they are faithful to the gods of the State.”
“God! There is only One, the Single and True, who has created heaven and
earth, and given the promise to our people.”
“What promise?”
“That our nation shall possess the earth.”
“By Heracles! But the commencement is not very promising.”
“That is our belief, and it has supported us during our wanderings in
the wilderness, and during the Captivity.”
“Will you give evidence against these blasphemers of the gods?”
“No, Cleon, for you are idolaters. Socrates and his friends do
not believe in your gods, and that will be counted to them for
righteousness. Yes, Socrates appeared to me rather to worship the
Eternal and Invisible, whom we dare not name. Therefore I do not give
evidence against him.”
“Is _that_ the side you are on? Then go in peace, but beware! Go!”
“The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will protect me, so long as I and
my house keep His laws.”
Cleon had espied his friend and fellow-artisan in the colonnade, and
therefore let the inflexible Hebrew go. The latter hastened towards the
sycamore avenue of the oil-market, and disappeared there.
Anytos the tanner and politician approached, rehearsing a written speech
which he was intending to deliver: “Athens or Sparta,--that is the whole
question at issue....”
Cleon, full of curiosity, interrupted him: “What are you rehearsing,
Anytos?”
“A speech.”
“So I heard! Athens or Sparta! Government by the people, or government
by donkeys. The people, the weightiest element in the State, the
cultivators of the land, the producers of wealth, lie at the bottom like
gold. The worthless, the drones, the rich, the aristocratic, the most
frivolous, swim on the surface like chips and corks. Athens has always
represented government by the people, and will always do so; Sparta
represents the donkey-government.
“The oligarchy, you mean, Cleon.”
“No; donkeys. Therefore, Anytos, Athens is badly governed, for Pericles
the rich man, who boasts of royal ancestors, has come to power. How
can he sympathise with these people, since he has never been down there
below? How can he see them rightly from above? He sits on the gable-roof
of the Parthenon, and views the Athenians as ants, while they are lions,
with their claws pared and their teeth drawn. We, Anytos, born down
there amid the skins of the tanyard and dog’s-dung, we understand our
perspiring brothers--we know them by the smell, so to speak. But like
readily associates with like; therefore Sparta feels attracted to
Athens, to Pericles and his followers. Pericles draws Sparta to himself,
and we sink....”
Anytos, himself an orator, did not like to hear eloquence from others,
therefore he cut abruptly through Cleon’s speech.
“Pericles is ill.”
“Is he ill?”
“Yes, he has fever!”
“Really? Perhaps the plague.”
“Perhaps.”
This interjected remark of Anytos had crossed Cleon’s prolix discourse,
and a new hope glimmered before him.
“And after Pericles?” he said. “Cleon, of course.”
“Why not? The man of the people for the people, but no philosophers nor
actors. So, Pericles is sick, is he? Listen, Anytos? Who is Nicias?”
“He is a grandee who believes in oracles.”
“Don’t attack the oracles. I certainly do not believe in them, but
a State requires for its stability a certain uniformity in
everything--laws, customs, and religion. Therefore I support the gods of
the State--and what belongs to them.”
“I also support the gods of the State, so long as the people do.”
The two orators began to be mutually weary, and Cleon wished for
solitude in order to hatch the eggs which Anytos had laid for him.
Therefore he remarked, “You say that Nicias....”
“I am going to bathe,” broke in Anytos; “otherwise I will get no sleep
to-night.”
“But Alcibiades, who is he?”
“He is the traitor Ephialtes, who will lead the Persian King to
Thermopylae.”
“The Persian King in the east, Sparta in the south.”
“Macedonia in the north.”
“And in the west, new Rome.”
“Enemies in all four quarters! Woe to Athens!”
“Woe to Hellas!”
* * * * *
The guests had assembled at the house of Alcibiades, who on his
arrival had immediately gone off, with the laudable object of procuring
flute-players. Since the evening was warm, supper was served in the
Aula, or inner court, which was surrounded by Corinthian colonnades, and
lighted by many lamps which hung between the pillars.
After they had taken a light meal, ivy wreaths were distributed and cups
were set before the guests.
Aspasia, the only woman present, had the place of honour next to
Pericles. She had come at the beginning, accompanied by her slaves, and
was waiting impatiently for the verbal contests to begin. But Pericles
was depressed and tired. Socrates lay on his back, silent, and looked up
at the stars, Euripides chewed a wood-splinter and was morose; Phidias
kneaded balls of bread, which in his hand took the shapes of animals;
Protagoras whispered to Plato, who, with becoming youthful modesty, kept
in the background.
Quite at the bottom of the table sat the skeleton, with a wreath of
roses round its white forehead. In order to counteract the uncanny
feeling likely to be aroused by this unbidden guest, Alcibiades had
placed an onion between its front teeth, and in one of its hands an
asphodel lily, which the skeleton appeared to smell at.
When the silence at last became oppressive, Pericles roused himself from
his lethargy, and opened the conversation.
“I should like,” he said, “without raising any bitterness or strife,
to suggest as a subject for discussion the often-raised question of
Euripides’ supposed misogyny. What do you say, Protagoras?”
“Our friend Euripides has been married three times, and each time has
had children. He can therefore not be a woman-hater. Is it not so,
Socrates?”
“Euripides,” answered Socrates, “loves Aspasia, as we all do, and can
therefore not be a woman-hater. He loves, with Pericles’ consent, the
beauty of Aspasia’s mind, and is therefore no misogynist. Not much that
is complimentary can be said about Aspasia’s person, and we have nothing
to do with it. Is Aspasia beautiful, Phidias?”
“Aspasia is not beautiful, but her soul is beautiful and good. Is it
not, Pericles?”
“Aspasia is my friend, and the mother of our child; Aspasia is a wise
woman, for she possesses modesty and conscientiousness, self-knowledge
and foresight; Aspasia is prudent, for she is silent when wise men
speak. But Aspasia can also cause wise men to speak wisely by listening
to them; for she helps them to produce thoughts, not like Socrates’
midwife, who only brings corporeal births to pass, but she incarnates
their souls.”
Protagoras continued: “Aspasia is like the Mother Cybele of us all; she
bears us in her bosom.”
“Aspasia is the scale of the zither, without whom our strings would not
sound.”
“Aspasia is the mother of us all,” recommenced Socrates, “but she is
also the midwife who washes our new-born thoughts and wraps them in
beautiful swaddling-clothes. Aspasia receives our children dirty, and
gives them back to us purified. She gives nothing of herself, but by
receiving gives the giver the opportunity to give.”
Euripides resumed the topic which they had dropped: “I was accused, and
am acquitted--am I not, Aspasia?”
“If you can acquit yourself of the accusation, you are acquitted,
Euripides.”
“Accuse me, dear Accuser; I will answer.”
“I will bring the accusation in your own words. Hippolytus says in
one passage in your tragedy of that name: ‘O Zeus, why, in the name of
heaven, didst thou place in the light of the sun that specious evil to
men--women? For if thou didst will to propagate the race of mortals,
there was no necessity for this to be done by women, but men might,
having placed an equivalent in thy temples, either in brass or iron, or
weighty gold, buy a race of children each according to the value paid,
and thus might dwell in unmolested houses, without females.’”
“But now first of all, when we prepare to bring this evil to our homes,
we squander away the wealth of our houses.”
“How evil woman is, is evident from this also, that the father who begat
her and brought her up, having given her a dowry, sends her away in
order to be rid of her.”
“Now defend yourself, Euripides.”
“If I were a Sophist like Protagoras, I should answer, ‘It was
Hippolytus who said that; not I.’ But I am a poet, and speak through my
characters. Very well; I said it, I meant it when I wrote it, and I mean
it still. And yet I almost always love any given woman, though I hate
her sex. I cannot explain it, for I was never perverse like Alcibiades.
Can you explain it, Socrates?”
“Yes, a man can hate and love a woman simultaneously. Everything is
produced by its opposite--love by hate, and hate by love. In my wife
I love the good motherly element, but I hate the original sin in her;
therefore I can hate and love her at the same time. Is it not so,
Protagoras?”
“Now it is Socrates who is the Sophist. Black cannot be white.”
“Now it is Protagoras who is simple. This salt in the salt-cellar is
white, but put out the lamps, and it is black. The salt therefore is not
absolutely white, but its whiteness depends on the light. I should be
inclined rather to believe that salt is absolutely black, for darkness
is merely the absence of light, and is nothing in itself, communicates
no quality of its own to the salt, which in the darkness is something
independent, consequently its real nature is black.
“But in the light a thing can be both black and white. This sea-sole,
for instance, is black above, but white below. In the same way something
can be good and bad at the same time. Therefore Euripides is right when
he says that he loves and hates woman simultaneously. The misogynist is
he who only hates woman, but Euripides loves her also. Therefore he is
not a misogynist. What do you think, Aspasia?”
“Wise Socrates! You confess that Euripides hates women, therefore he is
a woman-hater.”
“No, my dear child, I admitted that Euripides _both_ loves and hates
women,--_both_, mark you. I love Alcibiades, but I abhor and hate
his want of character; now I ask the friends here, am I a hater of
Alcibiades?”
“No, certainly not,” they answered simultaneously. But Aspasia was
roused, and wished to rouse him. “Wise Socrates, how do matters stand
between you and your wife?”
“The wise man does not willingly speak of his wife,” Protagoras struck
in: “nor of his weakness.”
“You have said it. One sacrifices to the earth, but unwillingly; one
binds oneself, but without pleasure; one endures, but loves not; one
does one’s duty to the State, but with difficulty. There is only one
Aspasia, and she belongs to Pericles--the greatest woman to the greatest
man. Pericles is the greatest in the State, as Euripides is the greatest
on the stage.”
This was an opportunity for Protagoras, without his needing to seek it.
“Is Euripides greater than Aeschylus and Sophocles?” he asked.
“Certainly, Protagoras! He is nearer to us; he speaks _our_ thoughts,
not those of our fathers; he does not cringe before the gods and fate;
he fights with them; he loves men, knows them, and laments them; his art
is more elaborate, his feelings warmer, his pictures more life-like than
those of the ancients. But now I should like to speak of Pericles.”
“Stop, Socrates! In the Pnyx or the Agora, but not here! Though I should
be glad of a word of encouragement since false accusations rain on me.
We have come here to forget and not to remember ourselves, and Socrates
delights us most when he speaks of the highest things, among which I do
not count the State of Athens. Here comes Alcibiades with his following.
Kindle more lights, boys, and put more ice in the wine.”
There was a noise at the entrance; the dog barked, the doorkeeper
shouted, and Alcibiades entered with his companions. These consisted of
girls and of two strangers whom he had found in a wine-house.
“Papaia!” he cried. “Here is the host! And here is Aristophanes, a
future dramatist. Here is the Roman Lucillus, formerly a Decemvir,
who has been banished. There is one of the many Laises who have sat to
Phidias. Aspasia must not take it ill. And here are flute-players from
Piraeus. Whether they have the pestilence, I know not! What can they
do to me? I am twenty years old, and yet have done nothing? Why, then,
should I live? Now Lais will dance. Papaia!”
Euripides rose and made a sign for silence. “Let the dance wait;
Pericles is not pleased, and looks serious.” A pause followed. The heat
was oppressive. It was not thunder-weather, but something like it, and a
sense of uneasy expectation seemed to weigh upon all their spirits.
Then, as if by accident, the arm of the skeleton fell on its knee with
a slight snap. The flower, which it had held under its nose, lay on the
earth.
All started, even Alcibiades, but, angry with himself for this weakness,
he took a cup and stepped forward.
“The skeleton is thirsty! I drink to it! Who pledges me?”
“Socrates can do so the best. He can drink half a jar of wine in one
pull, without winking.”
As a matter of fact, Socrates was notorious for his drinking powers, but
now he was not in the mood. “Not to-day! Wine is bitter to my taste,” he
said.
And turning to Pericles, he whispered: “Evil eyes have come here. This
Aristophanes is not our friend! Do you know him?”
“Very little, but he looks as though he would like to murder us.”
Alcibiades continued to address the skeleton: “Thus looks Athens at this
moment! Sparta and the Persian King have gnawed off its flesh; Cleon has
tanned its skin; the allies have gouged out its eyes; the citizens have
drawn out its teeth,--those citizens whom Aristophanes knows and whom
he will soon describe. Here’s to you, skeleton! ‘[Greek: _Polla metaxu
pelei kulikos kai cheileos akrou_]!’”
There was a sudden change in the scene. The skeleton sank backwards like
a drunken man; the lamps began to sway on their chains, the salt-cellar
was spilt on the table.
“Ohioh!” cried Alcibiades, “Tralall! Ha! Ha! Ha! The table wobbles, the
sofa rocks; am I drunk, or is the room drunk?”
All were alarmed, but Socrates commanded quiet. “A god is near!
The earth shakes, and I hear ... does it thunder? No! That is an
earthquake.”
All jumped up, but Socrates continued, “Be quiet! It is already past.”
After they had all taken their places again, he continued: “I was five
years old when Sparta was visited by an earthquake; twenty thousand men
perished, and only six houses remained standing. Then it was Sparta.
Now it is Athens. Yes, friends, a voice says to me, ‘Before a babe can
become a man, we shall have been dispersed and destroyed like a bevy of
birds.’”
Again the dog barked, and the door-keeper shouted. There entered an
uninvited guest in a state of excitement.
Alcibiades greeted him. “It is Nicias,” he said. “Now I will be sober;
the thoughtful Nicias comes to our feast. What is the matter?”
“Allow an uninvited guest.”
“Speak, Nicias!”
“Pericles!” began the new-comer hesitatingly, “your friend, our friend,
the glory of Athens and Hellas,--Phidias is accused....”
“Stop! Silence!”
“Accused! O shame and disgrace! I cannot say it without weeping: Phidias
is accused of having purloined gold from the statue of Athene.”
The silence which followed was first broken by Pericles: “Phidias hides
his face in his mantle; he is ashamed for Athens. But by the gods and
the nether world, let us swear to his innocence.”
“We swear!” exclaimed all like one man.
“I swear also,” said Nicias.
“Athens is dishonoured, if one has to swear that Phidias has not
stolen.”
Nicias had approached Pericles, and, bowing to Aspasia, he whispered,
“Pericles, your son Paralos is ill.”
“Of the pestilence! Follow me, Aspasia.”
“He is not my son, but yours; therefore I follow you.”
“The house collapses, friends depart, all beauty passes away, the ugly
remains.”
“And the gods sleep.”
“Or have emigrated.”
“Or are dead! Let us make new ones.”
Another shock of earthquake extinguished the lamps, and all went out
into the street, except Socrates and Alcibiades.
“Phidias accused of theft! Let the walls of the world fall in!” said
Socrates, and sank, as was his custom, into a fit of absent-mindedness
that resembled sleep.
Alcibiades took one of the largest double-goblets, veiled it, and
improvised the following dithyramb:
“May everything break up from Pindus to the Caucasus!
Then will Prometheus be unbound and bestow fire again
on frozen mortals!
And Zeus descends to Hades, Pallas sells herself;
Apollo breaks his lyre in two, and cobbles shoes;
Ares lets his war-horse go, and minds sheep;
And on the ruins of all earthly glory, stands Alcibiades
alone,
In the full consciousness of his almightiness,
And laughs!”
* * * * *
The pestilence had broken out in Athens accompanied by shocks of
earthquake.
When Pericles, accompanied by Aspasia, reached his house, his son by his
divorced wife was dead.
According to the prevailing custom, and to show that he had not been
murdered, the corpse was placed in the doorway. A small coffin of
cedar-wood, painted red and black, stood on a bier, and showed the dead
child dressed in a white shroud. He had a garland on his head, woven of
the plant of death, the strong-scented Apium or celery. In his mouth he
had an obol as Charon’s fee.
Pericles uttered a prayer in an undertone, without showing especially
deep sorrow, for he had gone through much, and learnt to suffer.
“Two sons the gods have taken from me. Are they enough to atone?”
“What have you to atone for?” asked Aspasia.
“One must suffer for another; the individual for the State. Pericles has
suffered for Athens.”
“Pardon me that my tears dry sooner than yours. The thought that _our_
son lives, gives me comfort.”
“It comforts me also, but not so much.”
“Shall I go, before your wife comes?”
“You must not leave me, for I am ill.”
“You have spoken of it for a long time now. Is it serious?”
“My soul is sick. When the State suffers, I am ill.... There comes the
mother of the dead.”
A black-robed woman appeared in the doorway; she wore a veil in order to
hide the fact that her hair was cut off; she had a garland in her hand,
and a slave followed her with a torch.
She did not immediately notice Aspasia’s presence, greeted her former
husband with a glance, and laid the garland at the dead boy’s feet. “I
only bring a funeral garland for my son,” she said, “but instead of the
obol, he shall take a kiss from the lips of his mother.”
She threw herself on the dead child, and kissed him.
“Beware of the dead!” said Pericles, and seized her arm; “he died of the
pestilence.”
“My life has been a lingering death; a quick one is preferable to me.”
Then she noticed Aspasia, and, rising, said with quiet dignity, “Tell
your friend to go.”
“She goes, and I follow her.”
“That is right! For now, my Pericles, the last tie between us is
dissolved! Farewell!”
“Farewell, my wife!”
And, turning to Aspasia, he said, “Give me your hand, my spouse.”
“Here it is.”
The mourning mother lingered: “We shall all meet again some day, shall
we not? And then as friends--you, she, and he who is gone before to
prepare a dwelling for the hearts which are separated by the narrow laws
of life.”
* * * * *
Pericles and Socrates wandered in the avenue of plane-trees below the
Hemicyklion, and conversed together.
“Phidias has been acquitted of theft, but re-arrested on the charge of
blaspheming the gods of the State.”
“Arrested? Phidias!”
“They say that he has represented me and himself in Athene’s shield.”
“That is the mob’s doing, which hates all greatness! Anaxagoras banished
because he was too wise; Aristides banished because he was too just;
Themistocles, Pausanias.... What did you do, Pericles, when you gave the
people power?”
“What was lawful and right. I fall certainly by my own sword, but
honourably. I go about and am dying piecemeal, like Athens. Did we
know that we adorned our statues for a funeral procession? that we
were weaving our own shrouds? that the choruses of our tragedies were
dirges?”
“Athens is dying--yes! But of what?”
“Of Sparta.”
“What is Sparta?”
“Sparta is Heracles; the club, the lion-skin, brute-strength. We
Athenians are the sons of Theseus, ranged against the Heraclidae,
Dorians, and Ionians. Athens dies by Sparta’s hand, but Hellas dies by
her own.”
“I believe the gods have forsaken us.”
“I believe so too, but the Divine lives.”
“There comes Nicias, the messenger of misfortune.” It was Nicias;
and when he read the question in the faces and glances of the two, he
answered, without waiting to be asked: “From the Agora!”
“What is the news from the Agora?”
“The Assembly seeks help from the Macedonians.”
“Why not from the Persians? Good! then the end is near. Do they seek
help from the enemy? From the barbarian, the Macedonian, who lies above
us like a lion on a hill. Go, Nicias, and say, ‘Pericles is dying.’
And ask them to choose the worthiest as his successor! Not the most
unworthy! Go, Nicias, but go quickly.”
“I go,” said Nicias, “but for a physician.”
And he went.
“No physician can cure me!” answered Pericles; but in a weak voice, as
though he spoke to himself. He took his old seat in the Hemicyklion.
When he had rested a while, he made Socrates a sign to come near, for he
did not wish to raise his voice.
“Socrates, my friend,” he began, “this is the farewell of a dying man.
You were the wisest, but take it not ill if I say, ‘Be not too wise’;
seek not the unattainable, and confuse not men’s minds with subtleties;
do not make the simple complicated. You wish to see things with both
eyes, but he who shoots with the bow, must close one eye; otherwise he
sees his mark doubled. You are not a Sophist, but may easily appear so;
you are not a libertine, but you go about with such; you hate your city
and your country, and rightly; but you should love them to the death,
for that is your duty; you despise the people, but you should be sorry
for them. I have not admired the people, but I have given them laws and
justice; therefore I die!
“Good-night, Socrates! Now it is dark before my eyes. You shall close
them, and give me the garland. Now I go to sleep. When I awake, _if_ I
awake, then I am on the other side, and then I will send you a greeting,
if the gods allow it. Good-night.”
“Pericles is dead. Hear it, Athenians, and weep as I do!”
The people streamed thither, but they did not weep. They only wondered
what would now happen, and felt almost glad of a change.
* * * * *
Cleon the tanner stood in the orator’s pulpit in the Pnyx. Among his
most attentive hearers were Alcibiades, Anytos, and Nicias. Cleon said:
“Pericles is dead, and Pericles is buried; now you know it. Let him rest
in peace with his merits and faults, for the enemy is in Sphacteria, and
we must have a commander; Pericles’ shadow will not serve for that. Here
below sit two adventurers, fine gentlemen both; one is called Nicias,
because he never has conquered; the other Alcibiades, and we know his
conquests--goblets and girls. On the other hand, we do not know his
character, but you will some day know him, Athenians, and he will show
his incisors himself. Such and such and such a one have been proposed
for commander--oddly enough all fine gentlemen, and all grandees, of
course. Athens, which has abjured all kings and their like, must now
fight with royal Sparta, and must, faithful to its traditions, appear
in the field under a man of the people on whom you can rely. We need no
Pericles who commissions statues and builds temples to Fame and Glory;
Athens has enough of such gewgaws. But now we must have a man who
understands the art of war, who has a heart in his breast and a head on
his shoulders. Whom do you wish for, men of Athens?”
Alcibiades sprang up like a young lion, and went straight to the point.
“Men of Athens, I propose Cleon the tanner, not because he is a tanner,
for that is something different. At any rate the army may be compared
to an ox-skin, and Cleon to a knife; but Cleon has other qualities,
especially those of a commander. His last campaign against Pericles and
Phidias closed with a triumph for him. He has displayed a courage which
never failed, and an intelligence which passed all mortal comprehension.
His strategy was certainly not that of a lion, but he conquered, and
that is the chief point. I propose Cleon as leader of the campaign.”