The teeming life of the streets has vanished; the voices of the
children have died away into silence; the artisan has dropped his
tools, the artist has laid aside his brush, the sculptor his chisel.
Night has spread her wings over the scene. The queen city of Greece is
wrapped in slumber.
But, in the midst of that hushed life, there is one who sleeps not, a
worshiper at the shrine of art, who feels neither fatigue nor hardship,
and fears not death itself in the pursuit of his object. With the fire
of genius burning in his dark eyes, a youth works with feverish haste
on a group of wondrous beauty.
But why is this master artist at work, in secret, in a cellar where the
sun never shone, the daylight never entered? I will tell you. Creon,
the inspired worker, the son of genius, is a slave, and the penalty of
pursuing his art is death.
When the Athenian law debarring all but freemen from the exercise of
art was enacted, Creon was at work trying to realize in marble the
vision his soul had created. The beautiful group was growing into life
under his magic touch when the cruel edict struck the chisel from his
fingers.
"O ye gods!" groans the stricken youth, "why have ye deserted me, now,
when my task is almost completed? I have thrown my soul, my very life,
into this block of marble, and now--"
Cleone, the beautiful dark-haired sister of the sculptor, felt the blow
as keenly as her brother, to whom she was utterly devoted. "O immortal
Athene! my goddess, my patron, at whose shrine I have daily laid my
offerings, be now my friend, the friend of my brother!" she prayed.
Then, with the light of a new-born resolve shining in her eyes, she
turned to her brother, saying:--
"The thought of your brain shall live. Let us go to the cellar beneath
our house. It is dark, but I will bring you light and food, and no one
will discover our secret. You can there continue your work; the gods
will be our allies."
It is the golden age of Pericles, the most brilliant epoch of Grecian
art and dramatic literature.
The scene is one of the most memorable that has ever been enacted
within the proud city of Athens.
In the Agora, the public assembly or market place, are gathered
together the wisdom and wit, the genius and beauty, the glory and
power, of all Greece.
Enthroned in regal state sits Pericles, president of the assembly,
soldier, statesman, orator, ruler, and "sole master of Athens." By his
side sits his beautiful partner, the learned and queenly Aspasia.
Phidias, one of the greatest sculptors, if not the greatest the world
has known, who "formed a new style characterized by sublimity and ideal
beauty," is there. Near him is Sophocles, the greatest of the tragic
poets. Yonder we catch a glimpse of a face and form that offers the
most striking contrast to the manly beauty of the poet, but whose
wisdom and virtue have brought Athens to his feet. It is the "father of
philosophy," Socrates. With his arm linked in that of the philosopher,
we see--but why prolong the list? All Greece has been bidden to Athens
to view the works of art.
The works of the great masters are there. On every side paintings and
statues, marvelous in detail, exquisite in finish, challenge the
admiration of the crowd and the criticism of the rival artists and
connoisseurs who throng the place. But even in the midst of
masterpieces, one group of statuary so far surpasses all the others
that it rivets the attention of the vast assembly.
"Who is the sculptor of this group?" demands Pericles. Envious artists
look from one to the other with questioning eyes, but the question
remains unanswered. No triumphant sculptor comes forward to claim the
wondrous creation as the work of his brain and hand. Heralds, in
thunder tones, repeat, "Who is the sculptor of this group?" No one can
tell. It is a mystery. Is it the work of the gods? or--and, with bated
breath, the question passes from lip to lip, "Can it have been
fashioned by the hand of a slave?"
Suddenly a disturbance arises at the edge of the crowd. Loud voices are
heard, and anon the trembling tones of a woman. Pushing their way
through the concourse, two officers drag a shrinking girl, with dark,
frightened eyes, to the feet of Pericles. "This woman," they cry,
"knows the sculptor; we are sure of this; but she will not tell his
name."
Neither threats nor pleading can unlock the lips of the brave girl. Not
even when informed that the penalty of her conduct was death would she
divulge her secret. "The law," says Pericles, "is imperative. Take the
maid to the dungeon."
Creon, who, with his sister, had been among the first to find his way
to the Agora that morning, rushed forward, and, flinging himself at the
ruler's feet, cried "O Pericles! forgive and save the maid. She is my
sister. I am the culprit. The group is the work of my hands, the hands
of a slave."
An intense silence fell upon the multitude, and then went up a mighty
shout,--"To the dungeon, to the dungeon with the slave."
"As I live, no!" said Pericles, rising. "Not to the dungeon, but to my
side bring the youth. The highest purpose of the law should be the
development of the beautiful. The gods decide by that group that there
is something higher in Greece than an unjust law. To the sculptor who
fashioned it give the victor's crown."
And then, amid the applause of all the people, Aspasia placed the crown
of olives on the youth's brow, and tenderly kissed the devoted sister
who had been the right hand of genius.