CHAPTER V.

THE NEW GOD AND HIS LIGHTNING.

Pericles and Aspasia had not wandered to Elis, to see the Olympian racers dart towards the goal, the wrestlers and pugilists struggle over the sand, or to hear the loud shouts, with which the Hellenes greeted the victors. Their hearts yearned towards their friend Phidias, when amid the radiance of a dewy morning, they reached the famous plain of Olympia, watered by the waves of the sacred stream Alpheus. They found all the roads leading to Elis from the Arcadian mountains, the south of the Peloponnesus across Messenia, or the north across Achaia, crowded with travellers; but especially the so-called sacred holiday road, that ran along the Alpheus; even across the western sea they saw garlanded galleys coming from the Italian and Sicilian coasts.

They mingled in the throng of festal caravans, festal embassies, which no large community in Hellas neglected to send to the great, peaceful Hellenic contest in Olympia. Wherever such a caravan passed, the stream of other travellers on foot and horseback divided, and all gazed at the members of the procession, who, clad in festal robes and crowned with wreaths, sat in garlanded chariots, at the chariots themselves, which were not unfrequently adorned with paintings, gilded, and hung with tapestry, the magnificent beasts for sacrifices, costly sacrificial vessels, and numerous attendants.

Not far from the rows of shops and booths, almost opposite to the entrance of the sacred grove, was a sculptor’s studio. Here Phidias had toiled for years; here with Alcamenes and some of his other pupils he had labored in the seclusion of the lowlands of Elis, whose quiet was interrupted only once in five years by the gay tumult of the Olympic festival, to complete the noblest and most magnificent of all his statues. Having escaped the spell of joyous Athens, shaken off all the influences that sought to bind his sublime thoughts to earth with flowery chains, he created in this solitude, fanned by mountain breezes and soothed by the waters of the sacred stream, his Olympic Zeus.

Two men came out of Phidias’ studio and walked up the bank of the Alpheus.

One was the impetuous Alcamenes. His companion might be recognized as the much-praised Polycleitus of Argos, whose statues in bronze and marble vied with the great Athenian’s. Yet, with the quiet, sober temperament of the Peloponnesian, he endeavored to comprehend humanity solely as such, especially the masculine sex, which he liked best to embody in statues of athletes. His school was Olympia; here he trained and saturated eyes and mind with the living contours of harmoniously powerful figures.

The difference between Phidias’ art and that of his Argive rival, caused a secret hostility. While the Athenian thought people were beginning to value the Argive’s unaspiring art too highly, the latter was secretly offended because, passing over the Peloponnesian artist, the Athenian and his pupils had been summoned to execute the largest and most superb piece of sculpture on Peloponnesian soil. This was one of the Athenian triumphs Aspasia had predicted, when she tried to prove to Pericles, that a community can surpass its rivals by fostering the beautiful.

Therefore Polycleitus, during his stay in Olympia, had held no intercourse with Phidias and his companions, except Alcamenes, whose frank, cheerful, vivacious temper always triumphed over petty scruples, and who had now on the occasion of a chance meeting, entered into an unembarrassed conversation with his Argive brother artist.

Polycleitus, a sensible, circumspect man, who even in his hostility to Phidias and his school felt no passionate bitterness, inquired for Agoracritus, and asked why he had not accompanied his master to help finish his glorious work, as he did on the Acropolis.

“You may well wonder,” replied Alcamenes, “that the master’s favorite pupil is absent, while I, who since the victory won over him by my Aphrodite, can scarcely venture to boast of Phidias’ personal regard, followed him here and continue to work by his side. When people live and labor together, it doesn’t depend upon whether they love each other more or less, but whether they have peaceable dispositions. I could have endured Agoracritus’ companionship, though he is ill-disposed towards me; but he could not bear mine, and since the completion of the Parthenon has gone his own way merely to escape the sight of my hated face. Meantime, he undertook to carve a Zeus for Coroneia. But, as when he intended to make an Aphrodite he produced a Nemesis, so people supposed his Zeus, when finished, to be a god of the nether world. Thus he becomes more and more absorbed in melancholy, and as my style of art constantly progresses in the contrary direction, we have reached a degree of opposition, in which we are certainly no longer fit to labor side by side at the same task.”

“Your impetuous spirit, Alcamenes,” replied Polycleitus, “urges you to take long strides in your art, which your companions cannot easily follow.”

“I could move more freely here, than among the works on the Acropolis,” said Alcamenes. “There the master’s mind held everything created in strict unity, according to a fixed plan; here he left the external decoration of the temple entirely to Pæonius and myself, while he remained completely absorbed in his Olympian ruler of the gods.”

As Alcamenes uttered these words, he suddenly fixed his eyes upon a distant part of the crowd surging along the bank of the Alpheus. He seemed to have recognized some one, and his manner betrayed unusual excitement. Turning to Polycleitus, he said:

“Do you see that stately, dignified man, trying to make his way through the throng, beside a closely-veiled woman with a charming figure? That is Pericles from Athens, accompanied by his wife, the beautiful Milesian, Aspasia.”

“I recognize Pericles,” said Polycleitus. “I saw him years ago at Athens. But the beautiful woman is a stranger to me.”

“A woman as dangerous and crafty, as she is beautiful,” replied Alcamenes. “You cannot love without hating her, or hate without loving her.”

When Pericles and Aspasia saw Alcamenes and Polycleitus, they approached each other, and after the Athenians had exchanged cordial greetings with the two sculptors, Pericles instantly asked for Phidias.

“We arrived at Olympia late last evening,” said he, “not to witness the games, which for me have long since lost the charm of novelty, and my wife as a woman is prohibited from attending, but merely to see Phidias and his god, about which marvellous things have been told recently. We are just looking for the master and you, Alcamenes, will doubtless gladly direct us to him.”

“He is in the sacred grove,” replied Alcamenes, “in the newly-finished temple of Zeus, He shut himself up there with his assistants and workmen, and will admit no one, partly in order not to be disturbed, and partly because he doesn’t wish to expose his statue to the eyes of spectators until it is in its place, erected in its full splendor. The temple will not be opened until the games are over. Rigidly as the reserved and almost misanthropic man secludes himself from every one, I will try to enter the closed temple and announce guests, whom he surely will not fail to receive with joy.”

“Never mind, Alcamenes!” said Pericles. “Phidias ought not to be disturbed in his occupation, even by us, and will not wish us to see his work, except in the full splendor of completion. We will have patience for a time, but I don’t intend to wait with Aspasia for the formal opening of the temple. We should not care to enjoy that spectacle for the first time, amid the countless throng of Hellenes. I hope Phidias will conduct us at least a day before into the lonely sanctuary, and allow us to gaze at his completed statue of the god in silence.”

“That wish certainly will accord with the master’s desire,” replied Alcamenes. “Then, if you intend to leave Phidias undisturbed in the temple, content yourselves with my society and Polycleitus’, who is more at home on the soil of Olympia than almost any other Greek, and whose bronze and marble statues are gleaming yonder amid the branches of the plane and olive-trees in the sacred grove.”

Pericles and Aspasia, with cordial thanks, accepted the guidance of the two famous men.

They walked together through the vast crowd in the wide, open plain, that extended between the tree-shaded bank of the Alpheus and the sacred grove of Attis, where the new temple of the Olympic Zeus towered amid a forest of bronze and marble statues.

They passed the houses intended for the numerous persons who belonged to the service of the temple, the inns, which could not contain half the strangers, the buildings where the war-chariots were kept, the stables where noble steeds and mules were neighing. The larger portion of the multitude had encamped in tents in the open air.

After walking a few steps, they came to the superb tent of the embassy from Sicyon, somewhat farther on to those which sheltered the envoys from Corinth, Argos, Samos, Rhodes and others. Around these tents thronged many persons, especially those connected with their owners by the ties of nationality. Then they were told: This magnificent tent belongs to the rich Periander from Chios, that to wealthy Euphorides from Orchomenus, the third to Pauson from Eretria. The occupants of the tents stood at the entrances, talking and gesticulating eagerly together, greeting their friends and inviting them to rest under the shade of the purple linen. Strangers, sunburnt youths, approached, endeavoring to prove themselves the sons and relatives of former guests, by showing one half of a broken ring, whose other half was in the hands of those whom they accosted.

Booths of every description adjoined the gay city of tents.

The populace surged to and fro. All the various Greek dialects blended confusedly together. People did not always understand each other. Beside the harsh tones of the Peloponnesian, the broad accent of the Theban, the heavy one of the Megarian, echoed the soft Ionian and Æolian tongues. Amid the crowd of Hellenes, the eager, bright-eyed Athenian and grave, gloomy Spartan were especially conspicuous, and were often seen to measure each other with hostile glances.

The gigantic forms of the athletes also moved to and fro. People pointed them out, and mentioned their names and victories.

Before the tent of the embassy from Chios, Pericles saw a boy weeping bitterly, while an old man, perhaps his grandfather, vainly strove to console him. Pericles asked the cause of the tears, and learned that the lad had been excluded from the contests of the boys on the charge of effeminacy, because he had come to Olympia with long hair and a purple robe. Aspasia, in tones of mingled scorn and anger, without fearing those who might hear, blamed the gloomy, old-fashioned strictness of the Elis inspectors of combats, then caressingly stroked the boy’s dark curls, saying:

“Don’t cry! Pericles from Athens will intercede for you with the Hellanodicæ.”

The wide space became more and more densely crowded. Pericles and Aspasia, in passing along, saw groups thronging around sculptors, who publicly exhibited their works, or rhapsodists, or a clear-voiced man, who mounted a sort of orator’s platform, to read aloud to the listening Hellenes the histories he had composed of Greek cities and islands. Or they pressed around some excellent musician, or men of haughty bearing clad in magnificent purple robes, Sophists who sought here in Olympia to increase the renown of their name, and were ready to declaim to the throng on any subject; or some insignificant little man, on whose bald crown the perspiration, under the burning sun of Elis, glittered like morning dew-drops, and who offered for general examination an astronomical chart, a work of great ingenuity and toilsome calculation.

An aged, white-haired Spartan gazed at the eager bustle with a gloomy, dissatisfied expression. “I like the time, when Olympia was nothing more than the place for testing the manly strength of the Hellenes, while now it is abused as a spot for exhibiting effeminate arts. When I was a boy, nothing was sold here except necessary food, and articles especially required for the festival, such as ornaments, fillets, wreaths. Now the booths bristle with useless trash; we have a great fair here, at which the tradesfolk from all the cities and islands wish to offer their most tempting wares. The place swarms more and more with rhapsodists, musicians, sculptors, sophists, and other people of that sort, and soon the great purpose of the Olympic festival will disappear amid exhibitions and displays of unmanly rivalry, with which the Athenians and other Hellenes of the lowlands, the islands, and the Ionian coast try to press forward. Ambitious fools! Each wants to parade in some way, make himself conspicuous. See, yonder are some Megarians scrawling their names on the bark of the poplars, to do something to secure immortality.”

“And I see some people gathering the beautiful, bright-hued pebbles from the sand of the sacred stream,” replied his companion. “I must get some too, to take home to my boys.”

At these words the Spartan’s friend disappeared among the poplars on the banks of the Alpheus. The former looked after him, shaking his head.

At this moment, drowning every other sound, arose the loud voice of the herald, who passing through the city of tents from time to time, succeeded in fixing the eyes and ears of all the Hellenes upon himself for a moment. He was the universal mouth-piece of the Greeks, and announced the most diverse events: “The Panormitans and Leontines solemnly inform all the Hellenes of the treaty of peace they have concluded, after the settlement of their quarrels.” Then: “The Magnesians announce to the Hellenes, that they have formed a perpetual defensive alliance with the Larissæans and Demetrians.”

Again his sonorous shout echoed on the air: “The Lechæans, in the presence of the whole Hellenic nation, thank the Pliasians for the assistance rendered in the conflict with the Cenchreæns.”

“That was worth while!” exclaimed a Cenchreæn. “Do the Lechæans really suppose we feared them and the Pliasians? By Heracles! They’ll hear a different proclamation from the herald, at the next Olympic festival.”

“Admirable bragging!” replied a Lechæan who stood near. “Never mind! We still have arrows enough to cover the whole Cenchreæn city.”

“And we spears enough,” retorted the Cenchreæn, “to spit all the Lechæans!”

“Be off!” cried the Lechæan furiously, “or you won’t recognize your own face in the mirror to-morrow.” He raised his clenched fist.

The Athenian caught his arm. “What does this mean? Let the Cenchreæn alone or you’ll have to deal with me.”

“Why, just see,” said a Samian in the group of spectators who crowded around the pair; “the Athenians even want to ingratiate themselves with the Cenchreæns, and we know their designs, when they sneak into favor.”

“Yes, indeed we do!” cried several Spartans and Argives.

“For some time,” exclaimed one of the Argives, “the Athenians have been making extraordinary efforts, to win friendship on the isthmus and at the entrances to the Peloponnesus!”

“Have they time?” asked one of the Spartans, grinning. “Has the great Pericles, the Olympian, finished his magnificent temples, propylæa, and gold and ivory statues of Pallas? And does the Hera of the Athenian Olympian desire to extend her domain beyond the pine forests of the isthmus?”

“She has already sent her friends and champions in advance!” cried the Argive, pointing over his shoulder towards Phidias’ workshop.

The Athenians would not submit to be laughed at, and the wordy war threatened to grow fiercer and more general.

Suddenly a man’s voice was heard. Powerful, melodious, and wonderfully impressive, it instantly gained a hearing from all.

“Whose is the Hellenic tongue,” cried the speaker, “that derides the new temple and statues of the Athenians? Whatever praiseworthy thing has been created at Athens, has been created for the honor of the whole Hellenic name. Remember that for centuries our forefathers, no matter of what race, have always maintained peace in this spot, where the sacred waves of the Alpheus flash in time to the festal Olympic songs of the whole Hellenic nation. We have ever met here for peaceful contests; this was sacred soil, here dwelt divine peace. The Panhellenic festival within the temple precincts of our common god, Zeus, unites us. Keep the peace, Hellenes, on the Pisatian meadow. No weapons must clash, no clang of metal be heard here, save the tinkling of broken halves of rings fitted together, by which Hellenic guests from every land affectionately recognize each other.”

At these words the shout “Pericles!” rang through the crowd. “Pericles of Athens! Pericles, the Olympian!” Fathers lifted their sons to show them Pericles. He had at first been recognized only by a few. Now that he had spoken, now that the thunder of his Olympic oratory had resounded, he was known by the whole Hellenic nation. Shouts of applause echoed across the Alpheus, and the waves of the stream seemed to plash in harmony.

Pericles withdrew from the crowd by entering the sacred grove Altis, accompanied by his friends and Aspasia. Here they wandered amid temples and sanctuaries of every kind, statues, tripods, monumental columns, beneath the rustling foliage of olive, white poplar, plane, and palm-trees. A gilded goddess of victory, placed between two gilded prize vessels, flashed with dazzling lustre on the summit of the new temple of Zeus. They examined Alcamenes’ sculpture on the rear pediment. He had represented the battle of the Lapithæ and Centaurs, and in so doing given freer rein to his predilection for animated life and manifold variety of attitude and gesture, than at the Acropolis of Athens.

Guided by Polycleitus and Alcamenes, Pericles and Aspasia examined the countless wonders of the sacred grove.

At last they ascended a flight of steps, leading northward from the Altis to a wide terrace. This terrace extended along the southern base of the hill of Cronus to the Stadium. Upon it stood a row of so-called treasure-houses of different cities, in which they deposited the offerings intended for Olympia.

Ascending the hill of Cronus from the treasure-houses, Pericles and Aspasia saw the sanctuaries that adorned it. From the summit they had a most beautiful view of Olympia. Below lay the sacred grove Altis, with its temples and statues; beyond it the majestic river Alpheus flowed through the plain; on the right was the river Cladeus, flowing from the Pisatian mountains to mingle its waters with the Alpheus; on the left was the Stadium, and farther down, bounding the sacred grove, the Hippodrome, the scene of the Olympic contests. At the right of the hill of Cronus, nearer the northern exit of the Altis, they saw the buildings which formed the centre of the government of Olympia, and where the umpires, as well as the athletes themselves, swore to observe the laws of the contests before the statue of Zeus Harkios, armed with the double lightnings. Beyond, nothing was to be seen on all sides except the circle of towering mountains, beneath whose shelter lay the sacred plain of Olympia.

The men of the party gazed at the scene with delight, but Aspasia began to complain of the burning heat, and the numerous gnats that tormented them.

“How does it happen,” said she, “that the Hellenes chose for their athletic contests the season of midsummer, and this sultry, marshy lowland?”

“Their founder, Heracles, didn’t mind gnats!” said Alcamenes smiling.

“Nor we men until now!” added Pericles. “But since our attention has been called to it, I must agree with you, Aspasia; the countless tiny blood-suckers are certainly annoying.”

Returning through the Altis, Pericles and Aspasia lingered near Polycleitus’ statues.

Meantime the throng and bustle between the Altis and the Alpheus had constantly increased. Countless victims were offered towards evening at the flower-wreathed altars of the gods in the Altis. The athletes were seen watching for omens of their success in the entrails of the slaughtered animals. The largest throng of spectators gathered around the festal burnt-offering on the famous ancient altar of Zeus.

The performance of these sacred rites lasted until far into the night, amid the sound of music, by the light of the moon, which was approaching its full. Everything was done in magnificent style, and yet in perfect order, amid a silence that commanded reverence. Not until midnight were the torches in the sacred grove extinguished, while the last flames on the sacrificial altars died glimmering away. Then no small part of the throng hurried to the race-course, to secure places and wait for the grey dawn and the commencement of the games.

The next morning Pericles and Aspasia ascended the hill of Cronus.

Pericles’ eyes rested upon the crowded Stadium, of which he had a distant view, with the interest such a spectacle always obtained from the Greeks. He had only renounced the pleasure of mingling with the spectators for Aspasia’s sake.

The Milesian’s eye did not turn with the same satisfaction to the spot where physical strength, excited to almost murderous eagerness, was struggling in the dust and sun.

“Why does your glance wander almost contemptuously to those rejoicing spectators?” asked Pericles.

“Does it not seem,” said Aspasia, “as if the Hellenic nation, which has become so eminent in many things truly beautiful and magnificent, reserves the highest of its crowns of glory for the athletes of Olympia? Ought strength of arm and nimbleness of foot, to be considered the highest of all excellencies on Hellenic soil?”

“I understand,” replied Pericles; “you are the champion of womanhood, and everything that refines, ennobles, and beautifies life; but here the rude masculine nature celebrates its triumph.”

“Such wrestling and pugilistic contests, where men fight each other till the blood streams from their mouths, is a true Dorian spectacle,” replied Aspasia. “You are right, I hate these games, for where virility goes beyond its mark, barbarism does not seem far distant. I fear the rude charm of this spectacle will ensnare the minds of men more and more, and at last lead them again to barbarism.”

“You go too far,” replied her husband, smiling.

The conflict of opinions between Pericles and Aspasia was destined to receive a still greater stimulus by a little scene of which they became witnesses.

The evening of that same day, accompanied by Polycleitus and Alcamenes, they were strolling near the Stadium, Aspasia gazing at the places so new to her, when it happened that just as they sat down to rest on a stone bench, a party of athletes, who had taken part in the contests of the day, met another group, and all entered into an animated conversation. The battles of the first day were fought over again in words, and each success underwent a severe scrutiny. Those who were vanquished explained by what accident their opponents had become conquerors, and how the victory had merely hung by a hair, or accused their foes of having violated the laws of the games; but this was usually of little avail, and they were sometimes compelled to hear the jeers of their companions.

“No matter, worthy Theagenes,” one said, “you must bear the thumps you received from Nisostratus. You look very pitiable with the oil-soaked rags around your broken head, and diffuse the odor of a lamp-post.”

“Scoff on!” said the person addressed, a youthful wrestler and pugilist, who had received a good drubbing, and therefore wore a cloth soaked in oil wrapped about his head. “Scoff on!” he continued; “I’ve tried now what flesh and blood can bear. I received blows on the head, which I believe, would have crushed a block of stone. Yet do you suppose I feel any discomfort except a little heat? At the utmost, a few harmless bumps have swollen. But my spine is beginning to ache a little—very possibly from the violence, with which I fell backward on the ground in the wrestling match.”

“It’s evident you are a novice,” said the others, “since you don’t yet know that the head is the least, and the spine the most sensitive part of the body.”

“Your spine will recover in three days,” said one, “but look at me—where shall I get back my teeth? If I had spit them out, when a blow from Meleager’s fist struck me, I should have confessed my loss, so I preferred to swallow them. It’s disagreeable to carry one’s teeth about in the stomach, instead of in the mouth.”

“You’ll digest them!” said Cnemon the Bœotian. “An athlete’s stomach must digest teeth.”

“I shall hardly get as much flesh on my limbs from them as you have!” replied Theagenes. Cnemon was really an elderly coarse fellow, who had absorbed the juices of many cattle, calves, and lambs. His ears were crushed by numerous blows, the flesh on his broad arched breast and back seemed like brass, he resembled a hammered bronze statue. The muscles on his arms stood out round and firm, like the pebbles in a river-bed, which have long been rolled and rounded by the waves.

“Do you suppose,” he cried, “that I’ll yield to any of you because I’m a little clumsy, and not so light footed? I’m no racer, but a man who can no more be overthrown than an iron column. If the earth itself trembles—I stand firm.”

Cnemon laid a disk on the ground, and continued:

“Well! Is there any one of you who can push me down?”

The athletes, one after another, vainly tried their strength. Cnemon moistened the disk with oil till it was very slippery, but still stood his ground.

Then he stretched out his right hand, holding the fingers, also extended, pressed firmly together. “Now try to separate the little finger from the rest!” he exclaimed.

They attempted to do so, but the fingers seemed soldered to each other like metal.

“That’s nothing!” boastfully exclaimed Stenelos the Argive. “I can stop a team of four horses at full speed, by grasping the spokes of the wheels.”

“And I,” said Thermios the Elian, “once seized a stallion by the hoof at Pylus, and when he tore himself free, I held the hoof in my hand.”

“These are feats of strength,” said the Thessalian, Enagoras, “but equal what I once did at Larissa—I stole the sandals from the feet of the famous runner, Cresilas, in the midst of the race.”

“What?” cried the Spartan Anactor, “does the light-footed Thessalian boast in the presence of boxers? What will your swift legs profit you, if I hurl you face downward on the ground?”

“My fists are no worse than my legs!” exclaimed the Thessalian, “and if I should touch you, you can gather up your bones from the sand.”

“Silence!” cried the Spartan, “or I’ll crush your eyes out, as a cook mashes a cuttle-fish.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces,” replied the Thessalian, “till the ants carry you away in crumbs.”

“You fight with words!” exclaimed Cnemon the Bœotian. “That is not the custom of athletes. Put it to the test.”

“That we will!” cried both.

“Very well!” said the burly Theban, “but what do you mean to do? Will you race together, or belabor each other with your fists? They are trials by no means to be despised. Meantime, do you know the athlete’s best test, in which all, be they runners, pugilists, or anything else, meet on common ground?”

“Well?” asked the Spartan and the Thessalian at the same instant.

“The athlete’s best test,” said the Theban, stroking his stomach, “is the power of digestion. Think of Heracles; he killed lions by dozens among the mountains, but he also consumed a bull at one sitting. Here is Rhodus, men, fight here. Have—I won’t say an ox, for what would Heracles be, if he did not remain the only man of his kind—but have a large fat wether roasted, divide it into two equal parts, and eat it at one sitting. He, whose stomach first refuses its service, must admit himself conquered, for he will be the weaker of you two.”

“Quite right!” ran through the group; “Anactor and Enagoras must undergo the great test of athletes before our eyes. We’ll bring the wether at once and roast it on a spit.” Anactor and Enagoras agreed. At the same time several went away to get the largest wether they could find.

The scene had progressed thus far under the eyes of Pericles and his companions, when Aspasia rose from her seat, saying: “Let us go, Pericles, I no longer have strength to witness these Olympic games.”

The rest of the group smilingly rose, and set out on their return.

“Aspasia’s feeling towards these athletes,” said Alcamenes, “seems to me neither more nor less than the right and natural impulse of a woman, who is thoroughly healthy in body and soul. What real use are these immensely powerful men? Are they more effective in war than others? Do they mow down the ranks of the enemies, like the Homeric heroes? No! Experience opposes it. Are they adapted to be of service in improving the human race? No! Experience contradicts that also. They are good for nothing, except the feats they perform in the Stadium, amid the approving shouts of the spectators.”

“Yes,” replied Pericles, “the usefulness of the profession the athletes practise, is not realized in their own persons. Yet the advantage derived from that exhibition of strength, and the undue honor paid it, is great and priceless, in so far as it vividly reminds the Hellenic nation, that the powers of the body are no less capable of being increased and developed than those of the mind. There is more danger that man will neglect his physical, than his mental training, for he is constantly urged to intellectual activity by a secret impulse and the pressure of necessity. The cultivation of the body he leaves to nature, unless stimulated by some external spur.”

As Pericles uttered these words, the party had reached the sacred grove and were nearly opposite to some statues of famous victors, from the hand of Polycleitus.

Aspasia, fixing her eyes upon them, said:

“In looking at these works of Polycleitus, the sculptor seems to me to be of my opinion in these disputes. He has not vouchsafed to represent the excess of strength or the unyielding bulk of the limbs, but places before us images and types of just proportions, the harmonious, fully-developed figure. It always appears to me that Polycleitus is to be commended, because he does not, like Phidias, despise human nature, but gives it the honor that is its due, and as Phidias represents divine nature in its most sublime form, he most clearly realizes unpretending humanity.”

This eulogy produced a less pleasant impression on Polycleitus’ mind, than Aspasia expected.

“The artist,” he replied, “is dependent upon the wishes and needs of those who claim his skill. The Elians also seem to believe, that Phidias alone can worthily represent the gods, since they summoned him to Olympia. Not so the Argives, who wish to try me, their countryman, and have commissioned me to make the gold and ivory statue of Hera for their great temple at Argos.”

Aspasia could not succeed in soothing the visible ill-humor of the sculptor, who, in a short time, on some trivial pretext took his leave.

“You have now served as a spur to stimulate Polycleitus to do his best, and make the Hera of Argos worthy the Zeus of Olympia,” said Alcamenes smiling.

“He may execute an admirable statue in emulation of Phidias,” replied Aspasia.

“But as Phidias, after once stooping to earth with his Lemnian Pallas, quickly soared back again to Olympus, and since then has done penance at the feet of the Olympic Zeus, Polycleitus, I believe, will speedily return from Olympus to earth and his own peculiar domain. True, the imaginative Peloponnesian suggests in his statues little of the activity and depth of the soul; but do not Athenian artists also leave something to be hoped for and desired? May I confess, that I sometimes see in dreams visions of the gods no Phidias, Alcamenes or Polycleitus has yet realized with the chisel. Last night, Apollo, dearest to me of all the divinities, the god of light and music, appeared before me. He made himself manifest under the guise of a marvellous, slender, youthful figure, victorious and bewitching, moving with a bold yet graceful stride. The dragons of gloom, mortally wounded by the mere sight of him and the bow in his out-stretched hand, writhed before him. Who can chisel the god as I beheld him? Not you, Alcamenes! Yet you are the most ardent of all our sculptors, and with ever-youthful mind devote yourself to life and its charms. That is why life reveals its mysteries to you, and in your statues its mighty breath ruffles the too level surface of pure form.”

Alcamenes’ eyes sparkled enthusiastically.

“The Arcadians have long intended to build a temple to your favorite god, and applied to Phidias to adorn its frieze with sculpture. The latter sent them to me. But the Arcadian mind is circumspect, and they will doubtless wait many a year until the god, with his fatal darts, causes them to fulfil their vow. If they then remember their plan and me, the carving on that frieze shall bear witness, for all futurity, of the flame to which you encourage me to give free course, Aspasia.”

“Be wholly yourself,” said Aspasia, “do not heed the words of the cold and stern, and you will create something at which even the fault-finders will gaze with wondering admiration.”

From this moment, the last spark of ill-will towards Aspasia vanished from Alcamenes’ heart.

The following day some trifling accident led Pericles to go out without Aspasia, leaving her in the society of Alcamenes, Polycleitus, and some other friends he had met at Olympia. After a long interview, all took their leave except Alcamenes, who continued the conversation with his usual vivacity.

More and more ardent became the young sculptor’s words and looks.

But Alcamenes not only displayed his admiration of Pericles’ wife, now that he found himself alone with her, but—apparently unconsciously and involuntarily—adopted a tone which had a shade of familiarity. Was he justified by the courtesy, with which the art-loving Milesian had once admitted to friendly intercourse Phidias’ most talented pupil?

Aspasia noticed this touch of familiarity with a feeling of offended pride.

Impetuous Alcamenes began to make comparisons between the contours of her mature and youthful charms, speaking of them as people discuss things, with which they are thoroughly familiar.

This also offended the high-spirited Aspasia.

Alcamenes took her hand, scanned it with the eye of a connoisseur, praised its beauty, and said it was an inexhaustible source of artistic instruction to him.

Aspasia withdrew it, reminding him that Theodota would be no less inexhaustible in instructive charms.

“You are angry with me, because I have praised Theodota!” cried Alcamenes.

“Have I ever made you suffer for it?” replied Aspasia coldly; “did you find me hostile, when we met each other here again? Have I ceased to cherish expectations that do you honor, and urge you, as the most talented sculptor, to the attainment of the highest goal? I knew you hated me, but to me Alcamenes’ art and Alcamenes himself are wholly separate. I have returned neither your love nor your hate.”

“Your words may seem cold and sensible,” replied Alcamenes, “but secret emotion gives them a keen and bitter point. You are still angry with me on Theodota’s account. Forgive the sin I committed! What you call my hate, was the vengeance of love.”

“Long before your hatred became apparent to me, I told you what I have just recommended to your consideration—that there is a line between the interest a man’s mind takes in anything, and that felt by his heart.”

“Is it so with women?” asked Alcamenes, smiling insolently. “I repeat: you are angry with me on Theodota’s account. It was perhaps also a deed of vengeance, that you have rekindled the same old fires within me. Once more, forgive, and do not condemn the ardor you yourself have usually praised in Alcamenes’ nature.”

With these words the impetuous fellow suddenly embraced Pericles’ wife.

The proud beauty measured the aggressor with a look, that recalled him to his senses.

At this moment Pericles entered, and read what had happened in the expression of Alcamenes’ face.

The latter took his leave in great embarrassment and rushed away, his heart filled with fresh wrath against Aspasia.

Pericles looked very pale.

“Is explanation necessary?” said Aspasia. “You read in Alcamenes’ features—”

“It seems,” replied Pericles, “that Alcamenes treated you as people treat a woman, who—”

“Say no more!” cried Aspasia.

“I know,” continued Pericles, “the line you draw, according to Protagoras’ meaning, between your beauty and yourself. I know the precept, according to which woman’s veil might be shrivelled to a fig-leaf. You see he has a different opinion of the sacredness of the fig-leaf. He is wrong, you say; but his view of the matter, not yours, decides his manner of treating you. You know the man’s ardent, but not ignoble nature. He will now be doubly incensed against you, and increase the number of your open enemies.”

“He will apparently find an unexpected ally in this hostility!” said Aspasia.

After a few more bitter speeches and retorts, Pericles left the room.

Aspasia stamped indignantly.

“This accursed Peloponnesian soil is bringing me misfortune,” she murmured.

But fresh courage soon returned. “This is only a passing cloud,” she thought, “which will sail harmlessly across the clear sky of love. The fire will blaze more brightly after the new heat, than before the chill.”

Aspasia was not disappointed. But does not an uncomfortable residue of old ashes linger in the breast, beneath those brightly-blazing flames? Does love forget all it forgives?

Pericles and Aspasia were Phidias’ guests at Olympia. He had lodged them in one of the spacious apartments of his workshop, though he himself remained invisible. He was constantly engaged in the temple, superintending the completion and erection of the huge gold and ivory statue, and refused to see them, but had promised, through Alcamenes, that they should be the first of the whole Hellenic nation, to whom he would reveal the greatest work of his hands.

The eagerly-anticipated hour was approaching.

A glowing summer day was followed by a sultry evening, with a threatening thunder-shower. Dark flying clouds had gathered around the lofty mountain-peaks. After darkness had closed in, one of Phidias’ slaves came to Pericles, saying that he had been ordered to conduct him and Aspasia into the temple of Zeus. The Arcadian girl, at Aspasia’s request, accompanied them. They passed through the sacred grove of Altis, which lay in deep shadow under the clouded night-heavens. The place was deserted; only a faint rustle echoed through the tree-tops.

They reached the temple. The slave opened the doors, led them into the inner hall, conducted them to a raised platform at the end where they could sit down, then withdrew, closing the doors behind him, and left the three alone in the darkness. A faint glimmer of light fell through the opening in the roof from the dark, clouded sky, but did not reach far into the hall.

They waited silently, almost timidly. Suddenly the veil of gloom before their eyes was rent asunder, and they started, dazzled by an indescribable vision of light. The curtain that divided the back of the hall from the front had been drawn aside, and the three spectators beheld, in the bright glow, the colossal gold and ivory statue of the Olympic god. He was represented seated on a glittering, richly-ornamented throne, yet touching the temple-roof with the august head, whose nod, according to the singer’s words, shook the heights of Olympus.

Around the ivory limbs of the ruler of the gods hung a golden mantle, enveloping the left shoulder, arms, and lower portions of the body. This golden cloak sparkled with bright enamel, a decoration of tiny figures and blooming lilies seemed embroidered on its surface. The olive-wreath on the Olympian’s locks was of gold enameled with green. In the left hand he held a sceptre, which artistically wrought of various precious metals, and sparkling brightly, inclined slightly forward, and was supported by the floor. The out-stretched right palm held a goddess of victory, formed of the same materials as the statue of the god himself. Four pillar-shaped feet, between which stood small columns, supported the superbly-decorated throne, gleaming with gold and marble, ivory and ebony. The flat front was colored dark-blue, a background well suited to display the lustre of the gold and ivory.

Beautiful, significant carvings surrounded the god and the throne on all sides. An eagle perched on the sceptre, golden lions adorned the supports of the stool, on which rested the feet of the ruler of the gods, sphinxes emblems of the fathomless counsels of Zeus, upheld the arms of the throne. On the sides, painted by Pæonius, glittered, in bright hues, the deeds of the famous son of Zeus, Heracles. Other heroic forms appeared, and also representations of all the contests of Olympia.

On the wide surface of the socle, above which rose the throne itself, the fairest of Zeus’ daughters, golden Aphrodite, ascended from the foam of the sea.

The Olympian’s face was divinely gentle, yet full of indescribably sublime earnestness. The mild benevolence was wonderfully blended with stern power and grave wisdom, but the expression of supreme power was the predominant and prevailing one.

Aspasia, almost terrified, hid her face on Pericles’ breast. This luminous vision inspired her with a sort of awe. Here there was nothing womanly blended with the divine nature, as in the figure of the virginal Pallas Athena. The grave, stern, lofty power of the ruler of the gods was here raised to its summit.

Aspasia felt something like a sudden pain in her breast at the spectacle.

The Arcadian girl was also greatly startled; but instantly recovered herself and gazed up at the god with the confidence of a child.

The storm had slowly risen. Through the opening in the temple-roof, they saw the lightning flash across the sky and heard the roll of distant thunder.

Aspasia wanted to draw Pericles away with her, but he remained absorbed in silent contemplation. He, too, was accustomed to receive a pleasant impression from sculpture, but now saw himself confronted with the sublime in a form never before imagined. There was something like a new revelation in this statue.

The thunder rolled nearer and nearer.

Suddenly a flash of lightning darted through the opening in the temple-roof.

Pericles and Aspasia were blinded for a moment; when they recovered their sight, they saw a marble tablet, on which the twelve Olympic divinities were carved in relief, cleft and blackened by the thunder-bolt.

Zeus’ countenance had shone for an instant with Titanic majesty in the glare of the lightning. It seemed as if his hand had hurled the dart, that shattered the inferior Olympic deities.

Now his face beamed with such quiet dignity, that the terror roused by the lightning melted at the sight. The god appeared so great, that even the lightning played around him like faint, feeble sparks.

“This god of Phidias’,” said Pericles, absorbed in thought, “has grown above the temples of the Hellenes. His head towers towards the unattainable, the infinite—”

Half-constrained, Pericles at last yielded to Aspasia’s urgency, and both went in search of Phidias.

The latter, unseen, had watched the pair, while they stood gazing at the god.

Then, to avoid speaking, he disappeared and remained concealed.

When the husband and wife thoughtfully returned to their lodging, Aspasia shook from her mind the impression produced by the solemnly sublime spectacle, as a bird shakes the glittering rain-drops from its light wings.

Not so Pericles.

But Aspasia did not rest, till she had banished the Olympic sternness from his brow.

At last the supernatural, solemnly sublime spectacle, beheld amid lightning and thunder, receded into the background, and admiration of the peerless sculptor obtained mastery in his soul.

Even with closed eyes, the Arcadian girl saw herself in her sleep that night surrounded by streams of light, the sparkle of gold, the gleam of ivory, and the flash of lightning strangely blended together.

Pericles started restlessly from sleep several times. He had dreamed that Phidias’ seated god had risen to his full height, and shattered the temple-roof with his head.

Aspasia had another strange dream.

She saw Zeus’ eagle fly down from the sceptre to the socle, and peck out the eyes of golden, smiling, joyous Aphrodite’s doves.