CHAPTER X.

THE FESTIVAL OF DIONYSUS.

After the relief from the anxiety and distress of war, the winter festivals were celebrated in Athens with twofold splendor and gayety. Yet mirth was still more fully unchained, since milder breezes had blown across the sea, and the time of the greatest of Bacchic festivals, the Dionysian, approached. Kites appeared in the woods, the halcyons twittered joyously on the sea-shore and the swallows in the cornices of the roofs. On the heights of Hymettus, Pentelicus, and Lycabettus, spring budded in every bush. Violets and anemones, cowslips and crocuses sprang up, and the shepherd’s staff, forgotten in the fields, was overgrown with blossoms in the morning.

The sailors in the harbors hoisted the anchors, disentangled cordage, raised the masts, and gave the sails to the breeze. New life awoke on the waves of the Saronic gulf. Embassies from the allied cities and islands came bringing tribute to Athens, at the festal season. Guests from distant lands thronged all the inns and private houses. Crowds of citizens and strangers, adorned with garlands and holiday robes, walked through the streets. Not only were all the altars and busts of Hermes, standing in the open air, hung with wreaths, but huge mixing vessels were placed beside them filled with the gifts of Bacchus, bestowed by the rich for the free enjoyment of the people. Again Hipponicus gave the people wine, inviting all who chose to come to the Cerameicus, and supplying them with ivy-stuffed cushions.

Forgotten was the calamity of war, partisan strife kept an armistice, Diopeithes’ plans were momentarily interrupted. Peace and pleasure ruled. Loud jests and joyous laughter resounded everywhere—and the Athenians’ wit was doubly sharp, their tongues were doubly nimble. Yet woe betide him, who during this time practised any deed of violence against an Athenian citizen. Not even the plea of drunkenness protected him—his life was forfeited.

How did it happen, that so many charming women were suddenly seen in the streets of Athens? Who were the gay, richly-adorned, bewitching beauties? They were Hieroduli from the temple of Aphrodite at Corinth, and other priestesses of joy of the same stamp, who increasing the number of their native companions, had come from the various cities of Greece to the gayest and most unbridled festival of the Athenians.

Ah, what a medley of strangers the mirthful, crowded Dionysian festival had allured! Yonder were jugglers and miracle-mongers, their faces bronzed by wanderings in many lands, swallowing swords, or sending a rain of fire from their mouths. There were Thessalian girls, executing their sword-dance in the midst of a gaping crowd. No spectacle was lacking, down to the itinerant puppet-shows, and gayly-dressed monkeys dancing on ropes, that delighted the children.

Traders, too, had come from far and near, and set up their booths among the crowd on the Agora, at the Piræeus, and by the Ilissus.

Throngs of country people mingled with the citizens and, sharing with them the joy of the festival, gathered around their favorites, the Theban fifers, who were in the habit of wandering through the rural districts, or transferred to the city the favorite sport at their own country Dionysian festival—leaping upon oiled wine-skins, in which each person who, jumping with bare feet on the slippery ball tried to obtain a firm stand, always slipped off with comical kicking, amid the laughter of the spectators.

Pleasure ruled unrestrained in the city, as soon as darkness closed in. The night-revellers wandered about, wearing wreaths and carrying bells and torches, among them women in men’s clothes, and men in women’s garments—clapping their hands as if keeping time with cymbals, to the ringing of the bells and the singing.

Many wore masks. Some had merely smeared their faces with the dregs of wine or vermilion, or disguised them with the leaves or bark of trees. Others wore exquisitely-painted masks of grave or comical aspect. Here wandered horned Actæon, yonder hundred-eyed Argus, farther on Euippe, partly transformed into a horse; giants, Titans, centaurs, stamped on the ground, Methe staggered, Peitho persuaded, Apate allured, Hybris raged, and horrible forms sometimes mingled amid the ranks.

But the most frequent, nay the most prominent figures in the streets were the hoofed satyrs and bald Sileni, the aged but still mirthful satyrs, their heads wreathed with the evergreen ivy. There were also throngs of Bacchantes, who often carried for a thyrsus only a vine-shoot, twined with ivy.

Extravagant gayety, even intoxication, was considered a duty to the god during these days and nights.

And the god, during this time, justified his surname of “liberator.” Even the prisoners were released from their dungeons for the festival, and wine was poured upon the graves of the dead. They wished to soothe the shades, who surely could not be deprived of the pleasures of the living without envy. The timid believed, that the souls of the dead sometimes mingled in the crowd, and a fleshless skull was concealed beneath many a satyr mask in the festal throng.

During these times Telesippe industriously chewed the leaves of the hawthorn and had her doors smeared with tar, for thus alone could the evil be averted, that at the great Dionysian festival, menaced the living from the envious shades.

It was really almost ghostly to see the light of torches flash here and there in the dark streets, and a fantastic train appear which rushed noisily by.

A vast throng was now moving through the streets, that led from the Lenaion to the theatre. The statue of Dionysus was borne from his temple in the Lenaion, and placed in the midst of the festal assembly. This statue was a work newly completed by the hand of impetuous Alcamenes. As Phidias placed his new glittering statue beside the old wooden image of Athena, Alcamenes’ superb new work was now placed in the Lenaion beside the ancient unadorned statue of Dionysus. This was the statue now borne into the festal assembly in the great theatre of Dionysus. Throngs of Bacchantes surrounded it. But who were the mad crew that bore a Phallus before the statue, and sang songs in honor of Priapus? It was Alcibiades and his Ithyphallian society.

At the crossways and on the open squares the procession halted, to offer libations or sacrifice victims.

The flat roofs of the houses were filled with spectators, many of whom carried torches and lamps in their hands. There was no lack of women among them, and jests and witticisms from the roofs mingled with the unbridled revelry in the streets.

Alcibiades seemed to have reached the climax of his extravagant gayety, and at the head of his society surpassed himself in wanton pranks.

“Consider,” he shouted to the Ithyphallians, “that we, who usually revel and riot, are obliged to revel and riot doubly at the Dionysian festival, if we don’t wish to be outdone and surpassed by the soberest citizens of the Athenian city.”

Amid such exhortations, Alcibiades, knowing and known by all the Athenians, rushed through the throng with his companions.

When night had closed in, he ordered torches to be carried before him and, preceded by music, led his companions in a noisy procession to serenade beautiful girls and boys. The musicians themselves were principally players on the flute and lute, dressed as Mænads, and as those who were greeted with music joined in the procession, it more and more resembled a swarm of Bacchantes, gathered around the god Dionysus.

At last the saucy, intoxicated Alcibiades seized a young hetæra, named Bacchis, whom he met wandering about, and forced her to join the train, calling her his Ariadne and himself, her Bacchus.

On reaching Theodota’s house, he gave her also a noisy serenade and entered with his companions.

Theodota had not seen the youth for a long time, and the torture of her love had constantly grown more violent. She now beheld him once more; but how far from pleasing was his entrance! He came intoxicated, at the head of a noisy throng. This she might have forgiven; but he brought with him a blooming young hetæra, whom he instantly presented as his Ariadne, beginning to extol her charms in extravagant words.

A banquet was now arranged in the apartments of the reluctant Theodota, who dared not openly object, though her heart was almost bursting with sorrow. Alcibiades called upon her to be merry, extravagantly gay, and in his drunkenness began to relate the pranks he had played that evening, boasted of having kissed a young girl in the midst of the festal assembly in the Lenaion, and praised the custom which, at the feast of Dionysus, loosed the fetters from the hands of the Athenian women. He spoke of Hipparete, Hipponicus’ charming daughter, the secret love she cherished for him, her blush at the sight of him, at the same time jesting about her reserved, embarrassed, girlish manner. He also mentioned Cora the Arcadian shepherdess transported to Athens, the most absurd and prudish creature imaginable, yet who must be his at any cost. He would rather give up the radiant Simaitha, the new wondrous star of beauty, than the stubborn Arcadian.

After these words, the excited youth reproached Theodota for her silence and sorrowful manner.

“You have grown ugly, Theodota!” he exclaimed. “These melancholy looks disfigure your face. Is this the way to receive an old friend like me? Of what do you complain? My wantonness? Wasn’t it you yourself who taught it to me? Do you no longer remember the joyous days and nights, when I received your lessons in all kinds of beautiful gayety? And now? What means this peevish manner? Why must I be different from what I was at the time we pleased each other best, and spent the merriest hours? Be sensible, Theodota! Remember the man who was so foolish as to fall in love with you, whose melancholy adoration seemed so wearisome, and whom you pitilessly thrust from your door! And now you want to become an enthusiast yourself. Can the best principles, the most lovable qualities be so disgracefully denied? Be gay and reckless again, Theodota! Dance, I wish it, and so do we all! Let yourself be admired again in all your splendor.”

But Theodota could no longer restrain her tears, and answered with passionate reproaches, calling him insolent, faithless, profligate, pitiless.

“Why do you accuse me,” replied Alcibiades, “if you have changed, grown older, and lost the gayety of youth? Accuse time, which transforms us all. I, too, must submit when at some future day I become, instead of a young satyr, an old bald-headed Silenus. Even then I shall still be gay. But you get angry and rage against me and fate, because you are no longer a gay, blooming, bewitching girl, like Hipparete, or Simaitha, or Bacchis here. If you want to grow young again, go to Argos. It is rumored that there is a sanctuary there, with a spring, in which you need only to bathe to emerge a maiden. Even Hera, the poets say, used to visit this bath from time to time, to make herself charming to the father of the gods. If even the old father of the gods knows how to prize such things, why shouldn’t I, a blooming youth, one of the Ithyphallians?”

The drunken Alcibiades jested on in this way, while Theodota answered still more vehemently with words and tears, and even poured forth such an outburst of rage against Bacchis, that she seemed like a fury.

“There’s my brave companion, Callias,” said Alcibiades, “his axiom is never to make love to a woman more than once. And I—haven’t I returned to your house often enough? Ay, by blissful Eros, haven’t I often come in the evening, we three or with several more friends, the golden apples of Dionysus in our bosoms, and in our hair the white poplar wreaths of Heracles entwined with purple fillets? But it shall not happen again. Never will I return, neither alone nor with others! Let us go, my friends! Time hangs heavy here! Farewell, Theodota!”

Terrified by this threat, Theodota stopped the angry youth, and drying her tears promised to do exactly as he wished.

“Well then,” cried Alcibiades, “do what I asked you before. Do honor to your much-praised art again.”

“What shall I dance?” asked Theodota.

“Just now,” replied Alcibiades, “excited by the goad of your passion, you were not unlike Io, who pursued by a gadfly sent by Hera, wandered despairingly through all the countries of the world. Show us, if you please, adorned by art, what you first displayed in rude, unpleasant reality.”

Theodota silently prepared to dance Io.

Accompanied by the music of the flutes, she danced the story of the daughter of Inachus, who was beloved by Zeus, persecuted by Hera, bound and watched, at the latter’s command by Argus of the hundred eyes, and, after her keeper had been killed, hunted through every land by the sharp sting of implacable Hera’s gadfly.

At first Theodota had only fulfilled the request by putting strong restraint upon herself, but gradually becoming more and more animated, seemed to throw her whole soul into the part she was representing. Her mimetic dancing obtained an artistic finish, a fervor of expression, which enraptured all the spectators.

But when she began to depict Io’s sorrowful wanderings, fear of Hera’s anger, and dread of the insect sent by the goddess, her gestures assumed a wild, passionate haste, and as grief for the lost happiness of her love seemed to blend with the terror of the fugitive, the fair Corinthian’s features and whole manner gradually wore an almost alarming aspect. She enacted with terrible fidelity to nature the despairing, hunted, mad Io.

But she was no longer acting. Her eyes started and rolled horribly in their sockets, her bosom heaved, foam appeared on her parted lips.

Her gestures became so fierce and impetuous, that Alcibiades and his friends rushed up in terror to seize her and curb this unbridled madness.

Io—Theodota began to grow calmer. She gazed around the group with dull eyes, smiled confusedly, and addressed the by-standers by strange names. Alcibiades himself she called Zeus, Callias, who was disguised as a satyr, her father Inachus; but in Demos she fancied she beheld the hundred-eyed Argus, and suddenly fixing her gaze upon Bacchis, again burst into wild frenzy, and cursing the malicious Hera, was about to rush upon the young girl—

Theodota had gone mad.

She now sank down exhausted, and in confused meaningless words uttered whimpering lamentations.

A slight thrill of fear seized upon Alcibiades and his companions. But they were intoxicated with wine, so leaving Theodota to her slaves, they staggered out of her house into the street, where the noisy bacchanal mirth drew them into its seething whirlpool.

The next day there was another procession, bearing the statue of Dionysus. This time, however, it was the ancient one, brought from Eleutheræ to Athens, that was carried from the Lenaion to a small temple outside of the city, near the Academy, where it had been erected in ancient times. Once a year, at the great Dionysian festival, the statue was borne in a festal procession to the old place.

This now happened again.

The festal train accompanying the god was larger and more magnificent than ever before, very unlike the former simple customs of the Athenian forefathers. Every street through which it passed, and all the roofs from which it could be seen, were thronged with spectators, who, adorned with wreaths of violets, also wore a festal appearance.

In front of the procession walked throngs of satyrs and Sileni, clad in red garments, with garlands of ivy twined around their bodies.

Then a wreathed altar was borne along, surrounded by boys attired in purple robes, who carried frankincense, myrrh, and saffron in golden vessels.

Then followed all kinds of masked dancers. First came an old man with a double-faced mask, representing time, then the youthful blooming Hours, bearing fruits, then a magnificently-adorned woman with the symbols of the Dionysian festal season, and finally a handsome youth, whose mask represented the joyous Dithyrambus.

Next came thirty musicians, who wore golden wreaths and played on golden lyres.

Then followed a superb triumphal chariot, which conveyed the statue of Dionysus. The god was clad in a saffron robe and gold-embroidered purple mantle. In his right hand he held aloft a golden beaker, filled with sparkling wine. Beside him stood a huge gold mixing vessel, and over his head was a canopy from which the foliage of the ivy and grape-vine hung in rich green tendrils. The chariot itself was completely entwined with garlands, and its upper edge adorned with tragic and comic masks, which looked down upon the people with grave dignity or droll grimaces.

The immediate attendants of the god were male and female Bacchantes with dishevelled locks, their heads crowned with branches of the ivy, grape-vine, or smilax.

This chariot was followed by another, in which stood a gilded wine-press, filled with artificial grapes. Thirty satyrs stood around it, apparently pressing the grapes to the melody of a merry vintage-song, accompanied by the music of flutes, and pouring fragrant liquor along the way from a skin made of green plover’s skin. Satyrs and Sileni thronged around this, shouting noisily as they caught the wine in up-raised beakers.

Then came a third chariot, upon which was a glittering ivy-grown grotto formed of light stone, within which springs of all the Hellenic wines gushed forth. Garlanded nymphs sat smiling beside these fountains, doves fluttered around, darted in and out, and thrust their bills into the green branches of the ivy. Satyrs and Sileni tried to catch these doves, which took refuge in the bosoms of the nymphs.

Then followed groups of boys singing in chorus, then the procession of aristocratic Athenians on their magnificent steeds, and youths, who bore gold and silver vessels consecrated to the service of Dionysus.

Enthusiastic throngs joined the procession, Bacchantes and other maskers, who with extravagant mirth, whimsically imitated the pageantry of the festal train.

On reaching the Agora, a halt was made at the altar of the twelve Olympic gods, and here choruses of men and boys sang the Dithyrambus, while the choir at the same time moved with a rhythmic, dancing-step around the altar.

These tones had scarcely died away and the Dionysian train moved on, when a most singular scene attracted the attention of the Athenians.

At that time wandering mendicant priests of Cybele, called Metragyrtans, apostles of the god Sabazius, who originally of the same nature as Dionysus, had passed into mysticism, also enthusiasts who boasted of reviving the mystic wisdom of Orpheus, had appeared in Athens and begun to press their views.

The priests of Sabazius announced and worshipped a mighty savior, by whom mankind would be rescued from all evil, and mortals might obtain any desired happiness—this very Sabazius. They and the Metragyrtans went in procession through the streets, with the statue of the god or the mother of the god, and executed to the sound of cymbals and the Asiatic tympan, dances in which they behaved as wildly as Corybantes. They practised and recommended flagellation, and even self-mutilation, like the priests of Cybele on the Tmolus. They wandered through the country begging, a donkey carrying their sacred relics, they sold all kinds of magic remedies, and even offered to soothe the anger of the gods for money, nay to expiate the sins of the dead, and release them from the tortures of Tartarus. They sold the favor of the gods, and negotiated between them and mortals.

The Hellenic mind no longer remained wholly aloof from such fanaticism, and here and there it began to take root in the minds of individuals.

No one regarded such attempts to transport from the East into cheerful Hellas a gloomy and mystical worship of the gods, with more indignation than Aspasia, and she resisted it by every means at her command. Gay young Alcibiades, to whom gloomy fanaticism was no less incomprehensible and horrible, aided her like a brave champion against these jugglers.

The wandering Metragyrtans and priests of Sabazius thought the festival of Dionysus would afford a favorable opportunity to win converts for their god and savior, Sabazius, and his fanatical, horrible service. They moved about, garlanded with poplar and fennel, carried in their hands serpents which they swung over their heads, and, surrounded by throngs of people, performed their frantic dance, the Sicinnis, amid the corybantic roar of cymbals and tympans, flogging and wounding themselves till the blood flowed.

One Metragyrtan had collected a large crowd about him and, with loud outcries and vehement gestures, was preaching the savior Sabazius. He spoke of secret consecration, and the highest, most pleasing deed of the god’s service, self-mutilation.

While the crowd stood around the Metragyrtan listening, some with minds not wholly unmoved, the drunken Ithyphallians suddenly came up and heard the foreign fanatic speaking of the worship of Sabazius and self-mutilation.

“What?” cried the reckless leader of the Ithyphallians, “dares any one talk to us of self-mutilation, amid the exuberant gayety of bacchanalian joy? No! Such words shall not be heard on Hellenic soil, so long as there are Ithyphallians.”

With these words, the crowd of intoxicated, reckless youths rushed upon the Metragyrtan, dragged him away, and mindful of the vengeance long since sworn against men of his stamp, hurled him into the abyss of Barathron.

The young girls under Aspasia’s care had also mingled among the female Bacchantes, who thronged around the festal procession.

How could they, trained to freedom, help enjoying the liberty of these days during which, even for those usually in bonds, all fetters burst and all barriers fell.

They had even concealed the Arcadian girl, though she submitted reluctantly, under the mask of a Bacchante, and dragged her away into the ranks.

Alcibiades seemed to be very anxious that Cora should not absent herself from the Bacchantes, who left Aspasia’s house.

The young girl was far less beautiful than her companions, but she was coy, and her strange seriousness charmed the youth, and at last excited him to audacity.

On Cora’s account he followed the young girls with his companions, who were unrecognizable beneath their satyr masks. The bold plan he had formed was no less than to lure the shy Arcadian away from her friends or, failing in this, drag her by force to his house.

The satyrs, jesting gayly, mingled with the Bacchantes, Alcibiades remained by Cora, but found her as obstinate as ever.

Suddenly, in a lonely spot favorable to the enterprise, Alcibiades made a sign and rushed upon the girl with his companions, to bear her off under the shelter of the gathering darkness.

But the Arcadian’s heart was full of the same courage with which she had formerly put an assailing satyr to flight. As she then seized a brand from the fire in the forest, to drive away the insolent intruder, she now snatched a burning torch from the hands of one of her companions and thrust it into the face of the disguised Alcibiades, whose satyr mask taking fire, instantly flashed into flames, and he retired in confusion. Cora profited by the momentary bewilderment to fly with the speed of a hunted deer, and in a short time vanished from her pursuer’s eyes.

She hurried swiftly through the streets with a throbbing heart, until she reached Aspasia’s house.

Young Manes, Pericles’ foster-son, had been among the satyrs what Cora was among the Bacchantes.

He too had been reluctantly obliged to wear a mask, he too was dragged by Xanthippus and Paralus into the midst of the mad mummery. The tumult that surrounded him seemed disagreeable, even alarming. The festal joy appeared like unbridled license. Mad Menon behaved as shamelessly as his dog. At last Manes perceived that he himself had become the defenceless butt of the jesters. Naturally slow of wit, he did not understand how to meet the jests with which the throng pressed upon him.

“Beware!” cried some, “this mournful satyr is suspicious. Envious shades from the nether world, or even Thanatos himself, or the plague, have often stolen among the living under such a mask! Tear it off! Who knows what horrible face we shall meet.”

The youth’s thoughts grew confused, his head began to ache, and forcing a way through the crowd with his powerful arms he went towards home.

On reaching the house he slipped unobserved up to the roof, which at this moment was entirely deserted, seated himself on a little stone bench, took off the satyr mask from his face, laid it down beside him, and became absorbed in thought.

His features had assumed an expression of deep melancholy, and he seemed to bear some secret sorrow in his breast. When he retired from the loud joyous tumult of the Dionysian festival, it was perhaps not merely on account of his aversion to such things, but owing to the perplexity that now overpowered his soul in consequence of a deep and powerful impression.

Manes had sat a long time in this attitude, absorbed in thought, with the satyr mask lying beside him. Suddenly Aspasia stood before him.

He looked up, startled. The mistress of the house gazed silently a few moments at his troubled, gloomy face. Then she said kindly:

“How does it happen, Manes, that you disdain the pleasures enjoyed by the companions of your own age? Do you feel no trace in your blood of the impulse that urges others to enjoy the beautiful, fleeting, never-returning time of youth?”

Manes gazed steadily at the ground, and made no reply.

“Does any grief oppress you?” continued Aspasia. “Are you dissatisfied in this house, and would you prefer to live among others? Are you angry with Pericles, for having brought you here from Samos and reared you like his own son?”

At these words the youth involuntarily rose from his seat and, while tears sprang into his eyes, with an eager gesture of denial protested against such a supposition.

Aspasia continued to ask the cause of his sadness.

Manes sometimes answered with a faint sigh, sometimes with a blush. His hand trembled slightly and he rarely ventured to look up; but when he did his brown eyes had a sorrowful, almost pathetic expression.

The youth was so unyielding, so rude of nature, and yet there was something gentle, almost girlish in his manner.

Aspasia gazed at him with the interest, which is the necessary result of anything unusual, strange, and mysterious.

Every moment she found herself more and more strengthened in the conjecture, that some secret sorrow was consuming the young man’s heart.

It could not be love; for who could have aroused this hidden fire? No one except one of the young girls in the house, and Manes had always seemed confused in their presence and shyly kept aloof from them. Had they not endeavored to draw him into their joyous circle, and always in vain?

A thought flashed through Aspasia’s mind, a thought which at first was somewhat comical, almost amused her.

But when the youth raised his expressive eyes to her face, the ludicrousness of the idea diminished, and she found herself stirred by an emotion of cordial sympathy in a way by no means usual with her.

She did not weary of gently reproaching him for his unmanly melancholy, and encouraged him to gain the cheerfulness that beseemed his youth.

While Aspasia was thus occupied with Manes, Cora sat alone in the deserted peristyle. On returning from the mad whirl of festal pleasure, she had silently seated herself there, removed her mask and laid it beside her, and was still remaining in the same place, lost in thought, when Pericles accidentally returning to the house, passed through the peristyle.

He was surprised to see the young girl sitting there so lonely and thoughtful, with the Bacchante mask lying beside her.

Approaching Cora he asked the cause of her hasty return, and separation from the companions with whom she had left the house.

Cora was silent. She held in her lap a wreath she had worn as a Bacchante, and her hand played absently with the flowers. The floor was strewn with the leaves she had plucked off.

The girl presented a singular spectacle at this moment. Her attitude, the unconscious toying with the wreath, the earnestness of the pallid face, formed a contrast to the garb and symbols of the Bacchante, which almost provoked a smile.

Pericles, looking her steadily in the face, continued:

“I never remember having seen so sorrowful a Bacchante. It seems to me, Cora, that you would far rather exchange the thyrsus-staff for the shepherd’s crook. Is it not so? You don’t feel happy in this house? You are longing for your native wooded mountains, your lambs and tortoises?”

Cora raised her deer-like eyes to Pericles for a moment, and gazed at him with an expression even more melancholy than before, yet with an artless, childlike look, which seemed to utter the assent of an earnest soul.

“Do you want us to send you home?” asked Pericles in a cordial tone, well calculated to inspire confidence. “Say frankly what you desire and need to make you happy in this house. There is surely something you miss.” Pericles spoke very persuasively, fixing his eyes intently upon the young girl, while awaiting her reply.

“Do you wish to leave this house?” he repeated.

Cora sorrowfully shook her head.

“So your melancholy seems causeless,” continued Pericles, “a sorrow that attacks your mind like a sort of disease. Struggle against it, my dear child! Don’t yield unresistingly to its power. The demon of sickly moods would often fain seize upon me also, but I struggle against him. Life must be cheerful and a source of pleasure to us: were it not so, we could not help envying the dead. Don’t people all wish to be gay and happy, and enjoy life together? Why do you seek solitude? Don’t you desire to be gay and happy, too?”

Again Cora raised her eyes frankly to Pericles, and said slowly:

“I am happy when I am alone.”

“Strange child!” exclaimed Pericles.

He gazed silently and thoughtfully at Cora. She was not beautiful. The spell of her girlish shyness had no sensual charm.

Yet there was something in this maidenly diffidence, this childishness, this strange mood of feeling, that aroused a special interest in noble natures.

Pericles had found in Aspasia the embodiment of every feminine charm and grace. Now womanhood suddenly stood before him in a new, unsuspected form. What he saw embodied in Cora was wholly unlike anything hitherto beheld, admired, and loved.

The new phase of feminine character appeared to him neither lovable nor charming, but an emotion seized upon him as new and strange as that which aroused it. He laid his hand on the Arcadian’s head, and recommended her sick heart to the protection of the heavenly powers.

“Shall we not seek Aspasia?” he then asked, and, hearing from a slave that his wife had gone upon the roof, took the girl kindly by the hand to lead her to the mistress of the house.

Strange coincidence! At the same moment that Pericles, with a feeling of sympathy, laid his hand, in the peristyle, on the grieving Arcadian’s head, Aspasia, who had finished her conversation with Manes on the roof, rested her hand on the head of the melancholy youth.

It seemed as if her fingers touched his brown locks with almost maternal tenderness, her eyes rested almost affectionately on the young original’s features.

Yet cheerful ease was enthroned upon her free, proud brow, and she greeted Pericles with a quiet smile as he approached, leading the young girl by the hand.

“I bring Cora to you,” said Pericles, “she seems to need your friendly consolation no less than Manes.”

The statesman had noticed the affectionate gaze with which Aspasia’s eyes rested on the youth.

She obeyed his nod, and he led her to a distant part of the roof, where a couch was placed under blossoming vines.

Here Aspasia related her conversation with Manes, and Pericles his with the Arcadian girl.

At last Pericles said with quiet earnestness:

“You have tried sympathetic looks, nay even caressing gestures to cheer the youth’s sorrowful heart!”

“And does this suggest the thought that he might be dear to me?” asked Aspasia. “No,” she continued, as Pericles remained silent, “I do not love him, for he is almost ugly. His heavy cheek-bones offend my eye. But some fleeting emotion, I know not of what nature, seized upon me. Perhaps it was compassion.”

“Do you know so exactly what love is, and what it is not?” asked Pericles.

“What love is?” cried Aspasia laughing. “Are you too beginning to torment me with that foolish question? Love is a thing not to be rebuffed when it comes, and not to be held back when it goes.”

“And you can say nothing else of it?” asked Pericles.

“Nothing except what I have often said,” replied Aspasia. “It is a feeling that may degenerate into tyranny, by making the loved one a mere weak tool. This impulse to degeneration must be repressed. Love must be a joyous bond of the heart, formed and maintained by freedom!”

“Whenever you have repeated this to me,” replied Pericles, “it has always seemed unanswerable. My mind, after calm reflection, is as firmly convinced of it now as on the day when we ourselves formed such a bond of the heart in perfect liberty. Love must renounce the tyrannical impulse to destroy the freedom of that which it loves, but the question: Can this be love? remains unsolved in my mind. Is love ever able to victoriously resist this impulse?”

“It can,” replied Aspasia, “for it must be able to do so.”

“Love is not to be detained when it goes, you said!” continued Pericles thoughtfully after a pause. “What will become of us, Aspasia, if its beautiful fire dies in our breasts also?”

“Then we will say, that we have together enjoyed the highest earthly happiness,” replied the Milesian. “We have not lived in vain. We have emptied the cup of joy in the full vigor of love and life, on the highest summit of existence.”

“Emptied—emptied—” replied Pericles in a hollow tone. “You uttered a word that makes me shudder.”

“It is the fate of beakers to be emptied,” replied Aspasia, “the fate of flowers to wither, and the fate of all living creatures apparently to disappear, but really to revive in perpetual transformations. It is the business of a mortal to look, with the cheerful composure of true wisdom, upon all these changes and vicissitudes occurring around and within him. It would be foolish to cling to the heels of what is vanishing. A time will come for cheerfully flinging the beaker into the abyss, from which the waves of pleasure have foamed. Everything strives upward to a summit, to descend again the scale of existence to destruction. Everything follows the course of nature.”

As Pericles and Aspasia finished these words, they prepared to go into the house, and approaching the spot where they had left Cora and Manes found them engaged in conversation.

Aspasia had transformed the flat roof into a sort of garden. There were arbors to afford protection from the sun, and tall blossoming bushes growing in pots filled with earth.

One of these bushes concealed the husband and wife from the youth and maiden, who were, however, too deeply absorbed in conversation to notice their approach.

Pericles and Aspasia involuntarily paused a moment, perplexed at the sight. They had never noticed that Manes and Cora talked together, or that one sought the other’s society.

They had been as silent and reserved towards each other, as towards the rest of the world.

The spectacle of a melancholy satyr and a sorrowful Bacchante talking together was in itself well calculated to attract attention.

Cora was telling the youth about her Arcadian home, the beautiful forest-clad mountains, the tortoises, the god Pan, the Stymphalian birds, the hunting of wild beasts.

Manes listened with quiet interest.

“You are very fortunate, Cora,” he said at last, “to have all this so clearly before your mind, and be continually able to recall it. When I am awake, I can remember nothing about my home and childhood. Only in dreams do I sometimes find myself transported to deep rustling forests, or see rude men clad in the shaggy skins of animals, riding fleet steeds over the plains. I am always sad all day long after having had such dreams, and feel as if I were attacked by a kind of homesickness, although I have no home and should not know whither to bend my steps, if I wished to seek one. I only understand that I must go northward, always northward, and often dream I am wandering into infinite distance. Surely you must be doubly sorrowful, that you cannot return to your home, Cora, because you know it and your parents, and might easily find them again. Tell me if you wish to go, and I will secretly guide you there, for I am still young and strong. Why shouldn’t I live with the Arcadians, and hunt wild beasts?”

“No, Manes,” said the young girl, “you ought not to go to Arcadia, because your longing draws you towards the north. No, I could not bear to have you settle in Arcadia, for you would surely always be yearning for your home. You must journey towards the Hellespont and then keep on towards the north, surely you must find your home, and perhaps a kingdom.”

“I would gladly journey towards the north,” replied Manes, “but I should be sorrowful when I thought that you were here vainly longing for Arcadia.”

Cora gazed thoughtfully at the ground then, after a short pause, said:

“I don’t know why it is, Manes, that I should be just as willing to go towards the north as to Arcadia, if we went together. It seems to me, as if every place to which we journeyed would be Arcadia.”

Manes flushed at the young girl’s words and his hand trembled, as it always did when overpowered by some strong emotion. At first he was unable to speak at all, but after a pause, began:

“But surely, Cora, you would far rather go to Arcadia, to your own family! I will gladly accompany you, and become a shepherd. It seems to me as if, wherever I went with you, I should again find my home and even a kingdom.”

Here he hesitated, flushing deeply again. Up from the streets rose the loud tumult of a passing throng of Bacchantes. Torches blazed, joyous songs echoed on the air, pleasure exulted in unbridled freedom—while above the youth and maiden, the satyr and Bacchante, stood before each other with heavy hearts, pale, silent, and confused, neither daring to take the other’s hand, or raise the eyes bent timidly on the floor.

“They love each other!” said Pericles to Aspasia. “Those two love each other, but apparently with a strange kind of love! It seems as if they loved only with their souls. They speak of nothing but the mutual sacrifices they would willingly make.”

“Indeed,” replied Aspasia, “those two love each other with a sort of feeling only Manes and Cora could devise. They have lost all their cheerfulness, are pale, sick and sorrowful, and though they know they love, have no pleasure in their mutual affection, for they don’t even venture to clasp hands, far less kiss each other.”

“It is a shamefaced love,” replied Pericles, “a chaste, sad, unselfish, sacrificing love. Perhaps its constancy and beautiful symmetry supplies the lack of rapturous delight. Perhaps it is less subject to the blind course of nature, which you asserted ruled all love.”

“This melancholy love is a disease!” cried Aspasia. “Woe betide the day it was first discovered. This new pale-cheeked Aphrodite, wreathed with white roses, arose from no sea crimsoned by the kiss of sunrise, but from the waters of the Arcadian Styx. This sorrowful, passionate love is as bad for mankind as war, pestilence and hunger. I saw this kind of love at Eleusis, among the attendants of Thanatos, and this thought was the only one that pleased me in the Eleusinian vaults!”

Then the husband and wife came forward, and Aspasia took the Arcadian girl into the house.

On the evening of the same day Pericles gave a little banquet, as was the custom with all Athenian citizens during the Dionysian festival. Several guests were present, among them Callimachus, with Philandra and Pasikompsa.

On this occasion they had not assembled in the usual dining-room of the house, but in the cooler and more spacious peristyle, where the breezes of the mild spring night might blow with refreshing coolness.

Pericles, according to his habit, withdrew early.

Suddenly Alcibiades arrived with several of his friends. In his extravagant gayety, he almost burst open the doors of the house and, pressing in with his companions, took his seat among the assembled company.

Cora instantly fled to the interior of the dwelling.

When Alcibiades perceived this, he sought compensation from the charming Simaitha, but the young girl proudly repelled him. She despised him for having humbled himself so far as to attempt to seize the Arcadian shepherdess. The other young girls rebuffed him for the same reason. He strove a long time to conciliate the angry beauties, but in vain.

“What?” he cried at last, “Cora runs away from me stiff as a torch-thistle, when the hot summer dries it—Simaitha turns her back upon me—Aspasia’s whole school look grave and frown like old Anaxagoras—well then, if you all reject me, I’ll cling to lovely Hipparete, Hipponicus’ modest, diffident, blooming little daughter.”

“Do so!” said Simaitha.

“I will!” cried Alcibiades; “you shall not have challenged me in vain, Simaitha! Alcibiades doesn’t allow himself to be trifled with. I shall go to Hipponicus early to-morrow morning and ask him for his little daughter. I’ll marry, turn virtuous, renounce all foolish pleasures, and spend my time in conquering Sicily and making the Athenians dance to my pipe.”

“Hipponicus won’t give you his daughter!” cried Callias; “he thinks you too worthless a fellow!”

The rest of his companions chimed in: “Hipponicus won’t give you his daughter, you’re too worthless a fellow.”

“Hipponicus will give me his daughter!” exclaimed Alcibiades emphatically, “even if I have boxed his ears just before. Will you make a wager? I’ll promise to box Hipponicus’ ears, and then ask him for his daughter. And he’ll give her to me.”

“You are a braggart!” cried his friends.

“The wager!” replied Alcibiades. “A thousand drachmæ, if you choose.”

“Done!” cried Callias and Demos.

Alcibiades held out his hand to his friends, and they clasped it. The bet was for a thousand drachmæ.

“Why shouldn’t I turn virtuous,” cried Alcibiades, “when so many mournful signs and marvels are happening around me? Isn’t it enough that Cora flees from me, Simaitha casts me off, Theodota has gone mad? Must I also lose my oldest and best friend? He has broken his faith with me and married.”

“Of whom are you talking?” asked several.

“Whom but Socrates?” replied Alcibiades.

“What? Has Socrates married?” asked Aspasia.

“Even so!” replied Alcibiades. “He secretly took a wife. Give him up—you’ll never see him again.”

“How did it happen?” asked Aspasia. “I have heard nothing of it.”

“It is probably about two weeks,” said Alcibiades, “since I was standing in one of the quietest streets beyond the Ilissus, talking with a friend I happened to meet. Suddenly the flower-wreathed door of a house opened, and a procession of flute-players and singers, wearing garlands and carrying torches in their hands, came out. These were followed by a veiled bride, walking between the bridegroom and the bridesman. The trio entered a vehicle drawn by mules, which stood before the house. Then the bride’s mother followed with the torch, with which she intended to light the fire on the new hearth, and joined the rest of the white-robed, garlanded train. The carriage began to move, and was accompanied down the street to the bridegroom’s house, with the music of flutes, songs, and joyous shouts and bounds. The bridegroom was Socrates, Aspasia’s friend, and his bridesman Euripides, the woman-hater.”

“And the bride?” asked many.

“The plain daughter of a plain citizen,” replied Alcibiades, “but she instantly seized the reins of the household with an iron grasp, and understands the art of managing the remnant of Socrates’ patrimony. Socrates married! The poor truth-seeker! He sought truth, and found—a woman. I repeat, signs and miracles are occurring. The old world seems to be getting out of joint. Socrates married, the gay Theodota mad, and moreover, it is said several cases of the plague, that has long been lurking in Egypt, have occurred at Ægina and Eleusis, and a suspicious satyr mask was seen in the Agora to-day, beneath which it is supposed Thanatos, or the plague, or some other horrible shape has slipped in. Taking all these things together, you must confess that it threatens to become very tiresome in the city of the Athenians. If, in addition, I marry Hipponicus’ daughter, the Hellenic sky will grow as gray as an ash-heap. But we’ll be merry to-day—by Eros with the thunder-bolt! Don’t sulk any longer, girls! Let us begin a gay war against the mournful powers that threaten us! Let us snap our fingers at all signs and wonders! If joyous mirth has deserted all the rest of Hellas, it must surely still linger in this circle. Am I not right, Aspasia?”

“Yes,” replied Aspasia, “we will be allies in the conflict against melancholy.”

She ordered new beakers to be brought, the delicious wine again foamed in the mixing vessel, the sparkling goblets were emptied again and again. Gay jests, laughter and songs of joy echoed through the peristyle, and Alcibiades showered sparks of Dionysian wit.

Midnight came. Suddenly a door leading into the peristyle opened and, with closed eyes like a ghost, Manes slowly entered—Manes, the sleep-walker! He had absented himself from the banquet and sought his quiet couch, but his strange disease robbed his pillow of repose.

At the sight of the somnambulist walking with closed eyes through the peristyle, the jocund revelry was silenced and all, seized with a thrill of fear, gazed mutely after the ghostly wanderer.

Passing through the peristyle, he turned towards the stairs leading to the flat roof of the house, ascended them with a steady step, and instantly vanished from the revellers’ gaze. When the first thrill of terror had been conquered, most of the guests determined to follow him.

“Thus Dionysus punishes those who rebel against his gay service!” cried Alcibiades. “We’ll convert the despiser of the gods. Come! We’ll wake him and drag him down to our banquet by force.”

The greater portion of the revellers rose and went to the roof, but on reaching it, beheld a spectacle that again filled them with horror.

Manes was walking along a high sloping projection of the roof, close to the extreme verge, a spot where only the somnambulist, with closed eyes, could move without turning giddy and falling to the ground.

The other inmates of the house had hurried up, on hearing the news that Manes was walking in his sleep.

Pericles also appeared.

He, too, shuddered when he saw the youth, saying:

“If he wakes now, he will surely fall, but it is impossible to approach that spot and rescue him.”

Just as he uttered the words, Cora rushed up.

Terrified, deadly pale, her large round eyes dilated, her face half-covered by her dishevelled locks, the young girl gazed at the somnambulist. On hearing Pericles’ words, she shivered an instant, then darted as if on wings towards the spot where Manes was walking, swung herself over the high projection, walked with a firm tread several steps down the perilous descent, seized the youth’s hand and dragged him back from the outermost verge of the pinnacle to where both had firm footing.

Not until Manes was safe did giddiness overpower her. Then she fell fainting.

It was now Manes who, opening his eyes, anxiously seized the young girl and bore her onwards in his arms, till she regained her consciousness and half-frightened, half-confused, ran blushing away.

The revellers had watched this scene with amazement. Now they surrounded Manes and amid gay, cheering words, led him down into the peristyle.

Pericles lingered a moment with Aspasia.

“How sorry I am,” said the former, “that Socrates did not witness this scene.”

“Why do you regret it?” asked Aspasia.

“He would at last believe he had beheld what love is.”

Aspasia gazed silently at Pericles a moment. “And you?”

“This couple perplex and shame me a little,” he replied. “It seems as if they wished to say: ‘Withdraw from the stage and make room for us.’”

Again Aspasia gazed intently at Pericles’ grave, thoughtful face. Then she replied:

“You are no longer a Greek!”

The words exchanged were few in number, but full of meaning. They fell heavily into the scales of fate.

With them something like a secret rift occurred between two souls, once so beautifully and tenderly united.

A long prepared entrance into Pericles’ soul of new, dark, sorrowful powers, doubt and secret dissension was accomplished.

The slow, noiseless fracture of something lofty, beautiful, and noble, ended with this trifling altercation.

Uttering the words; “you are no longer a Greek,” Aspasia turned away, with an expression of mingled anger and compassion on her face.

Both went silently down stairs, Pericles to his room, Aspasia to the guests.

Meantime the revellers had vainly endeavored to detain Manes at the banquet and convert him to a fitting worship of the god of pleasure. He broke from them, and retired to the inner rooms of the house.

The conversation now turned for some time on Cora. All admired her courage, or rather the strange power of a feeling, a mood, a passion, under whose influence she had acted, by which she had been blindly, unconsciously borne along, and which to almost all bore the impress of an insoluble mystery.

Alcibiades also began to express his regret, that Socrates had not witnessed this scene.

“What a feast it would have been to the eyes of the truth-seeker, who ponders over the most commonplace things, and would doubtless never rest until he had discovered the inmost meaning of this strange event. He’s a sort of somnambulist himself, attacked by the lunacy of philosophy, who shuts his eyes that he may think better, and wanders astray on giddy heights. Only no Cora appears to lead him back with gentle hand from the gulfs of thought. Well, I’ll go and tell him about the whole affair, though it’s almost dangerous to visit Socrates in his own house. Xanthippe, its young mistress, is always afraid I shall corrupt her husband, and looks upon me with unfriendly eyes. When I went with a few friends to visit the newly-wedded pair, we were greatly embarrassed, for the little woman began to bewail and lament that she could not suitably entertain such distinguished people. ‘Never mind,’ said Socrates, ‘if they are good men they will be content; if wicked, we need not trouble ourselves about them!’ But these words only enraged Xanthippe still more. I instantly perceived that she ruled the house. By way of a joke, I began to talk with her husband in the frankest way, and load him with friendly caresses. Since that time she has been furiously angry with me and when, a short time ago, I sent a dainty cake to Socrates, went so far as to throw it out of the basket and trample it under her feet. And Socrates? He only ventured to say: ‘What is the matter? If you hadn’t crushed the nice cake, you might have eaten it.’ Alas! it seems as if the wisest men in Athens no longer understood how to treat their wives. By my Demon,” continued Alcibiades, after draining his beaker, “I repeat, the world is out of joint! Delos shaken, Theodota mad, the sages scolded by their wives, I myself on the point of wooing Hipponicus’ daughter, priests of Sabazius in the streets, somnambulists on the roofs, the Peloponnesus in arms, the plague at Lemnos and Ægina.”

“Don’t forget the eclipse of the sun,” interrupted Demos, “besides, it is said that a ghost wanders about Hipponicus’ house—”

“Is that true?” all asked Hipponicus’ son, Callias, who happened to be present.

“Yes, it is really so!” replied the latter, and told the company that a ghost actually did wander about his father’s house, and Hipponicus had grown pale, thin, and thoughtful, the daintiest morsels no longer pleased him, nightmare oppressed his dreams.

“There it is,” cried Alcibiades—“eclipses of the sun, and ghosts in the houses of merry old gluttons. Deuce take the world, if it’s beginning to grow so gloomy. Once more, friends, cheer up and fight against the dreariness of the times!”

“Does it need a challenge?” cried young Callias. “By Heracles! Haven’t we done our duty, during this whole festival, better than ever before? Didn’t we throw the Metragyrtan into the gulf of Barathron? Didn’t we behave as might have been expected from the merry Ithyphallians? And hadn’t we all the Athenian youth behind us? Was there ever a gayer Dionysian festival at Athens, than the present one? Have you ever seen the populace so wild and reckless? Did the wine ever flow in more abundant streams? Did a larger number of priestesses of joy ever swarm in Athens and were they ever more eagerly sought? What do you mean by dreary times, Alcibiades? This is a merry time, say I. The world is advancing in jollity, not receding, as you think, and whatever may threaten will only grow still gayer. That’s as it should be. Long live pleasure!”

“Long live pleasure!” again resounded and the beakers clashed together.

“Let me embrace you, worthy Callias!” cried Alcibiades, kissing his friend. “That’s the way I want to hear you all talk! Long live pleasure! And that it may forever live, flourish, and thrive among the Athenian people, the Ithyphallians must work with the school Aspasia has founded. The Ithyphallians and Aspasia’s school must be the stronghold of gayety, charming extravagance, and all joyous mirth. So don’t sulk, Simaitha! Don’t rebuff me, Prasina! Don’t make a face at Alcibiades, Drosis! Smile again, Simaitha! You have never been more charming than to-day. By Zeus! For one bewitching smile from your lips, I’ll lose the thousand drachmæ I have wagered and let Hipponicus’ little daughter wait awhile.”

All now turned to Simaitha, and begged her to be reconciled to Alcibiades.

Aspasia herself joined in the entreaties. “Don’t bear Alcibiades ill-will any longer!” said she. “He may be right in saying that Aspasia’s school must maintain friendly terms with the Ithyphallians, but only in so far as the Ithyphallians’ recklessness must be tamed and curbed by women’s hands. We must receive these Ithyphallians, in order to impose upon them the curb of correct and beautiful moderation, that the bright realm of pleasure may not sink into sadness and dissipation.”

“We will submit to you!” cried Alcibiades. “We’ll choose Simaitha queen of the realm of pleasure, with unlimited power.”

“That we will!” echoed around the circle. “Why shouldn’t the Ithyphallians allow themselves to be curbed by so charming a little hand?”

Amid extravagant gayety, the smiling, lovely Simaitha was proclaimed queen of the banquet, victorious ruler of the realm of pleasure.

A beautiful throne, richly garlanded with flowers, was erected; she was clad in purple robes, a golden diadem was pressed upon her curls, and wreaths of roses and violets were twined around her body.

She shone in the peerless magic of her youth and beauty—a true queen. Even Aspasia’s eyes rested on her admiringly.

“Aspasia ruled the present,” exclaimed Alcibiades, “to you, Simaitha, belongs the future.”

The beakers were filled with wine, and drained in honor of the radiant queen of pleasure.

“Ruled by this sovereign,” cried the youths, “the kingdom of joy will spread throughout the whole world.”

“Take your thousand drachmæ, Callias and Demos!” cried Alcibiades. “I’ll give up the wager as lost. I shall not go to Hipponicus to-morrow. The prince of the Ithyphallians will form a new bond with the queen of beauty and pleasure! Thank the gods! She is smiling again, and her teeth glitter like one of the rows of marble pillars in the Parthenon.”

With these words the reckless youth, excited by wine and love, approached the royally-adorned maiden and, amid the cheers of his companions, threw his arm around her and tried, with a kiss, to seal the bond just concluded.

At this moment all who were looking at Simaitha, noticed a vivid flush suffuse her face.

Waving Alcibiades back with her out-stretched hand, she complained that a sudden burning heat had attacked her head.

At the same time her parched lips seemed to long for some refreshment.

A beaker filled with wine was offered, she thrust it back, asked for water, and emptied goblet after goblet of the cooling fluid; but they seemed like mere drops falling on a mass of glowing metal.

It was now noticed that her eyes were growing red and bloodshot.

The girl’s tongue grew heavy—her voice sounded harsh and hoarse—and she began to complain of swelling of the mouth, throat and tongue.

At the same time a feeling of terror showed itself, her whole body trembled, a thin cold perspiration covered her limbs.

They wished to lead her to her room, her couch; but, as if pursued by some terrible fear, she wanted to plunge into a well, into deep cool water, tried to rush away like a lunatic, and was only restrained by force.

Pericles was summoned.

He appeared, saw the young girl’s condition, and turned pale.

“Go!” he said to the revellers.

Their brains were still half clouded by bacchanalian intoxication.

“Why does the young girl’s state alarm you so much?” they cried. “If you know her disease, speak!”

“Go!” repeated Pericles.

“What is it, what is it!” exclaimed Alcibiades.

“The plague!” said Pericles, in a low, hollow tone.

Quietly as the word was uttered, it fell upon the assembly like a thunder-bolt.

All were silent, turned pale, and dispersed.

The young girls began to lament—Aspasia herself turned deadly pale, and trembling violently, strove to relieve her lost favorite.

Simaitha was borne away. The revellers silently began to retire.

Alcibiades alone, the most intoxicated of all, maintained his composure.

“Must we then yield to the gloomy powers?” he cried, seizing a beaker. “Has our struggle been vain? If you all despair and shamefully acknowledge yourselves conquered, I will not yield! I defy the plague and all the terrors of Hades!”

He continued to talk in this tone, until he at last perceived that he was standing alone in the deserted peristyle, amid scattered garlands and half-emptied or overturned beakers.

He looked around him with glassy eyes. “Ho! where are you, merry Ithyphallians?”

“Alone!” he continued—“all alone! They have all abandoned me—all! The kingdom of pleasure is deserted—the gloomy powers conquer!”

“Be it so!” he cried at last, hurling the beaker from him. “Farewell, beautiful pleasures of youth! I will go to Hipponicus!”