CHAPTER XIII.

DIOPEITHES AND HIPPARETE.

Aspasia went in disguise on board the ship, which conveyed the Athenian commander from Miletus to his fleet off Samos. As the trireme passed out of the harbor into the glittering open sea, the Milesian gazed back at the blooming Ionian coast. Flocks of cranes and long-necked swans were flying over the meadows, and flapping their rustling wings, alighted on the shore. But Aspasia’s glance rested on the vanishing battlements of her native city. Her soul was full of the proud consciousness that here, where her eyes first saw the light, she had sealed the fairest triumph of her life and drawn the magic bond of love more firmly than ever, nay indissolubly, around the most famous Hellene of her time. Pericles too looked back at the vanishing strand of Ionia with sparkling eyes: he was recalling the happy days spent there, during which his peerless friend, like a feminine Antæus, seemed to have absorbed a twofold power of charming from contact with her native soil.

“I could almost lament the departed Milesian honeymoon,” he said; “if I were not soothed by the thought that I am bearing you away with me as its fairest spoil.”

“Happiness and love will follow us everywhere,” replied Aspasia; “there is only one thing we shall leave behind, never perhaps to be regained—the blissful retirement we enjoyed here, and our beautiful freedom from all narrowing bonds.”

Pericles bent his head and gazed thoughtfully into vacancy.

“After returning to Athens,” continued Aspasia, “you will again be the statesman on whose acts all eyes are fixed, an Athenian citizen bound by the rigid rules of custom, and Telesippe’s husband—while I—I shall once more be the stranger, the homeless woman protected by no law, I shall be, as your wife and her friend express it, the hetæra from Miletus.”

Pericles slowly raised his head and looked her sharply in the face.

“Have you ever desired anything else, Aspasia?” he asked, “have you not constantly derided marriage as slavery, and mocked at the women’s apartment as a prison?”

“I don’t remember, Pericles, that you ever gave me the opportunity to decide whether I preferred the position of the hetæra, or that of the Athenian wife.”

“And if I should,” replied Pericles, “if I offered you the choice, what would be your answer?”

“I should tell you, that I would choose neither, that I will voluntarily be neither a hetæra, nor an Athenian’s wife.”

Pericles was perplexed.

“An Athenian’s wife?” he repeated; “so you do not disdain every matrimonial tie, but merely the Athenian one; tell me, where is the ideal of the marriage-bond you approve to be found in the world?”

“I don’t know,” replied Aspasia; “I believe it has no existence, but I cherish it in my heart.”

“And what would be necessary to realize your ideal?”

“If there is to be marriage,” replied Aspasia, “it must be founded on the law of freedom and the law of love.”

“And what can I do to realize this ideal with you?” replied Pericles.

“You must grant me all the rights of a wife, without depriving me of any of those you have hitherto bestowed upon the object of your love.”

“You wish me to repudiate Telesippe and install you in her place as mistress of my house? I understand that, but the remainder of your demand is vague. What do you mean by the rights, of which I must not deprive you?”

“Above all, that of acknowledging no law between ourselves save that of love,” replied Aspasia. “Then I shall be your equal, as the woman you love, not a slave, like the wife. You are the master of the house, but not mine; you must be content with the sacrifice of my heart, without fettering my mind and condemning me to dull inactivity in the solitude of the women’s apartment.”

“So you will offer me your heart,” said Pericles, “but the charm and influence of your mind must be common property as before? You will not give up the pleasure of remaining in contact with everything, that can excite your imagination and occupy your intellect.”

“Even so!” cried Aspasia.

“If we wished to attempt such a bond, do you know whether the essay would be possible, viewed not merely from the stand-point of custom, but also from that of love.”

“If it seems to you impossible, who compels us to form it?” replied Aspasia smiling, as she bestowed a tender kiss on her friend and began to speak of other things. The trip to Samos was quickly made. After Pericles had given certain orders for the guidance of the fleet, he again went on board a trireme to set sail for Chios.

“What,” cried Aspasia jestingly, “have you so great a desire to see the fair one, who was once the object of your love and now, so far as I am aware, lives with the poet Ion at Chios?”

Pericles smiled as if at a jest.

This time Sophocles accompanied Pericles, and was no little surprised to meet the Milesian in her old disguise on the ship.

She was once more the charming youth, whose secret was disclosed only to a few. At Chios, the land of the finest grapes that ripened under the Greek sky, and whose inhabitants were called the richest people in all Hellas, lived Ion, a native of Chios, who had won many a laurel at Athens with his tragedies. True, he was said to have gained the favor of the citizens by means of several casks of Chian wine, which he distributed among the people at the performance of his first tragedy. He was one of the wealthiest men in Chios, as this generosity proves, and as such possessed considerable political influence in his native island.

Ion had not been on good terms with Pericles, since the two men were rivals for the charming Chrysilla’s favor, and the poet still remained unfriendly, though the fair one had at last become his and followed the rich man to his own country. Pericles regretted this lingering enmity in the mind of his former rival; for it was his mission to obtain from the Chians some by no means unimportant concessions to Athens, and now could not help fearing that the influential Ion might oppose him out of personal dislike.

Sophocles undertook to effect a reconciliation between Ion and Pericles, and no one was so well suited by nature to act as mediator as the amiable, universally-popular author of “Antigone.” His appeal to his fellow-artist succeeded so admirably, that the latter instantly invited Pericles to come to his house with Sophocles, and considered it an honor to entertain the two Athenian commanders.

Pericles could only remain in Chios from one morning till the next, and after having devoted the greater part of the day to political business, prepared, accompanied by Sophocles, to accept Ion’s invitation.

But the pair did not go to Ion’s house alone.

Aspasia had insisted upon following her friend, in the disguise of a slave, and thus remaining near him ready to render any service, after the custom of the slaves who attended their masters.

The Milesian’s secret design was to make the meeting between Pericles and the beautiful Chrysilla harmless, by diverting their attention from each other. Pericles consented to the disguise, attributing its motive to a pardonable curiosity to see Chrysilla.

Ion occupied a country estate in the most charming location of the sea-shore, where the land rose first abruptly, then in a gentle ascent, surrounded by sunny vineyards, full of the ripening gift of Bacchus.

He led his guests out upon a terrace, situated on a rocky promontory washed by the waves, and roofed with interlacing vines, from which hung tempting clusters of Chian grapes, between which the eye was afforded a charming view of the glittering sea and blooming neighboring islands.

Conducting his guests to this lovely spot, after their eyes were satisfied with gazing at the beautiful prospect, he invited them to recline on soft cushions and entertained them with delicious viands. The finest wine was poured into silver drinking-cups.

Chrysilla was present, still as blooming as a rose, though the roundness of her limbs had developed, during her stay in Chios, into such plumpness that the Athenians’ delicate taste missed perfect symmetry. She resembled a proud, full-blown rose; but the rose is only the most voluptuous and fragrant, not the fairest of flowers.

Ion, who was really a man of pleasant temper, gay and fond of amusement, received Pericles in a friendly manner and with unfeigned cordiality. He drained the beaker, in which foamed the most fiery liquor of his casks, to the health of Pericles and his famous companion, Sophocles. But when Ion was about to bestow enthusiastic praise on the two men and the success obtained before Samos, Sophocles declined to accept any share of the eulogy, saying that all the credit belonged to his friend Pericles.

“Yet,” he continued, turning to Ion and some of the aristocratic citizens of Chios, whom the latter had invited to the banquet, “you would be wrong, if in Pericles you principally admired the statesman and soldier. News of the fame of his enterprises and creations goes through all Hellas, but rumor speaks only of those qualities, which attract attention and make a noise in the world. I, on the contrary, since our companionship in the battles before Samos, can say more of his nobler, less conspicuous virtues. You know of the victories he gained there, but you do not know that when each of the fifty Samians, whom he sent as hostages to Lemnos, secretly offered him a talent for his release, he rejected these proposals, as well as the sums with which the Persian satrap sought to bribe him. Others will tell you how many hostile ships he sunk, how many enemies he has slain—but I will speak of the lives he spared from compassion, his efforts to save the blood of his own troops. I have often heard him say jestingly to the soldiers, that if it depended upon him they should live forever. He invented ‘iron hands’ for his ships, that those of flesh and bone might be spared. You know he is a hero in the hours of strife; but I tell you that in the hours of repose he is a philosopher, and whenever there was leisure in the camp explained to his warriors the various phenomena of wind, weather, and eclipses of the sun and moon, till many thought him a sorcerer. Of his learning and vigor in philosophy they have so high an opinion, that many now assert he defeated the Samian commander Melissus, a well-known philosopher, less by his skilful strategy than by murderous syllogisms. There was no man more gentle, no man more severe, no one more feared, no one more beloved in the camp than he, no one more silent when speech was superfluous, and no one more eloquent when it was necessary. I wanted to tell you this about Pericles, that you may praise the noble, excellent man, not always the soldier and naval hero. Though he deserves commendation in the latter characters, it should not be unconditional, since, as I hear, after doing well before Samos, he behaved far less bravely at Miletus, nay almost forgot his fleet and duties as commanding-general, and lay at anchor in that bay several days longer than was necessary, which I consider an error in strategy.”

Ion and the other listeners smiled at the conclusion of Sophocles’ speech, but Pericles instantly replied:

“My fellow-commander and friend wishes to persuade you to number me among the philosophers, rather than the great commanders. Gladly would I, in order not to return like with like, assert on the contrary, that he should be included among the great commanders rather than the philosophers; but the fact is too apparent for concealment, that he is in the same situation as myself: namely, he doesn’t understand too much about generalship and matters pertaining to naval life. He will find it easier all his life, to impress upon his mind the names of all the nereids of the sea, than those of the various parts of a well-built Athenian trireme. But during this expedition he composed a magnificent pæan to Asclepius, which is sung on the whole fleet and, as all the steersmen and rowers declare, rendered us most excellent service during storms at sea. Even as his pæan soothed the waves and made the gods favorably disposed towards the sea-voyage, his whole nature is like oil, that soothes all harshness, smooths all excitement. The men on his ship do what is right, even if he gives a wrong order, and think him a man beloved by the gods, though inexperienced in naval affairs. If anything escapes my lips which people consider wise, they believe I obtained it from the philosopher Anaxagoras; but when Sophocles opens his mouth, all are convinced that the gods themselves suggested in a dream what he says. Such, men of Chios, is the nature of my fellow-commander Sophocles. I meant to have praised him and should thank the gods, if the eulogy he poured forth on me were as well deserved, as that I bestow on him in these words.”

Thus, excited by the fiery spirit of Bacchus and concealing cordial feeling under the mask of graceful jest, the two Athenian commanders praised each other before the gay company, beneath the clusters of grapes on Ion’s beautiful sea-terrace.

“It is enough to make me blush,” said Ion, “to see men like Pericles and Sophocles, who are occupied in great things and toiling incessantly for the public welfare, while I myself live in seclusion, devoted wholly to the pleasures of existence and the Muses. Yet I think, in addition to praiseworthy and beautiful action, there is also a praiseworthy and beautiful leisure. I have chosen the latter.”

“Surely a leisure, which produces beautiful fruit, must be called beautiful,” said Sophocles. “The Athenians have not forgotten your tragedies—”

“Nor your Chian wine!” added Pericles.

“I know,” replied Ion, with a good-humored smile, “you Athenians say I tried to purchase your applause in the theatre with my wine, but say whatever you choose, except that the liquor was bad. If you don’t praise my Chian, you will wound me far more than if you censure my tragedies.”

“We see these tragic poets possess the gayest temperaments,” said Pericles, “while in their tragedies they are fond of dealing with the most sombre and gloomy subjects, being constantly occupied with the wrath of the gods, ancient curses, hereditary guilt, horrible dispensations of fate, and similar things.”

“It is precisely because we are gay,” replied Sophocles, “that we boldly enter upon gloomy themes; we struggle with and would fain conquer them. We fight bravely with the old blind powers of nature and destiny, in order to release human affairs, as well as we can, from the spell of a sinister necessity. In the clear, starry nights I spent on board of my trireme before Samos, my mind was much occupied with that suffering old Theban. I followed his course as, urged by despairing remorse for involuntary guilt, he deprived himself of sight and wandered forth in exile, but gradually attaining clearness and freedom of mind, finally shook off guilt and remorse, raised his grey head with the pride of an innocent man, and from a criminal became the judge of those who committed crime, not involuntarily and ignorantly like him, but knowingly; not by the external curse of fate, but by the secret denial of noble human emotions.”

“What you say, my friend,” replied Ion, “contains your well-known enthusiasm for your native province, for it was there that your grey-haired sufferer went to rest.”

“I willingly confess it, and consider it a favorable omen of my duty as a tragic poet, that these ancient tragic complications should meet their solution in the province where I was born.”

“Honor your native province,” said Pericles; “but permit me to remind you that not merely your birthplace, but all Athens is the soil where old complications are unravelled, old guilt expiated, and ancient darkness melts away in the presence of the goddess Pallas Athena! On the gracious soil of Athens, not only the grey-haired sufferer, but the youth Orestes, lashed by the furies, found deliverance from his curse; nay you all know the gulf near the unfinished temple of the Olympic Zeus, and we willingly believe the legend, that the waters of the Deucalion flood flowed into this abyss.”

During this conversation the sun had set—the wide sea glowed with crimson light, and the last golden rays illumined the interior of the vine-wreathed terrace. Ion’s guests eagerly breathed the mild, refreshing evening breeze blowing over the waves. The host ordered the beakers to be filled again, and the wine in the silver goblets sparkled, as if it also mirrored the crimson radiance of the setting sun.

Pericles would allow his beaker to be filled by no other hand, than that of the slave he had brought with him. The youth performed his office of cup-bearer with a grace that did not escape the eyes of Ion, the fair Chrysilla, and the other guests, whose attention had already been attracted by the beauty of his features. The slave seemed to also consider it his duty to pour wine for Sophocles, a service the latter smilingly accepted with evident satisfaction.

“The cup-bearer you have brought has but one fault, Pericles,” said he.

“What is that?” asked Pericles.

“He is in such a hurry to offer the goblet,” replied the poet, “I would prefer he should linger a little, to allow us to look into his eyes, which seem to me well worthy of notice.”

The youth blushed, as he saw the gaze of the whole company directed upon him by this speech. Sophocles smiled at his embarrassment, and cried in the words of an old poet:

“How beautiful, on purple cheeks, the light of Eros shines!”

“What do you say to those lines by Phrynicus? How do you like the purple cheeks?”

“Not at all,” replied the youth, who had quickly regained his composure. “It seems to me poets praise things in their verses, which they wouldn’t consider by any means beautiful in reality. I think a cheek painted with actual purple, would be hideous—”

“What?” cried Sophocles, “then you probably would not admire the rosy fingers of Eos in Homer?”

“Certainly not!” replied the young slave. “If my fingers were as red as roses, my master Pericles would think I had soiled them, and command me to wash my hands.”

“Would that all critics were slaves like you!” cried Sophocles. Pericles laughingly rallied him with having at last found his judge.

Many jests were thus bandied to and fro, while glances animated with the fire of Dionysus flitted hither and thither, and meantime invisible Cupids kindled a harmless little interchange of jealousy. Pericles thought his friend Sophocles guarded the fair slave’s secret too little, while the latter seemed to perform the office of cup-bearer to the poet with greater zeal than was necessary. Aspasia, on the other hand, fancied she had noticed that Chrysilla’s eyes met Pericles’ gaze very frequently, and the latter sometimes allowed his glance to linger on the well-rounded limbs of Ion’s friend. But this state of affairs soon changed. Chrysilla had really sought Pericles’ eyes, from pure feminine desire to learn whether she had wholly lost her power over the man, who once paid homage to her charms. But the handsome slave, who attracted all eyes, could not long fail to gain her notice, especially as he seemed resolved to lavish his most ardent glances on Chrysilla. Thus he at last succeeded in fixing her eyes almost exclusively upon himself. In this endeavor he was assisted by Sophocles.

Ion had at first watched the interchange of words and looks between Pericles and Chrysilla with a slight feeling of discomfort, and was no better satisfied when his friend’s attention was diverted to the stranger; but gave her also some occasion for anxiety, by showing the almost mysterious influence exerted upon him by the vivacious intellect and beauty of this very youth.

Fresh goblets were brought. As Sophocles received his from the handsome cup-bearer, he looked sharply at the edge, then turning to the slave, said:

“I must complain, for the first time, that you do not perform the duties of your office with sufficient care. I see a little speck on the brim of this glass, which you have neglected to wipe away.”

The youth was about to pass his finger lightly over the spot where the little speck rested, to brush it off.

“Such things ought not to be touched with the finger, but must be lightly blown away with the breath.” He held the goblet towards the youth, who smilingly stooped to blow off the speck as the poet desired. But the latter held it in such a way, that the slave was obliged to bend his head as near his as possible, so that the golden-brown hair almost glittered on his breast. He breathed the intoxicating perfume rising from it, felt a light touch on his cheek, as the head was bent and raised again, and touched his lips to the very spot on the brim of the goblet, that the rosy mouth had brushed.

Pericles had noticed this incident with a watchful eye. “Friend Sophocles,” said he, “I didn’t know you were so excessively particular, as to make such an ado over a tiny speck.”

“Rather confess,” replied Sophocles, with a smile of satisfaction, “that you now see you were mistaken in pointing me out before all this company, as a very poor strategist and tactician. But calm yourself, I have obtained the satisfaction I desired, and promise to rest content with this little proof of my capabilities.”

He held out his hand to Pericles, who warmly pressed it.

The shadows fell, but the clinking of the drinking-cups and the sounds of animated conversation echoed from Ion’s sea-washed terrace until far into the night. The crimson glow had gradually faded from the waves, but still sparkled in the refilled, foaming beakers of Chian wine.

Strangely enough, Pericles’ handsome, vivacious, ready-witted cup-bearer had at last become the centre of the whole circle. Every one wanted his goblet filled only by his hand, every one sought to catch a glance from his sparkling eye, a sportive word from his lips. When Chrysilla expressed a wish for a particularly beautiful bunch of grapes, that hung from the espalier, the ever-agile and willing cup-bearer hastened to pluck and offer it to the lady. Chrysilla blushed, blushed in the presence of the slave—and no one marvelled. Ion did not approve, but thought it perfectly intelligible. Thus at last everything revolved around the disguised Milesian. Though she made a jesting pretense of serving, she ruled.

Finally Ion, who had used his delicious wine no more sparingly than had his guests, asked Pericles if he would not sell this slave?

“No,” replied Pericles, “I intend to give him his freedom, and will do so now—this very hour. He shall have worn these clothes for the last time. Here, before your eyes, I grant him his liberty.”

All present enthusiastically praised this resolution. Beakers were drained to the cup-bearer’s health, and his liberation was sealed with the juice of the finest grapes.

But one in Ion’s gay company, Pericles himself, had at last become grave and thoughtful.

“You pronounced my release with a solemnity, that was noticed even by those who knew it to be a jest,” said Aspasia smiling, as they were on their way home from Ion’s.

“It was no jest,” replied Pericles; “it is my wish that you never again use a masculine disguise, never again humiliate yourself.”

“I am curious to learn how you will spare the stranger, the so-called hetæra from Miletus, from humiliating herself.”

“You will learn,” said Pericles.

The next morning the Athenian commander returned to Samos, and without delay ordered the fleet to prepare to set sail the following day for the homeward voyage to Athens.

This command was hailed with joy, and next morning at daybreak the victorious Athenian squadron, proudly decked with pennons, sailed out of the Samian harbor, to the accompaniment of rejoicing songs, into the open sea, steering westward to return home after an absence of eleven months.

“I think you conquered at Chios the horror which seized upon you after Artemidorus’ tale the last evening in Miletus, and did not need, as you supposed, Attic breezes for the purpose,” said Aspasia to Pericles at the hour of departure.

“Yet,” replied Pericles in joyous excitement, “my soul is full of longing for my native shore, and some lines I heard from Sophocles’ lips are continually ringing in my ears:

“Melicertes, son of Ino, and thou, Leucothea, fair Mistress of the emerald flood, ever swift thine aid to lend, Daughters of Nereus, Poseidon, and ye, rushing surges, bear Me on. West wind of Thrace, mildest sea-sovereign, send Thy messenger to waft me o’er the wide salt waters. There Is my loved Athens. Gods of the sea, from every peril me defend.”

Favorable winds aided the first day’s voyage, and the islands of the blue Archipelago were passed under a cloudless sky. This sail through the Archipelago was full of delight to the lovers. How they enjoyed gazing over the ship’s side as she cleft the waves, which close at hand looked meadow-green, but farther out merged into a dazzling blue, glittering with countless silver sparks under the sunbeams. Sea-gulls hovered around the mast on their long, white-bordered pinions, and schools of dolphins followed the shining track of foam left by the keel in its passage through the water. Gambolling saucily, they beat their bifurcated tails, rolled in the eddies of the waves, leaped above the surface and then buried their shining black bodies under the surges.

At nightfall Pericles ordered the fleet to anchor before Tenos. The monotonous song of the oarsmen died away, and with it the plashing of the sea furrowed by the keels; stars sparkled in the clear, shining ether, and in the east the moonlight cast its silver bridge across the waves.

Pericles stood musing on the vessel’s deck, while all around him sank into slumber.

A soft, warm hand stole into his.

“Why do you gaze so thoughtfully into the waves?” asked Aspasia. “Are you longing to see the ambrosial daughters of Nereus, who wander with rosy feet through the crystal flood?”

The silvery tones of her voice roused the dreamer.

He answered with a kiss, and both began a tender conversation, amid which, as if lulled into a dream, they gradually beheld in the clear moonlight, the wide sea peopled with living forms. The daughters of Nereus rose from the depths, riding on sea-animals, the Tritons pressed after, sea-trumpeters, blowing hymeneal songs on shells; amidst them came the sea-nymph Galatea. She raised the purple train of her robe from the flood, and allowed it, swelled by gentle breezes, to flutter like a sail.

In the first grey dawn of morning, Pericles and Aspasia suddenly heard the music of stringed instruments from the distance. It sounded like the lyre of Orpheus, which, according to ancient legend, when the singer died, was flung into the sea by the Mænads and borne onward through the waves of the Ægean, where its notes are sometimes heard by mariners during a calm, echoing over the tide. The sounds that reached the lovers’ ears seemed to proceed from the lyre of Orpheus drifting masterless on the sea, until they noticed that the music came from Sophocles’ trireme, which passed them as the fleet again began to move in the first dusk of morning. The friends greeted each other, and Sophocles accepted Pericles’ invitation to pay him a visit on his ship. There they talked of Athens, of meeting their friends again, and of the great Panathenaic festival, which would take place directly after their return. Aspasia heightened the eagerness with which Pericles and Sophocles anticipated the surprises Phidias and his assistants, after working constantly during this long time, would prepare for the returning soldiers.

When day had fully dawned and the first sunbeams sparkled on the waves, sacred Delos, the “star of the sea,” the island of Apollo, rose on their left, shining in the crimson dawn, and kissed by the first rays of the god to whom it was sacred. Not without secret emotion did Pericles gaze at the ancient, revered island pearl of the Archipelago. He thought of the day when, like a gift of the god, the rich golden treasure floated from this isle to Athens. Nor would the sailors allow the island beloved by the god to be passed unhonored. From the lofty decks of the whole Athenian fleet a loud pæan to Apollo, the patron divinity of the Ionian race, echoed loudly over the wide sea, sparkling in the light of morning.

But from this time the songs and shouts on the ships never died away, joyous excitement everywhere prevailed, for to-day the crews were to reach their native strand, and the nearer they approached the desired shore, the more swiftly the triremes, urged by swelling sails and doubly vigorous oar-strokes, seemed to rush through their liquid road.

Hours elapsed, Tenos and Andros were already far behind. Veiled in light, silvery mists, the heights of Eubœa appeared northward above Ceos. At the left, in large, bold, rugged outlines, surrounded by the same silvery vapor, rose the pine-covered mountains of Ægina. A delicate rime seemed to cover everything.

Between the two islands, jutting far outward and girdled in the background by a range of noble heights, the coast of Attica rose from the waves.

Countless eyes sought it—it was hailed with joyful emotion. But distance at sea is deceptive. The sun was low in the west before the fleet gained the wave-washed promontory of Sunium, towering steeply upward, with the marble temple of Pallas, supported by columns, gleaming on its lovely shining height.

The Athenian fleet swept in a wide curve around this southern cape of Attica, entering the magnificent Saronic Gulf, on whose right was their native strand and the beckoning battlements of Athens, on the left the mountains of the Peloponnesus, behind which the sun was setting. Both near and distant objects glittered through a golden, rosy mist. The mountain heights and the air above them, the sea and the ships, were all suffused in the magical light of the last hour of day. Everything was gleaming in purple and gold except at the southwest, where a black cloud had gathered. Suddenly it burst like a sheaf of fire, and the mountains of Argos stood wrapped in crimson flames. Calm and grand, the heights that crowned Athens rose opposite to them on the right—the long ridge of Hymettus, the pyramidal summit of Pentelicus, the bold rocky dome of Lycabettus.

Now, surrounded by the city, appeared the sacred height of the Acropolis, so dear to every Athenian. All eyes turned towards it. But the holy summit was changed. White marble pinnacles, strange to the long-absent soldiers, gleamed through the light veil of mist in the last rays of the setting sun.

This time the Athenian sailor did not gaze from his vessel’s deck towards the glittering head and shining spear of the colossal statue of Athena, all eyes on the returning fleet were fixed on the new, glittering white pinnacles, which flashed through the dusk on the summit of the Acropolis.

A loud shout rang from ship to ship.

“The Parthenon! The Parthenon!”

At the very hour, that the eyes of the returning victors were fixed upon the height of the Acropolis, a secret and almost miraculous event was transpiring in the venerable Erechtheum, opposite to the proud pinnacles of the new Parthenon.

The greatest and most magnificent festival of the Athenians, the Panathenaic, celebrated once in every three years, was approaching. At this festival, according to ancient custom, a beautifully-woven carpet, the so-called peplos, was offered to the revered Athena Polias, the protecting goddess of Athens. This peplos was woven on the Acropolis itself, in the sanctuary of Athena Polias, which was connected with the Erechtheum. Four young girls, scarcely beyond childhood, chosen from the most aristocratic families, made this sacred peplos, living within the precincts of the temple on the Acropolis, and following many another sacred custom connected with the ancient and somewhat mysterious worship in the Erechtheum. On a certain night, not long before the Panathenaic festival, two of these young girls were selected to carry into a rock grotto, near the Ilissus, through a secret subterranean passage, something no one was permitted to see, and which it was said not even the priests knew, bringing back to the sanctuary of Athena Polias something equally unknown and mysterious.

Among the young girls selected this year for the office of arrephori—the name given to the chosen virgins—was Hipponicus’ little daughter Hipparete, whose budding charms and modest manners her father had praised when, at the banquet given in honor of the victory, he suggested to Pericles the idea of forming a marriage-tie between this lovely child and the charming boy Alcibiades. In fact Hipparete was the very ideal of a real Athenian maiden, a rose-bud not yet opened, who with all her childishness, showed traces of a thoughtful, dignified character.

Hipparete now lived on the Acropolis, with the playmates who had also been summoned to render the same service to the goddess. The young girls were treated as if they belonged to the temple. There was even a special place, where they were allowed to amuse themselves in playing ball. The priestess of Athena Polias exercised a certain supervision over them, but as the sanctuary of this goddess was connected with the Erechtheum, the young girls also lived under the eye of Diopeithes, beside whom the priestess of Athena Polias was a mere insignificant shadow.

He gave all the maidens frequent directions and exhortations; but talked most frequently to Hipponicus’ little daughter, seemed to bestow special favor upon her, and always praised her more than any of the others. He often engaged her in long conversations concerning her father, his domestic affairs, and the guests who came to his house. Hipparete answered with the frankness of a child, and when he once jestingly asked if her father had chosen her future husband, gravely replied that he wished to betroth her to Pericles’ young ward, Alcibiades.

“Pericles’ ward?” cried Diopeithes, the pleasant expression his features wore suddenly changing to a sullen, sneering one.

The priest’s hostility towards Pericles, and all whom he regarded as companions, advisers, and followers of this man, had been constantly fostered since his conversation with the seer Lampon. Through the priestess of Athena Polias, a mere tool in his hands, he maintained a connection with Elpinice and Telesippe, and by them learned whatever happened in the circle of his enemies.

The evening, on which this mysterious rite was performed, had arrived. The two young girls chosen, Hipparete and Lysiske, were clad in costly white robes embroidered with gold, which it was their fathers’ duty to bestow for this festival, and which, after having been used, remained the property of the temple.

Thus adorned, the two maidens were conducted to the innermost sanctuary of Athena Polias, and here, amid various ceremonies, received from the priestess, in the presence of the priest of Erechtheus, and others who had come as spectators of the holy rite, the two covered vessels they were to bear through the secret passage into the rock sanctuary. With the left hand they held the vessels to their breasts, and in the right carried a lighted torch. Before they set out, the priest of Erechtheus gave them exact directions concerning what they had to do, exhorted them to banish from their minds any frivolous curiosity concerning what was concealed in the vessels, to feel no fear of anything that might meet them on the way or in the grotto, or allow themselves to be interrupted in the performance of the sacred ceremonies. He told them they were under the protection of the god Erechtheus, the wards of the goddess Herse, into whose sanctuary they were descending, and charged them to have no fear if the god himself should appear to them on the way in his serpent form, as he had once done in ancient times to the arrephori. Unless they violated the sacred mystery, or did not perform the sacred rites faultlessly, they would have no cause to fear the anger of the god. Under any other circumstances, they might expect favor and salvation.

The two girls set forth on their way. Hipparete had listened to the priest’s words with eager, childish faith, and was full of joyous courage. Lysiske, who was still younger, walked beside her more timidly. They descended together into the subterranean passage, in which many steps were hewn. Lysiske glanced timidly around, Hipparete encouraged her.

At last Lysiske began to wonder what was in the two sacred vessels.

“I can imagine what we shall bring back,” said Hipparete. “What can Herse, goddess of the dew, give us except dew? Or perhaps dew-sprinkled branches or flowers?”

“But what are we carrying down?” asked Lysiske again.

“I don’t know,” replied Hipparete. “If we are to bring up something wet, we shall probably carry down something dry or fiery, for if it is damp in the lowlands, everything on the mountain heights is withered and dry.”

“No!” said little Lysiske thoughtfully, “we are certainly carrying down a big owl, like those that build their nests in the walls of the Erechtheum, and shall bring back a hideous serpent, for snakes live in the lowlands.”

“Have no fear of serpents,” replied Hipparete; “you know the god Erechtheus appears under that form, and will protect and bless us on our way.”

The numerous steps were at last descended, the goal of the walk gained, and the two young girls passed through a rock gate-way into the sanctuary. The grotto was lighted by a lamp, whose red flame flickered before a stone statue of the goddess.

Performing the ceremonies they had been taught, the young girls placed their vessels before the goddess, and prepared to lift and bear away the closely-covered ones that stood ready for them.

While doing so, their eyes wandered to the back of the grotto, where in the dusk a huge serpent with upturned head lay coiled.

Lysiske started, turned pale, trembled and sought to fly. Hipparete detained her, and gave her the vessel, with which, without looking back, she hastened away. Hipparete raised the other vessel and prepared to leave the grotto. Just at that moment a strong breeze blew from the end of the cave, extinguishing Hipparete’s torch and the red flame of the lamp, so that the young girl stood in total darkness. Her heart would also have been filled with dread, had not a friendly voice reached her, bidding her remain as fearless as before.

“For thy noble courage and pious faith,” continued the voice, “the god will bestow on thee, oh! child, a gift which will secure thee the blessing of the gods and the highest happiness throughout thy life.”

The flame of the lamp now rekindled of itself, and in the spot where the serpent had raised its head appeared the god, no longer under a terrible aspect, but in the form of a stately hero. He invited the young girl to approach. Hipparete fearlessly obeyed. Drawing her towards him, he pressed a kiss upon her brow, which beamed with the radiant purity seen in the half-unfolded leaves of the tree, when they have just burst from their brown buds after a warm spring rain.

“Have you never heard,” he asked, “of the homage gods have paid to the daughters of earth? Have you never heard of Alcmene, Semele, Danæ?”

The speaker’s lips quivered as he uttered the words, and the hand that stroked the young girl’s waving hair also trembled.

“Have you never heard,” he continued, “of the maiden to whom Zeus descended, and who did not fear the god?”

He put his arm around the young girl, who listened devoutly, her clear eyes mirroring only the eager expectation of a childish heart, anticipating the wondrous gifts the god had promised to bestow.

Suddenly, glancing towards the back of the grotto, she said:

“The serpent form is still there—only it is smaller now, much smaller.”

Hipparete uttered the words very quietly, without the slightest emotion of fear. She had been exhorted not to fear the serpents on her way, and she did not fear them. She knew they were merely the mask beneath which the god Erechtheus concealed himself. She had not dreaded the larger serpent, why should she shrink from this small one?

But the god by her side was startled. The false Erechtheus began to tremble before the wrath of the real one. He gazed fixedly into the corner, and saw a serpent writhing there. The child felt sure no harm could befall her, that she was under the protection of Erechtheus; but the god himself trembled under his divine mask, trembled before the venomous reptile.

At this moment the noise of a throng of people echoed from without, as they hurried past the grotto on their way from the Ilissus to the Piræeus, shouting exultantly:

“The fleet from Samos is entering the harbor. Pericles is here! Long live Pericles, the Olympian!”

With a gloomy flash of the eyes, a wrathful quiver of the lips, the priest of Erechtheus rose, unmasked first by his fear and then by his rage, and hurriedly prepared to lead the child out of the grotto.

Hipparete, mindful of her duty, lifted the sacred vessel from the ground. The priest grasped her hand and conducted her up the dark passage, to the place where a secret corridor wound through the interior of the Erechtheum. There he left her, bidding her keep silent about all she had seen in the grotto; then the blessing of the god would not fail her.

Hipparete entered the lighted hall of the temple, and placed her sacred vessel at the goddess’ feet, then silently meditated upon the god’s appearance.

And Diopeithes?

He went forth to strive to conciliate Erechtheus, by preaching reverence for the ancient gods still more ardently than before.

While these events were occurring on the silent height of the Acropolis, the returning fleet had entered the Piræeus. The Athenians had rushed in crowds to see and greet the new arrivals. Evening had closed in, but the shore of the harbor glittered with torches, and the spectacle became all the more magnificent, as by the glow of these lights the hundred proud triremes of the victorious navy came sweeping over the dark waves.

The glare of light gave a strange aspect to the lofty masts, the white sails, the golden statues of Pallas, and the fantastic forms of the ship’s prows, adorned with shields wrested from the foe, the ornaments of the hostile ships destroyed, and other trophies.

Shouts of joy hailed the triremes from crowded stone dykes.

The disembarkation followed. When the strategi landed, all pressed around Pericles. The loudest shouts greeted him, some persons scattered flowers in his way, and even loaded him with garlands.

To escape these greetings, Pericles accepted Hipponicus’ invitation to take a seat in the carriage drawn by noble Thessalian steeds, which had been sent to meet the rich man at the Piræeus.

Aspasia had been compelled to part from Pericles. A litter awaited her. She entered it, closely veiled, and was borne to the city.

Meantime the moon had risen and poured her light upon the sea, the coasts, and the city.

Pericles, silent and absorbed in thought, reached the city in Hipponicus’ equipage. There, at a sudden turn in the road, glancing upward, he saw close before him the summit of the Acropolis.

He started. A slight tremor ran through his frame. Directly before his eyes appeared the vision he had seen glimmering at a distance. Gleaming white in the moonlight, strongly relieved against the night heavens, full of sublimity in the marble majesty of pediment and columns, the newly-completed work of Ictinus and Phidias stood on its airy height.

The spell, which even at the present day seizes upon the souls of those who gaze upward for the first time at the ruins of the Parthenon at Athens, thrilled the soul of Pericles at that moment.

END OF VOL. I.

ASPASIA A ROMANCE OF ART AND LOVE IN ANCIENT HELLAS

BY ROBERT HAMERLING From the German by MARY J. SAFFORD

IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. II.

NEW YORK WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER 11 MURRAY STREET 1882

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

CHAP. PAGE.

I.—The Panathenaic, 1 II.—Owls on the Acropolis, 28 III.—The Thesmophorian Festival, 52 IV.—The Arcadian Girl, 78 V.—The New God and his Lightning, 117 VI.—The Child of Light and the Priest of Darkness, 145 VII.—Aspasia’s School, 171 VIII.—Callicrates’ Mule, 202 IX.—Conflicts and Victories, 237 X.—Festival of Dionysus, 266 XI.—The Satyr and the Bacchante, 303

ASPASIA.