CHAPTER XII.

IN IONIAN HONEYMOON.

Pericles had made the short passage from Samos to Miletus with two of his triremes.

Hipponicus, who was trierarch of the second ship, had requested permission to accompany his commander. With him was the beautiful Theodota.

Thus the charming dancer again threateningly approached Pericles’ horizon.

The Milesians received the Athenian commander with delight, celebrated his arrival with magnificent entertainments, and honored the victor of Samos with a gold laurel wreath.

Pericles felt as if he had breathed a sultry atmosphere ever since he stepped upon the coast of Asia Minor. He had entered the land of the statue of Diana with the thousand breasts, of gigantic temples, whose Hellenic forms blended with the colossal, monstrous architecture of the East, the land of the priestesses of Aphrodite, of luxurious, effeminate music, the land of the mother of the gods, whose festal dances on the Tmolus partook of the mysterious madness of the Orient, the land too of her foster-son Dionysus, the god of joy, who by his nature and appearance, delicate and effeminate in form, yet full of courage and ardor, with his luxuriant wealth of curls crowned by a Lydian mitra, and clad in ample bright-hued garments, proved himself a true son of Asia Minor.

If the sultry atmosphere the Athenian felt was anywhere on the Ionian coasts of Asia, it pervaded the streets of wealthy, superb Miletus, famed for its roses. Here one heard the Persians and the satrap of Sardis mentioned, as the Athenians spoke of the Megarians or Corinthians; Persians and other Orientals were seen in the streets. The costume of the men of Miletus and their charming wives was rich and gay as the plumage of Eastern birds, yet exquisitely tasteful. Pericles saw garments borrowed from the Persians, others from the Egyptians. They were of every color—purple, crocus yellow, sea-blue, the hue of the violet and hyacinth, even the vivid tint of flames. He saw the Milesians wrapped in the texture of Persia, decked with the jewels of India, dripping with the perfumes of Syria.

During their stay in Miletus, Pericles and Hipponicus enjoyed the hospitality of her richest and most distinguished citizen, Artemidorus. The latter took them to his magnificent country-estate, near the city. Not far from this rural seat was a myrtle grove, amid whose dusky recesses, musical with the notes of birds, legend related that the goddess Aphrodite sometimes appeared in bodily form.

Oriental magnificence reigned in Artemidorus’ apartments. The walls and furniture were decked with gay Persian stuffs. Gold glittered, ivory gleamed, the air was full of the perfume of sandal-wood. Throngs of beautiful female slaves moved about the house. Some, from the shores of the Caspian sea, were dazzlingly fair like marble statues, others brown as the bronze figures in Artemidorus’ house, and others still, a shining black, like the ebony tables inlaid with gold in his rooms. Nothing was lacking that could satisfy the mind of an Asiatic Greek in Aspasia’s native city.

“You other Greeks call Ionia a hot-bed of luxury,” said Artemidorus to his guests, while doing the honors of his table, “and I understand our beautiful Milesian women are even more dangerous to Athenians, than the gallant Milesians are to the Athenian women——”

Pericles smiled.

“Don’t forget,” continued Artemidorus, “that Ionia is not merely the hot-bed of luxury, but also of poesy, nay even of wisdom; for we have given you other Hellenes—in addition to our beautiful women—Thales, Herodotus, and, if we do not arrogate too much, Homer.”

“Who believes,” replied Pericles, “that the vigorous development of the Hellenic intellect can ever flag, even amid the oppressive atmosphere of the rose-couch of pleasure?”

“Say rather, that nowhere else does it develop more luxuriously!” cried Artemidorus. “There is no progress of men and nations without what zealots call luxury.”

On the evening of the second day Artemidorus conducted his guests to the myrtle grove near his magnificent villa, which he had himself beautified till it resembled a sort of pleasure-garden. The lovely Theodota, who had been invited as the friend and companion of Hipponicus, was striving with all the power of her dark eyes to bewitch Aspasia’s lover.

Accompanied by their host, Pericles, Hipponicus, and Theodota wandered through the charming wilderness of blooming myrtles. As the grove extended over a gentle slope, many places, where the ground had been stripped of trees, afforded a beautiful view of the city, the blue sea and the islands, which lay as if for a defence before the four harbors of Miletus. At such spots Artemidorus ordered Oriental carpets to be spread or a purple tent to be erected by the slaves who accompanied them, that they might rest, take refreshments, or listen to the soft music of Lydian flutes, which at Artemidorus’ bidding, vied with the nightingales in delighting the ear.

Male and female slaves, in the garb of Silenus, peopled the forest, here and there pouring brimming goblets for the party out of wine-skins; as Hebes, who did the same thing, or as nymphs, who proffered flowers and fruit in horns of plenty. Three of the fairest of the latter performed, on an open spot of turf, a charming dance in which the Asiatic tympans used in the festivals of Cybele were noisily beaten, causing a sort of bewilderment and rapture to take possession of the senses.

A tiny lake in the midst of the grove was peopled by all the forms of Hellenic fable associated with the sea. Fish-tailed mermaids were seen crowned with rushes, sirens reclined on rocks, singing soft, alluring harmonies in rivalry with the Tritons, who were blowing their shells. Even the prophetic old man of the sea, Proteus, was not wanting, and gave predictions to all who asked. Pericles approached and desired to hear some oracle from his lips.

“If necessary, I won’t neglect to hold you fast,” he said jestingly, “as is customary with those who question you—that you may not slip away under the disguise of fresh transformations.”

The old man willingly answered Pericles and delivered the following oracle:

Seek ’mid the nests of nightingales, where blooms the fragrant rose, The favoring gods thy happiness have bound a captive there, Seize it as thou didst seize on me, hold it both firm and close, So only ’twill be thine for aye—for fleeting ’tis as fair.

Pericles did not understand the meaning of these words. When, after the conversation he looked around for his companions, they had disappeared; so he walked on a short distance alone. The birds, that flew from twig to twig, from tree to tree, singing their sweetest songs, lured him farther into the forest. But here magpies, starlings and parrots, perched among the boughs, accosted Pericles with “Accept our compliments! Rejoice! Come, pray come,” and other strange sayings. Chattering thus, they flew on beside him. Soon Pericles fancied that instead of single birds, he heard a whole choir of nightingales singing at some distance. At the same time the perfume of roses, which must have proceeded from a large enclosure of blossoming flowers, reached him apparently borne on the breeze from some distant spot. Strangely enough, the odor of Indian perfumes seemed to blend with the scent of the roses.

Half involuntarily, Pericles continued his walk in the direction from which came the fragrance of the roses and the warbling song of the nightingales. He did so unintentionally, for he no longer thought of Proteus’ prediction. Here and there he saw something light gleaming through the branches in the dusk of the grove. The birds, which flying from bough to bough and singing, had hitherto seemed to bear him company, were now silent and appeared to be looking down at him with mischievous eyes. In place of their song, there was a louder rustle of wings in the tree-tops and sounds like subdued tittering, as if fluttering Loves were laughing at the pedestrian.

Pericles now saw the luxuriant enclosure of roses, whose perfume had reached him at a distance. Between the branches he distinctly beheld the glimmer of that mysterious something, which seemed made up of purple, gold and a dazzlingly-white robe. Approaching, he succeeded in obtaining a better view of the arbor.

Amid this luxurious display of roses a most charming scene appeared before his eyes.

Surrounded by a throng of lovely boys, clad in purple garments, with gold wings fastened on their shoulders, and silver quivers containing golden arrows hanging by their side, stood a woman’s figure robed in dazzling white, with a gold girdle around her waist, twined with garlands of roses. Pericles could not see the fair face distinctly; for just as he approached the little gods of love were vying with each other in weaving rose-wreaths around the woman’s head, breast, nay her whole figure, till she almost disappeared beneath them. Pericles thought of the legend his Milesian host had related, that in this grove the goddess Aphrodite sometimes appeared in bodily form, and was not disinclined to take this beauty, half buried under roses, for a divinity.

After the golden-winged boys had completely entwined her slender figure with roses, they drew her gently by them to a couch of flowers, firmly fastened the ends of the garlands to the stems and branches of the bushes, and then dancing in sportive mirth around the captive, pelted her with blossoms gathered from the drooping boughs of the thick hedge.

At sight of the stranger, the little Loves ran laughing away, leaving the prisoner alone. Pericles entered the arbor, and the captive begged the new-comer to release her.

Pericles broke one of the chains, pushed aside the roses which covered the fair one’s head and face, and his eyes met the radiant glance of Aspasia.

His first feeling was that of unutterable joy. But the next instant amazement that such a surprise should be prepared for him asserted itself. Already a question concerning the circumstances, which had rendered so unexpected a meeting possible hovered on his lips.

But Aspasia, shaking off the rose-chains, now rose, saying in the bewitching accents of her silvery voice:

“Know, my dear Pericles, that I too, like Socrates, have my demon, which in decisive moments, whispers to me not only what I am to leave undone, but what I must do. When your last letter from Samos reached me, containing the news that peace had been concluded, of Theodota’s arrival, and your intended journey to Miletus, this demon instantly commanded me to go on board a ship without delay and seek you in Samos, or if you were not there, at Miletus. Perhaps the demon wished to bestow on me the double happiness of not seeing Miletus without you, and meeting you in my native city. I came here, applied to your host Artemidorus, heard of the surprises the beautiful Theodota wished to prepare for you in this grove of Aphrodite, and the arrangements already made with the assistance of the generous Artemidorus; but thought it advisable, after a secret agreement with the latter, to undertake the part Theodota intended to play. So you must attribute it to Artemidorus, that the gods of love delivered me, instead of Theodota, fettered into your hands.”

“You have made the legend of Aphrodite’s appearance in this grove true,” replied Pericles; “to me you are the goddess of love, the goddess of happiness, and above all, permit me to add, the goddess of surprises.”

“Can there be happiness without surprises?” cried Aspasia.

Confidential conversation detained the pair some time in this beautiful spot. Like all lovers, after a long separation, they had a thousand things to say.

But when kisses threatened to supplant words, and twilight began to close in, the Loves again sprang out of the bushes and made a feint of binding Pericles also with the fresh garlands they had woven.

“Beware of these little fellows!” said Aspasia. “It is time to go and bid each other farewell for to-day. Your way is longer than mine; for Artemidorus has given me for a residence that charming little summer-house. It is only a few paces from here, but the thick myrtles half conceal it. I shall go there. But you, my dear Pericles, can return to Artemidorus, your friend Hipponicus, and the beautiful Theodota, the bright-eyed Corinthian.”

At these words the little cupids burst into a merry laugh, weaving their chains still closer around Pericles. The latter joined them, and at last even Aspasia herself shared their mirth, while the Loves wound themselves, Aspasia and Pericles into a laughing group, which fettered by roses and drawn gently onward by the tiny sprites, vanished amid the rose and myrtle bushes, while the stillness of night spread over the deserted grove, and only the nightingales sang and the flowers exhaled their perfume.

Pericles found a sweeter happiness with Aspasia, than he would have enjoyed with the bright-eyed Corinthian.

The most blissful hour of love is not the one when an impassioned pair first pour forth their feelings, but the time of meeting after a long separation. The first embrace is like the flame of green wood—not without thick smoke and violent crackling; but when lovers meet again the fire of joy blazes high, clear and undimmed.

When Pericles and Aspasia walked hand in hand next morning through the dewy garden, they looked like two beautiful human flowers, freshly sprinkled with glittering dew. The love in their hearts could no more be exhausted, than the sweet melodies in the throats of the song-birds, or the perfume so lavishly exhaled from the opening roses.

They ascended one of the little heights, which afforded a wide view of city, sea, and shore, the meadows of the Mæander, with the palms, pink, laurel, and agnus castus on its winding banks, blue Latmus in the distance, and the lake of Biblis, with bright-hued water-birds fluttering above its rushes. But Pericles let his gaze wander over the battlements of the city, rest a moment on the proud Athenian triremes lying in the harbor, and then rove farther away to the spot where, veiled in mist, lay Samos, the place where he had spent a year of his life in manly toil for his native land. Then his eyes returned to the beautiful city, and he praised the bright, luxurious splendor of its appearance, the gay, vivacious temperament of its inhabitants.

“Yes, Miletus is beautiful and her inhabitants are joyous,” replied Aspasia. “But patriots remember the time when she was not only wealthy and luxurious, but proud and independent, when she sent out her colonies to the distant coasts of Pontus. That time has fled. Miletus is no longer independent and bows before mighty Athens.”

“You utter these words almost bitterly,” replied Pericles smiling, “but consider, that if Miletus were not Athenian, she would be Persian. It was not your kindred Hellenes who destroyed her power, but the Persian, when he overran these coasts. Nay, if the Athenians had not fought at Salamis and Marathon, a Persian satrap would now be ruling here in Miletus as well as in Sardis. Don’t be angry with the Athenian fleet, which extends its arm protectingly over this coast.”

“Then instead of bearing the Athenian ill-will, I must gratefully kiss his forehead?” said Aspasia.

She pressed a kiss on Pericles’ forehead as she spoke, and the latter answered:

“Your golden-winged Cupids avenged Miletus yesterday on the commander of the powerful Athenian fleet.”

“Don’t repent devoting a week of your active life to the Milesian strand,” said Aspasia. “Honor the place, which is not only the home of the most luxuriant roses and softest wool, but also famed for possessing the most beautiful tales. Could there be anything dearer to loving hearts than our Milesian fable of Cupid and Psyche?”

“You are right,” replied Pericles; “but,” he continued with a mischievous smile, “to the best of my knowledge, it was also in this zone that the story of the ‘widow of Ephesus’ was—”

“Whose meaning,” interrupted Aspasia, “according to the usual understanding of it, is that women are faithless, wavering, disloyal? But it is a poor story, which permits only one interpretation, contains only one truth. Let me take the Ephesian widow under my protection. She was faithless only to the dead husband. Love is so associated with life, that love and faith extending beyond the grave, existence bound up with a corpse, is a chimera. The bloodless shades of Hades ought not to be permitted to feed on the blood of the living.”

Such was the conversation between the pair. Then Artemidorus came, addressing jesting reproaches to Aspasia for detaining his guest, and after inviting them to a collation, conveyed them in a dainty chariot drawn by white horses to the far-famed temple of Apollo, which stood at some distance from the city, and the precincts of the temple of Cypris on the flat land near the sea-shore, surrounded by reeds, over which yellow halcyon birds hovered. They drove along the beautiful coast, and on the way back entered a boat to be rowed over the deep blue waves to a richly-wooded island, which Artemidorus’ slaves instantly transformed into a little paradise, spreading soft, gay carpets and offering every kind of delicious refreshment.

Artemidorus now resigned the care of his guest entirely to Aspasia, and his reverence for Pericles, as well as the lavish generosity natural to him, induced him to give his fair countrywoman all the external assistance she could need, to spice the idyllic solitude of the myrtle grove with the ever-varying charms devised by a love exhaustless in its inventive power.

Aspasia used this assistance as freely as the power with which nature herself, even more lavish than the wealthy Artemidorus, had endowed her in her charming character, skilled in the exercise of every spell.

The loftiest and most ennobling pleasures of both mind and senses were enjoyed by these two souls, so favored by the gods. Pericles had created and executed much that was great, Aspasia had inspired many beautiful and imperishable things, by casting the kindling sparks of her intellect and beauty in every direction. But the most beautiful and lofty deed performed by both, was in loving and being happy—happy as no dull-minded clods, but only those natures akin to immortals, can be. The things they inspired, created, performed, might please mortals; but the Olympians themselves looked down upon their love-life with satisfaction. To realize the idea of human happiness in the joy of life and love, seemed even to themselves, during these halcyon days at Miletus, the best part of their destiny.

Indeed, Pericles and Aspasia were enjoying for the first time the happiness of their love. The latter’s magic hand had created the most beautiful asylum of undisturbed solitude, a refuge even fairer and more secluded than the grove and summer-house. The flat, open roof of the house, above which rustled the tops of lofty pines and cypresses, had been transformed into a pleasure-garden. Blossoming bushes, and flowers swaying on lofty stems, surrounded the edge of this asylum, secluding it from the gaze of the outside world, and purple linen curtains could be drawn at will in the shape of a tent over the whole terrace. Thus shut out from the world, the lovers spent blissful hours in this blossoming asylum, accessible to themselves alone. Here they enjoyed the retirement of a secluded room, without its oppressive heat; they had the free air above and were fanned by the sweet, fragrant, refreshing breezes of the grove. The loneliness of the myrtles, the solitude of the house did not suffice; like tender doves they fluttered to the roof, a retired spot amid the blue air, where only winged creatures could follow—doves, peacocks, twittering and singing-birds. Here they rested amid the flowers, here Aspasia sang the songs of the poets, which gained a wondrous charm from her lips, here, singing to the accompaniment of her lute, she ensnared Pericles in the silvery net of her tones, the magic of her caressing voice, here she related charming Milesian tales, here they chatted together, sometimes as foolishly as children, sometimes as wisely as grey-bearded philosophers. Here they could draw the purple curtains around them and, steeped like gods in rosy Olympian light, breathe, transfigured in the purple dusk. Or they could allow the bright sunlight to pour in from above, and Pericles beholding Aspasia’s face and limbs steeped in a white radiance, over which the reflections of the green bushes flickered with magical effect, gazed at her in amazement, as if he saw some ethereal vision.

Aspasia, according to the Milesian custom, sometimes wore purple, sometimes sea-blue, flame-color, or crocus-yellow. She liked to appear before her friend in different costumes, borrowed garb, bearing, expression, character, now from one, and now from another goddess or heroine, and at Pericles’ request executed dances, corresponding with these varying forms, whose artistic charm far surpassed what he had admired in the beautiful Theodota.

During these transformations, Pericles could not help thinking of the oracle uttered by Proteus, when he was on his way, though without knowing it, to find Aspasia. The verse had summoned and invited him to the fairest happiness:

“Seize it as thou didst seize on me, hold it both firm and close, So only ’twill be thine for aye—for fleeting ’tis as fair.”

“I shall have to hold you fast, like the prophetic changing Proteus, that you too may not escape from me in some one of your transformations!” said Pericles, jestingly.

“How will you manage to hold me?” asked the Milesian.

“That I hope to hear from yourself!” replied Pericles.

“Perhaps, according to Athenian custom, in a strongly-barred cage?”

“What cage do you mean?” asked Pericles.

“The cage you men call the women’s apartment in your houses,” replied Aspasia.

“Telesippes may perhaps be secured in these cages, but not Aspasias,” answered Pericles, after a short pause.

The Milesian’s sole reply was a smile.

She was satisfied with having uttered a word, which might be left to produce its effect in Pericles’ mind.

One day Artemidorus and Pericles chanced to discuss Aspasia in the latter’s absence.

“Legends and histories of all ages,” said Artemidorus, “mention plenty of heroes, who for a longer or shorter period have fallen into the power of beautiful women. The fair nymph Calypso detained Ulysses years in her grotto. Dido understood how to win the pious Æneas, and spiteful Omphale even bound the strongest of the strong for a time to her distaff. None of these women, however, knew how to fetter forever the men they had won; their charm grew weak, the chains broke, the wearied hero took his rusty sword or forgotten club out of the corner, repaired his half-decayed vessel, and with a hasty farewell left the beauty for new adventures. So Aspasia’s charm would doubtless also fade, if you were obliged to remain always with her in this peaceful asylum.”

“Certainly,” said Pericles, “if Aspasia were Theodota, if she possessed nothing save her exquisite physical charms. But there is something else, which might well bind a lover forever. I am not speaking of the means employed by ordinary women, who think they attain this object by prudish reserve, or the anxiety, doubts and difficulties they cause their lovers, ere yielding them possession of their hearts. There are, however, certain favored women, who bind their lovers still more firmly in spite of the boundless devotion which wrecks the happiness of ordinary fair ones, nay even by this devotion. If I were to name the unspeakable charm by which they succeed in accomplishing such a thing, I could call it nothing but the Charis: [5] the wonderful blending of grace and kindness, insinuating without being intrusive, sunning the soul like the smile of a god. This, I believe, is the charm Aphrodite keeps in her golden girdle. A thousand little clouds rise in the sky of all lovers, this alone can banish them—all shadows disappear in the radiance of this sparkling, smiling charm. Its breath softens all harshness and asperity. Everything will be permitted, everything will be pardoned, because it inflicts no wounds without instantly healing them. Aspasia possesses this grace of soul, this girdle of Aphrodite, and by its power alone sportively baffles all Theodota’s efforts; for I know women, and am aware how rare, how unique a thing is the skill Aspasia possesses.”

“I understand you perfectly,” replied Artemidorus, “I have often felt what you express. The test of a woman and her power is not the pleasure she bestows, but the way in which she knows how to fill the pauses in a honeymoon.”

“Aspasia understands how to make some glittering spark of her intellect flash every moment, like a rocket or a shining soap-bubble, something that must be caught, and thus wings the dragging hours. She does all this without effort, constraint, or artificiality, does it because it is natural to her, and for this reason its effect is irresistible. The honeymoon of a woman, whose intellect is dull, is filled with sensual pleasure blended with mortal weariness; that which affords the sweetest and most lasting enjoyment proceeds only from the soul.”

The day that Pericles was to return with his two vessels to Samos, whence he intended to pay a short visit to Chios, approached. The reception given him by the Milesians had made it easy for him to execute the plans which had brought him to Miletus, so he had devoted only the smallest portion of his leisure to political transactions, and spent the remainder in the enjoyment of his secret happiness.

Hospitable Artemidorus gave the departing Athenian commander a banquet, at which Aspasia was also present.

At this entertainment Pericles said to his host:

“It is no marvel, that the secret charm of this region has seized upon me also, and I have yielded almost unconsciously for nearly a week to happy idleness. It is evident, that the Greeks of this coast dwell near the warm-blooded Phœnicians, who first worshipped the goddess of love, and the Cyprian isle that afforded this voluptuous goddess the first resting-place on her victorious progress from the Sidonian bay to Hellas. While from the south the festal enthusiasm of the Cyprian gods reaches you, from the north, on the heights of Tmolus, the bacchanalian revelry of Dionysus and his divine nurse Rhea forces itself upon you. Thus you are encircled and washed by the surges of the festal mirth of these gods of joy; like milk from distended udders, the dew of luxury falls upon you from the cornucopia of these gods and the thousand breasts of Artemis. The horrible fanatical orgies of the Tmolus are probably not known to you Milesians merely by hearsay. I should be surprised, if curiosity had not urged one or another of you to venture near that mysterious spot in neighboring Lydia, and though perhaps at a timid distance, watch the fury of the Corybantes.”

Artemidorus’ face darkened and a faint sigh escaped his lips, which made Pericles glance at him in surprise and almost perplexity.

“Fate once led me there,” replied his host, “and I would willingly tell you what I saw and experienced, if there were not so many sorrowful associations connected with these memories.”

His words increased Pericles’ interest and Artemidorus, noticing it, continued:

“I see I must speak, even against my will, and give my embarrassment the vindication your features seem to demand, so listen:

“Only a few years ago I called the most charming youth in Miletus my son. He was endowed with every gift of mind and body, but also possessed a soaring imagination that knew no curb, and a soul easily kindled to enthusiasm. There has never been any lack of youths in this city, who have had their curiosity excited by tales of the frantic orgies on the Tmolus, and many a lad has escaped from his watchful parents to join the mad ranks; nay there were times when this impulse seemed to spread like a sort of contagion. I considered how I could best avert a similar delusion from my susceptible Chrysanthes. As I had feared, he too soon showed symptoms of being attacked by this disease. The time of the Lydian festival was approaching. Chrysanthes became silent and thoughtful, his cheeks paled, and he looked as if he were consumed by some secret, feverish impatience. I had determined to treat him like a prisoner, appoint guards who should watch his every step. But his condition made me fear his escape, and I soon doubted whether this unsatisfied longing might not cause him to fall into dangerous melancholy or mortal sickness, and thought it would be more healthful if I partially gratified his apparently increasing curiosity, but in a manner destitute of personal danger to him. I told him I would go with him to the Tmolus myself, and watch the mystic customs of the Corybantes. In my company, under my immediate care, the youth would be safe from every danger.

“A journey of several days brought us to our destination. Accompanied by a slave, who carried provisions for one day, we entered the wooded, as yet deserted Tmolus, and waited for the moment when the wild horde of Corybantes from Sardis should ascend the mountain.

“The riotous spring festival had begun several days before by the felling of the largest pine on the Tmolus, twining it with wreaths woven from countless violets which grew in the valleys, and then dragging the garlanded trunk, amid wild revelry, down to the temple of Cybele, to offer it as a spring sacrifice to the all-producing mother of the gods.

“The greatest and noisiest part of the festival was yet to come. A dull roar fell upon our ears, even before we could distinguish the approaching throng of Corybantes beneath the shade of the woods. At their approach, we concealed ourselves in the dense bushes to witness their proceedings.

“The crowd drew nearer, the noise became deafening. Every one of these Corybantes, many of whom were nude, others only clad in the shaggy skin of a wild beast fastened around their loins, carried a tympan, which he beat with all his might, or a noisy cymbal, or blew on a horn; others had swords and shields in their hands, which they clashed heavily together. Above all this din of metal and musical instruments, rose the shrieks or rather roars, that only permitted us to hear fragments of the jubilant song in honor of the lost youth Attis, the favorite and messenger of Rhea, who had now been found again. They sang of the lost and found Attis, but it was really the germinating power of nature, which had awaked from her long death-sleep, that these men not merely celebrated, but allowed to seethe within themselves till it rose to a perfect frenzy. The procession of fanatics was led by priests of Cybele, who carried in one hand flaming pine-torches, and in the other sharp, curved knives, which they swung with frenzied glances. A large phallus [6] was borne in advance. The pace of these men could not be called a walk, but consisted of wild leaps and bounds, to the accompaniment of the noisy instruments. The faces of all were flushed, many swollen and purple, their eyes seemed fairly starting from their sockets, and not a few were foaming at the mouth. Meantime they fiercely shook the long locks, principally woven of false hair, which hung over their temples and gave them a virago-like aspect. Whatever wild or tame animals had fallen into their hands on the way, were dragged along with them. A panther was led at the head of the procession. Some had serpents they had seized, and now handled as carelessly as if playing with garlands or ribbons.

“While the frantic train was passing, I saw that Chrysanthes’ excitement was constantly increasing. He did not speak, but his face glowed, his eyes stared fixedly at the mad throng, and he unconsciously began to imitate some of the gestures the wild revellers were making.

“Not far from the spot, where we were concealed among the bushes, was a wide level space, overgrown with herbs and surrounded by enormous pine-trees. Here the procession stopped, not to rest, but to riot still more furiously. The phallus and the animals dragged along with the revellers were placed in the midst, and the Corybantes gathered around them.

“Obeying an encouraging word from the priests, they rushed upon the panther and the rest of the animals, tore them first with the hands, then with the teeth, lapped their warm blood, and put the rest of the bloody flesh on their thyrsus staves as if on spits. Then, amid a louder roar of drums, cymbals and crashing metals they began to dance around the phallus, praising the mighty, all-productive mother of the gods, the ever-living vigor of growth, the inexhaustible power of love and pleasure, whose statue appeared before the eyes of all.

“The wild beasts fled from the tumult to the most distant valleys; a frightened lion, running at full speed, burst through the bush close by us. Indeed the frantic outcries, the smoking blood of the victims, the blazing torches, and especially the roar of the drums, could not fail to awaken either fear or the wildest excitement in the breast of every animal and human being. I almost lost my senses myself. Suddenly Chrysanthes made an effort to escape. I gazed at him in terror, perceiving that in his whole appearance he closely resembled these fanatics. I held him firmly, but developing a giant’s strength in his youthful limbs, he released himself, and rushing away, sprang over a cliff so high and steep, that it is a miracle his bones were not broken—down, down amid those maniacs he leaped, and was swallowed up in their whirling ranks; as a drop is absorbed in the flood.

“I stood rigid with horror, motionless, almost senseless.

“The frantic dance went on before my giddy eyes. Some fell as if dead, rose again, and began once more.

“Again the shouts of the most frenzied revellers, accompanied by strange signs and gestures, rose above the din. When the tumult had reached its height, several came forward and obtained a hearing for words, only a few of which reached my ears. They pointed to the phallus, shouted with excited gestures that the lifeless image on that pole, according to the sacred ancient custom, must be supplied with the warm blood of reality, and it well beseemed the most enthusiastic in the ranks to present their own as a joyful thank-offering to the all-producing goddess.

“The sharp, crooked knives glittered ominously in the hands of the priests of Cybele.

“My senses failed, I saw only a confused throng, the most frantic of whom were wounding, mutilating themselves with the flashing blades—thought of my Chrysanthes—and fell fainting on the ground.

“When I recovered my senses, the moon had risen and was shining brightly, the throng of Corybantes had moved on, the roar of the drums sounded like distant thunder from the depths of the forest.

“I went to Sardis, the residence of the priests of Cybele, because there I could first hope to learn something of my Chrysanthes’ fate, receive my lost son.

“And I did receive him: he was brought back to me on a litter made of pine branches woven together on the Tmolus—wounded, mangled, bleeding.

“The youth, so full of blooming health and beauty lay before my eyes like the violet-wreathed pine, felled on the Tmolus by the knives of the Corybantes as a thank-offering to the all-producing goddess.”

Such was Artemidorus’ tale, which greatly shadowed the gayety of the banquet.

When it was over, Pericles on finding himself alone with Aspasia, said:

“Miletus is beautiful, and Artemidorus’ story will not wholly cloud the memory of the blissful days the gods have permitted me to spend here. But I feel it is time to leave this burning strand for the tossing ship, I shall not breathe freely again till I inhale my native, invigorating Attic breezes.”