CHAPTER VI.

ON THE BANK OF THE CEPHISSUS.

The pleasant, shaded valley of the Cephissus was speedily reached by leaving the ancient city of Athens in a northerly direction, turning slightly to the left of the Cerameicus, crossing the gardens and plane-tree avenues of the “Academy,” and continuing the walk northward, along a sunny highway in the open country.

A luxuriant, whispering olive-grove grew at the left of the entrance, stretching like a green wall along the side of the road, intermingled with bushes, whose blue flowers were relieved by the tender green of the narrow leaves. Garlands of ivy drooped from the trees, and yews grew up the slope of the hill, concealing it until nothing but green was visible.

On the other side of the road, the clear murmuring waves of the Cephissus came rippling out of the valley over sparkling white pebbles, here and there vanishing in pink laurel and agnus cæstus bushes.

A short distance beyond the Cephissus, appeared the lovely hill of Colonus, rich in numerous legends.

After entering the valley and walking a short distance between the olive-grove and the stream, a charming villa appeared on the opposite bank of the Cephissus, glittering in the sunshine, surrounded by ancient cypress, plane and pine-trees, and a garden that extended almost to the edge of the stream. But it was not only on this side, that the grounds stretched to the bank of the little stream, for the latter in continuing its course towards the entrance of the valley, made a wide curve to the right, and in so doing washed the fruit and flower-gardens that surrounded the house in that direction, only here the waves flowed between taller bushes, gleaming in the sunbeams and echoing with the songs of nightingales.

In the centre of the wide space, between the sloping bank of the Cephissus and the dwelling, stood a little summer-house overgrown with roses. In the corners of the garden, laurel, myrtle and rose-bushes mingled, forming secluded arbors. Even the scarlet blossoms of the pomegranate were not lacking. Double rows of olive, fig, and other fruit-trees, leading from arbor to arbor, encircled the garden.

Grapes were ripening on the rising ground towards the hill of Colonus. The house itself was covered with climbing vines, which also twined luxuriantly around the trees, while the ivy vied with them in growth, its large black umbels, somewhat resembling grapes, hung from the walls and trees, and its dense foliage bordered the dewy meadow.

Small beds of flowers were placed between the blossoming hedges and open spaces of turf. Owing to the lateness of the season and the Athenians’ love for garlands, there were but few blossoms of the narcissus, the yellow crocus, the iris or violet, but roses glowed everywhere in countless numbers, never tossed by rude winds, and refreshed every morning by the purest dew from heaven.

It seems an easy matter to give the names of the objects to be seen here; but it is utterly impossible to describe the bright and joyous atmosphere of peace diffused over the green, tree-bordered valley, bedewed by the waters of the Cephissus and echoing with the songs of the nightingales. It was so near the busy city, yet appeared to be miles away. It seemed as if the rustic god Pan must emerge from the shady woodland solitude, or a naiad rise from her bath in the Cephissus. Surely satyrs must be revelling further in the leafy depths of the grove, and hamadryads could be heard laughing merrily as they mingled in the dance, or reclined on green leaves to rest. Sometimes a shiver ran through the tree-tops, which trembled against the pure blue of the Greek sky, like a thrill of bliss emanating from the footsteps of Dionysus, the god of joy.

Here dwelt Sophocles, the favorite of the Muses. This was the house he had pointed out to Pericles and Aspasia from the top of the Acropolis. This spot was his birthplace, and here he now lived. Under the white monuments, overgrown with ivy and flowers, which peered forth here and there from the foliage of the garden and thickets, his ancestors slept.

He was seated in an arbor of roses, fanned by the morning breezes, holding on his knee a small wax tablet, on which he sometimes traced some verses with a sharp stylus, frequently smoothing the surface again with its handle to efface what he had written, if the first inspiration of the Muse did not fully satisfy him.

Glancing towards the road, he saw a stately man walking through the valley with a light, rapid step.

“Who is the early riser,” he thought, “advancing almost as rapidly as Hermes, the messenger of the gods?”

The new-comer approached, the poet recognized his dearest friend, and full of joyous excitement went to the entrance of the garden to meet him. Pericles clasped his hand. “I will accept your invitation,” said he, “and have escaped from the noise and bustle of the city, and all public business, to be your guest to-day. The cithara-player from Miletus—you doubtless remember him—will come and spend the day with us, if you permit. I have much to say to him, and know of no place where I could do so undisturbed.”

“So the handsome cithara-player from Miletus will come?” cried Sophocles, joyously. “I thought some very inspiring cause must bring you here, when I saw you walking so swiftly and eagerly along the road. There was not much left of the quiet dignity of the orator on the Pnyx. I scarcely recognized you, as you tossed your head and swung to and fro from your hips, almost reminding me of Homer’s noble steed, that broke the halter in its stall, and with uplifted head and flying mane rushed to the pasture of—”

“Hush!” interrupted Pericles, closing his friend’s mouth with his hand. “It was the spicy breezes of the valley of Cephissus, that produced such an exhilarating effect upon me in the freshness of morning.”

“Why not also—the desire to see the beautiful Milesian?” said Sophocles; “is she not the most charming of women?”

“She is delicate as a Lydian, dignified as an Athenian, strong as a Laconian!” said Pericles.

“You no longer need envy Ion the fair, lily-cheeked Chrysilla,” observed Sophocles, with a mischievous smile.

“Never mind Chrysilla!” cried Pericles. “Aspasia is peerless. One does not know whether she most resembles a Muse or a Grace.”

“Perhaps she will prove a Fate to you,” said Sophocles, “she can weave both good and evil into the thread of your life.”

“Why not a Lamia and Empusa too?” cried Pericles. “And if she were—I have plenty of blood in my veins, and a sword by my side, which, like the hero Ulysses’, can be torn from its sheath at the right moment against any—

“I come to you like a weary, hunted animal,” he continued, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “I have torn myself from the countless toils and anxieties of my innumerable offices and dignities, to live one day in the companionship of beautiful leisure and her dearest child, love.”

“You do wisely in seeking leisure to love,” replied Sophocles. “In the heat of summer people should either not love at all, or do nothing else.”

“I believe you are yourself sinning against that saying,” observed Pericles; “the wax tablets in your hand show that you are industriously adding verse to verse. But it is said that doesn’t prevent you from sheltering the beautiful Ephesian, Philainion, in yonder secluded building, hidden by myrtles and roses.”

“Is poetry labor?” asked Sophocles; “I did not know it. If the burning brow makes the poet, poetry is probably a musical exhalation of all the beautiful light, all the divine fire, we drink in with our mortal senses from the heavenly ether. Light transforms itself into sound. So I would fain not miss love during the summer days, for it is then most fiery, most sweet, and most full of the God. Least of all would I miss it while I compose, for then one passion blends so beautifully with the other: glowing with Apollo’s flames, you seek refreshment in the blissful atmosphere of love, returning to the Muse with a soul attuned to harmony. Eros and the Muse at last change parts—the Muse fans the ardent glow of love, and the loved one’s eyes or bosom endows you with the most beautiful poetic thoughts.”

“I believe we can never be so weary; that love does not afford refreshment; all who glow with the longing for action know that.”

Such was the conversation between these two enthusiastic men, now in the very prime of life.

A litter stopped before the house, and Aspasia descended from it, clad in women’s garments. Sophocles received her, and led her to meet Pericles in the densely-shaded enclosure of the fragrant garden.

Concealed from watchful eyes, she threw back her veil, let the himation fall from her head and shoulders, and stood before them clad in the bright-hued, richly-bordered chiton worn by women, her rippling golden-brown hair arranged in waving lines upon the temples. Her sole ornament was a broad purple fillet, passing from the upper part of the head around the wealth of curling locks to the back. In her hand she carried a small, daintily-formed parasol, and in the belt that confined her robe around her waist, was thrust a no less graceful, leaf-shaped fan.

Sophocles now saw Aspasia in woman’s attire for the first time, and an exclamation of admiration escaped his lips. The Milesian seemed like an almost too dazzling marvel in the idyl of the valley of Cephissus. She appeared alien to this rural solitude, and brought with her an intoxicating aroma of youth and beauty, which seemed to press into the background all the spicy odors of the groves, the breath of all the blossoms in the garden.

“Content yourself, Aspasia, with what nature has done for this spot,” said Sophocles, as he conducted her through a walk overarched with vines. “You will have no occasion to admire Athenian horticulture. I well know that you Asiatic Hellenes understand far better how to lay out pleasure-gardens with labyrinths, hidden nooks and grottos, than we on this side of the sea. You have the Persians’ extensive, magnificently laid out paradises for a model. We Athenians believe that beautiful nature, like a beautiful woman, is lovely even unadorned.”

“Let Aspasia walk in this enclosure a short time,” said Pericles, “and you’ll soon be no longer satisfied with nature unadorned. She will speedily enchant and transform you and your spouse. That is her nature. Wherever she steps, something springs up under her feet. She knows how to plant a thorn in the hearts of human beings, and if she lets fall a few words about your garden, you will not rest until you create something that can vie with the fruit-orchards of the Hesperides, the garden of Phœbus on the farthest confines of the sea, the Cyrenian one of Zeus and Aphrodite, that of Midas with its hundred-leaved roses, or which can at least compare with the horticultural skill of the Homeric Phæacian prince Alcinous at Scheria.”

“I am well aware, that her nature conjures up unrest in the minds of men,” replied Sophocles. “Have pity, fair enchantress, and leave me and my garden here unchanged. I have been so contented and happy. If Phœbus shone in the vault of heaven, I rejoiced that my olives, figs, and pomegranates were ripening; if Zeus sent rain, I thanked him for making my meadows green. I satisfied myself with what was to be found here: flowers in Spring, shade in Summer, abundance of fruit in Autumn, refreshing breezes and silence blessed by the Muse in Winter. But above all, mighty Aspasia, do not, by some magic formula, transform what by habit has become dearest to me and what is always most desired by lovers and poets: the pleasant seclusion of these laurel bushes, these myrtle and rose-arbors.”

“Ought laurel-shaded solitude to be most advantageous to the poet?” replied Aspasia. “Ought he not rather, in order to fully ripen his powers, to emerge from the quiet shade into the full light of the world and life?”

“We suppose,” replied Sophocles, “that it is the sun and only the sun, which ripens the grapes, until we discover that the largest, most luxuriant, and deepest-hued clusters hang concealed under the shade of the thickest leaves. If you doubt that this solitude is useful to the poet, you will at least confess it is welcome to lovers. Here you can enjoy each other’s society all day, if you choose, disturbed only by twittering birds or rippling waves. No slave ever enters this garden unbidden. But if you desire to make acquaintance with the loveliest nook, most blessed by the Muses and Graces, come!”

Pericles and Aspasia followed the poet, who led them to the spot, where, as has already been mentioned, the Cephissus, making a curve, bordered the grounds on the other side. Here the ground sloped towards the stream, which flowed in a somewhat deeper channel. Yet the land did not fall steeply down to the water, but left between the river and the rising ground a charming level space, just wide enough to permit two persons, pressing closely side by side, to walk along the bank beneath a leafy roof, through which danced flickering sunbeams.

The poet led his guests to this charming path, where the plash and ripple of the waves sounded most musical, the birds trilled and warbled most sweetly, and the lights and shadows played like sportive sprites on the waves and between the boughs. Here and there was a turfy bank, where one might recline, rest, and dreamily enjoy the refreshing coolness of the shade. There was also a grotto, half concealed without by flowering vines, and invitingly supplied inside with seats and cushions for a resort during the warmest hours of the day.

Aspasia was delighted with this lovely resting-place, and willingly accepted her friend’s invitation to sit down. Pericles and the poet followed her example. They gazed into the clear waves of the stream, which here fell into a natural rocky basin. Bright-hued dragon-flies hovered and danced over the blossoms on the shore, as if intoxicated by the sunshine, and a beautiful pair of harmless water-snakes, believing themselves unseen, noiselessly made their graceful, rapid convolutions in the crystal flood. But when their observers betrayed themselves by some slight noise, they swiftly glided under the dense growth of plants that drooped from the banks over the stream.

“A wedded pair,” said Sophocles—“I often watch them here. They are inseparable.”

“It is difficult,” Pericles began after a short pause, during which all had unconsciously given themselves up to the spell of nature—“it is difficult to transport ourselves in imagination from this peaceful world, to the persons and things we have escaped, left far behind us. And yet, Aspasia, the object of our excursion to-day would be only half attained, if we did not remember the persons and things we fled from. On the contrary, we must occupy ourselves with them first of all and before everything else, for you have not only much to tell me concerning the events of the last few days, but I myself have many things to explain, which have doubtless been mysterious to you. The dragon-flies are hovering gracefully over the waves, and the nimble serpents are describing their circles in the current; yet we must not heed them, for I must speak of very different creatures, miserable birds that yesterday became important to you and me, those accursed peacocks of Pyrilampes. Through Hipponicus’ treachery, one of them, intended for a gift to you, was brought to my house and fell into the hands of its mistress, Telesippe.”

“And what was the stranger’s fate?” asked Aspasia.

“Oh, don’t question me about its destiny or mine on that day,” cried Pericles smiling. “Imagine the man before whom, tradition relates, his own children were placed, daintily served for a meal! I can now for the first time realize his horror and surprise, since I have myself experienced the less shocking, but scarcely less bewildering incident of seeing the magnificent bird, which I supposed to be just spreading his feathers before the delighted Aspasia, who beheld in it an Argus, sent by her lover to watch her in his stead with the hundred eyes of love—seeing this bird dead, plucked, and transformed to a shapeless brown mass, on my plate.”

Sophocles laughed merrily at the tale. “You sinned yourself,” he replied, “by employing the bird consecrated to Hera, goddess of marriage, in the service of her rival, the golden Aphrodite—”

“The anger of the gods descended on my head far more heavily than on you and your peacock,” replied Aspasia. “Know, that disguised, I sought you that very morning in your house, that I too, like the peacock, fell into Telesippe’s hands, and if not slaughtered like the bird, found a scarcely less cruel reception. By the gods, Telesippe only wished I had a hundred eyes like the peacock, that she might scratch them all out. Your furious wife was accompanied by an elderly, ridiculous woman, named Elpinice. Both these matrons felt an ardent emotion of love for the young cithara-player, and flew into a furious passion when they discovered he was a woman. I was assailed by these two harpies, loaded with insults, driven from the house. ‘I stand as mistress by this hearth,’ said Telesippe, ‘but you are a vagabond, an adventuress. I bid you begone!’ She added that she would give up your heart, but was not disposed to lose your hearth. I willingly grant her that, oh! Pericles, but do you intend to acknowledge the right of the woman, who rules your hearth, to assail with savage threats and insults her who possesses your heart?”

“What can I do?” replied Pericles. “The Athenian women have few rights, but we must respect those they do possess. They extend only to the threshold of the house—”

“So it seems,” Aspasia interrupted, “that you men of Athens are not masters in the house, but only outside of it. How strange! You make the wife a slave, and then declare yourselves servants of these slaves.”

“That is marriage!” said Pericles, shrugging his shoulders.

“If this is marriage,” retorted Aspasia, “it might be better if there were no such thing in the world.”

“Love binds the happy tie that unites hearts,” said Pericles; “but a woman becomes a wife and mistress of the house, through the law.”

“Through the law?” answered Aspasia. “I always thought it was maternity alone which made a beloved woman a wife, and that marriage began, so to speak, with the birth of a child.”

“Not according to our Athenian civil law.”

“Then change your civil law, for it is worthless,” cried Aspasia.

“Sophocles, favorite of the gods,” exclaimed Pericles, turning to his friend, “help me recall this angry beauty to calm discretion, that her little white hand may not tear down the whole fabric of the Athenian government.”

“How could I suppose our high-minded Aspasia would ever lose the noblest possession of human beings, discretion? She knows well enough to teach us the lesson, should we forget it, that life without pleasure is no life, but to enjoy existence to the utmost, we must beware of rousing the anger of gloomy Ate, goddess of delusion and blind, passionate impulse; that we must never fight against anything without first wisely testing our strength; that happy ease is impossible without self-control; that we ought to love our fellow-creatures, for they are the companions of our pleasures, and honor the gods, for they are not mere empty names, but mark the limits of our power, and stand, ruling with potent sway, on the border line between our wilfulness and fate, between freedom and eternal necessity; that we—”

“Enough!” Aspasia interrupted laughing, “or I fear we shall not find our way back from the clear atmosphere of lofty thought, into which your wise and beautiful words have borne us, to the petty, but tangible matters with which our conversation commenced. But if it is allowable to apply general remarks to special cases, it seems to me, Sophocles, you intended to say that foreign birds and foreign women must submit to be plucked and torn in Athens, and timidly yielding, ought not to struggle against the laws of the country, which deprives them of all rights.”

“It is easy for our friend here,” added Pericles, “to make wise rules for human conduct, especially that of married men, and equally easy to follow them. His life flows on without contest; for he is unwedded, and no Telesippe threateningly confronts his Aspasia with a firebrand snatched from the hearth.”

“That’s the way intercessors and all who meddle in lovers’ affairs, even if invited to do so, invariably fare,” replied Sophocles smiling. “I am now derided and almost reproached, because while counselling discretion, I was myself so imprudent as to try to advise lovers. By way of amends, I will now punish myself by instantly leaving you to your own wisdom, and bid you farewell for a short time, that you may settle your affairs. I am going to take care that you don’t spend the whole day here without the refreshment of food and drink; and if, while you are discussing the subject of your interview, I linger for a time in yonder laurel grove, know that no Aspasia awaits me there, but, with tablets on my knee and stylus in my hand, I am listening to the lamentations of the noble daughter of Œdipus.”

“So you have remembered the poetic idea mentioned on the Acropolis?” asked Aspasia.

“Half the work is already finished,” replied Sophocles, “and a slave sits day after day with a reed pen in his hand, transcribing the completed lines from the waxen tablets to the papyrus.”

“Won’t you afford us the pleasure of hearing them in advance of others?” said Pericles.

“Your time is too precious!” replied the poet, and withdrew.

After Pericles and Aspasia were left alone, they returned to the subject of conversation, which had arisen in their friend’s presence.

But, as usual in lovers’ talks, they frequently wandered from the main topic, and did not strive for rigid logical sequence, because too much feeling mingled with their speculations, and they permitted themselves to make numerous digressions. Meantime they listened to the songs of the birds, inhaled the spicy odors from the meadows, and now and then plucked a tempting grape from a drooping cluster, or a red-cheeked juicy fruit. Aspasia bit an apple and handed it to Pericles, who received it with a radiant smile, for he was not ignorant of the meaning a bitten apple bore in the sign language of love. Nor were opportunities for questioning love oracles neglected. Aspasia twined a garland, gave it to Pericles, and laughed when some leaves fell from it, for this omen signified ardent love in the heart of the wearer. Pericles gathered flowers, whose calixes possessed the property of bursting with a sharp snap, when pressed between the fingers, and did not disdain to draw from the loudness of the report an oracle in regard to the depth of love in Aspasia’s heart.

But however rapidly Pericles’ love made the blossoms in the garland wither, and its leaves fall, and Aspasia’s did honor to the oracles of the bursting flowers, both tried to return to sensible conversation. Many questions were asked, but few decided. They discussed how Aspasia, with Pericles’ help, could best arrange her new household to enable them to continue their intercourse with as little interruption as possible, and, since lovers like nothing better than to talk of the history of their first meeting, this pair reverted to their interview in Phidias’ house. Pericles mentioned what had since occurred in consequence of it, spoke of the great works that had been commenced, and how he was at that time compelled to defend himself from the reproaches of his friends, but at last all departed satisfied except Sophroniscus’ son, the truth-seeker, who desired a thorough discussion of the question whether the fostering of the beautiful rendered the fostering of morality unnecessary.

This question had been allowed to drop, and was afterwards entirely forgotten. But since Aspasia, on being reminded of it, instantly expressed with great decision her favorite assertion, that the cultivation of the beautiful was as justifiable, or even more so, than the advancement of morality, and a peacock was as valuable as a duck, though the latter might be more easily fattened—and Pericles did not know whether he could admit so much, the lovers were interrupted by Sophocles just at the right time.

The latter came to invite them to lunch, and led the way to a little summer-house in the middle of the garden. The interior was charmingly decorated, almost luxuriously arranged for a comfortable resting-place, and at this moment was transformed into a cosy dining-room. Cushions were arranged so that the company could recline in pairs, supporting the upper portion of the body on the left arm, and before these cushions stood small tables, bearing various dishes.

Pericles and Aspasia, obeying their host’s invitation, reclined on the pillows and prepared to eat the refreshments, which consisted of poultry, cakes, cheese, figs, almonds, nuts, grapes, and delicious wine from the islands.

“I hope, Sophocles,” said Aspasia jestingly, “that you are not setting nightingales before us; though in a city where they don’t hesitate to cook peacocks, nightingales might also chance to fall into the frying-pan.”

“Don’t abuse the whole Athenian nation on account of one culprit,” pleaded Sophocles.

“A woman capable of killing a peacock, plucking off its magnificent plumage and throwing it into a pan, deserves to be scourged out of Hellas,” cried Aspasia with a fresh outburst of indignation. “If the wrath of the Greek gods falls on any one, it must surely overwhelm her; for she has sinned against the most sacred thing on earth, the beautiful.”

“If we must believe our wise and beautiful Aspasia,” observed Pericles, turning to his host, “beauty is the supreme law of life and, penetrating the soul as well as the body, the sum and substance of all the virtues.”

“The idea seems to me very charming,” replied the poet, “though I don’t quite know what Anaxagoras, Phidias’ well-known stone-cutter, and the other philosophers would think of it. But even among these men, there is not one who will dispute the mighty power of beauty and the emotion, love, it awakens in the hearts of men. This very morning, agreeably to your wish, Aspasia, I introduced into my work, to show the unconquerable power of love, a scene in which I make Hæmon, King Creon’s son, voluntarily descend into Hades to follow his beloved Antigone—”

“That is too much, Sophocles,” replied Aspasia, to the great perplexity of her host, who had expected to win her thanks. “The poet’s stylus must not show so gloomy a side of love. Love is cheerful, and ought to renounce itself sooner than its gaiety. It should not lead a human soul to Hades. It should ally men with life, not death. Gloomy, fanatical passion ought not to be designated by the name of love among the Hellenes. It is disease, it is slavery.”

“You are right,” replied Sophocles. “The rule you express is obvious; you, Pericles, and I myself will always pay homage only to beautiful, gay, untrammelled love. If you wish, we will offer a sacrifice to the gods this very day, imploring them never to fan this pure flame in our bosoms into a raging, devastating glow. But in poetry and sculpture, the mind urges the writer and sculptor to put a sharp, penetrating edge on what he desires to express. I wished to show that Eros was a mighty god; but I earnestly desire that he may never again turn the whole of his power in such a manner against a Hellene. Above all, may he make the hearts of the beautiful, gentle and yielding; for what, except beauty, is to blame for all the evil and trouble love endures in the world? In truth, beauty is a fatal, decisive, momentous power in the lives of mortals. She sits, if I may so express it, in the council of the highest powers.”

“Beauty sits in the council of the highest powers!” repeated Aspasia. “That remark, in my opinion, deserves to be ranked among the sayings of the philosophers of Hellas.”

“If it affords you pleasure,” replied the poet, “I will repeat it aloud throughout all Hellas, and interweave it as a chorus into my tragedy. When could I finish this choral song to Eros under a better omen, than while your foot still presses the soil of this garden? You must not leave here until I have written the hymn and heard your opinion.”

“You could not offer us a more gracious gift,” replied Pericles.

“Pardon me, if I now present nothing with which a collation is usually spiced,” Sophocles began. “I don’t even introduce a dancer or flute-player, for to-day, it seems to me, my guests are enough in themselves; and besides, who would venture to play the cithara before the beautiful ‘cithara-player from Miletus,’ and thus vie with such an artist?”

“You yourself!” cried Pericles, “you owe us the contest, for you promised something of the kind on the Acropolis. Bring your stringed instrument, and another one for Aspasia; then begin to vie with each other in singing and playing, like the Sicilian shepherds, in the presence of my impartial umpireship—for that you will permit me to be umpire is a matter of course, since you will have no other listener.”

“The pleasure of hearing Aspasia sing and play will not be too dearly purchased at the cost of a defeat,” replied Sophocles.

He left them, soon returned with two beautifully-ornamented instruments, and asked Aspasia to choose one.

The fair woman drew her fingers over the strings, and a lovely rippling sound instantly rose from the instrument, like sparks from a forge.

The poet and the Milesian beauty, warmed by the fire of the island wine, began to sing, to the accompaniment of their instruments, love-songs by Anacreon and Sappho, winged distiches, and new verses of their own, rapidly composed.

“What are life and pleasure without Cypria’s smiles? Gladly would I die, when mirth and joy have gone, When my heart no more rejoices in love’s winsome wiles. Flowers of youth, how swiftly time’s scythe mows ye down!”

Aspasia eagerly responded:

“Ay, full short is the time that’s allotted a mortal; But Bacchus, the dance, love, wreathed garlands invite! These, these only are life—’t is a joyous high festival! We know not to-morrow, seize to-day in its flight!”

The poet, fixing his sparkling eyes on Aspasia, sang:

“Sweet, by Pan, the Arcadian, the song that thou singest! Sweet the notes of the lute that blend with thy lay! Could I flee? No, Aspasia, for hidden in thy breast, Eros’ self is the siren who charms me to-day!”

With a bewitching smile on her rosy lips, Aspasia replied:

“Gaily Neæra sported with her friend. About Her waist, fair Cypris flung a flowered zone Enwrought with golden letters: ‘Love me, but grieve not.’ So ran the words, ‘if other rule I own!’”

“How long will you still delay, oh! Pericles,” said the poet, “to award Aspasia the wreath of victory?”

“Give it to the poet, Pericles,” said Aspasia, “but first impose one condition: he must sing us some lines addressed to the fair Philainion.”

“Do you hear what Aspasia desires?” said Pericles to the poet, “you must celebrate the charms of the beautiful Ephesian, Philainion, who is now, it is rumored, the companion of your happiest hours, and whom we strangers, to your secret torment, have perhaps driven from this charming spot.”

“The condition is not without secret malice and cruelty,” replied Sophocles, smiling: “but I will not leave it unfulfilled.”

And he sang:

“Philainion’s dark-skinned, Philainion’s small, But the poppy’s bloom is not more dainty, Philainion’s prattle hath stronger thrall, Than Cypris’ girdle. I’ll love but thee, Philainion, fair one, until as a rival, Aphrodite doth give fairer beauty to me!”

“Are you satisfied, Aspasia?” asked Pericles, and when the latter smilingly nodded assent, he turned to his host and offered him the prize of victory, saying:

“Receive the wreath, hospitable singer.”

“I should not be that,” replied Sophocles, “if I did not conclude by praising the charms of the fairest of women:

“Cypria’s beauty hast thou, and the lips of Peitho, The Hours vernal bloom, Calliope’s sweet tone, The balancing of Themis, the Pallas’ wisdom, The Graces’ charm with earnest Muses blended.”

“That is shaming us,” said Aspasia, “and imposing a greater debt of gratitude than we can ever discharge.”

So ended the contest. Sophocles and his Milesian guest then discussed many things concerning music, and Aspasia talked so learnedly about the Doric, Phrygian, Lydian, and other styles, the delicate distinctions between them, and the advantages one possessed over another, that Pericles was amazed and at last exclaimed:

“Tell me, Aspasia, what is the name of the man who can boast of having first trained you in these difficult arts?”

“You will learn,” replied Aspasia, “when I tell you the story of my early youth.”

“Why did you never do so?” replied Pericles. “How long will you defer it? Tell me to-day. The opportunity is favorable, and Sophocles is so intimate a friend, and so discreet, that you need not fear to make him a hearer of your story.”

“No,” said Sophocles, “charming as I imagine the story of Aspasia’s childhood to be, I cannot help fearing, that if you are compelled to share the pleasure of hearing it with another, the tale will not last half so long as if you listen to it alone. Besides, I remember that I have vowed not to let you go, until I have entirely conciliated Aspasia, by writing a chorus in honor of Eros, so I must speedily seek my solitude and leave you to one not less desirable to you. By sheltering a pair of lovers, like yourselves, in my asylum, on the self-same day that I compose a song in praise of Eros for my tragedy, I expect to obtain so much favor from the god of Love, that it wouldn’t surprise me if I succeeded in writing my best song as a proof of the divinity’s gratitude.”

With these words the poet took his leave, Aspasia calling jestingly after him, to say he must not return without bringing the charming Philainion.

The lovers were again left to themselves in the pleasant, secluded, fragrant garden.

Still excited by the animated conversation, music, and singing, yet overcome by a sort of gentle weariness, they spent the time in walking and resting, lulled into the sweet dreamy state which takes possession of the mind, especially in the forest, fields, or shady garden, during the noontide hours, when Pan is sleeping, and his sprites pursue their mischievous pranks uncontrolled in the lonely valleys.

The oily fruit of the olive glittered in the mid-day sun. No lark hovered about, the tiny lizards lay sleeping in the hedges. Only the crickets began to chirp softly and musically here and there.

The wanderer’s nature at such moments is so thrilled, excited, steeped in sunshine and perfume, that when he lies down to rest on the shady turf, under rustling trees, he scarcely knows whether he is trembling with a sense of delicious fatigue, or the still unexhausted abundance of animal spirits.

The two lovers at last paused again in the ivy-covered nook, where the waves of the Cephissus plashed under sun-flecked branches, and in the sultry noontide stillness the unsuspicious pair of water-snakes described their circles through the crystal flood.

Rousing himself from the half slumber of a dreamy, blissful siesta, Pericles repeated his entreaty that Aspasia would crown the confidential intercourse of the day, by relating the long promised tale of the incidents of her early youth.

But there is one peculiarity about a narrator, whose lips are delicate, pouting, and sweet as Attic virgin honey. Pericles confessed that he knew not whether he was most eager for his friend’s kisses, or her story. At last she began:

“You know I am not old enough to delight you with a long, adventurous, and varied tale. But you have a right to inquire about my origin, and ask what my fate was ere it became connected with yours.

“Philammon was the name of the man to whom I owed my knowledge of music and other arts, indeed everything for which one human being can be indebted to another, though that, as I believe, is not much, for the character of human beings, especially women, is principally determined by the soil on which we grow up, the native air we breathe, the things around us, and above all, fate and the star under which we are born.

“Good Philammon! I don’t think I shall ever again live with any man so peacefully; for he made no claims on me, nor I on him. He was eighty years old, and I ten. To be sure, he seemed twenty years younger than his age, and I one-fourth older than mine.

“After the death of my father, Axiochus, and my mother, he, as a paternal friend and guardian, received me into his house. He was the most learned, wise, eloquent, and at the same time gayest old man in gay Miletus; perhaps the most amiable, since Anacreon lived on this earth. I know not whether there is any friendship more beautiful, than that between a youthful old man and a precocious little girl. The fairest contrasts of life meet each other. I was passionately in love with Philammon’s long white beard, his clear eyes, from which all the knowledge of the world seemed to shine upon me, his lyres and citharas, his books, the bronze and marble statues in his house, the beautiful flowers in his garden. He, too, seemed to take no little delight in me; from the hour I was brought into his house, he always wore on his lips a smile, whose beauty I have never seen equalled, and which not even death could entirely efface. For five years I lived amid the perfume of the roses, with which the godlike old man entwined his goblets, drank in the wisdom that shone in his eyes and flowed from his eloquent lips, played on his lyres and citharas, unfolded with glowing cheeks his rolls of MSS., gazed at his bronze and marble statues, and tended the flowers in his garden. The world of poetry, music and spring again became fresh to him, because he enjoyed it with a child. He said that he was eighty years old, but understood many of his books for the first time, now that a child read them aloud to him.

“When he died, the Milesians called me the most beautiful maiden on the Ionic coast, and I saw myself for the first time in a mirror. The life of the wealthy city, where the Hellenic mind is early ripened by the sun of Asia, began to press upon me with its surging waves.

“But I was discontented.

“I had been gay among Philammon’s books and statues; in the rushing whirlpool of pleasure, surrounded by homage, I became grave, thoughtful, obstinate, capricious. I missed something.

“The men of Miletus seemed foppish. They sought my favor, but I despised them.

“After Philammon’s death I stood alone in the world, a young, poor, inexperienced, orphaned girl.

“Then a Persian satrap saw me, and instantly formed the plan of taking the much-praised Ionic maiden to Persepolis, to introduce her to the great king. My foolish, girlish heart kindled. I thought of Rhodopis, who wedded the Egyptian king; of my countrywoman, Thargelia, who won the sovereign of Thessaly for a husband. The Persian king himself, the most powerful monarch on earth, hovered before my mind as the incarnation of everything lofty, noble, amiable and beautiful in man. As a child in Philammon’s house I had been precocious, now, as a young maiden, I became foolish. On reaching Persepolis, I was magnificently attired and then conducted to the superb palace. Amid this splendor sat the Persian king, no less gorgeously adorned, but with the face of an ordinary man. He stared at me with the dull eyes of a despot, and at last sleepily stretched out his hand as if to examine a piece of merchandise. This enraged me; indignant tears filled my eyes. It pleased the Persian, who smiled faintly. He even spared me from that moment, saying that the pride of the Greeks pleased him better than the slavish submission of other women. After a few weeks, the despot’s heart kindled with love, but I was seized with dread and sank into a state of melancholy. The life around me seemed strange, monotonous, dull. These people did not allow themselves to be influenced, but lived inertly in their magnificent rooms, filled with enervating perfumes. The gorgeous splendor of the East was alien and alarming to me, the spell with which it at first enthralled my imagination quickly vanished. I shivered at the sight of the foreign temples and idols, and longed to return to the Gods of Hellas.

“After a short time I fled, and uttered a sigh of relief when I again trod Ionic soil and saw the Greek sea, promising a new and fairer happiness, dash upon the shore. Accompanied by one female slave, I sought in the harbor of Miletus a ship that would convey me to Hellas, and found a merchant who was willing to take me to Megara. Thence I could quickly reach proud Athens, for which my soul had long yearned. On arriving at Megara with my slave, I stood alone and helpless. The elderly ship-owner, who had brought me from Miletus in his vessel, invited me to his house and promised to send me in a few days to Athens. I accepted, but he delayed the arrangements for my departure, and I at last perceived it was his intention to detain me. But I soon saw that the son’s heart glowed with love as well as the father’s, and kept prisoner in the house, was tormented by a double wooing. The fools thought it was for them I had escaped unharmed from the Persian king. As my reserve still continued, and I did everything in my power to break the chains woven around me, the anger of both burst into a blaze. The ship-owner’s wife had always looked with suspicious eyes on the young stranger, and now while the two men raged at me and quarrelled fiercely with each other on my account, she was seized with savage jealousy, so that I saw myself surrounded by furies and threatened by all these people. The idea of rousing the Megarians against me as a foreign deluder, a disturber of the peace, occurred to the woman, while the two men, enraged to the utmost by my reserve, and the impossibility of keeping me a prisoner longer, upheld her, from a thirst for vengeance. Their efforts were not unavailing. I was in Megara, among people of Doric race, people who, surrounded by Ionians, separated from their own kindred in the Peloponnesus, so near threatening Athens, only showed their Doric nature the more plainly, thought themselves compelled to follow Spartan customs more slavishly. They wish to appear stern and manly, but are doubly uncontrollable when passion seizes them, for their minds are rude, their natures base. Their violent emotions are impervious to the soothing influence diffused over others by the atmosphere of grace.

“At my earnest entreaty, my hosts at last pretended to let me go quietly. A mule stood ready to carry my baggage, a litter waited for me and my slave. But when I went out of the house, I found an infuriated crowd assembled in the street, and was received with words of scorn and abuse. The news that I was a Milesian had been enough to make the Megarians hate me and pursue me with savage fury. I know not what animated me with such pride, such courage, when I beheld this Doric mob grimacing, shrieking, uttering threats around me. With head erect I walked through the throng, the trembling slave following. The foremost, who had shrunk back a little, pressed by those behind, again crowded upon me; I was entangled, pushed, and when I indignantly uttered an angry protest, some insolently seized me by the arms and garments.

“At this moment, a travelling-carriage, drawn by horses, came along the road. In it sat a man, apparently wealthy and distinguished, for he was surrounded by slaves.

“When he perceived me amid the menacing crowd, some of whom were already seizing me, he stopped, ordered his slaves to lift me and my slave into the spacious equipage, and in a few moments I saw myself borne away by the stranger’s horses from the never to be forgotten ignominy that threatened me, and from accursed Megara.”

“Now I understand, Aspasia,” observed Pericles, “why, contrary to your usual moderation, you always show so much hostility whenever the Dorians and Doric nature are mentioned.”

“I don’t deny it,” she replied, “since that day, I have vowed eternal hostility and vengeance against all Dorians.”

“The man who rescued you was doubtless Hipponicus?” asked Pericles.

“Yes, it was he.”

“You have learned to know the Ionic nature in its most luxurious development at Miletus, and the rude excesses of the Dorian temperament at Megara. On the soil of Athens, I hope you find yourself in that beautiful and happy medium, which contains the reconciliation and harmony of the most opposite traits.”

“It was a good omen to me,” replied Aspasia, “that after treading the soil of Athens, chance brought me in contact with the place whence come the brightest sparks of the new Athenian spirit—Phidias’ studio!”

“And there,” cried Pericles, “there you found the men you missed at the Persian court, active, susceptible minds that you could influence—there you found the fiery Alcamenes—”

“And the thoughtful, unimpassioned, yet promising son of Sophroniscus,” replied Aspasia. “To both I strove to offer what their natures seemed to need. I showed the sculptor that he need not learn solely from his master Phidias, and partially succeeded in changing to genuine humility the false modesty of the truth-seeker, who torments everybody with his searching questions. But the man whom I did not shrink from offering merely this or that, but everything, my entire self, was still absent. At last I found him. Since then I have come still nearer the forge from which rise the most original sparks of the new Hellenic intellect and life.”

“And where was this?” asked Pericles.

“In the heart of the husband of the peacock-killer, Telesippe!” replied Aspasia, smiling and resting her sunny head on her companion’s breast.

The latter bent to kiss her and replied:

“Many of those life-sparks of the Hellenic mind would perhaps have slept unawakened in this breast, Aspasia, if you had never leaned your fair head on it.”

Thus passed the day spent by the happy pair in Sophocles’ garden.

Evening began to approach, the shrubs exhaled a stronger fragrance, the nightingales began to sing amid the branches, and the cicadas, as if seeking to rival them, raised their clear voices in the grass; glow-worms glittered amid the dusk of the thickets, and Hesperus sparkled in the sky.

The poet now appeared to invite his guests to the evening meal, and again led them to the pretty, cheerful summer-house.

“You gave me a command as I was leaving you,” said Sophocles, turning to Aspasia, “and who would neglect to obey your every wish?”

He pointed towards the back of the summer-house, from which Philainion came forward, smiling.

Pericles and Aspasia were pleasantly surprised. Philainion was small, but possessed a figure enchanting in its symmetry; every movement was full of grace. She had the blackest of eyes, and the blackest hair curled over a somewhat low forehead.

Aspasia gracefully thanked her host for his obedience, and kissed Philainion. All merrily reclined on couches, ready for the meal. Numerous sweetmeats were offered, and again the fiery Chian wine flowed freely amid gay, witty words and laughter.

Sophocles then read to his guests his promised song in honor of Eros, the immortal chorus of:

“Mighty power, all powers above!”

Intoxicated with enthusiasm, Aspasia and the poet began to sing the song at the same moment, to the music of stringed-instruments. The melody seemed to flow from their lips of its own volition—they invented it together.

Philainion, seized by the same rapture, joined her voice to theirs, and inspired by the music as well as the fiery Chian, soon began to accompany the melody with the movements of a most charming and expressive dance.

Who could describe the happiness of these gifted mortals?

They were as gay as the Olympic Gods.

As Pericles and Aspasia walked through the garden at a late hour on their way home, the roses exhaled an intoxicating perfume, and the flaming scarlet blossoms of the carnation glittered mysteriously in the gloom.

Never did the nightingales on the bank of the Cephissus sing louder than that night.

“Do you know what they are singing?” said Pericles to Aspasia, who walked smiling by his side. “Sophocles’ chorus in honor of Eros; they are all chanting:

“Mighty power, all powers above! Great, unconquerable love. Thou, who liest in dimple sleek, On the tender virgin’s cheek—

And

“Thus Venus wills it from above, And great, unconquerable Love.

And

“All thy maddening influence know, Gods above and men below. All thy powers resistless prove Great, unconquerable Love!”