· Vassalage of the Athenian Woman ·
· Her Ignorance and Seclusion ·
· Religious Festivals · The Hetæræ ·
· Aspasia · Her Position · Her Gifts ·
· Tribute of Socrates ·
· Devotion of Pericles ·
· The First Salon · Opinions of the Philosophers ·
· Woman’s Inferior Position a Cause of Athenian Decline ·
[Illustration: Decorative image]
I
The Athenians agreed with the opinion ascribed to Pericles that “the
best wife is the one of whom the least is said either of good or
evil.” But this wise statesman does not seem to have found his theory
agreeable in practice, as he sent away his own wife, who was quite
innocent even of local fame, to put in her place the cleverest and most
talked of woman of her time. She accepted the inevitable with becoming
philosophy, if not gratefully, and it must be said to his credit that
he was kind enough to help her to another husband. But what became of
his theory? One is tempted to think that Thucydides, who put these
words into his mouth, was speaking largely for himself, as it is clear
that he thought women too unimportant, if not too precious, to be
talked about; else why did the great historian so utterly ignore them?
It is a significant fact which upsets many pleasant little theories
about the superior justice of a democracy, that women who shared the
power and glory of their husbands in the heroic age,--even if they
had little of their own,--and preserved a measure of influence under
the rule of kings in historic times, lost their honored position in
republican Athens. In a rule of the people they had no longer the
prestige of an aristocracy, and they did not count politically. As they
held no recognized place of honor, and it was not respectable to shine
by their talents, they had no apparent claim to consideration. They
might stand on a pedestal to add to the glory of men, they might grace
a hereditary throne for the honor of a family, but it never occurred to
the classic world that woman sprang, as the witty Frenchman said, “from
the side of Adam, and not from his feet.”
To all intents and purposes, the Attic women were slaves, with no
rights and few privileges. We do not know much about them directly, as
they left no record of themselves, and very little was written of them
except by the satirists, who are always ready to distort the truth in
order to “point a moral or adorn a tale.” Historians were strangely
silent regarding them; unless of royal lineage, women were too
insignificant. It is difficult, in the face of the few facts we know,
to credit the brilliant Athenians with any chivalry. We must either
suppose that the poets were a sour and disappointed race, or that they
reflected the spirit of their time. Apart from the few great ideals
that lived in the imaginations of men, everything that has come down to
us shows the light estimate in which women were held. They were a lower
order of beings, and anything done by their advice was invalid. “Women
are an evil,” says the comedian, “and yet, my countrymen, one cannot
set up a house without evil; for to be married or not to be married is
alike bad.” This arrogant and contemptuous tone runs through the Attic
literature, as I have shown more fully elsewhere.
From the vague and shadowy outlines of a life that was practically
shut out from the light of day twenty-five centuries ago, we cannot
gather with certainty even the moral and domestic value of women who
were treated with lofty disdain by poets, satirists, and historians
alike. But we do know that intellectually they counted for nothing,
within the pale of orthodox society. At a period when the central idea
was culture, when art was at its zenith, and there were giants in
literature, the wives and daughters of men noted before all things for
brilliancy and _esprit_ had fallen into hopeless ignorance and
vassalage. They lacked even the companionship and the small diversions
of the Oriental harem, where the inmates, though they had only a
small fraction of a husband, could break the monotony by gossiping
or quarreling with the other wives. The women of the better class at
Athens had special apartments, usually in the upper story, so that they
could not go out without being seen. Men went to market themselves
or sent their slaves. We learn from Aristophanes that they often put
their wives under lock and key, with a seal when they went away, also
that they kept Molossian hounds to frighten away possible lovers. A
woman addressed her husband as “master,” was always a minor, and could
transact no business on her own account, which even Plato thought
unjust. If he died she was not his heir, but the ward of her son or
of some male relative. In her marriage she was not consulted, and she
was never supposed to know any man but the one chosen for her. Solon,
who wished to prevent mercenary marriages, decreed that no dowries
should be given, and that the bride could have only three suits of
clothes; later, unions were arranged by the families, on a basis of
equal fortunes. Infidelity on the part of the husband was no ground
of complaint. As wives were so closely guarded there does not seem to
have been much danger of indiscretions, but they were sent away on the
slightest suspicion, and their punishments were carried to the utmost
refinement of cruelty. In spite of this surveillance, possibly because
of it, sins against morality were more frequent than in Sparta.
After the age of sixty, women were permitted to go to funerals outside
of their families, if they would not mourn too violently. These
occasions must have been rather welcome than otherwise, as Greek
funerals were not hopelessly solemn affairs, except to the immediate
family. Brides had the special privilege of sitting at table at their
own wedding banquets, to which only relatives or very near friends
were asked. The amusements of women seem to have consisted largely in
looking out of the window and making their toilets. If they went to the
theater at all, they were limited to tragedy and had to take back seats.
We have an account of one model husband who is not content that his
young wife should simply know how to spin, weave, and direct her maids,
so he tries to educate her. She is only fifteen, and he says that she
has lived under the strictest restraint so that she might “see as
little, hear as little, and ask as few questions as possible.” When
he has her properly domesticated so that she dares to speak in his
presence, he explains their mutual responsibilities in terms that must
have mystified this child of nature a little, tells her to do well
what the gods have suited to her and men approve, to use no cosmetics
or aids to beauty, and to knead bread or fold linen for exercise,
since she must not walk out. The main thing he dwells upon is the
necessity of looking closely after their common fortunes; but she has
also to take care of the children, and nurse the slaves when they
are ill. He kindly admits that if she is superior to him she will be
mistress,--taking good care, however, that such an unfortunate state
of affairs shall not exist so far as education is concerned,--and
assures her that the better she serves the interests of his family
and household, the more she will be honored. This is all very well
so far as it goes, and we may readily admit that it is of more vital
importance to administer the affairs of one’s family with judgment and
dignity than to talk about art or read Homer. But the docile wife had
a housekeeper as well as plenty of slaves, and, naturally, abundant
leisure. It certainly implied a degree of what Socrates called “manly
understanding” on her part, to follow her husband’s abstruse reasoning
on the duties of women, and his minute instructions for carrying them
out; yet this wise representative of the most civilized race the world
has known never so much as hints that she has an intellect.
Socrates listens with great interest to this advanced theory of
wife-training as it is unfolded to him, and sagely remarks that the
husband is responsible for her errors if he does not properly teach
her. It seems that he did not try the system on Xanthippe, or if he
did it was a dismal failure, as the much-abused woman is never quoted
as a model or a saint, and we do not hear that he taxed himself with
her shortcomings. He said that he married her for the excitement of
conquest--the same motive that leads a man to try his power over a
high-spirited horse; also as a discipline, because he was sure that he
could endure every one else if he could endure her. It would be curious
to know what she thought about it, but one cannot help suspecting that
she had the lion’s share of the discipline, and that Socrates was a
greater success as a philosopher and talker than as a husband.
There was one exception, however, to this rigid seclusion, a small
recognition of the fact that women probably have souls. They were
allowed a part in religious festivals, and these were events in their
lives. They meant a breath of fresh air and a glimpse of the outer
world. Perhaps they meant also a little spiritual consolation, which
must often have been greatly needed; but of this we are not sure. The
Hellenic divinities were not eminently consoling, and the wise Athena
was particularly unsympathetic, though the Athenian virgins had at
least the pleasure of making her richly ornamented robes, and putting
them on her once a year. The woman in the comedy says that at seven she
could carry the peplum in the procession, at ten she ground cakes for
the patron goddess, and when she grew to be a beautiful maiden, she
had charge of the sacred basket.
One can imagine the flutter of pleasure with which the young girls
of the golden age of Athens donned their white draperies and
gold-embroidered mantles to march in the Panathenaic procession to the
Acropolis. Their snowy veils floated airily in the breeze, as they went
up the marble steps of the propylæa chanting choral hymns and carrying
in their hands the branches of silvery olive to lay at the feet of
the stately goddess. How bright the sky! how blue the sparkling sea!
How beautiful the white temples and colonnades, alive with sculptured
heroes! Before them rose Hymettus in its robe of violet haze, and
the cone of Lycabettus, sharply outlined in the clear air. Sheltered
behind the low hills on the other side of the vast olive-groves, the
magnificent temple of Eleusis, with its heart of mystery, towered in
its peerless majesty, and the restless waves of Salamis lapped the
shore at its side. This world of beauty was young then and fresh,
with no age-old tragedies to sadden the brilliant crowd that wound in
dazzling array through the forest of columns and statues. The flower of
Athens was there--brave, handsome, and clever men, poets, artists, and
philosophers, warriors on prancing horses, beautiful women and laughing
children. If the uncaged maidens were tempted to flirt a little with
their soft, dark eyes, who can blame them? They were young and human,
companionship was sweet, and they too had tender hearts, though small
account was made of them.
But the day ends. The sacred Athena is resplendent in her new robe. The
gay crowd moves back past the exquisite little Ionic temple of Victory
and down the massive steps into the agora, where life goes on as
before. Men throng the porticos and talk of the new play of Sophocles,
or the last statue of Phidias, or the prospects of war, or any of
the thousand and one things that come uppermost in the affairs of a
great city. When the shadows fall and the stars come out bright and
shining in that crystal air, they gather at banquets or symposia, where
flute-players and dancing-girls are brought in to amuse them, or some
Lais or Phryne of the hour enthralls them by her beauty and dazzles
them with her wit. But the wives and daughters of these men, who do not
see fit to educate them for companions, go back to their lonely homes
and to an isolation from all social and intellectual interests as deep
as if they were asleep in the sculptured tombs of the Via Sacra.
The women of Athens fulfilled their duties with becoming modesty, so
far as we know. They were respectably ignorant, and did not encroach
upon the time-honored privileges of men. It is true that Elpinice, the
sister of Cimon, was a trifle strong-minded, and, taking the Spartan
women as models, went about alone; but we do not hear that she had
any following. Unpleasant things were said about her, which we are
safe in doubting, as unpleasant things have always been said of women
who presumed to have opinions of their own, or to walk outside of the
straight line of tradition. At all events, a rich Athenian fell in love
with her, and was glad to take her without a dowry and pay the fine of
her distinguished father. But it is certain that no appreciable number
of Attic ladies were disposed to incur the odium of public opinion so
distinctly expressed in these words:
Good women must abide within the house;
Those whom we meet abroad are nothing worth.
Why in the face of such reverent submission were they so contemptuously
spoken of? We are often told to-day that women cannot expect any
privileges when they want rights. It may be pertinent to ask, in the
name of consistency, why they had no privileges when they sat humbly at
the feet of their husbands and demanded no rights?
But it was among these women that the great dramatists lived and
created the masterpieces of the world. It may be that they saw and felt
the cheerless side of so fettered a life, and that is why they painted
their heroines in such somber colors, too often innocent victims of
men’s misdeeds, and doomed to suffering with the sad inevitability
of fate. But the noble character and fine intelligence given to so
many of them must have had some counterpart in reality. Did the city
that produced Antigone, Iphigenia, and Alcestis, have no great women,
or did their creators look elsewhere for the moral dignity that made
them possible? And where were the models found? Not, surely, among the
hetæræ whose power, whatever it may have been, was not a moral one. Not
even among the goddesses, who were notoriously vain, selfish, crafty,
and cruel. We know that a thousand untold tales of virtue and heroism
are hidden behind closed doors, and we may well believe they were not
without precedent among these apparently colorless and pent-up lives.
Then it is easy perhaps to err in assuming that there were no women who
rose above hard conditions into a degree of companionship with their
husbands. It is true they had no education and were excluded from the
society of men who had it, but it is impossible to suppose that the
women of so brilliant a race were utterly without the clear perception
and flexible intelligence which made its men so famous. Nor can we
infer invariable misery. There have been good men in all ages who
loved their families, and women whose light could not be extinguished.
The great Cimon is said to have had an ardent affection for his wife,
and he was inconsolable after her death, though he did not curb his
wandering fancies while she lived. Socrates mentions Niceratus as “one
who was in love with his wife and loved by her.” There is a familiar
anecdote of Themistocles that puts him in a pleasant light. He said in
a laughing way that his little son was greater than any man in Greece,
“for the Athenians command the Greeks, I command the Athenians, his
mother commands me, and he commands his mother.” If reports be true,
however, the influence of his wife was largely theoretical, as it did
not suffice to keep him from doing some very disreputable things. But
he wished a worthy man for his daughter, rather than a rich one, saying
he “would prefer a man without money to money without a man.” Aristotle
is not quoted among the champions of women, but he tenderly loved his
own wife, whom he married in spite of the reverses which had ruined her
family. Her life was brief, but he left orders that when he died her
remains should be transferred to the tomb which held his own, according
to her last request. This was done long years after her death, though
he had another wife whose virtues he commends, asking his friends to
give her kind attention and provide her with a suitable husband if she
wishes to marry again. These instances among well-known men are worthy
of note, and others might be cited. But the exceptions prove the rule,
and the very fact that it was a matter of comment when a man was in
love with his wife shows that it was rare.