CHAPTER I.

THE PANATHENAIC.

When a great man is honored by his native land, praised by the world, and all offer him reverence, love, and homage, there is often one spot where his greatness shrivels, where he feels small, where cold or even disapproving eyes meet him.

This spot is his own hearth-stone, his house, the bosom of his family. Pericles too felt a strange, chilling atmosphere when, his ears still ringing with the joyful greetings of the Athenian populace, he again crossed the threshold of his home after a year’s absence. He too, like the victorious Agamemnon, was received on the threshold by an angry wife.

Telesippe did not think of avenging herself on Pericles, as Clytemnestra did on Agamemnon, or destroying him by a shirt of Nessus, as Deianeira killed the faithless Heracles. Her mind was petty, so too was her anger, her hate, and her revenge.

In the presence of the Erinnyes who sat beside his hearth, what did it avail Pericles that he had conquered before Sardis, sunk the hostile commander’s galley? While the Agora was ringing with his fame, he was compelled at home to endure Telesippe’s contemptuous, angry words, Telesippe’s disapproving look.

And Elpinice? The first time she met Pericles after his return, she accosted him as follows:

“For shame, Pericles! My brother Cimon conquered the Persians, the Barbarians, but you have shed Greek blood, and allow yourself to be applauded as the oppressor of your own kindred.”

Silently, without vehement retaliation, but in the gentle manner natural to him in his intercourse with others, Pericles allowed the strife that had entered his existence with Aspasia, to press onward to a decisive goal. He had at first supposed it would be an easy matter to keep the rights of the woman he loved apart from those of his wife. Had not Telesippe also thought so? Had she not contemptuously scorned the Milesian hetæra, who might win her husband’s heart, but must leave the rule over his hearth to his lawful wife? Had she not driven the intruder away from the threshold of her home, and was not the latter compelled to yield?

But matters had progressed. Pericles himself was no longer the same. The idea of a marriage-bond of a new kind had not been cast, like a glimmering spark, into his soul in vain.

The days during which the greatest of all Athenian festivals were celebrated, had returned.

The population of the rural districts flocked into the city, for the festival was what its name implied, and what its founder Theseus intended it should be—a constantly-renewed fraternization between the whole population of Attica. The guests even came from distant regions, the allied cities and islands, the colonies, nay from all Hellas.

But Athens had never before witnessed so large an assembly of native and foreign visitors within her walls. This time, in addition to the attraction always exercised by the Panathenaic festival, there was universal curiosity to see the wonderful Parthenon, opened for the first time, and the unveiling of the marvellous statue of Pallas Athena, wrought by Phidias of ivory and gold.

The usual contests took place for several days prior to the great festal procession. In the lowlands by the Ilissus the young heroes of the Athenian gymnasia wrestled for the prize of victory. The most skilful boys contended first, then the bravest youths, and then the most experienced men. In the strife between the boys, Alcibiades, Pericles’ ward and the favorite of all the Athenians, conquered, to the great joy of Pericles, but the vexation of Telesippe, who hated the lad, because he threw her own two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus, who possessed little talent, completely into the shade.

How this youthful victor glowed, as he gazed at the other contests at which, to his sorrow, he was only allowed to be present as spectator, not as candidate for the prize. Accompanied by Pericles himself, he stood on the plain lying westward of the Piræeus outside the city, enviously watching the clouds of dust grow wet with the steaming breath of the flying steeds, and seeing the contestants in the Hippie arts standing in the chariots, beside each rider a companion armed with helmet and shield, who while the coursers dashed around the race-course, sprang down, ran steadily for some distance, vying with the speed of the chariot, then with an equally firm leap, bounded back to it again.

And how the lad was attracted by the famous sword-dance of the youths! How his eyes sparkled at the mimicry of war, as keeping time to music they went through all the manœuvres of a battle, exhausting every method of attack, defence, evasion, in a sort of dancing-step, in harmony with the rhythm of the rushing melody, during which swords were clashed against uplifted shields, so that the clear sound of the metal united to the accords of the music, and sometimes the melody of victorious pæans, awakened a sort of martial enthusiasm and excitement even among the spectators. As Alcibiades, infected by this excitement, began to imitate the movements of the dancers and seemed glowing with a desire to join their ranks, Pericles could not help thinking of Artemidorus’ tale, and the scene when the Milesian suddenly beheld his son Chrysanthes snatched away from him on the Tmolus, into the mad riot of the Corybantes. In fact the noise of the sword-dance could not have failed to recall that of the Corybantes on the Tmolus, had not everything there been fierce and cruel, while here everything was presented to the eye with grave and noble moderation.

But the night too had its festival—the great torch-race, with which the Athenians honored their gods of light, Hephæstus, Prometheus, Pallas Athena. Only the handsomest and most agile youths in Athens were permitted to contend. The object was to bear the torch, still burning, to the goal; whoever had his light extinguished must retire from the ranks. Whoever ran slowly, to spare the flame, was spurred on by the eager, derisive shouts of the people.

The Athenian families chose from their midst the handsomest old men and stateliest men of middle age to adorn the procession. The youths and maidens were also selected; but blooming youth needed less severe scrutiny than middle life and old age, to afford the eye only graceful, beautiful and noble forms.

The contests closed with musical competition.

Pericles, fostering every form of talent with equal zeal, had introduced into the Panathenaic festival contests in the art of playing flutes and stringed musical instruments. Among the offices and dignities with which he was invested, was that of a director of the public games and festivals of Athens.

At dawn on the day of the real festival, when according to ancient custom the so-called peplos was offered to Athena, the guardian goddess of the city, in the Erechtheum, and the victors in the Panathenaic combats were to be crowned in the new Parthenon, the procession formed in the Cerameicus.

The whole vast space was thronged with portions of the procession, all moving towards the place of meeting, which afforded a scene of motley, gay, and brilliant confusion. Here stood the beautiful horned bullocks destined for the sacrifice, yonder the strong, elastic, fiery nature of the noble steeds displayed itself in a shower of sparks from the stamping hoofs. Beside the rearing horses stood youths, holding the glittering bridles with powerful hands, occupied in curbing them, or making them move in graceful caracoles. Thus the eye was perpetually delighted with living groups, models of strength and symmetry. The motley throng dispersed. The procession formed and began to move to the accompaniment of trumpets, flutes, and stringed instruments. First came the hecatomb of victims, hundreds of splendid cattle intended to be slain on the Acropolis for an offering to the goddess, and then served up to the populace for a festal banquet. They were magnificent animals, fat and thick in the neck, with hanging dew-laps, their horns beautifully curved like the two sides of a lyre, garlanded with wreaths of flowers and gilded at the tips. Strong youths led them, controlling with steady hands the struggles of the rebellious beasts. The cattle were followed by rams, no less strong and beautiful, with splendid horns and superb fleeces.

Behind these animals, with their drivers, attendants, and the sacrificers, came bearers of other gifts of the most diverse kinds: they carried cakes on flat dishes, and liquor partly in wine-skins and partly in large, handsomely-shaped vessels.

Next followed a brilliant train of Athenian matrons and maidens, clad in rich festal robes, bearing gold and silver sacrificial vessels, which were kept year after year in a certain place, and only displayed on such occasions. Dainty baskets filled with flowers, fruits, and frankincense were carried on the heads of some of the virgins, who were adorned with golden ornaments. Chosen from the fairest daughters of Athens, at once slender and stately, charming and dignified, these basket-bearers delighted every eye by the grace of their attitudes, movements, and gestures. They were girlish buds, still chastely folded, but sparkling with the dew of youthful freshness. Concealed during the year, like the golden vessels, and secluded from the eyes of the world in the women’s apartment, they were now brought forth to shine in the light of the festal day. The festival disclosed what was usually kept from every eye, displayed and unveiled everything brilliant and beautiful. To-day the god of love discharged his arrows, to-day the eyes of fair maidens and youthful suitors met.

Next to the magnificent sacrificial vessels were borne the still more superb gifts, which had never been more numerous: beautiful vessels, glittering gold and silver shields, richly-ornamented tripods of graceful shape, and even statues from the hands of admirable masters. All these things, carried openly, sparkled with dazzling lustre in the sunbeams.

The virgins’ procession closed with the pretty, delicate, childish figures of the Arrephori in the festal robes they had worn during the sacred rites on the Acropolis, among them gentle, devout, courageous Hipparete.

Now followed the bearers and attendants of the gifts and victims offered to the goddess by the Athenian colonies, or the cities and islands allied with Athens.

Then came the most important of all the gifts, the centre of the whole procession, the ample, superb peplos. It was not borne by human hands, but stretched like a sail over a magnificent ship that moved on wheels. Must not this carriage, in the form of a ship of remarkable size and beauty, have been intended to remind the spectators of the naval power of Athens, and at the same time of the sea-god, whose worship was formerly associated with that of Erechtheus and Pallas? Was not the peplos made the principal object in the Panathenaic procession, instead of the superb ship, to recall the victory of Pallas Athena, goddess of light, over the gloomy wielder of the trident? The part taken by the goddess of light, in the battle between the gods and the giants, was represented in the glittering gold embroideries, skilfully wrought on the purple or crocus-yellow ground of the fabric.

Stretched over the mast of the stately vessel, this gold-wrought picture of the battle of the gods of light against the rude primeval powers, glittered in the sunshine before the eyes of the populace.

Behind the magnificent ship with the peplos, proudly walked the victors in the Panathenaic contests—the musicians with their stringed instruments, the conqueror in the torch-race, holding in his hand the lighted torch, with which, according to ancient custom, was lighted the fire for the great sacrifice to the goddess on the Acropolis; the victors in the chariot-races, with their magnificent equipages, drawn by four horses, each chariot containing the driver and his companion, armed with helmet and shield; then came, bearing olive-branches in their hands, the procession of handsome, dignified old men, who had conquered in the trial of masculine symmetry. These men with silver hair, who had preserved the dignified beauty and freshness of body and soul until so late in life, were looked upon as noble examples by the Athenian youths. The mounted Ephibi followed, the young men of Athens, slender figures with dark waving hair and sparkling eyes, sitting their noble steeds like well-trained riders. Next came all the men of Athens capable of bearing arms, led by the Strategi and Taxiarchs: the heavily-armed troops, and cavalry, composed of men of noble birth in glittering armor, on the handsomest and most fiery steeds—for the wealthy and aristocratic Athenians appeared on horseback in peaceful processions, as well as in the field—then an endless procession of citizens, led by various dignitaries: the archons, the members of the council, the chief priests, the people arranged by districts, men and women in festal garments with myrtle-boughs in their hands, and behind them the foreign residents, the women carrying oak-branches, in token of being under the protection of Zeus Xenios, the god of hospitality. Other wives and daughters of foreigners walked behind the Athenian women, whose protection they enjoyed, carrying parasols in their hands to hold over their patronesses’ heads, when the procession stopped in the burning sun, or small daintily-shaped chairs without backs, on which they might sit when the train halted.

The procession now moved from the outskirts of the Cerameicus, through the finest streets in the city, up to the Agora, which was strewn with oak-leaves and otherwise decorated: the duty of the slaves on this day. Here it halted for the first time, and the mounted squadron of aristocratic Athenians in glittering armor performed various manœuvres and exercises in the vast square, which formed almost the finest part of the whole spectacle.

While the procession remained in the Agora, part of the train of victims, with its attendants, branched off to go in advance, and offer the usual preliminary sacrifices, one on the hill of the Areopagus, and the other at the altar of Athena Hygieia.

After these sacrifices were completed, the procession with the hecatomb and ship bearing the peplos, again moved forward, passed through the most aristocratic streets and by the most famous sanctuaries, at which a short pause was made, doing honor to the god by a sacrifice or singing a pæan.

When it reached the place where the way led up the hill of the Acropolis, the steeds and chariots, which could not follow the procession up the wide, but steep road, or find room on the plain at the summit, were left behind. Yet there was no lack of bold riders, nor even of chariot-drivers, who with their brave steeds accompanied the procession, keeping in the middle of the broad road, for the furrowed pavement here lessened the danger of slipping for horses’ hoofs as well as chariot-wheels.

On reaching the Acropolis, the procession halted between the Erechtheum and the newly-completed temple of Pallas Athena. The peplos was taken into the Erechtheum and, amid the singing of a pæan, the great sacrifice of the hecatomb began before an altar standing in the open air on the eastern side of the Parthenon.

But no glance from the multitude sought the dusky hall of the Erechtheum, where the ancient statue of Athena Polias, standing on a flower-wreathed throne, received its customary tribute, the peplos; the holy rite of sacrifice also remained unheeded: every eye turned towards the gleaming marble splendor of the temple, whose doors were to open to-day for the first time, to the gaze of the Athenian nation.

The first impression produced by the new edifice was a radiant vision of light. Nearly the whole structure was glittering marble, shining in the purity of its virginal whiteness, from the stones of the foundation to the last daintily-carved tile in the roof. The remainder was decorated with golden ornaments or bright colors. The wondrous building, steeped in sunshine, stood on the height, extending in a long quadrangle surrounded by pillars, from the western to the eastern side. Noble, clear, and symmetrical in its proportions, it yet seemed to soar upward from its strong foundation. Even this foundation, with the marble steps leading to it, rose above the heads of the spectators. The temple itself, with its forest of marble columns, the carvings on its frieze, the spirited colossal marble groups, which peopled the broad pediment as if with a throng of wondrous figures, the gleaming ornaments in gold and colors, whose glitter here and there outshone the snowy Pentelican marble, seemed as if it were rising towards the virgin goddess into her native realm of light, the ether sacred to her.

But, during the first few moments, nothing so strongly attracted the eyes of the Athenians as the large marble groups, which filled the broad space of the two pediments. The spectacle was overpowering; for the superb figures represented resting, standing, walking, not in bas-relief, but in statues, separated from the background, seemed about to step forth and descend to the Athenian populace, so beloved by the gods. Symmetrical in bearing and movement, they appeared full of healthful, vigorous life.

The moment immediately after Athena’s birth from the brain of Zeus, was depicted on the pediment on the eastern side. In the centre of the group were the god, the goddess, and the Titan Prometheus, who cleft Zeus’ head to aid the birth of the goddess of light—on both sides Nice and Iris hastened away with the joyful message, while goddesses and heroes met them, eagerly listening to the tidings; in the left corner rose Helios with his fiery steeds, in the right the goddess of night, with her coursers, was disappearing in the waves of Oceanus.

The western pediment contained a group representing the contest between Poseidon and Pallas Athena for the possession of the Attic country. In the centre were the two divinities—impetuous Poseidon, who had just struck the rock with his trident and called forth the sacred spring, opposite to him Pallas Athena and the olive-tree which grew at her command; beside her the rearing steeds for the triumphal procession; the divinities and heroes of Attica joining the goddess, Poseidon attended by his sea-tritons. From these figures of colossal size, carved in marble, the eye wandered to the smaller sculptures on the frieze above the columns, where in the long succession of metopes was represented the battles of Hellenic champions with fierce Centaurs; and thence, through the columns surrounding the temple, to the carving on the inner frieze encircling the external marble of the hall within.

As his gaze rested on this, the Athenian’s eye began to sparkle still more brightly; for here was the reflection of the festal procession, chiselled in marble—scenes from the Panathenaic procession and the preparations for it: groups of beautiful, modest maidens, youths on rearing steeds, pairs of horses dashing proudly along, battle-scenes of the Agones, [7] the presentation of the peplos, and amid all the beautiful human forms, the Olympic gods, who had emerged from their invisible, unapproachable sphere, as witnesses of the magnificent festival. So simple, so noble appeared every figure, despite its beauty, that they seemed to say from the marble to the Athenian nation for all futurity: “Maintain beautiful symmetry, and let your lives constantly develop into the noble simplicity, loveliness, and purity, that confront you here in the marble forms from Phidias’ studio—”

When the victims of the hecatomb had been offered, the highest dignitaries in Athens marched forward, in the presence of the expectant throng, up the steps to the doors of the temple, where they formed in two lines. In the centre stood Pericles and the archon Basileus.

Then the wide, richly-ornamented metal doors of the temple opened. The interior, with its glimmering columns and the new, sublime statue of Pallas Athena by Phidias, shining amid the sacred gloom, were revealed for the first time to the Athenian populace.

The members of the procession began a song of praise to the goddess. When it had died away, Pericles came forward and from the steps of the temple addressed the throng.

“In ancient times,” he said, “Pallas Athena had poured forth a wealth of temporal blessings upon the cradle of the Athenian, and as the bestower of the nourishing olive-tree, the giver of the first blessings, the founder and promoter of the prosperity of the Attic country, was honored in the venerable, but shapeless wooden statue of the Erechtheum. Then came the time when Athens girded on the sword, battled in the van of Hellas with the Barbarians, and strengthened by conquest, soared upward to the full development of her might. As a symbol of this period, the colossal statue of the goddess towered on the Acropolis far over land and sea. Now a time has commenced, when the goddess develops her inmost and deepest nature, and with it bestows the fairest portion of her blessings on the Attic country and nation. She now desires to reveal herself as the goddess of light-giving ether, in whose presence darkness melts away, the thoughtful, meditative divinity, around whose brow free thought hovers with beautiful clearness, the fosterer of all beautiful trades and arts, and every blessing emanating from the mind. As such Phidias now represents her, a Pallas Athena of peace. Above this new statue of the goddess has been reared the new temple worthy of her, no priestly house of sacrifice, but a Panathenaic festal dwelling, in which, released from priestly limitations, she can reveal the real light and power of her nature. This temple significantly surrounds the goddess, completing the revelation of her own nature and that of the nation she protects; for the character of the divinity and her chosen people will soon be blended into one. So, revering the ancient customs of our ancestors, the peplos will still be offered to the venerable wooden statue of the guardian of the city, but the goal and central point of the Panathenaic festival will henceforth be the Parthenon. Henceforth the victors in the Agones must receive the prize from the hand of the magistrate sitting at the feet of the goddess, and the nation will turn to the carvings on the brilliant temple, to receive into their souls the emanations from the goddess’ inmost nature, and fill their minds with the lofty and important truths, which speak with marble tongues from walls, pediment and frieze. In these sculptures the Athenian will read the story of his own existence, read it in the heroic pæan carved in stone of the victory of light and intellect over darkness and savagery. Becoming conscious of its strength, the Hellene’s mind will kindle with noble aspiration to be worthy of the monument he has planted here for all ages.”

After these words from Pericles the populace enthusiastically repeated the pæan to the virgin goddess, and, amid the song and the music of flutes and stringed instruments, which accompanied the procession, the band of young girls at a sign from the archon Basileus, conducted by him, were the first to ascend the steps and pass through the open doors of the Parthenon. It was fitting that the new sanctuary of the virgin goddess should be first trodden by virgin feet. The maidens were followed by the youths, and while the former stood on the right and the latter on the left of the statue, amid the melody of the pæan, the bearers of gifts, clad in festal garments, entered the temple and laid the offerings at the goddess’ feet. Other gifts, especially gold and silver shields, were hung on the architraves of the pillars. The victors in the Panathenaic contests were now led across the threshold, attended by the umpires and highest dignitaries in Athens.

Louder rose the sound of flutes and stringed instruments, still more inspiring was the pæan, as the radiant statue of the goddess stood directly before the eyes of those conducted into the temple and the crowd of Athenians, who flocked after. The gaze of all was fixed upon it.

The colossal figure of the divinity gleamed with a lustre as dazzling as the temple; the undraped portions were formed of ivory, all the rest of gold. The grave, beautiful face, shaded by a heavy gold helmet, from beneath which fell luxuriant curls, gazed thoughtfully into space. The features wore a meditative expression, which seemed to melt into a mild radiance. At the left of the goddess rested the shield, peacefully lowered, no longer victoriously uplifted. The spear leaned idly in her hand. She seemed no longer a combatant, but a conqueror; in her out-stretched right hand she held, as one bears a dove or a falcon, a statue of winged victory, that extended to her a glittering gold wreath. Under the shelter of the shield coiled the sacred serpent, symbol of the earth-born, but divinely-guarded primitive power of the Attic country and nation. On the goddess’ breast was the ægis with the radiant Gorgon head. Beneath the curve of the towering ornament of her helmet was carved a sphinx, and on the right and left griffins, emblems of thoughtfulness, penetration, and watchfulness. Many another significant ornament strove to fully interpret the goddess’ nature—on the outer side of the shield, the battle with the fierce Amazons, on the inner the struggle with the defiant giants, on the edge of the sandals the savage Centaurs; everywhere strife with dark, evil powers.

The magnificent temple was a fitting sanctuary for the superb statue. A double row of gleaming columns, twined with festal garlands, ran through the interior, dividing it into three apartments. In these side chambers a second row of pillars, above the first, formed an upper story, an open portico. The flat roof, resting on this upper row of columns, had a wide square opening in the centre, so that the light fell from above into the windowless interior and upon the statue. This brightness, streaming from above, was wonderfully suited to the dignity and divinely mysterious stillness of the temple—the glimpse of this opening and the blue sky above divested the mind of the oppressive sensation produced by the magnificent and powerful carving. The falcon and eagles, the fiery steeds of Helios, and the thunder-clouds of Zeus passed over it, and in the changeful play of light and shade, now steeped in golden radiance, now bathed in cool white moonlight, anon veiled by temporary twilight, the goddess’ face seemed to gaze downward from her height with varying expression, by turns grave and gentle. In the noble grandeur of the temple, there was nothing which could have diverted the spectator’s gaze from the goddess; everything led the eye to her, even the succession of beautiful glittering gifts between the columns. There was no trace of the scattered ornaments, diverting the attention, with which other ages and nations have striven to adorn the abodes of their gods. The vast, sublimely beautiful statue stood alone in the marble hall, pervaded with its atmosphere of radiant light and mysterious stillness.

After the new temple of Athena had been offered and consecrated to the goddess by the Athenian nation, amid enthusiastic songs, accompanied by the music of flutes and stringed instruments, and the rich gifts had been laid at her feet, the distribution of prizes to the victors in the Panathenaic contests commenced. They were summoned by the umpires, and as the trophies were awarded first to the victorious boys, then the youths, and then the men, it happened that the fourteen-year-old son of Cleinias, Alcibiades, as victor among the boys, was the first one called to receive the prize in the newly-opened Panathenaic temple. The proud, joyous lad obtained a beautifully-formed amphora, adorned in brilliant colors with a representation of the youthful Heracles destroying the serpent. This exquisite vessel was filled with oil from the sacred olive-tree of Pallas Athena, in the garden of the Academy. The victors in the other Agones received similar gifts; but those who conquered in the musical contests obtained golden garlands.

When the distribution of prizes was completed, the treasure of the Athenian commonwealth was conveyed into the storehouse at the back of the Parthenon, before the eyes of the populace. This building which, enclosed by the pillars of the Parthenon, adjoined the temple on the western side, was a solid, windowless chamber, that could be lighted only by a lamp, and in whose mysterious gloom the coined and uncoined treasure of Athens, with jewels of every kind, costly vessels used for display, and even public documents of special importance, were henceforward to be preserved under the charge of the treasurer of the Athenian people.

Among the throngs who crowded the height of the Acropolis, to gaze at the newly-revealed splendors of the Parthenon, were many who came from other countries, among them a man from Sparta.

As the latter was about to enter the new hall of the temple, an Athenian youth, who had watched him for some time, seized his shoulder, exclaiming:

“Away from this threshold! Dorians are forbidden to enter here.”

Indeed, an old decree prohibited men of the Dorian race from entering the sanctuaries on the Athenian Acropolis, and the outspoken foes of Athens were sometimes reminded of this law. As a large crowd of people had gathered around the Spartan, and the youth repeated the envious remarks he had heard from the latter’s lips, all took sides against the foreigner, and he was compelled to leave the place.

Thus the enmity which formerly divided the two great Hellenic races, sometimes blazed significantly, though only in lightning flashes.

But there was also an Athenian on the Acropolis, who watched the festal throng surging around the new Parthenon with looks of wrath and envy. This man was Diopeithes, priest of Erechtheus.

True, according to ancient inviolable custom, the peplos had been carried into the Erechtheum, offered to the wooden statue of Athena Polias. But the rite was hastily and coldly performed, while the Athenian populace turned towards the newly-erected temple, the priestless sanctuary of Pallas Athena. Not to the Palladium sent down from heaven to the city of Athens, not to the goddess of his sanctuary, had the Athenians paid their homage, but to the frivolous showy statue of Phidias. At the feet of this new statue, not in his temple, were laid the costly offerings. The gods of the Erechtheum were angry, and their priest with them.

As on the day when Pericles and Aspasia, accompanied by Sophocles, wandered over the summit of the Acropolis and saw the foundation of the now completed structure, Diopeithes was standing engaged in conversation with one of his confidantes at the door of the Erechtheum. Even as on that day, when talking with Lampon about the corruption of the times, he now suddenly saw the man he hated, with the same Aspasia, walking on the height, accompanied by Phidias, Ictinus, Callicrates, Sophocles, Socrates and other distinguished Athenians, who with Phidias, inscribed on their banners the Homeric saying: “Pallas Athena never suffers me to tremble.”

As the hour of the great festal banquet had arrived, in which the flesh of the slaughtered hecatomb of cattle and the remains of the preliminary sacrifices were served up to the populace, moistened with lavish gifts of Dionysus, this chosen group now wandered over the Acropolis to gaze undisturbed at the newly-finished building.

Phidias’ countenance was not grave and thoughtful as usual, a radiant expression rested on his brow.

Pericles expressed his great delight that, after watching the commencement and gradual growth of this work, he had now, on returning to Athens after a year’s absence, been surprised by a completed structure whose splendor he had never anticipated; and again extolled the genius by which so much that was great and beautiful had been finished in so short a number of years, been produced as it were, by a single brain.

Phidias replied that the miracle had not been performed by a single brain, but the thousand skilful hands that served it. Yet they had not so much served a single head, as the one spirit which animated all with the most beautiful harmony.

While the men, in their joyful excitement, drank in the charm of the newly-created temple with enraptured eyes and gave utterance in words to their emotion, Aspasia gazed at the work of Phidias, Ictinus, and their assistants with an eager, sparkling glance, nay even with flushed cheeks, but in silence.

Her muteness perplexed even Phidias, the most silent of men, who at last, turning to her with a smile peculiar to him, said:

“If my memory does not deceive me, the beautiful Milesian has long been considered by many the best judge in Athens of everything relating to matters of art. She has also, to the best of my recollection, never been backward in expressing her opinions. How happens it that she, a woman, shames us men to-day by her silence?”

All looked earnestly at Aspasia, mutely making themselves sharers in the question.

“You are right to remind me that I am a woman, Phidias,” replied Aspasia. “As such I am not always so calm as you men, and in my thoughts there is less rigid sequence and order than in yours. Woman’s temperament is mobile, and you must take heed that you have not ventured too much in granting to me, a woman, apparently the only one of my sex, the right of free thought and speech. Here stands the wondrous new structure, vast as a mountain, beautiful as a flower, and what a wealth of finished work is at the same time spread out and revealed before my eyes! Everything is so graceful in its dignity, so multifarious in its noble simplicity, so stirring in its repose, so mature in its youthful freshness, so profound in its naturalness, so bright in its solemnity, so human in its divinity, that the mind of every man can be in no other condition than that of the utmost satisfaction and absence of all farther desire. But a woman’s nature, like a child’s, prompts her, when receiving in her hand one article she wants, to stretch out the other for another, and perhaps follow a third with her eyes. If I were a man, I should be satisfied at this moment with enthusiastically praising Phidias as the first, the greatest of all the Hellenes. As a woman I have another wish to utter, nay, an accusation to make. Have you no fear of golden Aphrodite’s anger, Phidias? You seem to me to be ever seeking to embody in human form the lofty, the pure, the divine; and if the divine did not always happen also to be beautiful, I believe you would not trouble yourself about beauty. Never do you seek it; the loveliness that charms the senses, kindles the heart, has no echo in your soul. You disdain to represent feminine beauty for its own sake, as poets so enthusiastically do, when they sing of Aphrodite. Your mind is always steeped in holy austerity, and your soul hovers, like the eagle, only over lofty heights. Oh! Eros, has thou no arrow for this man? Why, oh! Cyprian goddess, dost thou not bind him with thy golden chains, that he may consecrate his chisel to thy charms, and through him thy inmost nature be revealed, as that of his goddess, Pallas Athena, has been disclosed in these images?”

“In truth,” replied Phidias, “I have hitherto found protection from the arrows of Eros and the fetters of Aphrodite beneath Pallas Athena’s shield, and doubtless owe it to her that my art has not become effeminate. Accuse the Lemnians, however, Aspasia, if having just completed the statue of the virgin goddess for the Parthenon, I do not now devote my art to golden Aphrodite. The Lemnians do not ask an Aphrodite, but have long urged me to make them a bronze statue of this very Pallas Athena.”

“Your words fill me with greater hopes than you suppose,” answered Aspasia, after a thoughtful pause. “To-day, while Pericles was addressing the populace, I heard him allude to the progress made from the insignificant, shapeless wooden statue to the mighty colossal Athena, and thence to the virgin goddess of the Parthenon. Who would not believe that the Pallas of the Lemnians will also surpass the virgin of the Parthenon? Who would doubt that the more you create, the more warmly, the more brilliantly the fiery waves of life and beauty will leap from the bronze or marble? After you have carved the warrior form, half masculine, half feminine, and the thoughtful virgin, what is left except woman?”

“Whether I shall advance or deviate from my course by listening to the suggestions of a beautiful woman, I know not,” replied Phidias. “But what you ask seems to lie in my path.”

“Do you, to whose eye no Hellenic woman would deny the sight of her charms, represent woman and her loveliness,” continued Aspasia, “and announce to the Greek nation, as the last and highest message: Only in the garb of beauty will wisdom conquer all hearts.”

Such was Aspasia’s conversation with Phidias. Pericles now began to discuss with the sculptor and Ictinus the plan of the magnificent porticos, which were to complete the coronation of the mountain on its western side, and which, according to the views of these men, ought to be no less sublime and gorgeous than the Parthenon itself. But they constantly turned back to gaze at and enjoy the finished structure, the carvings, the superb offerings. The work of one and another of Phidias’ pupils was singled out—here Alcamenes was praised, yonder Agoracritus, and thus each one of the countless sculptors, who with eager zeal had united their powers.

Phidias now conducted Pericles and the rest of his companions to the work of Socrates, son of Sophroniscus, the group of Graces, which the truth-seeker had undertaken to carve for an offering to the temple on the Acropolis.

They beheld the three virgins, sculptured in marble, embracing each other. Spite of a strong resemblance, they were yet dissimilar. One was charming, the second noble, but severe, the third thoughtful.

When the spectators wondered at this diversity, the sculptor, a shade of sadness resting on his face, replied:

“I thought you would not consider this difference strange, but perfectly natural. Why should we imagine a trio of Graces, if all three are one and the same? I sought to trace the deep meaning of this trinity, for I did not doubt that three diverse traits of character must be united in the nature of the Graces. But I could not succeed in discovering what these three different qualities were, until Alcamenes took us to the beautiful Theodota. Scales fell from my eyes, when the Corinthian successively danced Aphrodite, Hera, and Pallas. What is Aphrodite’s nature except physical beauty, what Hera’s save loveliness of soul, goodness, morality, and what Pallas’ except intellectual beauty or truth? So I learned, that body, soul, and mind must unite to form the perfect nature of the Graces.

“This is what I learned from Theodota, but would not disclose when you questioned me, because I longed to express the idea my mind had grasped, not in words, but sculpture, like Phidias. I have not succeeded. If I had, these words would not have been needed. I have toiled with the marble, yet must now use speech. You, Aspasia, do not require words to express your opinion; I read it in your looks.”

“What do you read?” asked Aspasia.

“You tell me: ‘Turn back, investigator, from statues and living forms to thoughts, ideas, and words—’ I will do so. From this day forth, I will lay aside the chisel, or rather offer it as a gift to the wise goddess, instead of the work of my hand. I will shatter this image of my wretched art, content if the thought that created it lives on and will be embodied in the minds, souls, and emotions of the Athenians, instead of in lifeless marble.”

“Nay, Socrates,” said Pericles, “offer your chisel to the goddess, that in future you may pursue only your real mission, which no other can so well perform. But leave this group uninjured; for although formed less by the artist’s hands than the sage’s intellect, this group places before the eyes the noblest goal of the Hellenic spirit—body, mind and soul united and transfigured into the fairest flower of the Graces. More impressive expression cannot be given to the efforts hitherto made by us all, or a more worthy incitement to fresh creation and action! Here, before this piece of sculpture, is the spot to clasp hands, in renewal of the bond which has united us. Here, too, it seems to me, before the group of the Graces, is the place to thank our noble Aspasia for what she has promoted in unison with us, not so much urging with words, as directly animating us by the inspiration of her nature, which, as you all know, streams into our souls like a sunbeam, ever kindling something new and beautiful. Let her be the model from which you carve your new statue of Pallas, Phidias; for she not merely tells you, but has proved to you and to us all, that wisdom, robed in the garb of beauty, is invincible.

“Usually,” continued Pericles, “the footprints of beauty are fleeting—it comes and goes like the sunlight or the fructifying rain. The beautiful graciousness, emanating from Aspasia’s nature, will remain with us as a carefully-guarded treasure. You no longer see before you a stranger, at whom the shafts of envy may be aimed with impunity, or who may be insulted with abusive names. From this day forth she is my wedded wife. The marriage-tie that united me to Telesippe has been peacefully sundered. Hereafter Aspasia will rule my hearth in her place. I know the Athenians look askance at a fellow-citizen, who brings a foreigner into his house as his wedded wife. I know our law even denies the scions of such a marriage the rights of Athenian citizenship. Yet I have wedded Aspasia. The bond I have formed with her, however, is a new one, a marriage which—I know not whether husbands or wives are at fault—has never yet been realized, hovers before the minds of both. Our community has recently experienced many changes, but if public life is regenerated, why should not individual, domestic existence yearn for a new birth? To me and to Aspasia, this day, which displays the life of Athens on a glittering pinnacle, will be at once a turning-point and high festival of our existence. Athens and all Hellas strive under new stars towards new goals: we will both do the same within the narrow circle of the inner life. Here, as well as there, the moving spirit, mind, and thought are the same. Here, as well as there, I believe, the same thing will be verified in the same way.”

Before any of the friends could give utterance to the emotion Pericles’ words had aroused in the minds of all, Aspasia clasped her husband’s hand, replying:

“What you say is true, Pericles; I arrogate no power of words, nor of conscious wisdom. If, in connection with you, I have fostered anything, the influence emanating from me was merely that of womanhood, permitted, for the first time, to express itself freely, without reserve, untrammelled by the fetters of sex. If I am an envoy, it is of womanhood. Perhaps the world, hitherto bound by the harsh chains of masculine character, must be born again of woman’s nature, to strip off every remnant of the barbarism of ancient times. As a scion of the Ionian race, I am, voluntarily or not, the champion of the Ionic nature against the stern, harsh Doric character, which would stifle the fairest flower of Hellenic life, if it obtained the victory. Woe betide the beautiful gods of Hellas, if it ever gains the upper hand.—If I am really summoned and able to toil and battle for a cause, and have, as you say, proved myself an intercessor for the beautiful and feminine with the masters of sculpture, I would fain, essaying other sides of life, declare open warfare against every prejudice, every custom that has become meaningless, every narrow-minded or gloomy opinion, every thought unworthy the dignity of man. Striving to obtain allies, I will apply to those of my own sex. They will listen to me, for I shall be the wife of Pericles.”

The group of friends listened to Aspasia’s words with thoughtful, earnest sympathy. Diopeithes, the priest of Erechtheus, concealed in the shadow of a column, also heard them. His lips curled scornfully, and a burning glance of hatred rested on the Milesian.

The friends now began to enthusiastically express their joyful interest, and praise the purpose of the noble pair.

Socrates alone remained silent, as he often did from modesty, when he found himself in a circle of distinguished men.

Pericles smilingly asked:

“What does our friend of wisdom think of the bond, formed here in the presence of his Graces?”

“Only this one thing is clear to me,” replied the son of Sophroniscus, “that our Athens will be the most highly praised of all the cities in the world. All else is unknown and veiled in darkness. But we will hope for the best in every direction, from the favor of Father Zeus and his glorious daughter, Pallas Athena.”