soon perceived the

usefulness of this tool. The man was always among the people, watching

and listening to everything. No one thought himself obliged to conceal

aught from the imbecile, and the biting wit of his evil tongue made him

liked as well as feared in the market-place and the streets.

So Menon and Diopeithes knew and understood each other perfectly. The

instinct of secret rage and vengeance made the priest and the lame

beggar allies.

“You are angry with Phidias?” Diopeithes began.

“May the hell-dog seize him with its hundred jaws! Arrogant scoundrel!

Always pushed me out of the door, when he saw me warming myself at the

melting-furnace in his workshop—jeered at my deformity. ‘You are a

monster, Menon,’ said he ‘a horror’—he wanted to see nothing but

Olympic gods and goddesses around him—ha! ha! ha! May lightning blast

him, him and all the Athenians!”

“So you often lingered in his studio?”

“He didn’t always see me—but I saw him—Menon knows how to lurk in

corners—saw him carrying on his foolish shining work—saw him and his

pupils at work on the white stone, and the bronze, and the ivory, and

the shining gold—”

“Did you see him working with the gold?”

A strange light gleamed in the priest’s eyes, as he uttered the words.

“Did you see him working with the gold, Menon?” he repeated, his eyes

glowing mysteriously; “with the shining gold the city of the Athenians

delivered to him, that he might shape from it and ivory the statues of

the gods on the Acropolis.”

“Of course, of course—with the shining gold of the Athenians—saw him

wallowing in whole heaps of gold and ivory—that sparkled, that

glittered—”

“Did all the shining gold go into the melting-furnace, Menon? Didn’t

some of it stick to the fingers of those who worked with it?”

At this crafty question, the beggar grinned cunningly at the priest. A

fiendish light flashed in his eyes.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he cried, laughing. “Menon knows how to crouch, to

watch—saw him work, even when he thought himself alone and

unnoticed—saw him secretly open chests where the hidden treasure

glittered—ha! ha! ha!—the bright gold—the Athenians’ gold—he stared at

it like a griffin guarding treasure—seized it as if with claws—so—he

foamed at the mouth when he saw me—pushed me out of doors—wouldn’t let

me warm myself. Wait, you rascal—flash your eyes, you gray old

griffin!”

Again the beggar raised his crutch menacingly against the Parthenon, as

if longing to shatter it, in defiance of its creator.

After a short pause, the priest advanced still nearer and whispered:

“Hark ye, Menon, would you say what you have just said on the

Agora—before all the Athenians?”

“Before the Athenians—before the twenty thousand scurvy knaves of

Athenians—may the plague destroy them!”

From the hour of this interview, tidings spread through Athens of the

harsh, proud, offensive words Phidias had uttered against his

fellow-artists and the whole Athenian nation. It was related how he had

abused popular government, and scorning his native land, praised the

Elians, vowing to turn his back on Athens, and henceforth consecrate

his services to other Hellenes. At the same time rumors were whispered,

that all the gold delivered to him at the public expense had not found

its way into his melting-furnace.

Like evil seed, these words sprung up amid the Athenian populace in

poisonous weeds of rage and hostility against the noble, quiet creator

of the Parthenon.

The day had come on which Aspasia’s case was to be decided before the

Heliastæ, under the superintendence of the archon Basileus, [9] in one

of the courts of justice in the Agora.

From early dawn the populace surged around the court of justice.

Aspasia was the only calm and composed person among the Athenians on

that day. She stood in the upper room of the house, gazing through a

window-like opening upon the throng moving towards the Agora.

Her face was somewhat pale, but not from fear, for a contemptuous smile

hovered around her lips.

Pericles approached.

He was far paler than Aspasia, and an expression of deep earnestness

rested upon his features, as he silently gazed upward at the cloudy

sky. It was a gray day. Flocks of cranes were flying from Strymon

across Attica, and their croaking seemed to forebode rain.

A long procession of elderly men now passed up the streets. They were

the Heliastæ, who were to try Aspasia—the judges before whom Pericles’

wife was to appear, by whom her sentence would be spoken.

“Look at those old fellows!” said Aspasia, smiling. “Half of them wear

shabby cloaks, and look hungry and lean as they walk, leaning on the

long Athenian staff, which Phidias did not spare the friends of beauty,

even on the frieze of the Parthenon. Some are chewing garlic, and

carrying between their lips the dirty oboles they are to receive in

payment for this day’s work.”

“They are men of the people,” replied Pericles, shrugging his

shoulders. “They are men of the Athenian people, who once pleased you

and for whose sake, as you told me, you left the Persian court and your

beautiful Miletus and, urged by longing, came across the sea to seek

and live among them.”

Aspasia made no reply.

“These garlic-chewing Athenians, who carry long staffs and hold oboles

in their mouths,” continued Pericles, “are the same whose symmetry and

unaffected dignity seemed to you worthy of admiration, whose patriotism

touched you, whose taste for art not only seemed to you peerless in the

works of sculptors and poets, but also in their enthusiasm, their

subtle power of seeing, hearing, enjoying—”

“But I now know,” interrupted Aspasia, “that the much-praised, refined

Attic nation still has a remnant of rudeness, I may say barbarism.”

“There is nothing perfect under the sun,” said Pericles, “and brilliant

lights are associated with the darkest shadows. I remember having

recently seen a strange statue in one of our sculptors’ studios—a

figure with wings on its shoulders and the hoofs of a goat. The

Athenian nation seems like this mongrel. It is winged for the loftiest

flight, but also walks on goats’ hoofs. For the rest, consider that the

greatest merits of the Athenian nation are exclusively its own, but it

shares its weaknesses with others. And as the fairest woman is still

always a woman, the most gifted nation is still a nation, burdened with

the weaknesses and passions of those called the people, the masses, the

great multitude.”

“The Athenian nation,” cried Aspasia indignantly, “is more thankless,

fickle, frivolous, swayed by every breath, than any other.”

“But it is amiable,” said Pericles, with a slight touch of sarcasm,

“and pleasure-loving, and gay, and an enthusiastic friend and patron of

the beautiful. What do you want more, Aspasia? Haven’t you yourself

often laughed at and derided the poor thinker, Socrates, because he

seemed to demand of the Athenians other virtues than those I have just

named?”

Aspasia turned proudly away, as if offended.

“It is time to go to court in the Agora, where the judges await you,”

said Pericles after a pause. “Have you no fear, Aspasia? Your features

betray none. Will you leave me to bear all the anxiety alone?”

“I fear the odor of garlic in those rooms,” replied Aspasia, “far more

than the sentence that may be passed upon me by the lips of those men.

I still feel animated by the same courage, that inspired me amid the

throng at Megara and in the streets of Eleusis.”

During this conversation, the Heliastæ had reached the court-room, as

well as the archon Basileus with several subordinate officials, public

clerks, and witnesses. Outside the court-room, the throng of people

swarmed in eager excitement. There was a confused murmur of opinions,

wishes, predictions. Friends and foes of the accused, as well as

impartial judges, were heard among them.

“Do you know why they accused Anaxagoras and Aspasia?” cried one.

“Because they wanted to strike Pericles in a sensitive spot, and dared

not attack him personally. There is no man in Athens, who would venture

openly to assail Pericles.”

“But couldn’t it be done?” cried a crafty little man with cunning eyes,

coming forward. “Couldn’t it be done? Could not a better and more exact

account be required of Pericles, after his long years of rule, than he

has hitherto rendered? Don’t items occur in his accounts with the mere

note: judiciously employed? What does judiciously employed mean, I ask?

Eh? Can dust be more insolently strewn in people’s eyes? Do you hear,

judiciously employed?”

So saying, the man continued his way through the crowd, asking

everywhere what judiciously employed meant?

“Those are the sums,” replied one person mysteriously, “Pericles used

to silence influential men in the Peloponnesus, that they might do

Athens no harm—”

“That they might not prevent the establishment of tyranny at Athens!”

observed the crafty little man with a scornful laugh. “If you suppose

the learned Pericles, when he whispers with his friend, is only

calculating the length of a flea’s foot or the width of a gnat’s rump,

you are greatly mistaken. He has long talked foolishly about the unity

of the whole Hellenic country—he would like, to put it briefly, to

become ruler of all Hellas. His wife, the Milesian, placed this worm in

his ear, and it has now crept into his brain and made him mad. This

hetæra yearns for nothing less than a crown—she would fain be called a

queen—queen of Hellas—her countrywoman’s laurels won’t let her rest.”

Such were the words of the sharp-tongued scenter of tyrants. But in the

court-room in the Agora, the judges already sat on their benches,

waiting for the commencement of the trial. The presiding officer was

the archon Basileus, surrounded by clerks and servants.

The court-room was surrounded by bars, a latticed door affording

ingress only to those summoned by the archon.

Opposite the seats of the judges a somewhat lofty stage was erected for

the accused as well as for the complainant, thus rendering their

figures visible and their voices audible for a long distance.

On one of these elevated platforms sat Hermippus, a man of morose

nature, whose piercing eye roved restlessly around.

On the other Aspasia was seated, with Pericles beside her, for as a

woman and especially a foreigner, she was obliged to be represented by

a man who was a native citizen.

It was a touching spectacle to many hearts, to see the fairest and most

gifted woman of her time, the wife of the great Pericles, on the

platform as an indicted prisoner.

The fact that Pericles sat beside her increased the serious, moving

character of the scene.

The judges, and the majority of the people, felt a sort of pride in

seeing that even the most powerful were compelled to appear before

their tribunal, submit to the omnipotent civil law.

Hermippus gazed maliciously at the beautiful woman, whose face was

overspread by a slight pallor, that scarcely diminished the expression

of resolute will which rested on her features.

The archon Basileus now opened the examination by calling upon the

complainant to take an oath, that he had only made the accusation for

the sake of truth and justice. The judges themselves, on entering upon

their office, had taken the oath of justice and conscientiousness.

The archon next ordered one of the public clerks to read aloud, first

the accusation, and then the refutation.

Then he requested the complainant to prove his accusation, verbally and

in detail.

Hermippus rose. His speech was full of sarcasm. The people felt

transported to the comic stage. He discussed in sharp, incisive words

the acts on which, according to his assertion, the accusation against

Aspasia rested: how at Eleusis she had spoken irreverently, before all

the people, of the Eleusinian gods and the sacred customs of the

country; how she had held intercourse with Sophists, with Anaxagoras,

Socrates, especially Protagoras, that most eloquent denier of the gods,

who had lived for some time at Athens, but was at present wandering in

other Hellenic cities, preaching heresies and corrupting youth; how she

had directed all her efforts to inciting Athenian women to rebel

against the laws of the country, and once at the Thesmophorian festival

stood forth before all the Athenian women to induce them to overthrow

the venerable laws that hallowed marriage and family life; how she had

lured freeborn women into her home, to teach them the arts of the

hetæra, and at last gone so far as to keep in her house a number of

young girls, for the sole purpose of alluring the distinguished men of

Athens.

Hermippus brought forward as witnesses many of those who had heard the

remarks Aspasia made at Eleusis; but allowed the written depositions of

some of them to be read aloud by the public clerk. The instigation of

the women to a conspiracy against the laws of the state he proved by

several women, who had taken part in the Thesmophorian festival. The

attempt to corrupt freeborn women he corroborated by the written

deposition of Xenophon’s wife, which had been extorted by Telesippe and

Cimon’s sister. With regard to the young girls in Aspasia’s house, he

appealed to the general knowledge of the Athenians, and did not neglect

to bring into special prominence the fact that, for the sake of one of

these girls, the Athenian commonwealth had recently been involved in by

no means safe complications with Megara, and the allies of this hostile

Dorian city.

He closed with the statement that Aspasia had committed a threefold

crime—against faith in the gods and the religion of the country,

against the government and the dignity of its laws, against propriety

and morality, then requested a number of edicts to be read aloud by the

clerk, and proved that, according to the Athenian code, all these acts

were punishable, and since death was the penance assigned to most,

Aspasia’s life, after being convicted of these crimes, was forfeited to

the law. Lastly, with raised voice and passionate excitement, he

entreated the judges to guard the most sacred thing a commonwealth

possessed, chastise the insolence of the foreigner who sought the

overthrow of the statutes inherited from their forefathers, and not

allow the Athenian government, hitherto loved and blessed by the gods,

to perish in the school of insubordination, contempt of law, and denial

of the gods.

Hermippus’ passionate speech made a deep impression on the judges, most

of whom were elderly men from the lower classes of the people. A murmur

rose among the crowd beyond the barriers, who had listened silently to

Hermippus’ explanation.

“Hermippus has spoken admirably—his argument was sharp and

convincing—he has the law on his side—the Milesian’s life is

forfeited.”

After Hermippus had concluded and resumed his seat, Pericles rose.

The deepest silence instantly prevailed, and every one listened

intently for the first words from the lips of Aspasia’s husband.

Pericles seemed changed. He did not appear as he looked when standing

before the people on the orator’s platform upon the Pnyx, announcing

his opinions with dignified composure, secure of success. For the first

time his calmness seemed feigned, and a slight tremor in his voice was

audible when he began to speak.

He denied Aspasia’s guilt and, taking up one accusation after the

other, sought to prove, that only the exaggeration of hatred could drag

her conduct within the limits of crime worthy of death. Where he could

not deny that the letter of the Athenian law was against her, he

appealed from her acts to her noble intentions, and tried to show that

noble deeds could never be criminal.

But this time there was something uncertain in the argument of the

famous orator, who bore the surname of the Olympian. It could not fail

to be noticed, that his words produced but a slight impression upon his

hearers. Was the secret emotion that possessed his mind too powerful?

At last Pericles followed Hermippus’ example, and closed his argument

with an address to the judges, which coming from the heart, appealed to

the heart.

He said: “This woman is my wife. If she is guilty of the crime of which

that man accuses her, I am her accomplice. Hermippus accuses us of

having diminished the consideration paid to the gods, impaired the

authority of the government, injured modesty and morality. Men of

Athens! If I can be permitted to arrogate to myself any part of the

fame you have bestowed on my impetuous deeds, I have not diminished the

splendor of the divinities of this country, but glorified them as no

one else has done, by the erection of superb temples and statues on the

Acropolis and at Eleusis. I have not injured the state, but fought for

it in battle, I have broken the power of the oligarchs, and given

liberty to the people. I have not lessened, but promoted morality, by

seeking to spread among you the love of the noble and beautiful, the

eternal conquerors of everything rude and base. In such efforts, men of

Athens, this woman, Aspasia of Miletus, has not hindered, but supported

and encouraged me. No small part of what will perhaps glorify the

people and city of the Athenians forever is due to her. The memory of

her name will always be connected, not with the decline of this

commonwealth, but with its noblest prosperity, power, and splendor.

These are deeds, men of Athens, and we both believe we have rendered

services to the nation and city of the Athenians. But that Hermippus

comes to you and cries: ‘Tear Pericles’ chosen wedded wife from his

breast, and drag her to death before his eyes.’”

With these words a tear shone in Pericles’ eye.

A tear in the eye of the quiet, dignified Pericles! A tear in the

Olympian’s eye! It produced the effect of something not imaginable

according to any ordinary law of nature. It was bewildering, like a

miraculous apparition, a meteor, a sign sent by the gods.

Those who had seen with their own eyes the tear that had sparkled for a

moment in Pericles’, to be instantly crushed again, looked gravely at

each other and whispered:

“Pericles wept.”

From the court-room to the Agora the words spread:

“Pericles wept.”

From the Agora the tidings ran in a short time through the whole city

of Athens:

“Pericles wept.”

At the same time the news reached Athens of a naval battle at Sybota,

in which Athenian vessels had helped the Corinthians conquer the

Corcyræans. But the people only half listened to the tale—they were

talking of Pericles’ tear.

Hermippus’ speech before the Heliastæ had been closed by the running

out of the sand in the hour-glass, Pericles’ was ended by a tear.

At a sign from the archon, a servant came forward and distributed the

votes among the judges, handing each a white and black stone, one for

acquittal and one for condemnation.

Then the Heliastæ left their seats, approached a bronze urn and threw a

white or black stone into it. The other pebble was flung into another,

wooden vessel.

The first voting was to decide the question of guilt or innocence, the

second was intended in case of guilt, to determine the punishment of

the accused person.

The votes of the Heliastæ were now delivered, and the black and white

stones instantly counted before the archon’s eyes.

The gaze of all was fixed with intense eagerness on the black and white

stones rolling out of the urn.

Behold! the white lots of life increased in number, victoriously

outshining the dark stones of death.

Pericles’ wife was acquitted. The heavy weight of the hero’s tear had

fallen with decisive power into the scales of Themis.

The verdict announced by the archon’s lips was carried, as if on wings,

over the whole Agora.

Aspasia rose. A faint flush suffused her face. Her glance, sparkling

with brighter radiance, wandered for a moment toward the Heliastæ. Then

she mutely held out her hand to Pericles, who led her away. A veil

covered her face, as she passed through the crowd.

The clear-voiced greeting of the Athenians received Pericles in the

Agora.

In every street through which he passed with his veiled wife on his way

home, all kinds of remarks, according to the mood of the individual,

were whispered or uttered aloud.

But one exclamation was constantly repeated:

“What a superb woman Aspasia always is!”

This exclamation at last gained the upper hand over all others, and

only mad Menon shouted an insulting epithet after the beautiful

Milesian as she passed him.

Suddenly, emerging from the crowd, Socrates stood beside Pericles and

Aspasia.

“I congratulate you, Aspasia!” he said, joining them. “What hours of

torture these have been to your friends.”

“Where were you, when the verdict was given?” asked Aspasia.

“Among the people!” replied Socrates.

“And what did you hear among the people all this time?”

“Many and various things,” answered Socrates; “but at last only two

sentences remained and passed from lip to lip.”

“And what were they?”

“‘Pericles wept!’ and ‘what a beautiful woman Aspasia is!’

“Strange coincidence!” continued Socrates in his fantastic, reflective

way. “Aspasia is the most beautiful woman, and the happy husband of the

fairest wife wept. Take care, Aspasia, that this tear of Pericles is

his last! It is only a first tear which is sublime, the second would be

ridiculous. Only the first touches, moves—a second has no effect.

Pericles must never be permitted to weep again! Do you hear, Aspasia?

Pericles must never be permitted to weep again.”

“Is it I, who force tears from Pericles’ eyes?” asked Aspasia, secretly

offended.

“I assert nothing, except that Pericles must never be permitted to weep

again!” replied Socrates, and vanished amid the crowd.

Aspasia was greatly excited, “What? The hostile Athenian populace had

acquitted her, and from amid the throng of reconciled enemies stepped

forth a friend, to accuse her in words full of evil foreboding.”

“You know the strange fellow!” said Pericles. “Have patience with him.

You are well aware he means kindly by us both.”

But Aspasia was angry. A long-cherished idea of punishing the strange

mortal for the bold license of his tongue, awoke with redoubled power

in the brain of the high-spirited woman, as she walked proudly, secure

of victory, by her husband’s side.

Two men followed the pair at some distance, a scornful smile hovered

around their lips as they whispered together.

It was Diopeithes and the oligarch Thucydides.

“The woman has escaped us,” said the oligarch, with a gloomy look.

“So much the worse for her!” replied the priest. “You know the people.

If she had been condemned, they would pity her and Pericles; now she

has been acquitted they will instantly say the judges were too lenient,

and that Pericles’ power is growing more and more dangerous, if a

criminal is released for his sake.”

“Triumph for to-day!” continued Diopeithes, shaking his fist at

Aspasia’s husband. “The arrows you turned from your wife’s head, will

strike yours only the more surely.”

CHAPTER IX.

CONFLICTS AND VICTORIES.

Pericles, accompanied by his friend Sophocles, entered the Agora early

in the morning just as the gloomy Euripides came up with the

truth-seeker. Somewhat surprised at the sight of the luggage several

slaves were carrying behind him, both stood still and asked the poet

the cause of his departure, and where he intended to go.

“I am about to sail for Salamis,” replied Euripides. “On the quiet

island I hope at last to find the seclusion and peace I need. The

grotto on the shore, where I first saw the light, I will henceforth

make my favorite resting-place and give myself up to my thoughts

undisturbed.”

“Doesn’t your country-house afford you sufficient quiet and seclusion?”

asked Pericles.

“Don’t talk to me of the country-house!” replied the poet rudely. “I’ve

become thoroughly disgusted with it by the constant increase of the

frogs, who croak all night in the neighboring ponds, and still more so

by the swarms of crickets, whose incessant chirping night and day

disturbs my thoughts and interrupts me in composing. The old bachelor,

Anacreon, praised the ‘clear-voiced cicadas,’ but I curse them. My head

is sore, and I’ve been driven half crazy by the shrill noise of these

tormenting spirits, these chirping evil demons. In vain my friend

Socrates helped me catch and kill them for several days. Do you smile,

lamb-hearted Sophocles? You are doubtless capable of giving us, without

delay, an enthusiastic eulogy on the frogs and crickets.”

“Why not?” replied Sophocles, smiling. “All nature rejoices in sound,

and sings. The waves, the winds, the pine-trees sing, the stone sings

when touched by the foot of the pedestrian. And sound is so fond of

hearing itself that, a second Narcissus, it ogles its own image in the

mirror of the echo. Therefore, worthy Euripides, leave us the frogs and

crickets.”

“There it is!” Euripides angrily interrupted. “Oh, these wits, these

‘beauty-blessed,’ ‘beauty-living’ people, or whatever else they choose

to call themselves. They understand how to cover everything, even the

most accursed, with the varnish of pretty figures of speech, never do

they look seriously at the serious affairs of life. I tell you,

crickets are insufferable insects, whatever old Anacreon and pious

Sophocles may poetically write about them. Besides, as you know, it’s

not only the frogs and crickets that disgust me with living on the soil

of Attica. I no longer like Athens. People don’t care to endure the

jeers of the street urchins about a runaway wife, however well they may

be spiced with Attic wit. This life isn’t to my taste, and there are

all sorts of threatening things in the air. What is the use of being

more enlightened, if morals degenerate? Farewell! I am going to Salamis

at once.”

“Must our happiness be dependent on place?” objected Sophocles. “We

must remain at our posts. It ought to be the pride of a Greek, I think,

to remain unchanged amid everything stern and gloomy that may assail

him, and live on in undisturbed cheerfulness and beauty, as one who

realizes, in the beautiful harmony of his own nature, the best and

highest portion of human existence, and will allow nothing to disturb

him in the noblest enjoyment of life.”

“And when age approaches, with shaking knees, and the sources of

pleasure are exhausted?” observed Euripides.

“Then I will renounce the pleasure whose sources are dry,” replied

Sophocles, “but only to seize, instead of the glad enjoyment of

manhood, always connected with a certain uneasiness, the far more

beautiful, divine repose and cheerfulness, the halcyon peace glorified

by beauty, of age.”

“You speak like a son of the good old time,” answered Euripides, “and

do not consider that we have gradually become too thoughtful to live in

beautiful idyllic cheerfulness.”

“As for me,” Socrates now began, “I think what Sophocles has said about

being obliged to preserve a beautiful harmony in our own natures very

singular. I should like to learn, and some impulse urges me to ask him

explicitly, whether in speaking of ‘beautiful harmony’ he has morality

in view, or whether he thinks of harmony as beautiful, in the sense in

which we call women or works of sculpture beautiful, charming, and

pleasant to the eye? Whether, to express it differently, he places

special importance on goodness, or what in the ordinary sense is called

beautiful? Whereby we are brought back to the old question so often

raised between us, but never settled, whether beauty should take

precedence of goodness, or goodness of beauty?”

The truth-seeker gazed eagerly into the poet’s face, while awaiting his

reply.

At the same moment a tumult arose in the throng, which meantime had

assembled in the Agora. The signal for a popular assembly on the Pnyx

had been given, and everybody was moving towards it.

Pericles, also preparing to take the same direction, said smiling:

“Nor can we settle your favorite question to-day, worthy son of

Sophroniscus, for the Athenians are summoned to the Pnyx, and there are

more urgent matters to be decided there.”

Socrates stood silent and perplexed, like a person who has been

interrupted just at the wrong time.

“Myrmecides,” said an Athenian citizen to his neighbor, as he was in

the act of leaving the Agora and ascending to the Pnyx with the rest of

the excited crowd, “whatever we may decide up there to-day, I have a

presentiment of evil, evil for Hellas. There are oracles—oracles of

ill; there are also oracles of Bacis in circulation, now suddenly

becoming intelligible. But the most ominous thing—you know Delos,

sacred Delos, the island of the Ionian god Apollo, was never visited by

an earthquake—”

“Never!” replied Myrmecides; “every boy knows from infancy that sacred

Delos is fastened with brazen chains to the bottom of the sea, and

cannot be shaken by subterranean storms like the other islands of the

Archipelago.”

“So it was believed till yesterday,” continued Cynogenes; “but

yesterday the news came that the ground trembled for a minute, and the

subterranean storm passed beneath it with a hollow, threatening roar.”

“Delos shaken?” cried Myrmecides; “then there is nothing firm in

Hellas.”

Other men joined Myrmecides and Cynogenes, mingling in their

conversation. But they were soon interrupted and induced to turn by a

loud tumult behind them on the Agora.

“A Megarian dog!” was the cry, “a Megarian dog! Kill him, stone him!”

A shrieking throng had hastily assembled around a man, who had been

seized by several Athenians, and was now firmly held amid loud

exclamations of anger.

It was not the first time a Megarian had been involved in a dangerous

fray at Athens. Even before the Athenian market and harbor were

prohibited to the Dorian city, many a citizen of the latter, when

bringing a fat sucking-pig or other article to market, had been jeered,

reviled, or rudely pulled about.

But the ill-will against the Megarians had risen to fury since the

latter, with barbarous cruelty, had ventured to kill the herald sent

from Athens to Megara. Since that day the Athenian people had sworn to

stone any Megarian, who allowed himself to be caught in Athens.

The man thus assailed begged for his life, swearing by all the gods

that he was no Megarian, but came from Eleusis.

“Don’t believe it!” cried the man who had first seized him and still

held him with an iron grasp. “Don’t believe it! I know him. He’s a

Megarian dog—a Megarian dog!”

At this moment several archons passed who, after inquiring into the

affair, prevented the man’s murder, summoned several of the Scythian

archers, and ordered him to be taken away as a prisoner.

On the Pnyx, a little apart from the place of the popular assembly,

three men were whispering together in low, eager tones. These were

Cleon, the tanner, Lysicles, the sheep dealer, and Pamphilus, the

sausage-maker. They did not seem to agree.

The ambassadors of the Lacedemonians now came up the Pnyx to join the

popular assembly of the Athenians. They had arrived to demand

satisfaction for their ally, Megara, and measured the Athenians, who

surrounded them, with scornful eyes.

One of the oligarchs whispered into the ear of another: “Shall we

desire war or peace?”

“It might perhaps be profitable,” replied the other, “if the

Peloponnesians would come and clear a little in the country.”

A few hours later, the Athenians came down from the Pnyx in a more

excited mood than they had gone up. Numerous groups formed on the

Agora.

“I think Pericles never spoke so admirably!” cried Myrmecides. “Oh,

that fox with the lion’s face! How moderately he behaved, how quietly,

how full of apparent compliance! How ready he seemed for any possible

concession! Only he made counter demands, which he well knew would

never be granted. What a master-stroke, when he said Athens was ready

to restore perfect liberty to her allies, only Sparta must first do the

same with hers.”

“I scent the smell of tar, the creak of oars, the shouts of trierarchs,

the gilding of statues of Pallas at the Piræeus,” said Sporgilus

thoughtfully.

“Why not, you coward?” cried the others. “Have you no fancy for a merry

naval expedition?”

“Well, the sea is such a salt, bitter thing!” replied Sporgilus.

“Feed yourself on garlic,” echoed around him, “on garlic, you coward,

like the fighting-cocks, that you may grow more ardent and get

courage.”

The voice of the notorious tanner, Cleon, was now heard in another

dense group. “I want war, but without Pericles!” he exclaimed. “The war

ought not to be allowed to make Pericles greater. How shall we demand

an account from him, how shall we get at him, if he is at the head of a

fleet or army? So away with Pericles! The Spartans’ demand that he

should be banished from Athens as an Alcmæonid, ought to have been

granted. Banish Pericles! Banish Pericles!”

Thus Cleon shouted amid clumsy, vehement gestures, for he always flung

his whole body about and did not remain a moment in the same place.

“War, but without Pericles!” he repeated incessantly.

Pamphilus was of the same opinion, but vying with the other in the

loudness of his shrieks, added that Pericles ought not to be banished,

but called to account for his management of public affairs and thrown

into prison.

Old Cratinus now came up with Hermippus and a third companion, a youth,

who had the “Attic glance” to a still higher degree than the other two,

and it was said would soon come forward with a comedy.

“Are you for war or peace, old satyr?” shouted one of the crowd.

“I’m for roast hares, wine in the jar, silver in the strong-box, figs

in the storehouses, garlanded goats, Dionysian festivals, new wine,

beakers tilted upside down, gay dancing-girls—”

“So you’re for peace?”

“Yes indeed, and against having the Megarians shut out from the

Athenian market. Be sensible, you violet-wreathed Athenians! Cease

suspecting that every quean, who appears in the market, is a disguised

Megarian. Since you excluded the Megarians there’s not a good

sucking-pig, such as the old victors of Marathon deserve, to be had. We

shall soon come to eating roasted crickets. Besides, why are you

quarrelling about war and peace? Did the Spartans leave the popular

assembly with any other answer, than the one Pericles proposed? Let

Pericles rule and others of his stamp, the tanners, wool-dealers, and

sausage-makers, who comb your beards, fan the flies from your heads,

clean the dust from your shoes, and brush the specks from your

clothes.”

These jibes made Cleon’s blood boil. “In one point,” said he, “Pericles

has done right—in trying to muzzle the spiteful, disorderly little mob

of comic writers, the curs, who snap at every man’s shanks.”

“Why, see Cleon!” exclaimed Cratinus; “Cleon, the fearless! I shouldn’t

have ventured to come here, if I had known the greedy-toothed, horrible

man with the rolling eyes was present. The smell of leather ought to

have told me better.”

Cleon was furious. Myrmecides held him back, while Cratinus continued:

“You call us disorderly because we swing the whip over our heads,

careless whom it hits? If it doesn’t always strike the right man,

perhaps it does the right thing! Does Zeus, when he sends the

lightning, ask where it strikes? It is enough for him if it purifies

the air.”

“Old driveller!” cried Cleon, “are not you the man, who is said to draw

his inspiration from the wine-cask?”

“And are not you,” retorted Cratinus, “a man swollen with venom, of

whom it is said that a serpent lately bit him and—died? But no matter.

We don’t fear. We’ll wage war with the stench of leather, the furious

glances of the rolling blear eyes, with a hundred red-haired Cerberus

heads. And when we have once got the better of the woman-hero Pericles,

we’ll remember the knavish buffoons, sausage-makers, wool-dealers, and

tanners, and rid ourselves of all the ‘violet-wreathed Athenians.’”

A shrill, jeering laugh suddenly rang out from behind a column. People

looked around and saw mad Menon crouching there.

“Look at Menon!” cried the youngest of the three comic poets. “The

fellow is so ragged and dirty, that Euripides will soon doubtless make

him the hero of some touching drama.”

The Athenians laughed. Menon gnashed his teeth, exclaiming:

“Scoundrels! violet-wreathed scoundrels!”

They wanted to beat him, but he set his dog on them.

The people then took up stones to throw them at his head, but at this

moment Socrates passed, pitied the man, and led him out of the throng.

The crowd dispersed. Pamphilus, walking angrily away, saw Pericles,

followed him and pursued him all day long with insults, whenever he

caught sight of him.

Again he followed him. “You are a tyrant, like Pisistratus!” said he.

“You only pretend to support democracy. In reality it is you alone, who

hold the reins of Athens.”

Pericles was silent.

“You want to plunge the Athenians into a war,” continued Pamphilus,

“that you may not be compelled to render any account.”

Pericles made no reply.

“You won’t recognize the merits of other men, who are no less fitted

for orators and leaders of the people than you!” raved Pamphilus.

Pericles remained silent.

“You learned your art of government through intercourse with sophists

and hetæræ. You have allowed the power of the Athenians to be stifled

by increasing wantonness and effeminacy.”

As Pamphilus uttered these words Pericles reached home. The streets

were very dark. According to Athenian custom, the statesman had a slave

bearing a lighted torch behind him.

The slave knocked, and the porter opened the door. Pamphilus was still

standing there.

“Go and light this man through the streets with your torch, it has

grown dark!” said Pericles, and quietly entered the house.

Socrates, sometimes with and sometimes without his bosom friend,

Euripides, went in and out of Pericles’ house. He still visited

Aspasia, still liked to talk to her, but his own words constantly

sounded more confused, mysterious and oracular.

A few days after the last meeting on the Pnyx, Socrates again entered

Aspasia’s house and was soon engaged in eager conversation with her.

Aspasia spoke with joyful courage of the impending conflict with the

Dorians, but indignantly of the schisms in the Agora, the hostile

designs of Diopeithes, the conduct of the friends of Laconia, the

coarseness of the demagogues. “For the sake of these rude men,” she

said, “we shall perhaps soon behold the fading flower of Hellas.”

“The fading flower of Hellas?” cried Socrates. “How could that be

possible? Surely you are mistaken. How long is it since it was said

that Hellas was approaching her most perfect bloom? Since the day when

we stood joyously on the Acropolis before the completed Parthenon, and

I thought the moment of that finest bloom had come, but you said that

though our art had grown almost divine, many things were still lacking

to thoroughly transform our lives and render them beautiful in every

respect—since that day I have been very eager for the promised moment

of perfect bloom, and waited impatiently for it. As I had heard of

Eastern flowers, which secretly illumined by the eyes of Zeus, open

their wondrous calixes only at midnight, I thought the flowering time

of mortals might be similar, and the idea gave me no rest even at

night; for I was always fearing I might lose the most beautiful moment

while asleep. Above all else, I have constantly kept in view the new

strange bond of love and marriage you and Pericles formed before my

statue of the Graces; for it seemed to me that its success would secure

the fairest bloom of Hellenic life. So, as you then expressly summoned

us by-standers to be witnesses, I have faithfully discharged my office;

for I undertook it in solemn earnest and thought myself summoned to be,

not merely for a moment, but forever an attentive witness of that

strange compact. But as in the garden we daily visit a particularly

rare little tree, that promises to bear abundant fruit, always fearing

to find it broken by some rude hand, touched by the frost or withered,

and forever rejoice anew in its unimpaired freshness, I come to you, no

longer to hear as formerly, but to see what love is, how it develops,

from what point it emanates, and to what goal it tends. It is certainly

an important matter when Ionians and Dorians are preparing for a

decisive struggle; but almost more important to me is the history of

your love-bond, and the final issue of the conflict going on beyond and

within you. Nations are immortal, or at least long-lived, and their

destiny may be constantly transformed and arranged anew; but a human

fate is confined within a narrow circle, as it results it is generally

fixed, for the Fates grant no time for renewal and readjustment. I

watch the internal and external history of your love, so strangely

founded on liberty. However light may be the steps with which it

advances, my senses are not too dull to perceive them.”

“So, from a lover, you have become a spectator and witness of the love

of others?” said Aspasia.

“From the day in the Lyceum, when, while hurrying away you called to me

to sacrifice to the Graces, I have done so, but apparently in vain,”

replied Socrates. “My lips have not become more delicate, nor my

features more pleasing. And I have since comprehended that, to grasp

the idea of beauty with the mind and at the same time enjoy it with the

senses, is rarely, or never, allotted to one and the same mortal.”

Aspasia doubted whether the ardor, which had then blazed uncontrolled

for a moment in the young sculptor’s soul was wholly extinguished.

The time for executing the little plan of vengeance, with which she had

long intended to humiliate and shame the philosopher, seemed to have

come.

She craftily began:

“That moment in the Lyceum, which you now recall after so long a time,

has not vanished from my memory and, to be frank, I have often secretly

regretted that unnecessarily and under a mistaken impression, I

offended you by calling as I ran away, that you must sacrifice to the

Graces, an exclamation you interpreted to mean that in order to be

loved, you must first try to gain those qualities that render people

lovable. I ought to have considered that you are a sage, who could not

seriously yearn for my love. Since that time, Socrates, I have always

felt that I owed you some satisfaction.”

“You to me?” said Socrates, with a mournful smile. “No, I had no

satisfaction to ask of you; but ever since that moment I have thought I

owed one to myself.”

“I was foolish in those days!” said Aspasia. “Now I could lean my head

innocently on your breast, for I know—”

Aspasia and Socrates were sitting in a room very pleasantly and

luxuriously furnished, and pervaded with delicate intoxicating

perfumes, which seemed to exhale from Aspasia herself; for like the

gods and goddesses of Olympus, she was always surrounded by an

exquisite fragrance. She shone with fadeless charms, and a bewitching

gayety animated her features. She seemed to be in the best possible

mood—if anything so trivial as moods existed for Aspasia.

A dove was fluttering about the room. It was Aspasia’s favorite, a

pretty creature, with lustrous white plumage and a bluish circle round

its neck.

The bird often perched on Aspasia’s shoulder, seeking its usual

dainties from the beauty’s lips, but frequently alighted also on

Socrates’ head, settling there so pertinaciously, that the Milesian was

often compelled to release her guest, and in so doing could not avoid

coming into close proximity to him.

When she succeeded in driving the dove from Socrates’ head, it

fluttered off and settled elsewhere, first uttering its low “gru, gru.”

“If the universal verdict of mankind had not decided that the cooing of

doves sounded tender and affectionate,” said Socrates, “I should,

according to my own taste, consider it disagreeable. I should call it a

subdued neighing.”

“What?” cried Aspasia, “do you revile Aphrodite’s birds? Take care,

lest the doves or the goddess herself seek vengeance upon you.”

“They have done it in advance!” replied Socrates.

“The ways of the gods are incalculable,” said Aspasia; “sometimes they

are envious and withhold their gifts, then become favorably disposed

and grant tenfold as much as they formerly denied. But Aphrodite is the

most whimsical of all the goddesses. She requires any one who asks a

favor of her to await the right moment and the right mood, and to

return again and again. Whoever tries his fortune with her but once is

foolish. Are you ignorant of this, Socrates? And does it not perhaps

apply to beauties, as well as goddesses?”

“I don’t know,” replied Socrates, “for I haven’t tried.”

“There you did wrong!” said Aspasia. “It is your own fault, if you do

not know whether Aphrodite and women are favorable to you.”

Aspasia made many similar bantering speeches, while caressing the dove

and exchanging kisses with it. Socrates did not remember ever having

seen her so extravagantly gay. The more coquettish she appeared, the

more silent, grave, and thoughtful he became.

Again the dove, with a coo that was almost like a titter, perched on

Socrates’ head; but this time entangled its tiny claws so closely in

his hair, that it could not release them. Aspasia hastened to his

assistance. He felt her fingers in his hair. The close proximity of a

perfumed, charming woman thrilled him—her bosom was heaving close

beside him. No sea heaves so maliciously, with such peril of hopelessly

swallowing up its victim, as a woman’s breast.

The slightest movement—and Socrates would have received a fresh rebuff

far more humiliating than the former one in the Lyceum, afforded his

secret foe, the crafty beauty, another triumph by the hasty impulse of

the heart and senses.

What thoughts passed through Socrates’ mind at that moment?

He rose quietly, saying calmly:

“Never mind the dove, Aspasia! I don’t think I have escaped the

revengeful bird at too great a cost, by leaving a lock of my hair in

its claws.

“I understand,” replied Aspasia, in an altered and somewhat haughty

tone, “I understand that you don’t fear baldness. It is closely allied

to wisdom, and you are a philosopher. You have grown so wise and

perfect, that you deserve to be plucked perfectly bald by the talons of

Aphrodite’s birds.”

“Baldness may suit the sage,” replied Socrates, “but know that I have

renounced everything, even the fame of wisdom, and at this moment am

thinking only of doing my duty as a citizen. I am going to-morrow, with

others who have drawn the lot, to the camp before Potidæa. Alcibiades

is going too.”

“So you don’t seem to have resigned that, after having as you say,

given up everything else?” replied Aspasia.

“We obey the call of our native land,” replied Socrates. “Don’t you

approve of it? Isn’t it to fight the Dorians?”

“Do you mean to fight the Dorians?” cried Aspasia. “Why, you have

become a Dorian yourself.”

“No!” replied Socrates, “I believe I am a true son of thoughtful Pallas

Athena.”

“In truth,” said Aspasia smiling, “you have turned from Eros and the

Graces to cold, masculine Athena. What has become of the fervor that

animated your soul, when you questioned me in the Lyceum about the

nature of love?”

“My ardor,” replied Socrates, “has undergone the same change as your

beauty, since Phidias apotheosized it in the Lemnian Aphrodite. As, in

that statue, your charms have been elevated above all earthly and

temporal things, so my love has been matured, deified, I might almost

say petrified. The glowing coal has become a star.”

At this moment the fluttering dove again settled on Aspasia’s shoulder.

What fiend, what saucy Eros was concealed beneath the form of the bird?

It began to pull with its claws at the spot where a clasp confined the

narrow edges of the chiton.

The bird’s feet moved restlessly, till the clasp opened and the garment

fell back disclosing the gleaming white shoulder.

“Sacrifice that dove to the Graces!” said Socrates, covering with his

cloak the bare shoulder of the beautiful woman, and taking his leave.

The proud Milesian turned pale, seized a silver mirror in one trembling

hand, and for the first time was startled by a disfiguring shadow that

swept over her features.

Was beauty no longer invincible? Was there something that ventured to

defy it?

A thrill of fear ran through her limbs.

Alcibiades was greatly delighted, when the wish to appear in the field

of martial honor, which he had expressed to Pericles, was at last

fulfilled. Fate had numbered him, as well as Socrates, among the

Athenian citizens who were to be sent to the seige of the rebellious

city of Potidæa.

Up to this time the youth had continued his reckless mode of life, and

never failed to supply material for the loquacity of the Athenians.

He had founded the society of Ithyphallians, which included the boldest

and most reckless young men, who yielded to the most unbridled

caprices, as might be expected from a society named for the unclean

demon Ithyphallus. The initiation was wanton and whimsical to the most

audacious degree. Only those were admitted, who thought themselves

specially entitled to boast of this demon’s favor.

To deride the custom which prohibited carousing before noon, Alcibiades

and his companions instituted a morning drinking-bout. He named a dog,

of which he was very fond, “Demon,” and it was droll to hear him, like

Socrates, speak of “his demon.”

Yet, though the wantonness with which the youth was constantly

overflowing, thus seemed to strike Socrates, it did not prevent him

from calling the same man the best and dearest of his friends. He

really still cherished an almost mysterious affection for the

truth-seeker, but apparently without granting him any influence over

his conduct.

Even when Alcibiades set out for Potidæa, there were circumstances

which afforded food for gossip. He ordered weapons of a special kind to

be made, and had a shield of gold and ivory. On this shield, like a

coat of arms, was an Eros, armed with the thunder-bolt of Zeus.

Eros with the thunder-bolt! A brilliant idea, worthy of a Hellenic

brain. It really seemed at that time, as if the thunder-bolt of Zeus

was about to pass into the hands of the winged boy.

Some of Alcibiades’ companions also went to the field, and sought to

follow the example of their model in procuring costly and peculiar

arms. Callias, Hipponicus’ son, is said to have gone to the war in a

coat made of a lion’s skin.

There was one woman in Athens, who was filled with grief when

Alcibiades was about to leave the city; a woman who had long known

neither pain nor love, who not only despised the bonds of Hymen, but

also derided the fetters of Eros, a woman who had said of herself: “I

am not the priestess of love, but of pleasure.”

This woman was Theodota. It was she, as has already been mentioned,

whom young Alcibiades considered his teacher, when he rushed into the

whirlpool of pleasure and youthful extravagance. His vanity made him

desire to call his own the most beautiful and famous hetæra in Athens,

Theodota, who, though at that time no longer in the highest bloom of

her beauty, was at the summit of her renown. Theodota was also proud of

possessing Alcibiades, and the fact of his devotion no little increased

her fame.

For some time Alcibiades enjoyed no woman’s society more than the

dark-eyed Corinthian’s, and often invited his friends to merry revels

in Theodota’s house. Her gayety, no less than her beauty, spiced the

beaker of pleasure to her lover and his companions.

But Theodota was not always so joyous as she had been during the first

part of her intercourse with Alcibiades. The youth was too beautiful

for a woman’s heart, even though it had never loved and foresworn love

forever, not to at last pay for the pleasure of his society with its

freedom.

She had at first cared little, when her young friend smiled at other

women and hetæræ; nay when Demos and Callias banqueted with him at her

house, herself assembled young and charming women around her.

But the young Ithyphallian prince soon began to notice with

dissatisfaction, that the Corinthian’s nature was changing. She

appeared thoughtful and grave, sighed frequently, and her gay

tenderness seemed impaired by a sort of passion and restlessness.

Sometimes she clasped her favorite in a close embrace, as if to hold

him forever, many a tear mingled with her kisses, and if Alcibiades

smiled upon any other woman before her eyes, she turned pale and her

lips quivered with a spasm of jealousy.

This change in Theodota did not please the reckless youth, who

everywhere filled the cup of joy to the brim, drained it, and went on

again.

Theodota’s charm and spell had vanished. She now seemed dismal to the

gay young fellow.

At times, when she gave full vent to her jealousy, she aroused his

anger; but he was more ready to forgive this, than the excess of

tearful tenderness with which she annoyed him.

She vowed to love him only, to be his alone. This was a matter of

indifference to him. The sole possession of one woman, the highest need

of the mature man, is worthless and troublesome to the young rake.

He answered:

“You are commencing to become intolerable, since you began to torment

me with your tearful complaints. You don’t know how ugly a woman is

who, instead of bewitching by her radiant gayety and charming grace,

allows her face to be disfigured by traces of jealousy, wets her own

cheeks or even her lover’s with the hot, salt torrent of tears and,

transformed into a fury, bursts into passionate accusations. You no

longer amuse me, Theodota! You weary me! You will never bind me by

dismal lamentations and passionate violence—you only foster and

increase what I dislike. If I am to be what I was, become what you once

were!”

She strove to seem gay, but usually failed. If Alcibiades left her in

anger, she humbled herself, overwhelmed him with messengers and

letters, hurried to him, loaded him with entreaties, allowed herself to

be ill-treated by the insolent fellow.

One day Socrates came to his young friend’s house and found her lying,

dissolved in tears, before the threshold of the pitiless youth.

She looked at him and recognized the man, who had once uttered so

strange an eulogy of the gay “self-sacrifice,” of which she was no

longer capable. She wanted what she then willingly dispensed with—to

love and to be loved. Theodota bewailed her suffering to Socrates, who

consoled and led her away.

He then intended to return to Alcibiades, to act as mediator for the

woman; but was so lost in thought, that on reaching his door, he stood

still, and when the youth came out, he found his friend on the

threshold.

“What are you pondering over?” he asked.

“I just fancied that I was on the trace of the real nature of love. I

believed for a moment I had found that it consists in either shedding

tears or extorting them—abusing or being abused—trampling or being

trampled upon—but in an instant I have grown doubtful again—”

When Alcibiades went to the camp at Potidæa, he thanked the gods for

having escaped the love of the woman, who with bitter lamentations was

tearing her hair in her grief at his departure.

After some time, Alcibiades wrote to Aspasia from the camp, as follows:

“You wished to learn from me how our friend Socrates proves himself in

his new calling. Well, he is precisely the same in the camp before

Potidæa, that he was years ago in Phidias’ studio. Sometimes he is

animated with the greatest zeal, sometimes lost in idle reverie. In

clear, starry nights when every one in the tents is sleeping, Socrates

wanders about and watches, and thinks—and questions—and seeks—of course

in vain. He is always renouncing knowledge, but it constantly urges him

again to ponder, seek, and question.

“Long ago, when I was a boy and you, for a day, a Spartan youth who

entered Pericles’ house, you told me of the friendships of the young

Spartans, friendships which unite the younger and older men, making

them inseparable companions in battle. A similar partnership has now

been formed between me and Socrates. And certainly the worthy man

always has enough to do, to prove himself my friend. I often quarrel

with the people in the neighboring tents, who don’t like to hear me

drink and sing with my friends at night, because, they say, we disturb

their sleep. Nay, they even object to our being gay in the daytime, and

turn up their noses if we drink a little after breakfast. They complain

to the strategi and taxiarchs that, while pretending to be drunk, we

play all sorts of insolent tricks on them and their slaves. So there is

frequent quarrelling, and sometimes a little skirmish. In such cases

the strategi and taxiarchs are powerless, and only Socrates’

intercession saves one or another from being stretched on the sand, or

well beaten according to the rules of the gymnasium.

“I like Socrates, because he has not the pretentious character which

renders other sophists, philosophers, and preachers of morality

unbearable to me. He has a nobility of soul and quiet excellence, which

no man in all Hellas is farther from possessing than myself. But we

most admire what we have not, and contrasts apparently attract men to

each other. At times something emanates from his usually unassuming

nature, like the flash of a divine inspiration, and this has become

more effective in the course of years. I have often noticed that any

one struck by this flash seemed illumined and warmed—he blushed and his

blood stirred as if in the presence of a lovely woman.

“A short time ago I planned a little nocturnal trick with Callias.

Homer’s magnificent lines about the nocturnal expedition of Diomedes

and Ulysses, and the capture of the steeds of Rhesus haunted our

brains, and though the Potidæans hardly had steeds of that kind to

steal, we intended to have a little adventure on our own account. We

knew that small bodies of Potidæan troops often passed around the walls

at night, and meant to attack one of these bands, slay them, and bring

back their weapons as a prize. So towards midnight we quietly left the

camp, and on arriving near the walls of Potidæa actually encountered a

little troop of armed men, making their rounds. We rushed upon these

fellows and killed a few of them, but the rest took flight and raised

an alarm, which brought others to their aid, and thus reinforced they

turned back and attacked us in greatly superior numbers. We made a

brave stand, but I don’t know what would have become of us, if a man

had not mingled in the fray as suddenly as if he had sprung from the

earth. He rushed upon the Potidæans so boldly and with such eagerness,

that the latter, after losing some of their best men, again found it

advisable to give up the fight and fly to the shelter of the walls. The

assistant was no other than Socrates, who had been accidentally lured

out by the beautiful night, not in quest of adventure, but pursuing

some thought, and wandering about outside of the camp, was attracted by

the noise of our weapons and interfered just at the right time. On this

occasion I saw what this man could do, if he were wholly a warrior. He

rushed upon the Potidæans just as he used to attack the blocks of

marble with his chisel in Phidias’ studio. And as, when a stone-cutter,

the blocks of marble suffered when the thought-problem that occupied

his mind presented special difficulties, on that starry night the heads

of the Potidæans atoned for Socrates’ having again vainly endeavored to

solve the mystery of the world. He is capable of listening to a bird’s

song in the midst of a battle, or, when on duty as sentinel, fixing his

eyes on the stars instead of the Potidæans’ movements. He is still in

the habit of considering the most ordinary matter important, and if

people doubt it, says things seem ghostly to him because he cannot

understand them and they will not reveal their nature.

“At present he is brooding over a plan for rendering war unnecessary,

and when he isn’t fighting the enemy himself, explains to us how

horrible this alternate murdering of men is, how at some future time

people who kill each other in battle will be talked of as we now speak

of cannibals, and that a day will come when people will scarcely be

able to understand that the human race was once so rude and savage. He

says a league must be formed among the nations and a supreme court

instituted, before which all disputes can be settled, and thinks

something of the kind might be attained, if one or two countries would

publicly declare that henceforth, in every war, they would take the

part of the nation assailed or wronged. Dreams worthy of an original!

The wings of men’s energy ought not to be clipped, and the world,

without hate, contention, or war, would be as wearisome as without

love.

“As for me, military employment seems to suit me. I believe I have

already grown better.

“But these are things which must weary you. Farewell, Aspasia, and tell

me how the rest of the city fares without Alcibiades.”

A small community can never possess a large army, but may have a great

navy. Athens was in this situation, when King Archidamus of Sparta

entered Attica with sixty thousand Peloponnesians. Most of her allies

could also render aid only on the sea.

While the fleet was being prepared, the people from the rural districts

overrun by Archidamus, flocked into the city. Those who found no

shelter within the walls encamped in the open air, especially between

the long walls, and managed as best they could. The whole space between

the city and the Piræeus swarmed with these guests, and gradually a

city of tents arose there. The poorer refugees found shelter in the

huge butts used in Athens. From the city walls the inhabitants could

see the watch-fires of the Peloponnesians encamped in the fields and

vineyards; but, thanks to the fortifications Pericles’ zeal had long

since provided, were secure from any assault. Faithful to his original

plan, from which he would not allow himself to be diverted by the eager

impatience of the Athenians, Pericles sent only horsemen out of the

gates to guard the environs.

When Archidamus, from the heights of Attica, saw a proud fleet of a

hundred vessels emerge from the Piræeus and steer towards the

Peloponnesus, the event Pericles had foreseen instantly occurred.

Seeing before them the impregnably-fortified city, and at the same time

knowing that the unprotected cities of their native land were exposed

to the powerful hostile fleet and the army it conveyed, the

Peloponnesians departed, left Attica, and marched towards home across

the isthmus.

Pericles had been obliged to relinquish the personal command of the

navy, for he seemed indispensable in Athens, so long as the

Peloponnesians still remained on Attic soil.

But when the latter retreated, his first enterprise was to march with a

small, but admirably equipped army to Megara. The enraged Athenians

imperatively demanded a settlement of their account with the hated

city.

The statesman’s absence from Athens was again eagerly desired by many.

The owls on the Acropolis awoke and fluttered their wings.

Diopeithes, eager to execute his long-cherished plan of ruining the

sculptor, availed himself of Menon’s services against Phidias.

A notorious sycophant, named Stephaniscus, appeared at the priest’s

instigation as Phidias’ accuser. This man had married a hetæra, who, it

was said, continued her profession in his house, while he sought a

livelihood as a sycophant. In his bold indictment, he asserted that

Phidias had laid aside and appropriated part of the gold given him to

make the statue of Athena Parthenos. He also reproached him with having

shown vanity incompatible with reverence for the gods and their

sanctuaries, by carving his own likeness and that of Pericles in the

representation of the battle of the Amazons on the goddess’ shield, and

produced Menon as witness of the stealing of the gold. The latter had

formerly been very frequently in Phidias’ rooms, rendering trifling

services for such gifts as fell to the lot of beggars. During this

time, he now asserted, he had once watched from a dark corner and seen

Phidias, when he believed himself unobserved, take part of the gold

given him for the statue and hide it, evidently to appropriate it

himself.

The germs of calumny, long industriously sown by Diopeithes’ adherents,

had grown luxuriantly, and Stephaniscus found well-prepared soil in the

Athenian people.

The venerable sculptor, who had just arrived in Athens again, was

thrown into prison at this accusation of Stephaniscus.

The creator of the most beautiful monument in the world, which, as

Pericles said, the Athenian people had erected to itself for all

futurity, was taken to prison under a disgraceful accusation.

As Diopeithes had availed himself of Pericles’ departure, the base,

ambitious agitators also endeavored to extend their influence among the

people during the absence of the only man who could restrain them.

The number of the common people in the city had been largely increased

by the influx of the rural population, during the invasion of the

Peloponnesians. Moreover, this throng had become accustomed to a

certain idleness, and many remained in Athens after Archidamus’

departure, because their lands had been laid waste by the foe. Thus, as

the number of impoverished citizens increased, the class called the

rabble was gradually formed. These very starvelings, however, flocked

most eagerly to the popular assemblies, because they received two obols

there, and the councils on the Pnyx therefore became more crowded and

noisy than ever. Cleon, Lysicles, and Pamphilus ventured forth more

openly, and the Athenian nation gradually became accustomed to see

people of this stamp ascend the orator’s platform.

Of these three men, Pamphilus was most positive in the opinion that an

attempt to overthrow Pericles should be made. One day he stood in the

Agora, surrounded by a large number of Athenian citizens, and explained

to them for what reasons Pericles might be accused. He reviled him as a

coward, who had allowed Attica to be ravaged by the enemy, tyrannically

prescribed to the citizens the manner in which they should defend

themselves, and during the whole time the Peloponnesians were on Attic

soil, permitted no popular assembly to take place on the Pnyx, in order

to be able to rule according to his own will.

There were many among the throng who shared Pamphilus’ opinion, a

certain Crespilus in particular pressed forward, trying to surpass the

sausage-maker in furious outcries against Pericles and showing the

necessity of instantly arraigning him before the people.

Suddenly Sporgilus the barber came running up. “Good news!” he shouted.

“A string of cracknels for the bearer of good tidings! Pericles is on

the way home from Megara! He is already in Eleusis with his troops. He

has chastised the Megarians properly, and will reach Athens to-day.”

Pamphilus turned green with rage. “Do you ask a string of cracknels?”

he replied in a hollow tone. “Your tongue ought to be cut out for your

news, you dog!”

The tidings produced a very depressing effect on the rest of the

conspirators, and though Pamphilus still strove to stir up the throng,

one after another stole away, believing it would be difficult to

accomplish anything against the victorious Pericles, and the affair

must be deferred until a more favorable opportunity.

As Crespilus, shrugging his shoulders, also turned to depart, the

enraged Pamphilus seized him by the garment, shrieking:

“Coward! Deserter! Are you not ashamed to basely take to flight at the

mere words: ‘Pericles is here!’ Look at me! I don’t fear meeting

Pericles personally at any moment! I have courage. I was born on the

day of the battle of Marathon!”

“I wasn’t!” replied Crespilus. “I was one of the children prematurely

born in the theatre of Athens, of mothers shrieking with terror at the

performance of Æschylus’ Eumenides.”

With this apology Crespilus wrenched his robe from Pamphilus’ hands,

and ran away.

“They have gone,” cried the demagogue, gnashing his teeth, “scattered

as if a pail of dish-water had been emptied on their heads.”

Just at that moment mad Menon came up and asked the cause of his wrath.

The latter bewailed his trouble.

“Fool!” said Menon grinning. “Do you want to overthrow a wall and

vainly brace your shoulder against it? Lie down under it and go to

sleep—at the right time it will fall on your head of its own accord.”

CHAPTER X.

THE FESTIVAL OF DIONYSUS.

After the relief from the anxiety and distress of war, the winter

festivals were celebrated in Athens with twofold splendor and gayety.

Yet mirth was still more fully unchained, since milder breezes had

blown across the sea, and the time of the greatest of Bacchic

festivals, the Dionysian, approached. Kites appeared in the woods, the

halcyons twittered joyously on the sea-shore and the swallows in the

cornices of the roofs. On the heights of Hymettus, Pentelicus, and

Lycabettus, spring budded in every bush. Violets and anemones, cowslips

and crocuses sprang up, and the shepherd’s staff, forgotten in the

fields, was overgrown with blossoms in the morning.

The sailors in the harbors hoisted the anchors, disentangled cordage,

raised the masts, and gave the sails to the breeze. New life awoke on

the waves of the Saronic gulf. Embassies from the allied cities and

islands came bringing tribute to Athens, at the festal season. Guests

from distant lands thronged all the inns and private houses. Crowds of

citizens and strangers, adorned with garlands and holiday robes, walked

through the streets. Not only were all the altars and busts of Hermes,

standing in the open air, hung with wreaths, but huge mixing vessels

were placed beside them filled with the gifts of Bacchus, bestowed by

the rich for the free enjoyment of the people. Again Hipponicus gave

the people wine, inviting all who chose to come to the Cerameicus, and

supplying them with ivy-stuffed cushions.

Forgotten was the calamity of war, partisan strife kept an armistice,

Diopeithes’ plans were momentarily interrupted. Peace and pleasure

ruled. Loud jests and joyous laughter resounded everywhere—and the

Athenians’ wit was doubly sharp, their tongues were doubly nimble. Yet

woe betide him, who during this time practised any deed of violence

against an Athenian citizen. Not even the plea of drunkenness protected

him—his life was forfeited.

How did it happen, that so many charming women were suddenly seen in

the streets of Athens? Who were the gay, richly-adorned, bewitching

beauties? They were Hieroduli from the temple of Aphrodite at Corinth,

and other priestesses of joy of the same stamp, who increasing the

number of their native companions, had come from the various cities of

Greece to the gayest and most unbridled festival of the Athenians.