ground and with one last cry _to her children_ thrice repeated seems to
faint away. Admetus in the name _of the children_ begs her not to forsake
him ‘this is worse _for me_ than any death: on you we all depend—to
live or die.’ Alcestis makes her final effort, and for the first time
addresses her husband by name, but in the pathetic speech that follows,
her last words are for her children, and it is plain that she is terribly
afraid that Admetus will marry again and inflict a stepmother upon them.
Admetus himself hesitates to give the promise, and it is one of the
chorus who answers the dying wife.
With Alcestis disappears the pathos of the play. The rest is ironical,
a realistic criticism of the resurrection story and hardly concerns us.
But the scene between Pheres and Admetus where the old father—the mother
is prudently omitted from the action,—comes to convey his sympathy, is
a beautiful illustration of Euripides’ insight into the weakness of the
male character.
‘Such are the pair, father and son: behold your ordinary sensual man,’
he seems to say. Dr. Verrall spends some time and pains in showing that
Admetus is not a hero, and, doubtless, he is not heroic either to us or
to Euripides. But it does not follow that an Athenian audience would
share our or the master’s private views. We are unconsciously influenced
by centuries of romantic literature in which the relations of the sexes
have been idealised. The Athenians treated women much as the baser sort
still treat animals. To us Admetus seems almost inconceivably selfish and
callous: probably many an Athenian never realised that his conduct was
reprehensible.
Even so to-day a vegetarian has considerable difficulty in proving to
the ordinary man that it is unjustifiable selfishness to take life for
the gratification of appetite. ‘I always have eaten meat,’ such an one
will say; ‘I always shall: and so did my father. Animals were created for
use.’ The Athenian might have used the same language about his wife.
But in the play itself no one is under any sort of delusion as to
Admetus. The servant woman, the attendant, the chorus, Alcestis
herself: all know him for what he is, a selfish coward. Very religious
certainly he is and very hospitable: in other words, very full of
absurd superstitions and very fond of having strangers in the house to
divert him from himself. Heracles the ravisher, and Apollo the seducer,
appreciate him as an excellent boon companion: his own household do not
share their views. They know too well—and there is constant reference
to this in the play—that he is ‘foolish’ in the Euripidean sense of the
word, the slave of passions which he is unable to control. And so we may
leave him: in his character Euripides explodes the fallacy that in all
cases and in all circumstances man is the superior animal.
But the wonder of the Alcestis is this: in spite of the irony and cruel
satire, in spite of the bitter criticism of the two doctrines, the
existence of the supernatural and the superiority of man, there remain
so many other threads of interest—realism and romance, pathos and
humour—that a well-disposed reader can shut his eyes to the unpleasant,
and usually does. What is wanted to bring out the full meaning of
Euripides’ plays is a double translation; one version written in prose
by a realist with a taste for irony, the other composed by a lyric poet.
Neither version will be satisfactory apart, for the spirit of Euripides
is a compound of the two: neither will be final, for translations quickly
age and Euripides is ever young.
IX.—THE SOCRATIC CIRCLE
Sophocles is almost the last representative of the earlier and happier
period of the Athenian Empire, their golden age as it seemed later, when
to the complacent imagination of the male citizen all things seemed to
be working together in the direction of progress and freedom. Progress
indeed there was, and for men freedom of thought, for the intellectual
atmosphere of Athens in the middle of the fifth century B.C., with its
combination of clear knowledge and bracing speculation, has never been
surpassed. But as a society, Athens already contained within herself
the seeds of decay and destruction. The wealth of her intellectual
achievement barely concealed the poverty of her social morality, and it
was only by dint of firmly closing their eyes to the degradation of their
women and the misery of their slaves that the Athenians maintained for a
time the fond illusion that everything was for the best in the best of
all possible cities.
Then came the shock of the Peloponnesian War and the inherent weaknesses
of a free State which refuses political freedom to more than half its
population were cruelly revealed. For nearly thirty years, with some
few breathing spaces, the struggle went on, while Athens tried to force
a culture intellectually superior but morally inferior to that of many
other of the Greek peoples upon a reluctant world: and in the end she
failed and fell.
After the fifth century the political importance of Athens disappears;
her intellectual pre-eminence is saved for her by a small group of men
who under the hard teaching of war discerned the flaws of her social
system and set themselves resolutely to the task of criticism and reform.
The nobility of war, the nobility of birth, the nobility of sex: these
are some of the prejudged questions that the Socratic Circle ventured
to dispute, and their contentions, as we have them recorded in the
literature of the late fifth and the early fourth centuries, form perhaps
the most valuable legacy that the Greek mind has left us. But, like so
much of Greek thought, their ideas require interpretation for a modern
reader. Some of the greatest of the Circle, Socrates and Antisthenes,
for example, we only know in the writings of other men, and we have
to disentangle the master’s ideas from those of his disciples. Plato
and Xenophon were drawn away by metaphysics and soldiering, and social
problems form only a part of their interests. Euripides and Aristophanes
were compelled to conform to the conventions of Attic tragedy and comedy,
and we must always discount the influence of the stage; Euripides is
often less and Aristophanes more serious than suits our ideas of a tragic
and a comic writer. Lastly, for all the group except Xenophon, irony was
the favourite weapon of attack, an irony so deftly veiled that it made
the bitterest criticism possible, and still often passes undetected.
But even so the critics were not popular and their reforms were not
accepted: Socrates was put to death; Plato found a shelter in political
obscurity; Euripides, like Æschylus, passed much of his life away from
Athens; Xenophon took up his home in the Peloponnese: in their lives they
fought against a stubborn majority, and when they were dead the social
organisation of Athenian life remained apparently unchanged. But their
teaching lived on after them, and on feminist questions it derives almost
an additional value from the general hostility of their fellow-countrymen.
In their criticism of the problems that we call feminism Euripides
and Socrates were the initiative forces, and a close study of the
former’s plays is indispensable for any one who wishes to understand the
position of women in Athenian life. But the plays of Euripides throw
also a certain light on the position of Socrates himself. Socrates and
Euripides we know were close friends: ‘which of the two gathered the
sticks and which made the faggot,’ so runs the ancient saying, ‘no man
can tell,’ and in many points of family relationship they had the same
experience. Euripides’ mother, Cleito ‘the greengrocer,’ Socrates’ wife,
Xanthippë ‘the scold,’ are two of the rare women in Athenian history of
whom we know even the names. Both men were lovers of women in the nobler
sense, and the later misogynists revenged themselves by enlarging upon
their marital infelicities. In the case of Euripides there is no real
evidence to support these scandals, and even if Xanthippë was a woman
of strong temper, both men were well enough satisfied with the married
state to take another wife in addition to their first helpmate, when a
special law, rendered necessary by the waste of male lives in the great
war, gave formal sanction to such a step. Both alike agreed in condemning
the misogyny of their day and knew that a man who habitually thinks ill
of women has probably no very good reason to think well of himself.
Both applied to women as well as to men the great doctrines of liberty,
equality, fraternity.
Euripides saw in woman the equal and not the slave of man, Socrates
regarded her as his natural friend and not his natural enemy. In
Xenophon’s Socratic books, the _Memorabilia_, the _Œconomicus_, and
the _Symposium_, we get the best record of the master’s view of the
women, for Socrates was himself too cautious ever to commit himself to
the written word, and perhaps the most characteristic of the episodes
is the visit to the fair hetaira, the one faithful of all the lovers of
Alcibiades, described in the _Memorabilia_.
There lived in Athens a fair lady called Theodotë, whose
habit it was to give her society to any one who could woo and
win her. One of the company made mention of her to Socrates,
remarking that the lady’s beauty quite surpassed description.
‘Painters,’ said he, ‘go to her house to paint her portrait,
and she displays to them all her perfection!’ ‘Well,’ said
Socrates, ‘manifestly, we too must go and see her. It is
impossible from mere hearsay to realise something which
surpasses description.’ Thereupon his informant: ‘Quick, then,
and follow me.’
So off they went at once to Theodotë, and found her at home,
posing to a painter. When the painter had finished, ‘Friends,’
said Socrates, ‘ought we to be more grateful to Theodotë for
displaying to us her beauty, or she to us for having come
to see her? I suppose if this display is going to be more
advantageous to her, she ought to be grateful to us. But if
it is we who are going to make a profit from the sight, then
we ought to be grateful to her.’ ‘Very fairly put,’ said one,
and Socrates resumed, ‘The lady is profiting this moment by
the praise she receives from us, and when we spread the tale
abroad she will gain a further advantage. But, as for ourselves
we are beginning to have a desire to touch what we have just
now seen: when we are going away we shall feel the smart, and
after we have gone we shall still long for her. So we may
reasonably say that it is we who are the servitors, and that
she accepts our service.’ Thereupon Theodotë: ‘Well, if that
is so, it would be only proper for me to thank you for coming
to see me.’ Afterwards Socrates noticed that the lady herself
was expensively arrayed, and that her mother’s dress (for
her mother was in the room) and general appearance was by no
means humble. There were a number of comely maidens also in
attendance, showing little signs of neglect in their attire,
and in all respects the household was luxuriously arranged.
‘Tell me, Theodotë,’ said he, ‘have you any land of your own?’
‘I have not,’ she replied.
‘Well, then, I suppose your household brings you in a good
income.’
‘No, I have not a house.’
‘Have you a factory, then?’
‘No, not a factory either.’
‘How then do you get what you need?’
‘When I find a friend, and he is kind enough to help me, then
my livelihood is assured.’
‘By our lady, that is a fine thing to have. A flock of friends
is far better than a flock of sheep, or goats, or oxen. But do
you leave it to chance whether friends are to wing their way
towards you like flies, or do you use some mechanical device?’
‘Why, how could I find any device in this matter?’
‘Surely, it would be much more appropriate for you than for
spiders. You know how they hunt for their living. They weave
gossamer webs, I believe, and anything that comes their way
they take for food.’
‘Do you advise me, then, to weave a hunting net?’
‘No, no. You must not suppose that it is such a simple matter
to catch that noble animal, a lover. Have you not noticed
that even to catch such a humble thing as a hare people use
many devices? Knowing that hares are night-feeders, they
provide themselves with night-dogs, and use them in the
chase. Furthermore, as the creatures run off at daybreak,
they get other dogs to scent them out and find which way they
go from their feeding ground to their forms. Again, they are
swift-footed, so that they can get away in an open race, and a
third class of dogs is provided to catch them in their tracks.
Lastly, inasmuch as some escape even from the dogs, men set
nets in their runs, so that they may fall into the meshes and
be caught.’
‘But what sort of contrivance should I use in hunting for
lovers?’
‘A man, of course, to take the place of the dog; some one able
to track out and discover wealthy amateurs for you; able also
to find ways of getting them into your nets.’
‘Nets, forsooth! What sort of nets have I?’
‘One you have certainly, close enfolding and well constructed,
your body. And within your body there is your heart, which
teaches you the looks that charm and the words that please. It
tells you to welcome true friends with a smile, and to lock out
overbearing gallants; when your beloved is sick, to tend him
with anxious care; when he is prospering, to share his joy;
in fine, to surrender all your soul to a devout lover. I am
sure you know full well how to love. Love needs a tender heart
as well as soft arms. I am sure, too, that you convince your
lovers of your affection not by mere phrases, but by acts of
love.’
‘Nay, nay, I do not use any artificial devices.’
‘Well, it makes a great difference if you approach a man in
the natural and proper way. You will not catch or keep a lover
by force. He is a creature who can only be captured and kept
constant by kindness and pleasure.’
‘That is true.’
‘You should only ask then of your well-wishers such services as
will cost them little to render, and you should requite them
with favours of the same sort. Thereby you will secure their
fervent and constant love, and they will be your benefactors
indeed. You will charm them most if you never surrender except
when they are sharp set. You have noticed that the daintiest
fare, if served before a man wants it, is apt to seem insipid;
while, if he is already sated, it even produces a feeling
of nausea. Create a feeling of hunger before you serve your
banquet; then even humble food will appear sweet.’
‘How can I create this hunger in my friends?’
‘First, never serve them when they are sated. Never suggest it
even. Wait until the feeling of repletion has quite disappeared
and they begin again to be sharp set. Even then at first let
your suggestions be only of most modest conversation. Seem not
to wish to yield. Fly from them—and fly again; until they feel
the pinch of hunger. That is your moment. The gift is the same
as when a man desired it not; but wondrous different now its
value.’
Theodotë: ‘Why do you not join me in the hunt, and help me to
catch lovers?’
‘I will, certainly,’ said he, ‘if you can persuade me to come.’
‘Nay, how can I do that?’
‘You must look yourself, and find a way if you want me.’
‘Come to my house, then, often.’
Then Socrates, jesting at his own indifference to business,
replied:
‘It is no easy matter for me to take a holiday. I am always
kept busy by my private and public work. Moreover, I have my
lady friends, who will never let me leave them night or day.
They would always be having me teach them love-charms and
incantations.’
‘What, do you know that, too?’
‘Why, what else is the reason, think you, that Apollodorus and
Antisthenes never leave my side? Why have Cebes and Simmias
come all the way from Thebes to stay with me? You may be quite
sure that not without love-charms and incantations and magic
wheels may this be brought about.’
‘Lend me your wheel, then, that I may use it on you.’
‘Nay, I do not want to be drawn to you. I want you to come to
me.’
‘Well, I will come. But be sure and be at home.’
‘I will be at home to you, unless there be some lady with me
who is dearer even than yourself.’
It is a significant incident, charmingly related by Xenophon, but not
altogether charming in itself, although the humorous irony of Socrates
may hide from careless readers all the darker sides of the picture. But
Socrates himself is entirely lovable. There is nothing furtive, nothing
patronising in the philosopher’s attitude. He behaves to Theodotë as he
would behave to every one. He admires her beauty, and, like Goldsmith,
recognises that a beautiful woman is a benefactress to mankind. But while
he knows the strength of her position, he realises its weakness also,
and there is a shade of pity in his admiration.
A similar appreciation of women is shown in many passages of the
_Symposium_; for example, when Socrates says, ‘Women need no perfume:
they are compounds themselves of fragrance.’ There is that Socratic
paradox, also, after the dancing-girl’s performance:
‘This is one proof, among very many, that woman’s nature is in
no way inferior to man’s: she has no lack either of judgment or
physical strength.’
He continues his argument by advising his friends to _teach_ their wives;
and he deals with the weakest point in woman’s life—the ignorance in
which they were kept. ‘Do not be afraid,’ he says; ‘teach her all that
you would wish your companion to know.’
Thereupon Anthisthenes puts the pertinent question: ‘If that is your
idea, Socrates, why do you not try and train Xanthippë, who is, I
believe, the most difficult of all wives, present, past, and future?’ To
this he gets the following reply:
‘I have noticed,’ says Socrates, ‘that people who wish to
become good horsemen get a spirited horse, not a tame, docile
animal. They think that if they can manage a fiery steed they
will find no difficulty with an ordinary horse. My case is the
same. I wanted to be a citizen of the world and to mix with all
men. So I took her. I am quite sure that if I can endure her,
I shall find no difficulty in ordinary company.’
Thus Socrates draws benefit even from a shrewish wife. His ideas of
a happy marriage, and the best means of securing that happiness, are
set out for us by Xenophon in the _Œconomicus_. Ischomachus, Socrates’
interlocutor, is for all practical purposes Xenophon himself, and the
whole passage should be compared with those delightful stories of
conjugal happiness—the tale of Panthea, and the wife of Tigranes—which
the historian gives us in the Education of Cyrus. The dialogue begins
by Socrates asking Ischomachus how he won his sobriquet of ‘honest
gentleman’—surely not by staying at home!
‘No,’ replies Ischomachus, ‘I do not spend my days indoors:
my wife is quite capable of managing our household without my
help.’
‘Ah, that is what I want to know. Did you train your wife
yourself to be all that a wife should be? Or, when you took her
from her parents, did she possess enough knowledge to perform
her share of house management?’
‘Possess knowledge when I took her? Why, she was not fifteen
years old, and until then she had lived under careful
surveillance—to see and hear, and ask as little as possible.
All that she knew was how to take wool and turn it into a
dress. All that she had seen was how the spinning-women have
their daily tasks assigned. As regards control of appetite,
she had certainly received a sound education, and that, I
think, is all-important.’
Ischomachus then proceeds to detail his system of education. It begins
with husband and wife offering sacrifice together and praying that
fortune may aid in teaching and learning what is best for both. Then, as
soon as the wife ‘is tamed to the hand, and not too frightened to take
part in conversation,’ the husband explains that they are now partners
together, at present in the house, in future in any children that may
be born to them. They have each contributed a portion to the common
stock, and must now work together in protecting their joint interests.
The wife agrees to this, but doubts her own capacity. ‘Everything
depends on you,’ she says; ‘my business, mother said, was to be modest
and temperate.’ The husband then explains the true functions of man
and woman and their points of difference. Man has a greater capacity
than woman for enduring heat and cold, wayfaring and route-marching.
God meant for him outdoor work. Woman has less capacity for bearing
fatigue; she is more affectionate, more timorous. God has imposed upon
her the indoor work. Finally, to men and women alike in equal measure,
God gives memory, carefulness, and self-control. Custom agrees with the
divine ordinance. For a woman to stay quiet at home, instead of roaming
abroad, is no disgrace: for a man to remain indoors is discreditable.
The wife is like the queen bee, on whom all the work of the hive depends;
and a good mistress soon wins the loyal love of all her servants. So
the conversation proceeds, and with this beautiful sentence the first
conjugal lesson ends:
‘But your sweetest joy will be to show yourself my superior,
and to make me your servant; then you need not fear that as
the years roll on you will lose your place of honour in the
house; you will be sure that, though you are no longer young,
your honour will increase; even as you become a better partner
to myself and the children, and a better guardian of the home;
for it is not beauty, but virtue, that nurtures the growth of a
good name.’
But Ischomachus does not confine his teaching to words. He explains to
Socrates how once he asked his wife for some household article which she
could not find, and how deeply she blushed at her heedless ignorance. So
he gives her a practical lesson in household management by taking her
over the house and explaining the uses of the various rooms and different
utensils, expatiating the while on the beauty of order—‘for a beauty like
the cadence of sweet music dwells even in pots and pans set out in neat
array.’ His wife profits by the lesson, and henceforth everything is in
its proper place.
He deals faithfully, too, with that most pardonable of woman’s
weaknesses, the desire to please, that leads some ladies to attempt to
improve upon nature. So when one day he finds his wife with powder and
rouge upon her cheeks, and wearing high-heeled shoes, he begins like this:
‘Dear wife, would you think me a good partner in our business
if I were to make a display of unreal wealth, false money, and
sham purples, wood coated with gold?’
‘Nay, surely not,’ she replies.
‘And as regards my body, would you hold me as more lovable if I
were to anoint myself with pigments and paint my eyes?’
‘Nay, I would rather look into your eyes and see them bright
with health.’
‘Believe me, then, dear wife, I am not better pleased with this
white powder and red paint than I should be with your natural
hue.’
So after that day the young wife gives up cosmetics, and on her
husband’s advice takes healthy exercise instead; the physical training
he recommends being ‘to knead the dough and roll the paste; to shake the
coverlets and make the beds.’
With one last anecdote we must end. Socrates asks his friend whether
beside his practical wisdom he has any rhetorical and judicial skill.
‘Of course I have,’ says Ischomachus. ‘I am always hearing and
debating cases in my own household. Yes, and before to-day I
have been taken on one side, and have had to stand my trial, to
see what punishment I should bear and what fine I should pay.’
‘And how do you get on?’ says Socrates.
‘When I have the advantage of truth on my side, well enough;
but when I have not truth with me I can never make the worse
cause appear the better.’
‘And how is that? Who is the judge?’
‘_My wife._’
Ischomachus’ home, at least, is no doll’s-house. His wife is as far
removed from the humble drudge with whom the ordinary Athenian was
familiar as she is from the painted odalisque who to the Ionian was the
ideal of the perfect woman.
X.—ARISTOPHANES