CHAPTER VI.

THE CHILD OF LIGHT AND THE PRIEST OF DARKNESS.

The Peloponnesian journey of Pericles and Aspasia formed a strange contrast to their Ionian honeymoon. On the gay strand of Miletus, victorious womanhood with soft arms drew the Athenian hero into her magic circle; here, amid towering mountain peaks, the manly Dorian spirit approached Pericles, accompanied by many things well suited to awaken serious thoughts. Here nature herself filled his soul with solemn awe, here the ancient relics of a heroic past, compared with which later generations could not help feeling themselves a feeble race, accosted him; here amid scenes, whose legends were inseparably connected with the old heroic world, a worship and rivalry of virility was fostered, well suited, as Aspasia felt, to rouse, sustain, and develop opinions in the soul of the Greek, which would rather injure than aid the victory of beauty and womanhood in every department of life. In the shepherd’s lonely mountain meadows Pericles had beheld a simple, idyllic existence, untouched by the breath of the new civilization, and which fostered views, feelings, presentiments, that perhaps only awaited the decline of the true Hellenic spirit, to weave a grey, formless mist around the bright Greek world. Even the Athenian’s art, placing his last and noblest work in the temple of the Olympic ruler of the gods, seemed to seal forever the triumph of lofty sublimity over graceful beauty.

These emotions and influences affected Pericles differently from Aspasia. Their minds were not wholly alike, and the nature of their relation to the outside world also differed. Aspasia was working, giving, active in all directions; Pericles, without impairing his manly vigor, was receptive, allowing every external influence to act upon his noble Greek soul. Like the Hellenic nation itself, he was placed, with his extreme susceptibility, between the opposing powers; and, like the Hellenic nature and Hellenic mind, experienced, by the constant transition of these influences and contrasts, a development, a mental history, whose limit and issue were not yet to be seen, while Aspasia stood immovably and changelessly firm in the inmost depths of her nature—as the powerful champion of the gayety and beauty of Hellenic life.

Was there not reason to fear, that through this trifling contrast, hitherto concealed by the rose-garlands of love and happiness, the exquisite harmony of the love-life that united the handsome, noble pair on the very summit of human existence, might some day be shadowed?

Doubtless the peril was imminent, but the roses of love and happiness now seemed fadeless, gifted with a magic, eternal perfume.

Pericles still remained susceptible and receptive, Aspasia active and expressive.

They often attacked each other’s opinions in conversation, and Pericles frequently believed he had drawn his beloved wife into his views and mood. Finally, however, he usually perceived that it was she who had converted him, that it was impossible wholly to resist the potent spell in the hands of this peerless woman. He constantly allowed himself to be led back from the summit of free, wide, views of life. The beautiful harmony between the two souls was constantly restored, they continually realized afresh the ideal of Hellenic life at its highest summit of development, and afforded a spectacle on which the Olympians looked down with satisfaction.

Aspasia admirably understood how to manage her husband’s moods. Whether she would always be able to stifle the newly-budding germ of his inner life, check the progress of his mental development, it was as yet impossible to determine.

This only is certain, that Aspasia always understood how to blend the mirthfulness of Anacreon’s songs with the earnestness aroused in Pericles by the hymns of Pindar, and between these two the real Greek spirit always maintained its ground.

The past had cast a fleeting shadow over Pericles’ conjugal happiness, in the little incident connected with Alcamenes. Aspasia breathed more freely when, on their return from Olympia to Athens, they left the soil of the Peloponnesus behind. She did not suspect, that still more unpleasant events awaited her in Attica, just before reaching the desired goal.

While Phidias was creating his Zeus at Olympia for all Hellas, as he had formerly at Athens created Pallas Athena for the Athenians, his old associate and friend, Ictinus, had been employed in Eleusis, the Attic city of mysteries, where he had been summoned to erect a new temple to Demeter for the celebration of the great ceremonies.

As the time for this celebration was close at hand, Hipponicus, who at this festival held the office of a Daduchus, long hereditary in his family, had just moved to Eleusis, occupying a country villa, which, like many other rich Athenians, he possessed in the neighborhood of the beautifully-located city, which was situated near the sea, opposite the ford and island of Salamis. The hill-sides were covered with the houses of the residents and vast temples, surrounded by extensive grounds.

During his stay at Eleusis, Pericles became Hipponicus’ guest.

The first day was devoted to the inspection of the large new temple completed by Ictinus, and which, being intended for the celebration of the mysteries, contained numerous subterranean halls and labyrinthic passages of vast extent, the scene of the secret rites only the initiated were allowed to behold.

The subject of the Eleusinian mysteries was one against which Aspasia resolutely directed the sharpest arrows of her mind and wit. Everything that shrank from the light, sought the darkness, surrounded itself with the veil of secrecy, seemed to her connected with superstition and fanaticism, and she thus perceived in these ceremonies peril to the free, aspiring spirit of the Hellenes.

When she blamed the Athenians for the reverence and holy awe felt for these mysteries, Pericles said:

“Perhaps the awe experienced by the Hellenes, is the natural timidity the human mind feels in the presence of the secrets slumbering undeveloped in its own depths. Who knows how many revelations of the human intellect will yet be brought forth from the sacred abyss?”

“I wish to hear nothing about the revelations of the future,” said Aspasia. “The revelation of the present is the revelation of beautiful humanity, and everything that might follow would be only a degeneration. Let us cling with mind, soul, and every fibre of our being to the beautiful, bright present.”

Pericles referred his wife to the Daduchus Hipponicus, asking whether this man, whose body constantly grew more corpulent, whose cheeks constantly glowed with a deeper crimson, showed any trace of fanaticism? Yet he was not only one of the initiated, but even the holder of a priestly office at Eleusis, one of those who consecrated the mystics.

Aspasia replied, that those who led others into the domain of superstition and fanaticism were rarely free from the sentiments they inspired, though it sometimes happened that the holders and transmitters of holy secrets were like the mules, that here and there, according to ancient custom, were used as bearers of sacred temple-vessels or statues of the gods, but received no part of the divine blessing they carried on their backs and gave to others. “Harmless Hipponicus,” Aspasia added, “seems to me to belong to this latter class.”

Hipponicus was proud of his office of Daduchus because the Hellenic nation regarded it as an honor. But he really felt attracted by no secret impulse, no personal inclination, towards the other things associated with and required by this dignity, only by the circumstance that he belonged to the family from which the Daduchi of Eleusis were chosen, and the choice had fallen on him.

He defended the mysteries against Aspasia’s attacks as a cause he represented, but without growing excited over it.

Averse to philosophical discussion, he contented himself with showing Aspasia a painting that adorned his dining-room. The picture was executed by Polygnotus, and represented Ulysses’ visit to the realm of shades. Hades was depicted in all its terrors, and the living prince of Ithaca walked fearlessly amid the pallid ghosts.

As Pericles looked at the picture with Aspasia, he noticed, as one of the initiated, that its details contained many references to the mysteries of Eleusis. Hipponicus assented to the remark, and said to Aspasia:

“It is allowable to betray this much, that the way to the holy light of Eleusis leads through Hades, through the terrors of Erebus. As for the uninitiated, and those who obstinately disdain to allow themselves to be consecrated, their fate in the nether world is very easily shown in this very painting.”

Hipponicus then earnestly advised Aspasia to allow herself to be initiated, reminding her that, according to the universal belief of the Hellenes, those initiated into the mysteries of Demeter at Eleusis, walk after death through the fields of the blessed, while the unconsecrated were destined to languish throughout eternity in horrible darkness and desolation.

“I have often heard so,” replied Aspasia, “and it always sounded like the jarring notes of a tuneless cithara, or the noise of a sharp iron instrument drawn over glass. It is marvellous to what things even Hellenic ears can become accustomed. I know there are people who, when they feel the end of life drawing near, quickly have themselves initiated, and many hasten to have their children, even at a very tender age, made sharers in this salvation.”

“I have myself been initiated, like almost all the Athenians,” said Pericles, “and would gladly share these secrets with you, as well as all others.”

“I understand,” replied Aspasia, “that superstition affords a sufficient motive for the foolish to be initiated, and curiosity for the wise. But, as a woman, I have a double right to curiosity. What must I do, Hipponicus, to share the consecration.”

“It is a very easy matter. You must go next year to the minor Eleusinian festival at Athens, receive through the intercession of some one already consecrated the minor initiation, and six months after proceed in the Eleusinian procession from Athens to Eleusis, to be initiated into the great consecration and behold the real mysteries.”

“What?” cried Aspasia, “must I restrain my curiosity so long? I must wait for the minor Eleusinian festival, and then see six months elapse, before the mysteries are revealed to me? Are you not one of the Daduchi, Hipponicus, and, as such, can’t you procure me the favor of receiving the minor initiation at the same time with the great one?”

“Impossible!” replied Hipponicus.

“What prevents you?” asked Aspasia.

“The interval between the two consecrations is appointed by sacred custom,” replied the Daduchus.

“You can help me evade the sacred custom, if you only choose to do so!” replied Aspasia.

“The Hierophant is a stern, severe man, like Diopeithes at Athens,” said Hipponicus. “Shall I bring down the wrath of the chief priest upon my head?”

Aspasia persisted in her request, but the Daduchus repeated his “impossible.” He was a foe to unpleasant complications, and felt no inclination to rouse the whole Eleusinian priesthood. He liked peace and comfort.

The next day the Eleusinian procession came from Athens to Eleusis. Pericles, Aspasia and Hipponicus were among the spectators, as the throng, numbering thousands, passed along the sacred road. While Aspasia’s eyes wandered over the sacred relics borne in the procession and the throng of mystics themselves, all garlanded with myrtle and ivy, and carrying in their hands ears of corn and farming utensils in honor of Demeter, giver of the fruits of the earth, suddenly, by the light of the burning torches—for the arrival of the Eleusinian procession took place in the darkness of evening—Telesippe’s dull eyes and flabby cheeks appeared amid the motley throng of faces.

Telesippe’s husband, who through Pericles’ influence was the newly-elected archon Basileus, who had the charge of overlooking the Eleusinian mysteries, marched in the company of the Athenian priests and superior magistrates; Telesippe, with head erect, walked by his side as Basilissa, the sharer of his religious dignities and functions.

The wife of the chief archon looked very stately, and as her glance, roving haughtily to the right and left, fell upon her former husband and the Milesian by his side, she raised her head still more proudly, while a contemptuous expression appeared on her pouting under lip. Her countenance was as solemn, as if she were standing at the Lenæan festival as “the mystic wife of the god,” in the temple of Dionysus, at the head of the inferior priestesses, performing the mysterious ceremonies, rites no masculine eye was permitted to behold, and concerning which she received from the participators a vow of silence.

When Aspasia beheld this woman, so proudly supported by the consciousness of her priestly dignity, and hurling the arrow of scorn from disapproving eyes, the old hatred and sharp-tongued ridicule stirred in the Ionian’s breast.

“See,” she said to Pericles smiling, “see how proudly the estimable Telesippe walks along, her well-rounded limbs covered with sleek fat! After being wedded to two mortals, she has now become the mystic wife of the god Dionysus! But I should be surprised if the youthful god did not soon yield her to another, nay to Silenus, his round-bellied comrade; for whom she seems exactly created.”

Some of this sharp-edged ridicule reached Telesippe’s ears. But it was still more distinctly heard by Elpinice and the seer Lampon, who walked behind her in the procession, and had also looked the Milesian sharply in the eye. Glances of ill-suppressed indignation were cast at the insolent speaker, and a silent vow to hasten a long-resolved vengeance was taken at the same moment in three wrathful souls.

During the night the festal dancers rioted on the coast of the Eleusinian bay, led by the god Iacchus with a blazing torch. The light shone over the flowery meadow, and the enthusiastic chorus whirled around the god, stamping on the ground in the dance and shaking their waving locks, crowned with myrtle-wreaths, amid which were ripe berries. The ranks, swinging their torches aloft, crossed each other in manifold curves. One mystic frequently handed a torch to another. This mystic glare was considered sacred, and the sparks showered from the torches were supposed to purify the souls of those they touched in falling.

With the closing in of the evening, that ended the preliminary festival and preceded the mysteries in the temple, the mystics prepared for the sacred rites by various purifications, libations, sacrifices and other sacred customs.

Meantime Aspasia had repeatedly renewed her entreaty, that Hipponicus would use his influence to have her initiated into the mysteries.

Hipponicus reminded her, that the celebration of the mysteries took place under the direction of the archon Basileus, Telesippe’s husband, and as he had the control of the Eleusinian priests, his wife, as Basilissa, commanded the priestesses of Eleusis during the time of the mysteries.

All this seemed only to stimulate Aspasia’s obstinacy, but she would scarcely have overcome his resistance, had he not finally fared like Alcamenes at Olympia. He did not keep in the house for days, in vain, the firebrand that had already once scorched his heart. Mindful of the incident with Alcamenes, Aspasia would probably otherwise have guarded against fanning this flame afresh, and thus conjuring up a danger that appeared momentous on Pericles’ account. But she had resolved to thoroughly investigate what she must combat, in order to fight with greater success. She noticed with satisfaction the ardor of Hipponicus, whom she usually despised; it was a guarantee that he would fulfil her request.

It was even so. The Daduchus at last consented to give Aspasia the minor consecration, she ought to have received six months before at Athens. He knew how to win over the mystagogue, whose duty it was to introduce and prepare the novices at the minor Eleusian festival at Athens.

The Daduchus, after certain preliminary ceremonies of purification, ordered Aspasia to step on the fleece of a lamb sacrificed to Zeus, and the mystagogue then taught her various customs and formulas, which she required in the temple to prove that she was initiated, in order not to be refused admittance with the mystics into the interior of the sanctuary. Finally he made her swear, that she would forever maintain inviolable silence about everything she would hear and see in the temple of the great consecration.

All the mystics were not introduced at once when the days of the consecration came, but one division followed another.

Pericles and Aspasia were among the first throng admitted.

A smile hovered around Aspasia’s lips as, guided by the mystagogue, she entered the inner hall of the sanctuary with the throng, and saw the Hierophant with the rest of the chief priests and assistants, arrayed in glittering emblematic garments, with diadems resting on the waving locks that floated freely over their shoulders—tall, aged men, of venerable aspect, displaying mysterious symbols, among them the Daduchus with a torch in his hand.

Still more charming was the fair Milesian’s smile, when the “sacred herald” raised his voice before the assembled mystics, summoning every one who had not received the consecration to retire, as well as every one whose hands were not free from guilt, and who was not worthily prepared to behold the sacred light of Eleusis. Lastly, all took a solemn vow to maintain eternal silence about what they would see and hear, after which a question was whispered into the ear of each mystic, which only that particular individual could answer, and which he answered in an equally low tone in the questioner’s ear, while the solemn hymn to the goddesses of Eleusis was sung by an invisible chorus.

The subtle smile still hovered on Aspasia’s lips, when the mystics were led into the interior of the temple, where certain holy objects, remnants of primeval days, emblems of the blessings and mysteries of the Eleusinian service of the gods, were shown them, and then offered to be touched and kissed, while being explained by the Hierophant.

With the same smile she watched the pantomimic representations of the holy legends, vivid and affecting when seen in the mysterious, dusky light of the temple, accompanied by the music of stringed instruments, flutes, and songs.

The throng of mystics was now conducted down flights of steps into subterranean vaults and passages, where they were soon surrounded by total darkness. The pilgrimage began, a long, toilsome, aimless wandering in nocturnal gloom. Only the Hierophant’s voice, uttering in grave, dignified tones significant maxims and exclamations, served as a guide through the dark labyrinth.

Suddenly a dull roar was heard, as if the foundations of the earth trembled, amid which blended wails, groans, rushing water, rolling thunder. Timid surprise, awe, and fear now succeeded the quiet gaze of the crowd of mystics, drops of perspiration stood on their foreheads.

Terror constantly increased; for horrible shapes, monsters of the nether world, were momentarily illumined by the glare of lightning-like flames, whose tints were red, blue, white, or livid and awful, flashing alternately from the ground. There were Gorgons with horrible heads, Echidnæ crawling like serpents, strange chimeras, blending the forms of the lion, goat, and snake, Harpies with huge jaws and protruding teeth, pale, blood-thirsty Empusæ, barking Scyllæ with dogs’ heads, and the horrible figure of Hecate.

The terrible apparitions grew still more awful, until at last, surrounded by a livid glare, Thanatos, god of death, appeared throned on dead men’s bones, clad in a black robe, his brow garlanded with asphodel, in his hand a reversed torch, beside him a pale steed, on which he traversed vast distances.

Around him were his faithful followers, Eurynomus, the demon of corruption, one of the spirits of Hades, whose office was to gnaw the flesh of corpses to the bones. He sat on carcasses like an eagle or vulture, and greedily closed his teeth on the mouldering flesh.

Farther on, grouped around pallid Thanatos, were the plague, pale, emaciated hunger, the fury of war Enyo, sickly love-madness, and Ate, the furious demon of folly, blindness, and sin.

Aspasia still smiled, but the smile was no longer charming, and her face was pale as marble.

At a sign from the Hierophant, the Daduchus lighted his torch at one of the livid flames flashing from the ground, and, while the music of flutes and the invisible chorus sounded still more terrible, a gloomy cave, filled with mephitic vapors, received the throng. A dull roar, like that of a torrent, echoed from the distance, blended with a loud barking, which seemed to come from a triple-headed dog.

As the mystics traversed the long, horrible way through the cave, they saw, as if in a dream, a wide, monotonous, gloomy domain, dripping with the dews of sleep and encircled by mournful streams.

The baying of the triple-headed dog of Hades was silenced by the sacred herald’s staff, and the throng of mystics beheld, with horror, Persephone’s grove of the dead; where, in the livid light, stood willows and silver-poplars, pallid and motionless, with drooping boughs.

Then came the field of Asphodel, overgrown with the mournful flower of death, whose pale blossoms swayed dreamily on their lofty stalks.

Above this field the shades, the souls of the dead, hovered to and fro, like visions of a dream, or smoke, intangible, destitute of human speech, but filling the wide space with a low, monotonous hum. They were only half conscious, as if sunk in dreamy, waking slumber, only aroused by a proffered draught of the fresh-steaming blood of a victim.

Night-birds whirred through the air, but these too were shadowy and ghost-like. Shadowy also, with transparent bodies, the fish glided noiselessly to and fro in the streams of the nether world. These streams, which surrounded Erebus, were Acheron, the river of eternal woe; Cocytus, the river of tears; Pyriphlegethon, the river of fire, and the night-black waters of the Styx.

The mystics, conducted by the sacred herald, walked dreamily through the twilight of the floating, wavering world of shadows, until, with a noise like thunder, a huge brazen door crashed open before them.

Across the brazen threshold they entered Tartarus, the abode of souls, who were not permitted to float over the field of Asphodel in a half slumber, feeling neither joy nor sorrow, but were dragged by the avenging Erinnyes into the deeper gulf of Hades, filled with lamentations.

To be bound forever to a rolling wheel—to be forever threatened by overhanging rocks just ready to fall—to eternally stretch out the hand with unfulfilled longing towards boughs laden with fruit, that constantly escaped—to perpetually roll up a mountain a stone that continually rolled down again—to toil with desperate energy to dip up constantly escaping water in a pail full of holes—to expose entrails continually renewed to a vulture’s bite, and the limbs to the lashing of the Erinnyes’ serpent scourge—to be forever a plaything in the hands of these Stygian shapes of horror: this was the lot of those, whom the throng of the initiated beheld with a shudder in this realm of anguish.

The images of these tortures of the nether world were various, but most numerous of all were the symbols of vain perpetual striving and aspiration.

Thus those summoned to the consecration were led, with souls filled with fear, through the horrors of the abyss, the sufferings of life, and the terrors of death.

Through all these apparitions and scenes of horror, the Hierophant’s voice was heard, raised in solemn tones of warning and interpretation.

Still more horrible grew the subterranean darkness, still louder the wails and groans of the tortured. The rivers of the nether world began to roar, the whole realm of darkness seemed to groan in a heart-rending death-gasp, in which the upper world appeared also to unite, and the voices of all living creatures to blend in a prolonged wail of agony.

Suddenly a wondrous light burst from the bosom of the most intense darkness.

Pleasant scenes appeared, meadows strewn with golden flowers; sweet voices resounded, happy groups of dancers hovered over the bright fields.

Here Persephone’s palace beckoned invitingly in the brilliant glow. On its threshold, holding a lyre on his arm, stood Orpheus, the ancient sacred singer of mysteries, his lips proclaiming mysterious tidings.

Behind him the boy Demophoon smilingly greeted the mystics from the midst of the purifying flames, with which his divine nurse, Demeter, had surrounded him, to the terror of his mortal mother.

Above the golden doors of the temple hovered, illumined by the most brilliant rays, the emblem of the winged Psyche, no longer brooding, shadow-like, in Hades, but soaring upward above fields of Asphodel, out of Tartarus and Elysium into the kindred divine ether.

The pilgrims from the nether world were conducted through the temple-gates. Here the unuttered part of the mysteries was revealed. Here glowed before them, according to each individual’s power of vision, the full sacred light of Eleusis.

The day succeeding Aspasia’s initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries, found the Milesian in a bewildered, strangely-altered state. Her excitement almost rose to the height of fever. In an eager conversation with Pericles about what she had seen and heard by his side, she strove to restore the lost harmony of her mind. As there are night-birds and other creatures of darkness, whose eyes love gloom and cannot bear the light, there are also children of light, who are only at ease in the golden rays of the kindred and familiar element, and whose pupils cannot endure to gaze down into the black gulf of night. Aspasia was one of them. This pilgrimage seemed to her a look into the darkness, a glimpse of the black night, and what was called the holy light of Eleusis did not appear to her like light, but a different kind of obscurity, for it was gloomy and led to gloom. She could only imagine the light as cheerful. To her light was only that which brightened and made glad. The livid, cold, ghostly, and then glaring, dazzling rays the Hierophant of Eleusis had cast into the depths of life, appeared to her a base counterpart of the real roseate light. The fantastic arts, bordering upon magic, of the Eleusinian priests, she called jugglery and confused symbolical nonsense.

She was agitated, seized with an oppressive restlessness and urged to opposition in a way never felt before.

Meantime it had remained no secret to the strangers, especially to the Athenians who thronged Eleusis, that Aspasia had been allowed to be initiated into the mysteries by her husband’s side. Even the minor circumstances of this initiation were soon learned by those, who followed the Milesian’s acts with the sharp eyes of disapproval. The worst of her foes, whom she had just again insulted and roused to vengeance, remained in Eleusis, among them Lampon, the officious Lampon, who had won a still higher place in Telesippe’s confidence and favor since she became the wife of a man high among the priesthood, and was exactly adapted to be the tool of the revengeful wife and her intriguing friend. Lampon soon wrested from the unsuspicious mystagogue the secret of the bold expedient, in defiance of the sacred law, to which Aspasia owed her initiation. Through him the news reached her enemies.

The archon Basileus, as guardian of the holy laws, was speedily informed of the sacrilege, and a storm gathered over the heads of Aspasia and her accomplice, Hipponicus, who against priestly rule had helped her obtain the consecration.

Aspasia as yet knew nothing of the impending trouble, and ere she obtained tidings of it, an unpleasant event of a different nature occurred in Hipponicus’ house.

She was seated with her husband and their hospitable host at the morning meal. Sacred usage required a certain degree of abstemiousness during the celebration of the mysteries, and Aspasia therefore took still greater pleasure in urging on the old reveller, Hipponicus, by gay toasts and songs, until he was more mindful of the inspiring god Iacchus than of stern Persephone. He applied himself industriously to the beaker, and his eyes sparkled more and more brightly as the charming woman took the field against the mournful solemnity of the mysteries, nay against all melancholy, even the gloomy idea of duty, to which she opposed the bright claims of life and joy.

Pericles withdrew to visit one of his colleagues, and Aspasia went to her room.

Suddenly Hipponicus, much intoxicated, appeared before her and began to load her with reproaches.

“Woman,” he stammered, “your name is ingratitude. Didn’t I release you from evil complications at Megara? What was my reward? Haven’t I again plunged heels over head into danger, by smuggling you, contrary to all sacred customs, into the mysteries? And am I to have no reward for that either, not the smallest? Why, if your mind is so free, are you so reserved towards me? Do you fear your husband? He is absent. Or the gloomy idea of duty? You have just made it ridiculous. Am I not young and handsome enough for you? Then take this ring with its precious gems! It cost two talents in cash. Do you know whether Pericles will always love you, whether he may not some day cast you off, like Telesippe. Everything in the world changes and varies. Rely upon nothing! Seize the present! Take the ring, fair woman! Take the ring with the gems, that cost two talents! Do you know how long you will be charming? You are beautiful still, but the time will come when you will be old and ugly. Take the ring, fair woman, and give me a kiss in exchange.”

The drunkard shrank back for a moment before Aspasia’s wrathful eyes. Then he grew angry, and muttered:

“Who are you? Eh, who are you? A hetæra from Miletus, by Demeter! Since when have you attempted to be a Spartan wife, an austere matron? Oh! you prude, who once, without coyness, served the youthful Alcamenes as a model.”

Aspasia trembled, and turned pale with rage against the insolent drunkard. Again she pushed the staggering man back, hastily threw her upper garment around her and rushed out of the room, out of the house, to meet her husband, Pericles.

She had scarcely left the villa, when Diopeithes’ pliant friend, Lampon the seer, entered.

He was sent by Diopeithes, who had arrived in Eleusis the day before.

When those inspired by mortal hatred towards Pericles and Aspasia first heard the news of Aspasia’s unlawful initiation, they instantly determined to accuse her and the Daduchus before the sacred council, and most of them rejoiced that they could plunge the much envied Hipponicus into ruin, as well as the woman they hated.

But Diopeithes himself, the real head of this hostile party, was of a different opinion, and devised a plan that did honor to his cunning. He would gladly have exposed Hipponicus to the accusation and sentence of condemnation, but calculated that, if not accused and condemned, he might be more useful to the party.

“If we accuse him at once,” he said, “the powerful Pericles will aid him with all his influence, and even if he does not escape wholly unpunished, he will receive a much milder sentence than we desire. Perhaps he may get off with a fine, easily paid by the richest man in Athens. He will pay it, and remain precisely as he is now. It will be quite different if we do not call him immediately to account, but let the indictment for the present hover as a perpetual threat over his head. We will let him know that we possess his secret, and have the power to ruin him as soon as we choose. This will render him yielding in everything. A man like him, who values his ease above all else, and for whom no price is too high to escape an annoyance or entanglement, will become a helpless tool in our hands from mere anxiety. His influence at Athens and the power of his riches are great: it will be better to conduct this water over our wheel, than our enemy’s.”

After addressing these words to his companion, the crafty, malicious priest sent Lampon to Hipponicus’ house.

The seer found the Daduchus in a strange condition. He was intoxicated, and at the same time violently excited by rage at what had just passed between him and Pericles’ wife.

Nevertheless Lampon entered into a conversation with Hipponicus, and frankly told him it was known that, contrary to one of the sacred rules, he had initiated Pericles’ wife into the mysteries.

Hipponicus was so greatly startled by these words, that he became almost sober, but his anger against the Milesian burst forth with double fury. He began to curse her as a temptress and corrupter.

“Seize her!” he exclaimed, “break her on the wheel, put her in the pillory, spear her, do whatever you choose with her, she deserves it.”

Lampon heard these expressions of wrath with delight, and after craftily increasing to the utmost the man’s rage and fear of the ruinous indictment, he made the disclosure that those who could arraign him were ready to secretly enter into an agreement with him, and asked if he would accept their invitation to an interview. Hipponicus breathed more freely, and promised in advance everything that could be asked. The time and place for the meeting were instantly arranged between him and Lampon.

During this conversation, Aspasia was hurrying through the streets of Eleusis. Her rapid pace was soon checked by the crowd, and she could not fail to notice that she was recognized. She found herself the object of attention that perplexed, confused, and alarmed her.

The throng of people assembled in Eleusis had been excited against Aspasia by her enemies in every possible way. The rumor of her unlawful initiation went the rounds of the populace. There were some who ventured to say loudly, that Pericles’ wife had once been a hetæra from Miletus and Megara, had been driven from the latter place with insult, and, on account of this past, her initiation was a sacrilege. Exaggerations and tales of the most foolish kind, as usual, ran from lip to lip, arousing contempt and anger.

The crowd through which Aspasia pressed, with anxious haste, was animated by these feelings.

There was no lack of insolent persons who curiously followed her, nay walking behind her, even uttered insulting words that could not fail to reach her ear and wound her.

“What is the news in Athens?”

“Nothing, except a woman there carries spear and shield, and the men are womanish.”

“It can’t be denied that Athens is ruled by a woman.”

“By Pallas Athena, you mean?”

“No, by a Milesian hetæra. It is said that Pericles is going to have her statue placed on the Acropolis.”

“Poor Pericles! He never could resist women. He was Elpinice’s lover too, and it is known that she bribed him with her elderly charms.”

“Is the Milesian the same person he wandered with in Asia Minor several years ago?”

“Yes, indeed; they say he made a pilgrimage with her to the under petticoat of Omphale, the hero conqueror, which is hung in the temple of Diana at Ephesus.”

“But how could it have entered his head to take this same woman with him into the rude Peloponnesus, where she can’t possibly feel at home. Kittens, says a proverb, like a soft place to sleep.”

“It is said the gnats at Elis were very uncomfortable to her, and I’ll wager the gadflies of Eleusis will please her still less.”

“In truth their buzzing seems to suit her very badly.”

“Ah, these tender chickens from Paphia’s nest, who have slept on purple cushions from childhood, these Ionians, with the melting eyes and pliant arms, without a bone in their bodies, full of gentleness and love—what do they seek in battling Olympia or grave Eleusis?”

Such were the malicious taunts, that echoed from the crowd constantly increasing behind Aspasia.

When this had lasted for some time, she suddenly stood still, threw back the covering that veiled her head, so that her face was wholly visible, and calmly gazed with radiant eyes at the throng around her.

Then her lips parted and she answered the staring populace.

“Years ago, I once stood a helpless woman in the streets of Megara, surrounded by the crowd, guiltlessly insulted, guiltlessly persecuted with looks and words. I was watched with eyes that glowed with hatred, for the hostile Dorians pressed upon me. I was mocked with unjust words, grasped with rude hands, for the rude, fierce Dorian mob surrounded me. To-day a crowd encircles me in the streets of Eleusis. But I raise my head quietly and calmly, for I think most of those who encircle me are Athenians. It is no Dorian throng, but an Ionian one, whose worst shaft, I believe, is the insolent glance of the eye, and the heedless word that always springs readily from the keen-edged tongue. But why do you crowd around me? Why do you stare at me? I have intruded unbidden into the mysteries of Eleusis, you say? Do not be paltry in your thoughts, clear-minded Athenians, and do not too readily follow the hints and words of those who hate the light and love the darkness, those who would fain sell you into the gloom! Men of Athens! Pay not too much honor to the gloomy pair of goddesses at Eleusis, and remember your own Pallas Athena, the goddess of light, the true and worthy protectress of the Attic land and nation, whose statue, in its brilliant radiance, dispersing all the brood of night, towers on your citadel.”

As Pericles’ wife uttered these words, with her bright face fearlessly raised to the throng pressing around her, the men looked at each other, saying:

“By the gods, this Aspasia of Miletus is a beautiful woman, and we must forgive her many things.”

Then they separated a little, and allowed her to quietly continue her way.

The friends of Diopeithes, who chanced to be among the crowd, were still more enraged with the Milesian, went to the priest of Erechtheus, and reported that Aspasia had boldly uttered contemptuous words about the sanctuaries and venerable goddesses of Eleusis before the assembled populace.

The hour for the interview with Diopeithes, to which Hipponicus was invited, had arrived.

A number of men, with sullen faces, declared enemies of Pericles, were assembled with the priest.

The trembling Daduchus consented to everything. Relying upon his declarations and the outbursts of his anger against Aspasia, which Lampon had witnessed, Diopeithes henceforth numbered him among his allies and accomplices.

For his sake, they said, the accusation against Aspasia in a matter very dangerous, according to the Athenian laws, should be deferred so long as he showed himself worthy of consideration. The conspirators thought the bold, irreverent remarks made by Pericles’ wife about the Eleusinian goddesses, before all the people, would be sufficient to ruin her. The charge of impiety, contempt for religion, could be brought against her at any moment.

There were present men belonging to the party of oligarchs, who said that they must go still farther, must not be satisfied with assailing the Milesian, who after all was nothing but a woman, but attack Pericles himself. They referred to the ruinous transformation in the community which had emanated from him, the unlimited authority of the people gained by his compliance, and held in check by nothing save the personal influence of the popular strategus. Thus Athenian affairs were exposed to the discretion and pleasure of a single individual. Others thought men like Anaxagoras, Socrates, and the Sophists, were the real root of the mischief in the state. These would have taught the Athenians to think freely and speak audaciously of the gods and divine things, seek them above everything else. There were also, among the adherents of Diopeithes, foes and enviers of Phidias and his school, who wished to see the persecution extended to them.

Diopeithes’ eyes sparkled at the mention of all these names. All were equally hateful to him.

“We shall understand how to seize them all,” said he, “either successively or at once. But let us craftily watch for a suitable opportunity, wait for a favorable mood of the Athenians. Meantime let us quietly do everything according to a fixed plan, to prepare for the ruin of the guilty ones.”

Such was the speech made by the priest of Erechtheus. Many things were then considered and discussed among the assembled group.

Aspasia did not return to Hipponicus’ house that night; the following morning, just before leaving Eleusis with his wife, Pericles went once more to the Daduchus.

He spoke to him of the bold insult he had offered Aspasia. Hipponicus apologized on the plea of intoxication, for which Aspasia was herself partly to blame, since by Anacreon’s songs and gay conversation she had encouraged him to Dionysian freedom. Then he complained bitterly of the embarrassment and danger, into which he had been betrayed by his complicity in Aspasia’s unlawful initiation into the mysteries.

Pericles deplored these embarrassments and promised his protection. But Hipponicus was not to be soothed.

Yet when Pericles, shrugging his shoulders, took his leave, the Daduchus followed him to the door, glanced anxiously around several times, then whispered in his old friend’s ear:

“Be on your guard, Pericles! Evil things were planned by Diopeithes yesterday evening. I too was present—forced to be so—for the rope was round my neck. Beware of Diopeithes, and make him harmless, if you can. They want to ruin Aspasia, Anaxagoras, Phidias, and yourself. The blood-hounds have me in their power—I was obliged to assent to everything proposed—but may dogs and ravens rend in pieces the priest of Erechtheus and all his followers!”