CHAPTER X.

THE QUEEN OF THE SYMPOSIUM.

For several days after Hipponicus’ victory and the ensuing conversation with Aspasia, Pericles was the prey of various emotions, aroused by the Milesian’s love of freedom, and during this time the thought frequently arose: “I will accept the charming Theodota’s invitation. Why should this woman bind me in chains she does not recognize?”

But this idea speedily became merged in the stronger one of Aspasia herself, her free, proud nature, and the possibility of losing the sole empire over her heart. The new emotion could not easily assert itself, in the presence of the ardor to which this thought gradually fanned Pericles’ love. This effect had been foreseen, nay calculated upon by Aspasia. But Pericles continued to struggle with himself, and the conflict did not lack fresh excitement.

Hipponicus, who was doing everything in his power to make the magnificence of his wealth and the splendor of his entertainment, the theme of conversation, did not rest until Pericles and Aspasia had consented to attend the banquet in honor of his victory.

When the appointed day arrived, the most distinguished and famous men in Athens assembled at his house.

Scarcely had the guests appeared, when Hipponicus began to display the magnificence of his dwelling. He led them through the various apartments, showed them his gardens, his baths, his wrestling-ring—a gymnasium in miniature—his fish-ponds, his noble steeds, his dogs, his rare birds, the cocks and quails kept for the pleasure of seeing them fight with each other. He pointed out the monument he had erected over a favorite dog of the Melitan breed.

He said his house was like a tavern, always full of guests; he fed a dozen parasites daily at his table. “The fellows have grown so fat,” he added, “that I’m sorry you can’t see them to-day, but I took it into my head to have only the most distinguished men in Athens at my board.”

One of the guests, with a slight touch of malice, asked for his wife. Hipponicus replied that she was well, but he did not wish to disturb her in the woman’s apartment. Everybody knew that his only care for this lady was to adorn her with jewels and pearls, and sometimes have her drive through the streets, according to the new fashion, in a carriage drawn by Sicyonian steeds. For the rest—also according to the new fashion—he devoted himself to a foreign friend, and it was said that at present the far-famed Theodota enjoyed his homage.

He also mentioned to the guests his children, his son Callias, whom he said he had just sent to Delphi to have his hair cut, and, according to ancient custom, consecrated to Apollo; and his little daughter Hipparete, whose beauty and goodness he could not sufficiently praise, and whom he seemed to love warmly. “This child,” said he, “will grow up to be the fairest and noblest of all Athenian maidens, it will be hard to find a bridegroom worthy of her. As for beauty, I know of no boy in Athens, who promises as a youth to compare with this maiden, except your ward, little Alcibiades, Pericles. I have seen him several times in the wrestling-ring, and he can boast of holding almost the same rank among the lads, that Hipparete does among the little girls. They seem very suitable in age too. Well, who knows what the gods may decree, when these two buds have opened? What do you think, Pericles? However, there is plenty of time to talk about it.”

Amid similar conversation, Hipponicus ushered his guests into the spacious, beautifully-decorated dining-hall. The cushions, on which the Greeks reclined at table, were arranged in a large circle. It is scarcely necessary to mention that the carpets spread over them were rich and gaily embroidered, the round pillows that supported the arm, magnificently wrought in colors, the silver, gold, and even jewelled vessels on the side-boards attracted the eye even more by their beauty of form than by their costliness, that perfumes rose from equally beautiful vases filling the whole apartment with odors which delighted the senses; and that the walls were painted with pictures representing scenes of pleasure. There were groups and scenes, amid which were delineated countless Loves gracefully riding doves and sparrows. The floor was still more worthy of notice. At first it seemed entirely covered with the fragments of an elegant banquet—fruit-rinds of the most various hues, bones, bread-crumbs, the combs of cocks, brilliant feathers plucked from birds, remnants of every description. But on looking more closely, it was discovered that all these things were skilfully represented by colored stones, inlaid in fine mosaic. Large, magnificently-painted jars were placed in suitable positions for the further decoration of the hall, and opposite to the entrance stood a flower-wreathed altar, on which burned a flame diffusing perfume.

Hipponicus invited his guests to take whichever cushions they pleased. At first they sat erect; slaves approached with silver basins and ewers, unfastened their shoes or sandals, and holding the basins under their bare feet, poured over them the contents of the silver ewers, which instead of water contained fragrant wine, made still more spicy by the mixture of odorous oils and essences. Their hands were also sprinkled and wiped with fine napkins.

Hipponicus’ guests, accepting their host’s invitation, had taken their places on the cushions in pairs, as accident or friendship dictated. The truth-seeker Socrates sat beside the philosopher Anaxagoras, the sculptor Phidias beside Ictinus the architect, the poet Sophocles beside the actor Polus, the sophist Protagoras beside the physician Hippocrates.

Protagoras had just arrived in Athens, and was visiting Hipponicus. His coming had attracted much attention, for his renown in Hellas was daily increasing. He was a native of Abdera and therefore a Thracian, yet also an Ionian, for Abdera was settled by Ionians. He was said to have been a porter in early youth, until a philosopher discovered and developed his talents. Since then he had travelled extensively, had even drawn from the fount of Oriental wisdom, and now crossed the sky of Hellas like a dazzling meteor. He understood everything; the science of gymnastics, music, oratory, poesy, geography, astronomy, mathematics, ethics, politics; and wherever he went, had an immense concourse of curious inquirers. Wealthy youths paid enormous sums to enjoy his instruction. His appearance was well calculated to charm the eye, for he had the dignity of a king, wore magnificent garments, and had a bewitching gift of eloquence.

This Protagoras joined the young, but very skilful and sagacious Hippocrates, a nephew of Pericles.

By a somewhat singular accident, the reserved Polygnotus, who did not feel wholly at ease in this circle, had for a neighbor the saucy Cratinus, famed as a boon-companion as well as a comic poet. Yet, unlike in temperament as the two men might appear, there was one point of contact and fellowship. They were the only persons not united to the assembled company by ties of friendship, and owed their invitation solely to Hipponicus’ desire to see around him the men most distinguished in every profession. Polygnotus, Elpinice’s friend, cherished a secret grudge against Phidias. So these two, Cratinus and Polygnotus, looked doubtfully at each other and whispered together, as they saw Aspasia, at Hipponicus’ invitation, take her seat between the host and Pericles on a special cushion, where, after the fashion of women, she sat erect, while the male guests, resting the left arm on a pillow, reclined on the left side. Cratinus and Polygnotus secretly asked each other why such honor was shown to a foreigner, a hetæra? The other guests thought differently. They were friends of Pericles, formed the brilliant throng of his followers, knew Aspasia’s worth and power, and had ceased to wonder at anything. Protagoras, though he saw Aspasia for the first time, had been so completely enthralled from the first glance, that anything would have entered his mind sooner than the idea of taking offence at her presence.

At a sign from Hipponicus, a small table was moved before each pile of cushions, some dishes were placed upon them, others passed around, and the meal began.

As these distinguished guests had all assembled for the first time in Hipponicus’ house, the latter had resolved that nothing which could do honor to the Athenian market should be absent from the banquet.

“If I have made it my duty to receive so many distinguished men at my table,” said Hipponicus, as his guests prepared to take the dainty viands, “I certainly ought to entertain them as well as possible. But you know, though we Athenians have made so much progress in other arts, we are still somewhat backward in that of dining well, although it seems to me by no means one to be neglected. For my own part, I have always prided myself on being a gourmand and should consider myself fortunate, if I could do something towards raising Attic cookery to a higher degree of perfection. I see some of you smile somewhat scornfully, as if you wished to say that our Athens needs nothing of the sort, and may be called upon to lead the nations in other arts, but not this. Allow me to tell you that this is an error. For if you appeal to our beautiful marble, excellent clay, and similar things, I can easily prove that you will nowhere find better salt, oil, vinegar and aromatic herbs, which are always the most important ingredients in the hands of skilful cooks. To say nothing of Attic salt, which is famous in a two-fold sense, everybody knows that nothing can be compared with the fruit of the Attic olive, that the herbs of Hymettus are the most aromatic, the honey of the Hymettus is the most delicious in the world.

“I regret that, in order to obtain a really excellent cook, I was obliged to get one from Sicily. This man, named Anacharsis, is really a master of the rare art, and I might call him a Sophocles or Phidias in the culinary department. Nobody so well understands how to spice the first dishes to excite the appetite. The sauces in which he has set before us sausages, giblets, boars’ liver and little birds, will satisfy the most critical. You will also be able to judge of his skill in disembowelling tunny-fish, eels, murænas and sucking-pigs and then stuffing them again, to the delight of the palate, with field-fares, eggs and oysters. His hares and deer, partridges, snipe and pheasants you will find as admirable, as his cakes prepared with milk and honey and filled with fruits of various kinds.

“You might have, I repeat, an opportunity to judge the work of this skilful man; but you all—especially you Athenians—constantly have your minds too much occupied with other things, to test such a matter with genuine appreciation, and acknowledge the value of this art. The parasites are really the only gourmands and appreciative table-companions. Luckily, the number of these experts in the art of dining well at other people’s expense, is daily increasing in Athens. As I said before, I have a dozen such critics daily at my table and can’t do without them, for it is tiresome to enjoy even the best things alone. You should see with what earnestness these people attend to their duties, how they smack their tongues and lift their eyebrows when my cook surprises them with a new invention, or a delicate variation of some old dish, perceptible only to the connoisseur. You are certainly not of this sort, but while letting the best productions of my admirable Anacharsis slip over the bridge of your palates, one is thinking of this, another of that subject; Pericles of his public business and a new colony he desires to send forth, Sophocles of a new tragedy, Phidias of the frieze of the Parthenon, Polygnotus considers how the walls of this dining-room might have been better painted, and Socrates secretly dismembers an idea, instead of the partridge he has on his plate.”

Thus Hipponicus gave vent to his feelings, and the guests smiled gaily at the good-humored reproof.

The host then rose, and with dignity scarcely less solemn than when performing the office of Daduchus at Eleusis, offered the usual libation. “To the good spirit!” he cried, poured a few drops of wine on the floor, drank some himself, ordered the goblet to be refilled and passed around the circle of guests, commencing at his right hand. A solemn silence prevailed during this libation, which was accompanied by the low, subdued music of the flutes.

Then the little tables were removed and the floor cleaned.

Dessert was served, and with it all kinds of confectionery intended to awaken a desire for drinking, and at the same time goblets and the large vessel for mixing wine and water were brought in. Chaplets and fragrant garlands of roses, violets and myrtle, were passed around the circle, the guests twined them about their heads, the pæan in honor of Dionysus was sung, and a libation of mixed wine, in honor of all the Olympic gods, poured into the flames on the flower-wreathed altar.

“You know, valued guests and friends,” Hipponicus began, “what the beautiful old custom requires of us. Will it be agreeable to you to choose the symposiarch, or do you prefer to let him be appointed by drawing lots?”

Phidias, Ictinus, Anaxagoras and several others instantly protested against drawing lots, fearing, they said, that the choice might fall on them, and feeling little vocation for the office of a symposiarch, a leader and arranger of social pleasures.

“If it is necessary to choose a symposiarch,” said Protagoras, “I know not to whom we should first offer this honorable office, save to the most distinguished of so many distinguished men, the great Pericles.”

The latter smilingly declined, saying:

“Choose Socrates! He knows how to direct clever conversation, why shouldn’t he also understand how to manage a symposium?”

“I don’t know whether I understand how to direct clever conversations,” replied Socrates; “but this I do know, that even if it were so, it would be presumption in me, either in a conversation or a symposium, to assume the part of director in the presence of my teacher and mistress, Aspasia, whose victorious wisdom is sufficiently well known to all present here. I admit custom requires us to choose a king of the banquet, and that Aspasia is a woman; but I don’t know why sex should have aught to do with the character of a symposiarch? Hipponicus desires this symposium to be unique in its way—very well, let us support him in his design, and choose a queen, instead of a king.”

The revellers at first seemed bewildered, but soon eager assent greeted Socrates’ proposal on all sides.

“It will be strange, though perhaps wise,” said Aspasia, “to choose for monarch of the symposium, one who does not drink. What is the wine that now fills our goblets?” she continued.

“Thasian wine of the best kind,” replied Hipponicus, “such as is poured out in the Prytaneium of Thasos. The wine has the most delightful odor, but its sweetness proceeds from the wheaten flour, mixed with honey, thrown into the casks according to certain rules.”

“Honey-sweet, perfumed wine of Thasos!” cried Aspasia, “thou art worthy of being drunk to the health of the two men whose victory this banquet celebrates! Fellow-revellers! Drain your beakers to the health of Hipponicus and the author of Antigone, whose brows are wreathed with the garlands of victory.”

All the company gaily drank the toast, and the goblets were refilled at the command of the queen of the feast.

“Thrax!” cried Hipponicus to one of the attendant slaves, “bring the list of wines prepared for this symposium and give it to the queen of the banquet. You will find on the same tablet, Aspasia, the games and amusements at our disposal in this house to-day. May it please our sovereign to choose what seems to her the most beautiful and fitting, and conjure it up by a word or look, as if by some magic wand.”

“Will you have a cithara brought to me?” asked Aspasia. “As queen of the revel, I will presume no farther than to give the key-note for the mood and harmony of this symposium.”

Hipponicus instantly ordered a slave to fetch a cithara ornamented with gems and ivory.

The fair Milesian took it, and began to sing to its accompaniment, the following lines:

“With violet garlands crowned, with Syrian spikenard scented, Sprinkled with gold and roseate drops of Dionysian dew, With melody of lute and voice through all the world extended, Hail, beauteous pleasure, loftiest gift this wide earth ever knew!”

Then she ordered the lute to be passed to Socrates, but the latter said:

“Since the office of symposiarch includes the duty of giving out riddles for the amusement of the company, I expected that Aspasia would test our penetration in such matters. What, viewed closely, is this praise of the enjoyment of life, which she has sung to the accompaniment of the cithara, in order as she says, to give the key-note of our symposium, save a tempting enigma? This fair Milesian really seems to me like a sphinx with an abyss beside her, into which she will plunge us all, if we do not solve her riddles. How I envy the excellent Hipponicus! He seems to understand pleasure and the enjoyment of life better than any of us, and so perhaps is the only one capable of correctly interpreting the riddle Aspasia has sung. Surely one can best give instruction in the art he most skilfully practises.”

All eagerly shouted in assent.

“That is true! Hipponicus is the man to teach us about pleasure and the enjoyment of life.”

“If troublesome philosophy cannot be wholly avoided in this symposium,” began Hipponicus with a mischievous smile, “I thank the gods that the conversation turns upon this subject instead of any other; for this is really the one upon which, as Aspasia observed, I may presume to say a few words. You doubtless remember how I strove to show you, that scarcely anywhere in the world can the art of eating and drinking be carried to greater perfection than here in Athens, if we only desire. The proposition may also be made, that on this soil, under this Hellenic sky, people are born to be happy. But I wish to show you, that here in Greece it is easy to unite the pleasantest life with wisdom, virtue, piety, reverence for the gods, or whatever else you may please to call it. The Hellenic gods require everything except renunciation or sacrifice of the joys of life. They don’t even ask it of me, though I am of priestly race, and once a year have to exercise the office of Daduchus at the festival of the mysteries of Eleusis. The rest of the time I spend in Athens to my own satisfaction and that of my native land, without having it occur to the gods or anybody in the world to reproach me for it. If poor Diopeithes upon the Acropolis is my enemy, and says evil things about it, it isn’t because I like a good table, am fond of fair women and making myself comfortable, for he would gladly do the same, if he did not lack means; but merely because the Eleusinian priestly race has outstripped his in power and splendor, the Eumolpidæ have surpassed the Eteobutadæ. If Diopeithes lives a dissembler, he does so on his own account; the Hellenic gods do not trouble themselves about it, and though I keep a better table than he, I can boast of being equally devout and pleasing to the gods. Is there any one who will assert, that I am not pious and do not revere the gods as much as any man in Athens? Zeus Herkeios has his altar beside my domestic hearth; in the niche behind the door stands Hermes Strophaios, the divine guardian of the door-hinges; before it is the usual shrine of Hecate, and the cone-shaped column of Apollo Agyieus, the guardian of streets, and beside it the laurel sacred to the god, as a protection against witchcraft and epilepsy. On the door itself, from one Pyanepsian festival to another, hangs the blessed olive-branch, which wound with white wool, is consecrated in the temple of Apollo at every festival; nor does it lack the inscription placing the house under the protection of the gods, and surmounted by the usual Medusa head to guard the entrance from all evil. I neglect neither suitable gifts to the gods, purifications, propitiations, prayers, sacrifices, nor large contributions to increase the splendor of the festivals, and have just spent five thousand drachmæ to fit out as magnificently as possible the chorus our Sophocles needed for his ‘Antigone.’ So who can come forward and say I am no pious man, and do not honor the gods according to the customs of our forefathers? We Greeks are a devout nation, and I am a Greek. That is why, as is right, I stand in awe of the gods, but do not fear them. There are many in Tartarus who suffer the worst punishments on account of various crimes, but I do not remember one among them who suffers because he was a high-liver or man of the world. Is there one? No! So once more: I am a devout man and need not fear the gods. I fear nothing in the world except thieves and house-breakers, who might run away with my treasures, my pearls and precious stones.”

All the company began to laugh and applaud these last words of Hipponicus; but he continued:

“They are wisely building a treasure-house for the government money on the Acropolis, under the protection of the guardian goddess of the city. But how is a patriotic man, like one of us, to secure his property? I don’t deny that, since I’ve employed six thousand slaves in my silver mines, and my riches are daily increasing, I am somewhat anxious.”

“Be comforted, Hipponicus,” cried Pericles. “I’ll intercede with the people to allow you to build a treasure-house for yourself in the Acropolis. You have deserved it, by the excellent speech you’ve just made, if not on any other account.”

Again all the company applauded and praised Hipponicus and his speech.

But the mocking wit and unwearied reveller Cratinus asked:

“If, noble Hipponicus, you really don’t fear the gods, only thieves and nothing else in the world, what do you think of dropsy and other consequences of a devout and at the same time pleasant life? Also the gout, which, as I unfortunately know by experience, is connected with too liberal a besprinkling with Dionysian dew? Have you no dread of these? Or do you rely wholly on your friend Hippocrates, the excellent physician, whom you wisely invite to your table?”

“You have guessed it,” replied Hipponicus; “in these matters I depend entirely on Hippocrates, with whom, as with the gods, I like to stand on a good footing. I also leave it to him to determine whether dropsy, vertigo, and similar things really proceed from what is termed the enjoyment of life.”

“Not exactly,” said Hippocrates smiling. “True, it is not to be denied that the fatigue connected with the enjoyment of life may cause dropsy, vertigo and similar diseases. As for pleasure in and of itself—and this alone is probably what is being discussed in the present conversation—it must be considered conducive to health. Pleasure is a peculiar condition of mind and body, that flushes the cheeks, brightens the eyes, quickens the breath, makes the blood course easily through the veins, stirs what is stagnant, rouses the animal spirits, increases all the powers, and puts the whole constitution in a state of beautiful, active harmony. Pleasure is so healing a medicine, even to the sick, that I don’t know whether a more effectual remedy can be found among all the herbs, plasters and potions we physicians employ.”

Laughing and applauding, the revellers swore never to trust themselves to any other physician than Hippocrates.

“Wise master of the art of healing,” cried Cratinus, “you have entirely soothed me. Now I understand it; how could I, whom people call the friend of the bottle, ever since I wrote a comedy in which full bottles form the chorus, how could I have defied the attacks connected with the pleasure of drinking, if the remedial power of that pleasure had not sustained me? Were I symposiarch, instead of yonder lovely foreigner, who probably understands the works of golden Aphrodite better than those of Bacchus, I would instantly order a double drink in honor of the wisest of all physicians, Hippocrates!”

“Thrax!” said Aspasia to the slave standing beside her, “give Cratinus a goblet twice the size of ours. And now let us drink the toast in honor of Hippocrates.”

When all had pledged Hippocrates, and Cratinus had drained his goblet, Polus began:

“I don’t know how pleasure could be discussed among us, without recalling the words you heard from the mouth of the messenger in the tragedy we are celebrating:

“When pleasure is no more, Man then is but an animated corpse, Nor can be said to live: he may be rich, Or decked with regal honors; but if joy Be absent from him, if he tastes them not, ’Tis useless grandeur all, and empty shade.”

“I praise mirth,” said Sophocles, “not merely because it makes life pleasant, but because it renders it beautiful. Many terrors dwell in the depths of existence, and the question has often been asked whether it was not better, not to live. But since we do live, we must seek to cover the gulf of life and its terrors, as far as possible, with the flowers of beauty and her twin brother joy. The boundary of man’s existence is a narrow one, but within these bounds we are permitted to be men, and develop pure humanity nobly in a little circle. To be a true man is to be generous and gentle, and this bright gentleness becomes the limit, within which he divinely feels his existence. To be called generous and gentle, as well as beautiful and gay, is the pride of the Hellenes.”

“I thank you for this remark!” said Pericles. “I have sometimes been reproached for being too mild and forbearing in war, but I thought I was merely acting as a Hellene. If there are battles again, either on sea or land, I shall ask the Athenian nation to give me the author of ‘Antigone’ for a fellow-strategus.”

“Sophocles a strategus?” cried several of the company.

“Why not?” said Sophocles smiling, “my father was an armorer. That indicates I was born for a strategus.”

“Do you expect the troops to embark and stand out to sea soon, Pericles?” cried Hipponicus.

“It is very possible!” replied Pericles.

“I’m content, but I hope you’ll take no other admiral-galley, on which to win new laurels, than the one I shall equip as trierarch.”

“I will choose no other,” replied Pericles. “But let us not suffer martial enthusiasm to gain the upper hand at so peaceful a banquet. It would be discourteous, if before passing to other matters, we did not ask Anaxagoras whether he approves or rejects what has been said here concerning pleasure.”

“If you want my opinion,” said Anaxagoras, “I will not withhold it. What you have stated shows your desire to secure as many beautiful, good, and pleasant things as possible. But I maintain that true, genuine happiness does not come from without, but is found in the depths of the inner life. Happiness is not synonymous with pleasure; and is so far from being dependent upon outside things, that it exists in the greatest perfection without them. Voluntarily submitting to universal reason, destroying self-will, is the shield of wisdom, virtue, and all true happiness, the firm citadel of apathy, where enthroned without desires of any kind, the passionless man, who is sufficient for himself, proves unconquerable even by the powers of fate.”

Anaxagoras’ words made a singular impression. Pericles listened with the thoughtful attention he always bestowed upon the outpourings of his old friend’s heart. A slight shadow flitted over Aspasia’s brow. Her eyes encountered the glance of Protagoras. As if by some secret understanding, the gaze of the fair woman and the sophist met, and when the brilliant rhetorician looked around the circle, ready to answer the philosopher, the light sparkling in Aspasia’s eyes, seemed striving to kindle his thoughts, wing his words.

“Stern and harsh,” he began, “ring the words of the sage of Clazomenæ in this spot, where but now, amid the sound of joyous songs, the mirth of the festival surged around the flower-wreathed altar of Dionysus! But even he—mark it well—even he, the stern, harsh philosopher, has spoken of happiness as man’s highest goal. Only he thinks differently of the means that lead to it. And indeed happiness has many names and forms, and numerous are the paths leading to its sunny heights. Many find their pleasure in the intoxication of the senses; others, urged by a loftier nobility of the soul towards the beautiful, rise to purer spheres of enjoyment, and a third class is that of the godlike men, who dwell above clouds and winds in eternal serenity. Do you know to which of these three methods of procuring happiness I give the preference? To none, but to him who understands how to follow each of these various ways according to place and time! When goblets beckon and bright eyes sparkle, let us follow the merry wisdom of Hipponicus; when marvels of beauty gleam before our eyes, and humanity displays its noblest development, we will share the glorified joy of Sophocles; when the sky darkens, when unavoidable sorrow and disaster throng upon us, it will be time to say to garlanded pleasure: ‘Farewell,’ and gird ourselves with the divine equanimity and beautiful repose of the wise Anaxagoras! To be capable of sacrifice is praiseworthy—but we will only practise this art, when we require it. When it is time to rejoice, we will rejoice. Whoever understands how to enjoy wisely, will not lack the wisdom of renunciation. He will make pleasure his slave, not be the slave of pleasure. He will make things yield to him, not succumb to them. And if that which is set by wisdom as the limit of our pleasures, is nothing more than the natural, legitimate standard of pleasure, and joy, stifling in its own excess, is no longer joy, but its opposite, so that its limits are not external, but internal; why talk of virtue and temperance as things alien, even hostile to pleasure? Renunciation, sacrifice, virtue without joy may become familiar to the thoughts of the Hellene, but never to his soul. Even ordinary toil, working at trades, and labor to supply common needs, he considers unworthy of him. That is why the slave, the barbarian works for the Hellenes. The more ignoble portion of humanity must sacrifice itself for the nobler, that the ideal of an existence really worthy of the dignity of mankind may be realized. Were I a law-giver, a second Lycurgus or Solon, and the tablets of the law were put unwritten in my hands, I would seize them and with a golden stylus place at the top the words: Mortals, be beautiful—be free—be happy.”

Protagoras gazed steadily at Aspasia while speaking, rejoicing in the encouragement that beamed upon him from her face. Assent was almost universal throughout the circle, and Pericles said he would place the next colony that left Athens under Protagoras’ command; for he seemed well suited to regulate a community according to the Greek spirit.

“Happy Protagoras,” Socrates began, “happy Protagoras, who is permitted to transmute the gold of Aspasia’s silence into the ringing coin of alluring words. If I have understood your speech, as well as you read the language of Aspasia’s eyes, you seem to regard wisdom as one of the means for the promotion of pleasure, which so to speak, can be kept ready and drawn out of the pocket when there is nothing better at hand—”

“What is wisdom?” interrupted Protagoras. “Question a thousand men, and what one calls wisdom, others will term folly. But ask them what causes pleasure and what disgust, and all will be of the same opinion.”

“Do you really think so?” replied Socrates. “If it should be put to the test—”

“Allow me to take it upon myself to answer Socrates,” interrupted Aspasia—“though not with words, for how could I presume to take my place by Protagoras’ side, when wisdom was under discussion? I will meet the perpetual doubter and questioner with the means which, as queen of the symposium, are at my disposal to test the objections he has last uttered.”

“But first,” she continued, “let the lips, which have perhaps grown dry in the heat of conversation, be moistened with fresh dew.”

At her command, fresh wine was mixed and the guests drank still larger potations.

“This wine is from Lesbos!” said Hipponicus, “the flower of the vine! It is less fragrant than the Thasian, but its flavor is still better.”

“It is both mild and fiery, like the soul of its countrywoman, Sappho!” cried Protagoras, tasting the contents of his goblet with the tips of his lips.

The beakers, by Aspasia’s command, were drained in honor of the Lesbian poetess and refilled, while the eyes of the revellers began to sparkle still more brightly.

“Now let those enter,” said Aspasia, “who are ready to make us feel the emotion, concerning which, according to Protagoras, all men are united, but in Socrates’ opinion not.”

Female flute-players, dancers, and jugglers entered the hall, all young and charming, all wreathed, perfumed, jewelled and exquisitely dressed.

The flute-playing began in soft, sweet notes, and to its accompaniment first commenced the pantomimic dances. Theodota’s performance, so greatly admired by Socrates, he now saw multiplied by a group of lovely figures. After these dancers had charmed all eyes by their art, the feats executed by the jugglers exerted a bewildering, fascinating influence. When the latter, dancing in time to the music, skilfully tossed and caught a number of hoops or balls, or were whirled around on the potter’s wheel, the swift movements of the slender, girlish figures possessed an enchanting grace. But when they commenced the sword-dance, performing their feats of jugglery while dancing between the blades, fastened point uppermost in the ground, and turning somersaults forward and backward over the glittering steel, a sense of pleasure mingled with fear thrilled the spectator. When one of these slender, charming maidens, clad in a short, closely-fitting dress, which clearly revealed her beautiful proportions, supported herself by resting her hands on the floor, and with a graceful curve of the body threw her feet over her back and head to fill a goblet from the vessel standing before her, grasping it with the toes of the left foot, while she seized the handle of the jar with the toes of the other; or in the same position discharged an arrow from a bow—it was not merely astonishment at the skill displayed, but admiration of the marvellous freedom and almost superhuman flexibility developed in the limbs, which put Hipponicus’ guests in ecstasies of delight.

When the dances and games were over, and the jugglers, musicians and dancers had retired amid the enthusiastic applause of the guests, Aspasia said:

“What we have seen appears to have given pleasure to all, and we are unanimous in this emotion, while formerly, when discussing a dogma of wisdom, we could not agree. The test on which it depended, as you said, Socrates, is therefore settled—”

“You well know, Aspasia,” replied Socrates, “that no one in the world is more willing to be taught than I. Allow me, however, to ask Protagoras one more question. If, as he instructed us, there are various kinds of pleasure, and we call whatever procures it a blessing, there are doubtless various kinds of blessings, among which one is supreme. But to discover this supreme good among other good things, and thereby secure the highest pleasure amid other pleasures—for pleasure, as we have said, is not the blessing itself, but produced by the possession of the blessing—doesn’t it require a little discernment, or penetration, or wisdom, or whatever the faculty may be called?”

“You see this man is driving you into a corner, Protagoras,” replied Aspasia smiling, “but it is my duty to see that the strife does not grow too violent. I have been forming a little plan against this belligerent Socrates for the last half hour. I don’t think it advisable, that he should occupy the same pile of cushions with Anaxagoras, and thus constantly draw fresh vigor and pugnacity from his master’s presence. Nay, it seems to me, in general, that Hipponicus’ guests have paired off in a manner dangerous to the general welfare, and favorable to secret conspiracies. I have repeatedly noticed Phidias and Ictinus whispering together, and see Cratinus put his lips to the ear of his neighbor, Polygnotus, far more often than is necessary. By virtue of my authority as queen of the revel, I shall order a universal change of seats and companions.”

“So be it!” cried the joyous revellers; “we will gladly obey you. Let us hear how you intend to pair us.”

“Very well,” said Aspasia; “Hipponicus must bid Socrates rise, and himself recline beside Anaxagoras; loquacious Polus can take his place by silent Ictinus; saucy Cratinus shall have for a neighbor gentle Sophocles. Phidias must join Polygnotus. But whom shall I place with Socrates? I can’t possibly let him recline by Protagoras’ side, on the contrary, I must remove these two opponents as far from each other as possible. So what can be done, except to ask you, Protagoras, to take my place here, while I sit beside Socrates?”

Aspasia rose and seated herself on the lower edge of the pile of cushions where Socrates lay.

The guests had cheerfully obeyed the directions of the queen of the banquet, only they now secretly and loudly envied Socrates his companion.

The close vicinity of the beauty exerted a singular influence upon the young man himself. If Anaxagoras’ presence, as Aspasia expressed it, had aroused belligerent emotion, this charming woman awakened a desire for peace and harmony.

“What does this mean?” cried Aspasia, bending towards Socrates and looking at his wreath, “many leaves have already fallen from your garland. That is a sign the wearer has some secret love-trouble. Is it your latest friend, the saucy boy Alcibiades, who vexed you? Well, I have come to answer you. What were the doubts you wished to have solved?”

Socrates, basking in the light of Aspasia’s eyes, fanned by her breath, intoxicated by the rustle of her garments, answered:

“Aspasia! I had doubts—and they were beautifully arranged in my head in battle array. But just as I was about to send them forth in the best order, a flower-wreathed barrier was pushed forward, so that it seems as if they must fall over it and break their legs. Shall I say what appears doubtful to me, Aspasia? There is at this moment only one thing, and that is that you are sitting beside me.”

Old Anaxagoras, who meantime had silently addressed himself to the beaker, glanced with a somewhat scornful smile at the friend, who thus shamefully laid down his arms.

“You see, Anaxagoras,” said Socrates, “I have fallen in battle for a good cause, and you, the old man for whom I really drew the sword, must now bear me out of the conflict. Avenge me, if you can.”

“Why not?” replied Anaxagoras, after another draught from his goblet; “I feel by no means like an aged Priam, to maintain a timid silence in the presence of this young Achilles. I would fain say a few words to you, Protagoras.”

“Stay!” cried Aspasia, “if you intend to utter words of import, permit me to do my duty and wing your tongue with the most fiery and delicious of all wines, the blissful fluid pressed from the grapes of Chios, which has been reserved till now.”

So saying, Aspasia ordered the most famous of all the Greek wines to be offered.

The goblets were emptied, and from this moment there was no one in the circle who, elevated far above the sphere of sober reason, had not fallen a victim to the inspiring power of Dionysus.

Anaxagoras began to talk somewhat confusedly about pleasure, virtue, knowledge, and universal reason.

As if to incite him to collect his thoughts, Aspasia herself offered him a beaker of the Chian.

The philosopher drank, and his speech grew still more confused; he began to stammer and nod. At last his head sank on his breast. A few moments more, and the old man was quietly asleep.

A merry laugh rang through the ranks of the revellers.

“What have you done, Aspasia?” they cried. “You have disarmed and lulled to slumber the last champion of stern wisdom.”

“At a joyous banquet,” replied Aspasia, “it beseems stern wisdom to nod. But this noble old man has not fallen asleep unwatched by the Graces. See what a beautiful sight is presented by the spectacle of the grey-haired sage breathing in quiet slumber. I propose that we all take off our garlands to put them on the head and shoulders of the sleeper, and thus bury this peaceful sleeping wisdom.”

All obeyed Aspasia’s command, and in a few minutes the philosopher’s head was buried under flowers.

Socrates continued to drink without becoming intoxicated, but feigned to be so in order to whisper the strangest things into Aspasia’s ear, unrebuked.

Grave Phidias told the boy who filled his goblet, that he wanted to use him as a model for one of his figures on the inner frieze of the Parthenon. Cratinus uttered secret imprecations, and said to his neighbor Sophocles:

“This sorceress, this Circe, this Omphale shall remember me! She makes me drink even Chian from the large goblet. So long as I was sober, I didn’t notice anything, but now I see her design.” Polygnotus assured his neighbor, that with the exception of Elpinice, he had never seen a woman so well formed as Aspasia.

“Pericles,” said Hipponicus pathetically, “Pericles, you know how I have always honored you, how much gratitude I owe you for releasing me years ago from the bonds of beautiful, but quarrelsome Telesippe. Do me that favor about the treasure-house on the Acropolis—for I employ six thousand slaves in the silver-mines, my wealth is daily increasing, and people are not safe from thieves. And when your ward Alcibiades grows up—my little daughter Hipparete—the fairest of all virgins—”

“Never mind!” said Pericles with a good-natured smile. He was the only one in the whole company entirely untouched by the power of Bacchus—not because he had drunk less, but because his constitution was as strong as his nature was gentle. He conversed with Protagoras about politics, the changes of popular government in Athens, the colonies to be sent out, the possibility of a speedy war. But Protagoras gazed frequently at the beautiful Milesian. Finally the silent Ictinus, inspired by the Chian, surprised the revellers by commencing a pæan to Dionysus, which was sung in chorus by all the others.

Thus the waves of social pleasure, winged by the gifts of Bacchus, the charms of the senses, the spell of the Milesian’s mirth, and spiced with the flower of Hellenic intellect, rolled on at the symposium until the dawn of morning.

Then the brilliant Protagoras rose, saying:

“Aspasia, as you know, has yielded her place to me. I will take advantage of it to assume the dignity of symposiarch, and invite you to drain this last beaker in her honor. She has held high aloft the banner of beautiful pleasure, victoriously defended the kingdom of innocent mirth against the assaults of sternness and the harshness of wisdom—has ever, just at the right moment, battled against foes, now with the gifts of the goblet, now with the aid of Eros and the Graces, has lulled the truth-seeker’s questions to rest, and buried the philosopher’s grey head under flowers—has guided us all pleasantly over the flood-tide of the Dionysian waves of joy. Innocent intoxication has no peril to noble Greek brows, and does not injuriously penetrate the brain, but casts its silvery mist like dew upon the leaves of the garlands, with which we shade our heads. So let us drain the last beaker to the honor of the fair and wise Aspasia.”

Protagoras ceased speaking, and was joined in the pledge by the distinguished men who, though assembled at the banquet as garlanded revellers, were grouped around Pericles and Aspasia in the field of fame, as the shining stars of ancient Hellas.

When the last goblets had been emptied, the men, after clasping each other’s hands, left the house in the grey dawn.

“Are you, too, satisfied with the symposiarch Protagoras praised?” Aspasia asked Pericles, when she found herself alone with him.

“From this day I shall admire you more than ever,” replied Pericles, “but do not you fear I may love you less?”

“Why?” asked Aspasia.

“You have something for every one—what is left for Pericles?”

“Myself!” answered Aspasia.

He kissed her forehead, and she clasped him in a joyous embrace.

“I know not” said Pericles as he left her, “whether I should rather rush into the field of action far away, or spend a honey-moon of love alone with you in idyllic repose.”

“Perhaps the gods may grant one or the other, or even both, at some fitting time.”

The Milesian closed her beautiful, weary eyes that morning with the consciousness that she had approached nearer to her goal. She remembered the hour when she had been obliged to leave Pericles’ house in humiliation, thought of the proud Telesippe, who supposed herself so unassailable, so immovable in her sovereignty over the domestic hearth—and said to herself that her secret and open plans were maturing to fulfilment, and she should yet triumph in her mission of planting forever on the ruins of custom and prejudice the banner of freedom beauty and joy.