CHAPTER II.

OWLS ON THE ACROPOLIS.

If it is true, as related by legend and the famous author of the Eumenides, that on the Athenian Acropolis Prometheus brought down fire from heaven and delivered it to man, it is not surprising that at the mention of the Acropolis many see in imagination only a lofty height, steeped in a pure radiance, and crowned by the gleaming marble of the Parthenon.

But there were also owls on the Acropolis.

There were owls in Athens—so many of them that the saying, “carry owls to Athens,” might be used as a synonym for a superfluous action.

These birds were sacred to Pallas Athena, belonged to her, as the birds of thought-producing, meditative night. Though night itself is dark, ideas germinate and mature in the wakeful brains of men better than in glaring day. Not infrequently night yearns to be something in itself, something better than the light to be born of it, and then assumes a hostile attitude towards the day.

So it happens the birds of night, the owls, have become enemies of the light.

There were many of them on the Acropolis, and they preferred to build their nests in the space between the cornice and the roof of the ancient Erechtheum, together with lizards, mice and serpents.

They were the favorite birds of Diopeithes, priest of Erechtheus, who was engaged in eager conversation with a man, and at the same time in a somewhat singular performance.

This occupation consisted in walking up and down the steps of the Parthenon in a very excited manner. Before the entrance of the temple, to render the ascent easier, smaller steps had been hewn in the wide lofty ones. Up these smaller steps went Diopeithes, counting them as he walked, and mentioning the number aloud.

After he had pointed out the number of steps to the man, by going over them and counting them aloud, he said:

“You know the rule in regard to the number of steps before a temple, established among the Hellenes by the devout and well-considered custom of many years. According to ancient usage, the number is uneven, to secure the favorable omen of stepping on the first and last one with the right foot.”

“That is undoubtedly true,” replied the person Diopeithes addressed.

“Very well,” continued the latter, “you see the men, who built this Parthenon, supposed they would never need the favorable omen. The number of these smaller steps is even. They may have sinned against the sacred custom from intentional defiance, or been cursed with forgetfulness by the gods; but what they have erected betrays itself at the first glance as an impious work, displeasing to the Olympians. And I say—in its whole design it is an insult, a humiliation, a scoff at the gods. Why, just see! Since the close of the Panathenaic festival, since the victors in the contests received their prizes, since the people gaped till they were weary at the gold and ivory lavished on Phidias’ statue, the festal temple, as they call it, is shut, the statue of the goddess covered, that it may not gather dust till the next festival, and instead of priests, treasurers daily go in and out, carrying on their business of counting the money received and paid. Thus, oh shame and sacrilege, instead of pious words the base jingle of gold and silver pieces rings all day long in the goddess’ ears!”

At this remark, the man with whom Diopeithes was conversing, and whose appearance showed him to be a foreigner, began to inquire eagerly about the extent, value, and amount of the coined and uncoined treasure stored in this building under the protection of Pallas Athena. The priest did not withhold the information he could give.

“You Athenians have gathered a goodly amount of savings, or rather let us say, a goodly amount of booty,” observed the stranger. “But it seems to me the store will soon be exhausted, even in times of peace.”

“It won’t last long,” replied Diopeithes.

“But I see,” continued the stranger, “that, though the costly temple is just completed, a new work is commenced with the same haste and zeal, a magnificent entrance to the Acropolis, sumptuous porticos no less superb than the Parthenon itself.”

“And no less meaningless, no less superfluous!” exclaimed Diopeithes. “That is just the sin of the insolent men, who now guide the destiny of Athens. They let the sanctuary of Erechtheus, which even the Persians only ventured to partially destroy, fall to ruins, and erect instead magnificent halls, filled with the frivolous work of the troop of men, who have flocked to Phidias from every part of Hellas.”

“Is Pericles omnipotent?” cried the stranger. “How happens it that of all the famous Athenian generals and statesmen, not one, so far as I am aware, escaped the fate of banishment, while Pericles has maintained his supremacy unassailed for a long series of years?”

“He is the first statesman,” said Diopeithes, “to whom the Athenians allow time to ruin them.”

“May the gods forbid! I am a harmless man from Eubœa, and wish the Athenians all prosperity.”

“Why dissemble?” asked Diopeithes, looking the stranger quietly in the face. “You are the Spartan, whom they turned away from the threshold of the Parthenon at the festival. I witnessed the incident and instantly recognized you, when wandering over the height of the Acropolis, you addressed a few questions to me. Ay, you are a Lacedæmonian, and when you say you wish Athens every good, you utter a falsehood. But fear nothing from me! There are Athenians whom I hate far more than the whole Spartan race. You are doubtless aware, that here in Athens the enemies of innovation, the friends of the good old times, are called friends of Sparta. Nor is it unjust.”

Almost involuntarily the Spartan extended his hand to the priest of Erechtheus.

“Do not suppose,” continued the latter, “that the number of those, who secretly bear ill-will to Pericles in his new Athens is small. Come with me! I will show you a spot around which, no less than about the Erechtheum, implacable spirits of vengeance hover.”

With these words Diopeithes led the Spartan to the edge of the western slope of the Acropolis, and pointed to a rugged, gloomy, jagged rock, which, separated from it only by a ravine, towered opposite.

“Do you see that steep cliff, whose masses of rock seem to have been heaped together by the hands of Titans?” asked Diopeithes. “Do you see the steps hewn in the stone leading to a square chamber, which has rows of seats like the steps. From this place another flight of stairs, also cut in the rock, leads down into a deep, dark ravine, from whence gushes a black stream. In that ravine stands the sanctuary of the gloomy goddesses of vengeance, the serpent-haired Erinnyes, and the square chamber on the hill-top is the place of the meeting of the ancient, venerable tribunal, established by the gods themselves, which we call the Areopagus. The sanctuary of the Erinnyes is entrusted to the gray-haired members of this council; in their hands are placed ancient statues and relics, on which rests a mysterious obscurity, and with which is connected the welfare of the nation. They alone know what the dying sufferer Œdipus whispered into King Theseus’ ear, when on the mountain of Colonus he found in the grove of the Eumenides the goal of his long pilgrimage. The disputants, whose cause these judges decide, are placed between bleeding fragments of victims, and the magistrates take an oath, calling the most horrible curses upon themselves and their families if they determine otherwise than according to the strictest justice. After hearing the case, they silently drop their lots into two urns, the urn of mercy and the urn of death. Their duty was at first to judge intentional murder, but in former times they were also called upon to punish immorality, innovations in the government and the service of the gods, and even permitted to penetrate the inmost secrets of families, to bring hidden guilt to light. They sentenced parricides, incendiaries, those who needlessly killed a harmless beast, boys who pitilessly blinded a young bird. Permission was given them to protest against the decrees of the whole nation. Is there any cause to wonder, that this shield of ancient times, this stronghold of pious custom established on the Hill of Ares, has long been a thorn in the side of the ruler of the new Athens? Pericles was the first who ventured to defy this sacred power, limited its privileges, diminished its authority, rejected its influence in public affairs. But as the fiery arrows of the Persians flew from this very Hill of Ares against the citadel and ancient temple of the Acropolis, so now the angry glances of the Areopagites, pregnant with maledictions, rest upon Pericles’ new sanctuary.”

“But the great mass of the Athenians love Pericles,” said the Spartan—“they believe him a sincere friend of popular government.”

“I don’t think Pericles foolish enough to be an honest friend of popular government,” replied Diopeithes. “A man intellectually prominent is never a sincere friend to popular rule. How could it afford him pleasure, to voluntarily share with the unreasoning mob the power he has once wrested from it, allow himself to be disturbed and impeded by narrow minds in his best plans, his noblest enterprises? Pericles, like all these demagogues, flatters the people in order to use them to carry out his ambitious plans. Perhaps enough of the golden treasure in the storehouse of the Parthenon will be left to make a crown, which he will put on at a Panathenaic festival before the eyes of the assembled people, at the feet of Phidias’ goddess. Prepare, Lacedæmonians, to do homage to the king of the Hellenes and his queen, Aspasia, by offering a clod of Spartan soil and a jug of water from the Eurotas.”

The priest glanced around him as he uttered the last words. “Let us go,” he said to the Spartan. “I see people approaching, to mark out the place for the new porticos. I should be accused of a conspiracy with Lacedæmon, if we were seen talking together.”

So saying, the priest of Erechtheus disappeared with the Spartan behind the columns of the Erechtheum, where they conversed confidentially for a long time.

A few days after the Panathenaic festival, Telesippe, separated by mutual consent from Pericles, left her former husband’s house, and Aspasia was installed in her place as his wedded wife.

Telesippe did not quit the house humiliated; but with head proudly erect went forward to meet a destiny for which she believed herself born, but whose fulfilment she had not ventured to hope.

The beginning and end of her lamentations had always been: “I might have become the wife of the archon Basileus!”

When Pericles had resolved to part from Telesippe, he could not help thinking how he could best lessen the painfulness of the impression this determination would produce upon his former wife, and remembered how often she had spoken of the archon Basileus. The present magistrate was a friend of Pericles, somewhat advanced in years, but still unwedded. Pericles went to him and asked if he were not inclined to marry. The dignitary, a quiet, unassuming man, said he was not averse to forming a marriage-tie, if a suitable bride could be found.

“I know a woman,” said Pericles, “who is exactly suited to a man like you. She is my own wife. For me she has too little of the cheerfulness a much-tried statesman needs to refresh him after his daily cares, and too much of that austerity and dignity of character, which would doubtless attract a grave man of priestly dominion, like yourself. I am on the point of separating from Telesippe, but should esteem myself very fortunate, if I knew that she will go from my house to that of a better husband, and there find what she missed in my home.”

The archon Basileus took these words as seriously as they were intended. His objection that an archon usually wedded no one but a virgin, Pericles removed by promising to exert all his influence with the Athenians to have this violation of an ancient custom pass unpunished. The Archon then announced himself ready to conduct Telesippe, as his lawful wife, directly from her present husband’s house to his own.

Pericles informed his wife at the same time of his own resolution to separate from her, and the archon Basileus’ intention to make her his wife.

Telesippe heard the decision coldly and silently, and retired to the women’s apartment. But when she saw her two sons, whom she was now compelled to leave, she clasped them in her arms and wept. She thought of the children she had borne Hipponicus, of his casting her off and her being compelled to abandon them forever; of the children she had given Pericles, whom she was now forced to leave and go forth to wed a new husband. She seemed to be unlawfully pushed from house to house—

But to be the wife of the archon Basileus! To reach the goal of her ambition! To secure the once lost happiness of her life! True, this would only afford satisfaction to the rejected wife, not the mother. Through the woman’s foolish pride she still felt the anxious throbbing of the unreconciled mother’s heart.

When the moment came in which Telesippe left her husband’s home, and pressed the last kiss upon the foreheads of her sons, whom she was now compelled to leave forever, Pericles suddenly felt overpowered by a strange emotion—it seemed to him that no sacred tie which had once united two human hearts could be sundered, without shedding some of the heart’s blood.

Telesippe had borne him children, children whose faces had the impress of his features, his character. How could a man fail to hold forever sacred the woman, who had given him children who bore his features? On the brows of Telesippe’s children shone the stamp of their mother’s unsullied honor. This heritage she left to her husband and her sons. Pericles first became clearly conscious of it when she quitted his house.

He had parted from her with a cold, quiet clasp of the hand; now he again seized the hand of the woman, who had given him children, and a tear fell upon it. Long after Telesippe had gone, Pericles stood with his head bowed in thought, pondering over one of those questions no human wisdom has ever solved.

Strangely and intricately entangled are human rights and duties.

The die was cast for Pericles and his married life.

The turning-point in his domestic existence had a twofold face, like almost every earthly event. Telesippe’s stern departure was followed by Aspasia’s joyous entrance. Her coming gently dispelled the shadow from Pericles’ thoughtful brow, and diffused light and splendor to the remotest corner of the house. Aspasia came attended by all the smiling spirits of youth. A fresh, fragrant breeze swept away the oppressive atmosphere of the house.

The venerable household gods had gone with Telesippe. Aspasia brought new ones. She placed in the peristyle joyous Dionysus, smiling Aphrodite, and the bright guardian deity of the gay Ionic race, Apollo, director of the Muses. The Graces too did not lack an altar in this house, where a fitting sacrifice had been so long denied them.

The spirit of innovation, that everywhere followed Aspasia’s steps, accompanied her into Pericles’ dwelling. Within a short time this house was transformed into a gay and luxurious abode. Artists were summoned to adorn the walls of the rooms with charming pictures. Henceforward, not merely the things which ornament and beautify life, but even those that minister to the daily wants of existence, were supplied by artists’ hands.

Hitherto Pericles’ style of housekeeping had been very simple; now this simplicity displeased him. Nothing is more delightful to a lover, than to make the home of the woman he loves as charming as possible. No husband decorates his house for himself; but for a beloved wife even the miser will become a spendthrift. Pericles joyfully aided Aspasia to transform the abode of his new happiness into a temple of beauty.

The finely-developed sense of what is pleasing to the eye, suitable and harmonious, peculiar to woman, and which she exercises in the choice of her dress and ornaments, Aspasia possessed to so remarkable a degree that Pericles felt as if under the spell of an enchantress, and entreated her not to transform him, like everything else around her. Yet he was already transformed. Without having become a weakling, he now developed a sense that had hitherto slumbered in the ever restless, active man. The woman he loved, or rather love itself, taught him to recognize and value the contemplative poesy hitherto unheeded. What had pearls and jewels formerly been to him? Now he could long watch a gem glittering in a gold bracelet on Aspasia’s lily-white arm, becoming absorbed in the sparkling colored light, as if it were some wondrous revelation.

What had fragrant perfumes, all the sweet odors in the world, formerly been to him? Now his appreciation of the most delicate scent that he could detect near the woman he loved was aroused, and each variety corresponded in his mind with a different, keen delight. What had colors been to him? At best a fleeting charm, of which he was scarcely aware. And now? What life, what magic to his eye dwelt in vivid red, fiery yellow, enchanting blue, lovely green, when they floated around Aspasia, or her rosy limbs were relieved against them, in their dazzling whiteness.

No matter how long and happily the bond of love and limitless devotion may have united two hearts, the tie Hymen weaves around them affords a new happiness, hitherto unknown. Marriage, like love, has its special honey-moon. To daily lose each other and daily meet again, may give spice to the honey-moon of love, but the consciousness of being always in the presence of one’s fairest happiness is enviable.

Whoever inveighs against marriage, does not know love.

Each day now had its special pleasure, its special brightness, its special bloom. Aspasia was always everything to Pericles, yet ever changing—in the morning his rosy-fingered Eos; in the evening his Selene, dropping sweet slumber on his eyelids; during the day his Hebe, who filled the beaker of life. She was the Hera of the “Olympian,” but never needed to borrow golden Aphrodite’s girdle. Nay more, she often seemed to command the reverence due a mother, and at other times he loved her with a feeling akin to that bestowed upon a child.

If lifeless ornaments, gems, pearls, perfumes, brilliant colors, gain a new charm through love, what exalted life, what a new, fresh spell must poesy and music obtain for loving hearts. What a wealth and variety of charm and pleasure Aspasia, so skilled in witchery, must have drawn from these sources!

If she sang to the accompaniment of a lute, or read aloud from some roll of MS., as she had done to Philammon when a child, Pericles knew not which most delighted him—when, with glowing cheeks, she became wholly absorbed in her art or the poet she was reading, or when, with saucy petulance, she constantly interrupted her music or reading with childish prattle, superfluous love questions, or pretty blandishments.

The Athenians, as a rule, had no real home. Pericles now possessed one.

Nay, did not even the fact that his sons, Xanthippus and Paralus, were not Aspasia’s children, tend to increase his conjugal happiness? He need not share Aspasia’s love with them.

If anything was wanting in the happiness of the wedded pair, it was perhaps the full, complete consciousness of it. It is not the fortunate, who perfectly realize their bliss, but those deprived of it. The gods benevolently mingle a drop of wormwood in every cup of pleasure; for only shadowed or imperilled happiness is really conscious of its joy.

The love-marriage of Pericles and Aspasia afforded the Athenians an inexhaustible topic of conversation. The fact that Pericles kissed his wife, whenever he left the house or returned home was discussed on the Agora, in all the booths, all the gymnasia, all the shops of the artizans and barbers throughout Athens. A man in love with his own wife! People talked of the white Sicyonian steeds and superb equipage, which sometimes bore Pericles’ new wife through the streets, of the transformation his unpretending house had undergone. They discussed the magnificent new paintings which adorned its walls, especially that depicting the plundering of Olympus by Cupids. Decked with the spoils of the robbery, Cupids flitted joyously about; some with Apollo’s bow, others with the helm and shield of Ares, the gnarled club of Heracles, the Bacchic thyrsus, the torch of Artemis, the winged shoes of Hermes.

It was even said, that Aspasia prepared the speeches Pericles delivered before the people. Pericles, the Olympian, the famous orator, smilingly allowed it, and confessed that he owed to her the happiest inspirations. Aspasia possessed the charm of ready, fluent speech, sometimes found in women, united to a silvery, musical voice, and thus produced upon men the impression that she was a fine rhetorician, from whom they might learn with advantage.

But it was also rumored among the people, that Aspasia wished to induce Pericles to strive for royal power. It was said she was unwilling to remain behind her countrywoman Thargelia, who succeeded in becoming the consort of a king.

The venerable Elpinice continued to be the leader of the news-mongers in Athens. She might have been called the living, perambulating chronicle of the events occurring in Pericles’ house. From her came the tidings of the kiss the statesman gave his wife at parting and meeting. She knew Aspasia’s feelings towards Pericles’ children and Alcibiades.

She was able to relate, that Aspasia did not like Paralus and Xanthippus, troubled herself very little about them, and left them to the care of the pedagogue, but lavished a mother’s affection on Alcibiades, and reared him so delicately, that in her hands Cleinias’ son would become a weakling, or something worse.

Was it any marvel if Aspasia was more partial to Pericles’ handsome, talented ward, than to the sons, who it is true had their father’s features, but in character were the image of their mother, Telesippe?

Besides Alcibiades, Paralus, and Xanthippus, another boy was growing up in Pericles’ house, who would not probably be numbered among his relatives, yet could not be included with the slaves. This lad, whom Pericles had brought to Athens from the Samian war, occupied a peculiar position. Nothing more was known of his origin than that he was the son of a Thracian, Scythian, or some other northern king, that he had been stolen from his parents by enemies when a child, and then sold for a slave. Pericles found him at Samos; his interest was awakened by the boy’s peculiar character and destiny, he purchased him and took him to Athens, where he had him educated with his own children. His name was Manes. His features were far removed from the delicacy and nobility of Hellenic forms; he even bore some slight resemblance to his kindred nation, the Scythian mercenaries on the Agora. But he was distinguished by his beautiful, lustrous light-brown hair, bright eyes, and roseate fairness of complexion. He was silent and thoughtful, betraying a peculiar sensitiveness in many things.

Alcibiades tried to tempt his new playfellow, infect him with his own careless gayety. He did not succeed. Manes liked to be alone, showed no brilliant mental gifts, but eagerly entered into all the branches of learning taught to him in common with the sons of Pericles. Pericles himself became warmly attached to him, Aspasia thought him droll, and Alcibiades made him the butt of his jeers and saucy jests.

It was no detriment to Pericles’ domestic happiness, that his house now stood more open to his friends, and that Aspasia, intentionally abandoning the custom of the Athenian women, took part in her husband’s presence, in the conversation of the men.

Nay, it merely adds new zest, twofold bliss to the happiness of those who love each other, when after, as it were, wasting hours in a larger company, they again find themselves alone.

Among Pericles’ older friends, Anaxagoras now retired more into the background. He was supplanted by the brilliant Protagoras, whom Aspasia favored, and whose fresh, unprejudiced, boldly progressive views of life, made him seem a fitting ally for the Milesian. The author of “Antigone” appeared very rarely in Pericles’ house, either because, with the delicate tact peculiar to him, he did not wish to fan the jealousy he well knew his friend already felt, or because he found it necessary to repress some increasing but untimely emotion, or because some other charming woman had gained the mastery over him and withdrew him from older friends. It is not impossible, that all these various motives influenced him.

If the cheerful Sophocles made himself a rare visitor, gloomy Euripides, his rival in the domain of tragic poetry, sought Aspasia’s society all the more frequently. With him came Socrates, still unchanged in his faithful devotion. Business connected with his profession sometimes brought Phidias, and Aspasia enjoyed the triumph of seeing that he did not avoid her society. In his company she developed a kind of charm well suited to his peculiar temperament, yet in her conversations with him always reverted to his Lemnian goddess. She grew excited, even angry. In her opinion, Phidias now stood where two roads crossed, and she hoped to influence his decision in regard to the direction he should choose. She made every effort to break the obstinacy of his view of art.

She repeated the reproach that, as a sculptor, he did not allow feminine charms to exert their full influence over him.

Phidias really did disdain the so-called models. He carried within himself the perfect original types of all beautiful forms. Thus his artist-eye was constantly turned inward, and the older he grew, the more he relied upon his mental vision. He was too proud to simply copy reality in bronze or marble. Yet this was exactly what Aspasia desired of him.

Once, when she had again carried on an animated conversation of this kind with Phidias, and the latter had taken leave, Pericles said smiling:

“You seem to be very angry with Phidias, because he will no longer attend the school of charming reality.”

“Of course,” replied Aspasia. “The only ideals formed in his soul are those, so to speak, of grave, unconscious beauty. It is time he ceased to disdain to draw from reality fully developed, conscious loveliness.”

“To what woman would you direct him, that he might draw from the purest source this perfect loveliness, rejoicing in its own charms?” asked Pericles. “As Phidias cannot conjure up from Hades the Homeric Helen, and you are yourself, according to unanimous opinion, the fairest of all living Hellenic women, I should like to know how you intend to answer him, if he asks you to what woman you will direct him?”

“I would direct him to a woman, who belongs only to herself,” replied Aspasia.

“But suppose he should insist upon applying to a woman, who doesn’t belong to herself?”

“Then he would be obliged to apply to the person to whom she belonged,” answered Aspasia—“to her master, if she is a slave, or her husband if she is the wife of an Athenian.”

“And do you think,” said Pericles, “that an Athenian could ever consent to allow the woman, who belongs to him, to be exposed to another’s eyes?”

“Why ask me a question you are better able to answer?” replied Aspasia.

“Well then,” returned Pericles, “I will answer it. The Athenian will never suffer the woman, who belongs to him, to reveal her charms to another. Feminine modesty should be no empty name; and if the virgin is chaste by nature, the wife must be doubly so from love, because by renouncing modesty she does not disgrace herself alone.”

“Your opinion is an ancient one and doubtless correct,” said Aspasia, “but the reason you assign for it does not seem to me to stand the test in every respect. You men often commit your wives to the hands of physicians, though only in your own presence. So it seems, that modesty is not the highest of all considerations, or every revelation is not shameless.”

Aspasia and Pericles had advanced to this point in their conversation, when they were interrupted by two men, whose simultaneous entrance greatly surprised them.

These men were Protagoras and Socrates.

After the first greetings were exchanged, Aspasia said, smiling:

“Why, how does it happen that two distinguished men whom, ever since Hipponicus’ banquet, I have feared might be at enmity with each other, enter the house to-day in such peaceful companionship?”

“I’ll tell you how it happened, if you wish to know,” replied Socrates. “Protagoras and I, coming from opposite directions, ran against each other before the door. I had been standing some time on the threshold, delaying my entrance because, just at the moment I was coming in, a thought seized upon me, which I could not escape. While I stood there with my eyes fixed on the ground, Protagoras came up from the other side. He didn’t see me any more than I saw him, for while my eyes were bent on the ground, he held his head erect, gazing at the clouds and the heavens. So our bodies struck against each other; I recognized Protagoras and he me, and as each of us noticed that the other intended to enter here, both wished to turn back and let the other go in alone. But when each declared himself ready to leave the field to the other, neither would accept the sacrifice, and so we finally hit upon the idea of coming in hap-hazard together.”

Pericles and Aspasia smiled, saying that they saw a good omen in this meeting, the more so as they had just been engaged in a sort of philosophical discussion. The question, that occupied their attention, was one whose solution might be aided by the opinions of two men, who, different as their modes of thought might be, were both undeniably wise.

As Protagoras and Socrates inquired about the subject, Pericles had no hesitation in explaining the matter.

“We were beginning to argue the question whether a man could be found, who was willing to disclose the beauty of the woman he loves to a sculptor’s gaze for the purpose of having it copied. I denied it; but Aspasia proved to me that we men give our wives into the hands of physicians, though only in our own presence, and therefore are sometimes disposed to place other considerations higher than a regard for modesty. The accident that brought you here is a sign from the gods, to request you, as philosophers, to decide the matter.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Protagoras, “there are considerations higher than those of modesty, and motives which can excuse its apparent violation. One of these motives Aspasia herself has already cited. I will add—what would become of the art of sculpture, if the most beautiful forms prudishly denied themselves to the artist’s eye? Beauty’s obligations are not solely to itself. What nature has so lavishly bestowed she should turn to the advantage of art. Beauty, in a certain sense, belongs to the world, and the world will not allow itself to be deprived of its right. Besides, beauty in its very nature is something fleeting, something which only exists for its contemporaries, and cannot be perpetuated and transmitted to posterity, unless the poet glorifies it in song, as Homer did the wife of Menelaus, or a sculptor delivers the living charm of loveliness to future generations, so far as it is possible, in bronze or marble.”

“Then, in your opinion,” said Pericles, “a beautiful woman should be considered common property, which no one ought to be permitted to possess alone.”

“Only her beauty—not she herself!” replied Protagoras. “As everything that may happen in the world depends upon the manner of the event, and the circumstances under which it occurs, so in my opinion the exhibition of feminine charms for the promotion of a great artistic purpose, may take place in a way and under circumstances, which entirely remove the objectionable part of the matter.”

“And what might these circumstances be?” asked Pericles.

“That is a matter,” replied Protagoras, “which is somewhat difficult to discuss. As Aspasia, from what you have told us of your previous conversation with her, has already said, we consider a woman, who without witnesses seeks a physician’s aid, immodest and coquettish, but regard it as perfectly unobjectionable if the consultation takes place before the husband’s eyes. Therefore it might be established, once for all, that there is a method, in which the husband thinks a woman can reveal her charms to a stranger’s eyes without dishonor.”

“Of course,” said Pericles, “this is the only way I could regard a woman’s exhibition of her beauty, if made from force of circumstances or for some great purpose. I hope you will also add the condition, that the woman shall only give the sculptor what he requires for his art, and that modesty shall retire to a certain point, but defend that point, so to speak, to the last drop of blood. Yet, do you not remember the story of that Eastern king, who enchanted with his wife’s charms, had them displayed to a favorite? If I remember rightly, that monarch lost throne, wife, and life, through the favorite who, enraptured by these charms, never rested until he possessed them.”

“A sculptor,” replied Protagoras, “gazes at a beautiful figure with far different thoughts and feelings from the effeminate favorite of an Eastern king. The former, in beholding exquisitely-rounded limbs, perceives so much to occupy an eye trained to observe symmetry of form, such a wealth of information flows into his mind, that there is little room for sensual emotions. Whatever might find space, he has learned to control. Moreover, habit has rendered him obtuse to the grosser charm of unveiled beauty. There is old Phidias—is he a man? No, he is a divinely-inspired, sexless artist soul, which has a body, a hand merely to guide the chisel—he is a person to whom everything in the world is form, never substance.”

“We now know the opinion of Protagoras,” said Pericles. “Let us hear what Socrates has to bring forward about the matter. What do you think, Socrates? Is it allowable for a woman to lay aside her modesty, to promote a great artistic purpose?”

“That seems to me to depend upon whether beauty ranks higher in the world than goodness,” replied Socrates. “This, to the best of my recollection, is the very question in whose solution we have been so long engaged, and whose discussion was again broken off at Hipponicus’ banquet—”

“By all the Olympic gods,” interrupted Aspasia, laughing, “you will greatly oblige me, my dear Socrates, if you will give up the discussion of that question to-day, and also pardon me for not perceiving why morality should have the preference over beauty. If it is a law, that everything in the world ought to be good and moral, it is also a law that everything in the world aspires towards beauty, and finds in it the bloom of its existence, the goal of its development. Finally, both of these laws must be a secret, self-given rule to men. There, I believe, we can let the matter rest for to-day.”

“Certainly!” cried Protagoras. “As each individual calls truth only what seems to him true, so the good and beautiful must be to each what appears so to him. There is no fixed morality in and of itself, any more than there is a fixed truth.”

Socrates’ good-natured face assumed a somewhat scornful expression, as he said:

“You always assert, Protagoras, that there is no fixed truth, and yet are the very man who can give the most brilliant and irrefutable information about everything concerning which people may choose to inquire.”

“To express one’s opinion openly,” replied Protagoras, “is better than for a man to allege, with false modesty, that he knows nothing, and then always pretend to know everything better than others.”

“I yearn for the knowledge I do not possess,” said Socrates. “But you deny all possibility of its existence. Shall we give up the labor of human thought as vain, when we have just commenced it?”

“Far better,” retorted Protagoras, “than to seek to destroy the freshness and harmony of Hellenic life, by subtle and peevish investigation.”

“I understand now,” replied Socrates, “that there are people, who as they set little value on the profession of thought, cultivate the art of speech still more brilliantly. For since, according to their own confessions, the thoughts they express have no absolute value, it can only be the brilliant words with which they expect to influence their hearers.”

“There are also people,” rejoined Protagoras, “who neglect the art of rhetoric, because they believe others will seek behind their feigned simplicity profound thought, behind their stammering the wisdom of an oracle, and behind their modest questions the condescension of a superior mind.”

“It seems to me better to compel people to think, by asking questions which disturb their comfort, than guide them to thoughtlessness by hasty, ever-ready answers, agreeable to the inquirer,” said Socrates.

“Thoughtlessness is better,” replied Protagoras, “than, leaving the firm ground of reality behind and riding in clouds and airy images, to lose one’s self in boundless space. Yet such absorption in the world of boundless thought is often intelligible. There are probably persons, who were compelled to set out in pursuit of ideas, because the divine gift of living, artistic creation was denied them—”

“There are also people,” retorted Socrates, “who dally with images, because the gift of clear and pure ideas is denied them.”

“Those peevish investigators,” said Protagoras, “are the very men who make virtue repulsive, by constantly reverting to it in words—”

“Those people are certainly more worthy of admiration,” rejoined Socrates, “who cast virtue wholly aside, in order never to emerge from the sphere of a pleasant and beautiful sensuality.”

“So long as sensuality is beautiful and pleasant,” retorted Protagoras, “it is better than the enforced renunciation of those, who see the weeds of anxious doubts in the fields of beauty and enjoyment, because they themselves are not summoned to beauty and pleasure.”

“Such a man am I!” replied Socrates quietly. “But you, Protagoras, seem to me to belong to the ranks of those, who wish to make free thought what they are themselves, slaves of the senses!”

“I regret,” said Pericles, interrupting the disputants, “that you have not come to any decision regarding the point in question by this argument, but it seems to me have become heated with fruitless words.”

“I know I can be nothing but the vanquished party here,” said Socrates.

After this reply he quietly took his leave, without the slightest trace of excitement on his features.

Protagoras soon withdrew also, but not without first having given vent to his emotion in words.

“The two philosophers seem to be perfectly-matched foes,” said Pericles to Aspasia. “They attacked each other like practised warriors, and it is hard to tell which of the two should claim the honor of the victory.”

Aspasia only smiled, and even when Pericles left her alone the smile still hovered around her lips. She knew exactly what gave the dispute between the two men so sharp a point, and mingled with it so many cutting and bitter words, even on the part of the gentle Socrates. She read the truth-seeker’s heart as plainly as the brilliant sophist’s, who uttered no word which he was not sure would please the ear of the beautiful Milesian.

This dispute between Socrates and Protagoras roused an increasing anger in Aspasia’s mind against the former, and almost unconsciously a plan arose by which, with feminine cunning, she might detract from the wisdom of the man who boasted of “free thought,” and despised the “slaves of the senses.”