CHAPTER VIII.

THE SACRIFICE TO THE GRACES.

No one enters so thoroughly into his work as the sculptor. Phidias’ only walk was between the Acropolis and his studio. Even in his dreams he saw nothing but his statues of the gods, his groups, his frieze; and as his restless mind was active in his sleeping as well as his waking hours, he often, to his great surprise, found his plans matured and developed when he awoke. Many of his designs had originally suggested themselves in a dream, and he could say that the gods appeared to him in slumber, as they did to Homer’s heroes. The whole world was valuable to him, only so far as it was connected with his art-aspirations. He renounced the pleasures of life, and remained alone and unwedded.

His soul was filled with the archetypes of all things, and his clear eye mirrored in pure outline every created object.

There was a motley confusion of persons and things in Phidias’ studio. Designs were constantly being invented, tested, rejected, modelled afresh in clay; measures and proportions were considered. Besides the preparatory work in clay, many a piece of sculpture was being hewn from the block by the stone-cutters, to be afterwards entrusted to better skilled hands for its perfect development. The workshop might be called a heap of rubbish, but it was rubbish of origin, not destruction. It was chaos, yet not the chaos of ruin, but that from which proceeds creation. Fragments lay scattered everywhere, not as parts of what had once been a whole, but as portions on the way to form one. Over this chaos hovered the spirit of Phidias. His mind directed everything, and kept the fiery Alcamenes and stern Agoracritus united in a common labor.

This pair were his two powerful arms. Nay, the former was an eloquent tongue. What Phidias suggested in monosyllabic, perhaps mysterious words, Alcamenes interpreted, repeated, inculcated.

He also kept watch over the young pupils and assistants, whose work was entrusted to his care, reproving, admonishing, encouraging, with the impetuosity natural to him, while examining the various portions of the pediment, frieze and metopes.

“What are you doing, Dracyllus? The curve of the breast is too flat to produce the right effect at a distance, the abdomen too little marked, not sufficiently distinguished from the groin. The principal muscles are too little raised, the lesser ones too much!

“Charicles, you make the skin here too tight, and here too loose over the muscles. It’s not sufficiently visible here. Even in the rigid bronze or marble, the skin ought always to look as if it could be grasped and lifted a little between the fingers.

“Lycius, your god can scarcely be distinguished from the folds of his garments. Are you one of the sculptors, whose Heracles can only be recognized by his club?

“Your nymph of the spring, Crinagoras, seems to intend to rely upon her urn to mark her character, instead of having it appear from the soft, almost liquid outlines of her limbs.”

He now came to one of the groups on the frieze of the Parthenon—youths curbing rearing steeds. “On what animal, Lycius, did you see that broad head, these blunt ears? The whole is too stiff, not sufficiently free, too old-fashioned. Did you go to school with the Æginetans? Argeladas would no longer have approved such bungling work!” Such were Alcamenes’ exclamations, particularly condemning this or that point, and as he grew angry seeming by no means disinclined to shatter the pupil’s carvings, a thing he was quite capable of doing, when passion overpowered him.

Agoracritus stepped forward and, as often happened, defended the fiercely reviled work against the impetuous Alcamenes. The hot blood crimsoned the latter’s face, and he made a hasty reply.

Just at that moment, Phidias approached with two companions, who were by no means strangers in his house.

How could Pericles and Aspasia have denied themselves the pleasure of sometimes casting a glance at the quiet creation and progress of these vast designs?

They found the master in the midst of throngs of pupils and assistants, among clay models, half-hewn statues and blocks of marble; found him more silent, stern, thoughtful and reserved than ever before.

When Alcamenes saw Aspasia, he strove to appear gay and careless, to conceal the indignation he could not yet wholly stifle, and to which he had allowed himself to give expression during the hasty meeting in the Agora. The sullen Agoracritus made no effort to hide the secret rage he still cherished in his heart against Aspasia. He turned away and wasted no words on the distinguished visitors.

As the latter had overheard some portion of the dispute, the conversation soon reverted to the same subject, and Aspasia did not hide the fact, that she entirely agreed with Alcamenes in his desire to see every trace of old-fashioned tradition effaced from art. While looking at the sketches and clay models for the colossal groups on the pediment, the frieze, and the metopes, she found many of the most beautiful a little hard and rigid, and even the richest development of the art seemed to her to advance too slowly. These opinions she expressed without reserve.

“The beautiful Aspasia,” said Phidias with a grave smile, “would like to have everything we carve as delicate, luxurious, and charming as herself. But do not forget, that in these tasks we sculptors have to represent no mere human, commonplace prettiness, but almost supernatural beauty.”

“Perhaps Phidias is right in not allowing himself to be entirely deprived of what Aspasia calls the harsh, stiff, old-fashioned style,” said Pericles. “Who knows whether the highest ideal of beauty may not dwell on the narrow line, that separates chaste, virginal loveliness from luxurious, fully developed charms? The highest and last stage of development is often the first of decline; so the point which delights and refreshes the mind with the purest, loftiest magic, should lie a little on the side of the summit and not directly upon it.”

“If I urged you ever so strongly towards the charming, delicate, and luxurious,” replied Aspasia, “and you encouraged your pupils to strive towards the same goal, I think even then it would be long ere the correct limit was passed. Your assistants seem to me so far from making their work too delicate and graceful, that even if they exerted all their powers, they would scarcely attain the goal. I do not say you are slow, but the road is long.”

“When I look at Phidias’ statues,” said Pericles evasively, as if he feared the sculptor might be wounded—“or hear the songs of Homer, I think them sublime in their charm, and charming in their sublimity. They are sublime, as every one knows, they are charming, as no one can deny, and we may call them beautiful, because they are both at the same time.”

“I agree to that,” said Socrates, looking up from his work of hewing the rough outlines of a statue in a marble block. “I have been reflecting a long time upon the real nature of beauty; Pericles’ words have shone like a ray of light into my soul. So the beautiful is graceful sublimity and sublime grace. When Pericles and Aspasia again discuss together the right limits of the progress of development in the arts, they will find it easy to say that the beautiful, to remain the beautiful, must never be merely charming and never merely sublime, but both united. The gods grant that I may remember this lesson at every stroke of the chisel, especially while I am executing the gift I intend to make Phidias’ goddess, on the day of the opening of her magnificent temple on the Acropolis.”

“What?” cried Aspasia, “does the thoughtful stone-cutter intend to try his skill as the creative sculptor?”

“Of course!” replied Socrates. “True, Phidias and Alcamenes have assigned none of the carved work on the new Parthenon to my independent execution, and when I begged permission to try this greater task, was sharply refused by Alcamenes, with the smiling contempt of which he is master. By Zeus! I have learned from Phidias how to carve the perfect egg form of the face, to make the head small but delicately shaped, the line of the brow and nose almost straight, curve the eyebrows in a delicate arch, chisel the eyes large, round, and deep, and the sides of the nostrils in a gradual slope, round the chin, and arrange the hair and beard in graceful masses. I will not forever hew blocks of marble into mere rough outlines, and as an obedient workman, help embody the thoughts of others. I will prepare a gift modelled after my own design, and try with practised hands to represent in stone, a clear, pure idea of my own.”

“But what is the clear idea, which as you say, you wish to embody in stone?” asked Aspasia.

“You shall hear,” replied Socrates; “but it is not seemly to talk of a pupil’s efforts, before you have seen as much of the master’s work, the divine Pallas Athena, as can be viewed at present.”

Pericles and Aspasia earnestly entreated Phidias to let them see what he had already created, but the sculptor replied:

“You can see nothing at this moment but fragments, for the clay model has been broken in pieces, as the necessities of the work in gold and ivory required.”

But, as Pericles and Aspasia protested that they would be satisfied with even a sight of the fragments, Phidias, accompanied by Socrates and Alcamenes, led them into one of the spacious court-yards, and there pointed out a wooden framework, over which the figure was to be shaped of gold and ivory, as flesh and skin rests on the skeleton of bones. Besides the workmen engaged in separating the clay model of the magnificent work into fragments, were others employed in sawing elephants’ tusks—of great size and beauty which the Greeks imported from India—into thin plates, each one of which was to be exactly fitted in its place over the wooden skeleton, according to the design of the clay model.

The visitors scanned the huge, separate portions of the colossal statue. Even these fragments afforded food for thought, and fortunately the head of the goddess was still uninjured. This they could examine to their heart’s content, and give themselves up to the spell of the master’s lofty thought, revealed in the sublime, pensive features of this new Pallas Athena of peace.

They mirrored intellectual power, the light of pure intelligence rising from the depths.

“The beautiful, pensive face of this goddess makes her appear indeed the divinity, who sprung from the head of her father, Zeus,” said Pericles.

“But,” interposed Socrates, ever in search of ideas, eagerly seizing upon the remark, “in the head, as all well know, dwells thought. So what is Pallas, springing from her father’s brain, save the living, embodied thought of Zeus? Oh, happy Phidias, blessed by the gods, to be thus called to represent what is highest—thought! I, poor bungler, strove all my life to attain the realm of pure thought, and would fain have guided it from Zeus’ brain to mine, like a leaping spark, yet could never grasp it. This Phidias here takes a bit of clay, a lump of earth, kneads it, and beneath his hands grows a statue that dazzles my eyes when I behold it, forces me to exclaim: ‘This is thought!—the thought of Zeus!’ Yet Phidias is right, when he names the thought placed before us, Pallas Athena, the glorious guardian divinity of Greece. We have proof of that, when we compare what philosophers say of thought, and poets of Pallas. Apart from her oft mentioned origin in the brain of Zeus, the poets declare that Pallas Athena is a virgin, also that she partakes of both masculine and feminine nature, quite unlike the goddess of Love, who has nothing to do with thought, but devotes herself exclusively to delightful emotions and the unconscious creative works of love. Who will deny that thought is virginal, and at once masculine and feminine? Thought is calm, like starlight, and remains sufficient for itself on its pure, clear height; only its counterpart, feeling, is full of ardor and enters into all the deeds of love. What is the horrible Gorgon head, which poets and sculptors place on the shield of the goddess Pallas Athena, save the terrors of conquered darkness, which victorious thought bears as a trophy? So there is no doubt that Phidias intended to represent thought, though we may still be permitted, if we choose, to call the head before us that of the goddess Pallas Athena.”

Grave Phidias smiled faintly, and Alcamenes, also smiling, interrupted Socrates by patting him on the shoulder, but praised his words.

Aspasia said:

“If Phidias, as you assert, Socrates, wished to embody in this statue the might of lucid thought, he scarcely ventured, while creating it, to ponder over this idea.”

“The same thing doubtless happens to other fathers,” replied Socrates.

“It certainly doesn’t happen so with you,” cried Alcamenes with a mischievous smile.

“No,” replied Socrates, “but why should you jeer at me for it? It is certainly better to think than not to think. The gods may bestow their best gifts on their favorites in dreams. We other mortals must try to help ourselves with our waking senses. No doubt, Aspasia, you have wondered why I so often questioned you about the idea and nature of love. Yet I could not help it. As Phidias has embodied the victorious light of thought in the statue of Pallas Athena, I would fain embody love in a statue of Eros. You surely will not assert that Eros is a contemptible deity; nay, some call him the first and oldest of all, and if love, as it appears, is, above all things, an aspiration, a strife, an endeavor, I can say that this god is really mine. To learn still more exact particulars about him, I have, as you know, moved much among men, inquiring—”

“That’s true,” interrupted Alcamenes smiling, “you have been seen far more frequently at the Agora and other public places, than in Phidias’ workrooms. This fellow really seems to be driven about by some special anxiety. First he chops at his marble blocks for half a day like a madman, then drops his tools and stares thoughtfully for an hour into vacancy. Then he starts up, dashes off, and doesn’t come back for half a day. You mean to carve an Eros? Tell us when? Do you know, my dear fellow, that Phidias calls you his most negligent pupil?”

“I know it,” replied Socrates; “but remember that you too often throw down the chisel and rush off, with or without a pretext, and like me, it is said, follow love, though certainly without inquiring much about its idea and nature.”

“You are right,” cried Alcamenes laughing, “I don’t inquire about its idea. But who tells you I follow love, when I leave here?”

“You don’t always go away yourself,” replied Socrates, “sometimes you merely send one of the men who carry mortar, or even mad Menon, if he happens to be lounging about here, with a little note to the beautiful Corinthian, Theodota.”

Again Alcamenes smiled, and Socrates continued:

“My friend Anaxagoras has called the passion of love a disease—I only want to know whether it is an ordinary sickness, to be treated with medicine, or a divine one, like the poet’s rapture or the ravings of the Delphic priestess. I know the god of Love must have wings and a boy’s figure; but how I am to represent him in other respects, grave or gay, looking upward or downward—I should really like to know, Aspasia, how you would undertake to represent him, if you were one of us pupils, here in Phidias’ studio?”

“I should not attempt to represent it,” replied Aspasia. “Love is an emotion, and a feeling is formless. Why seek to represent what has no form? Instead of love, present what awakens love, the charming, the beautiful. That has a shape, is tangible, visible, perceptible by all the senses. Nor need you ponder over it and question other people, but simply copy the most beautiful and graceful object you behold.”

Socrates spent several minutes in silent thought, and then replied:

“Nothing can be truer than what you have just said, Aspasia. I will let Eros go, and try to carve the Graces; for you probably intend to point them out to me again, as you have often done, as the real goddesses of loveliness and beauty. Aphrodite is beautiful, but she is not only the goddess of beauty, but of love—in her nature beauty is already mingled with love, while in the Graces, it is still apart, and so to speak, sufficient unto itself. So I will carve the Graces, and offer them as a gift to Phidias’ goddess on the Acropolis. But as I formerly pursued love, I must now follow beauty. Where shall I find the most beautiful and graceful person, to ‘simply copy,’ as Aspasia just said.”

“If you want to see the most graceful creature ever beheld, my dear Socrates,” said Alcamenes smiling, “I can give you a piece of advice. Try to see the beautiful Corinthian, whom you just mentioned, dance.”

“The Corinthian Theodota?” asked Socrates; “I have often heard the charm of her dancing praised. But who is to procure us the pleasure of seeing and admiring the Corinthian, except yourself, Alcamenes, her best panegyrist, friend, and companion?”

“Why not?” replied Alcamenes, with, merry arrogance. “Whoever desires to enjoy the sight of the most perfect grace a woman’s form is capable of displaying in the dance, should see Theodota, and I will ungrudgingly serve as guide to any one who wishes to have this pleasure.”

These words were not devoid of secret malice towards Aspasia. He intentionally praised the grace and charm of another woman, in the presence of Pericles’ friend and Pericles himself.

The beautiful dancer Theodota had been induced to come from Corinth to Athens by Alcamenes. The cause of this action was a singular one.

On perceiving that he must give up Aspasia, of whom he had thought himself secure, the young sculptor was seized with secret indignation against the Milesian. Yet his temperament was too light, gay, and careless to allow grief to gnaw at his heart on account of this loss; his sole endeavor was to seize some real happiness, some genuine love in place of that of which he had been robbed.

A very wealthy Corinthian had given him an order for a small marble statue. Alcamenes finished the work and sent it to Corinth. The owner was delighted with its rare perfection and grace, and wrote to Alcamenes that he might ask any payment he desired for the little masterpiece; whatever his request, it should be fulfilled.

Upon this the young sculptor, with his usual arrogance, wrote the Corinthian the following reply:

“It is well known that your wealthy and luxurious Corinth has long possessed the fairest ‘friends,’ to be found in Hellas. As you offer me any reward for my little statue, I beg you to send the most famous beauty in Corinth to remain a month in Athens at your expense, informing her that during this month she is to serve me exclusively as a model.”

The rich Corinthian laughed when he read these lines, and a few days after, the beautiful hetæra, the dancer Theodota, arrived in Athens.

Alcamenes was satisfied, and for a month enjoyed the society of the far-famed beauty at his wealthy patron’s expense.

When the month had passed and the fair Theodota’s engagement was fulfilled, she felt little inclination to return to Corinth: she had become fond of Athens and determined to stay there.

Alcamenes remained her constant friend, and praised her to all who would listen to him as the fairest woman in Hellas, never neglecting to add she was more charming than the famous Milesian, Aspasia, who had ensnared Pericles more by craft than beauty.

As Alcamenes thus praised Theodota to Socrates in Aspasia’s presence, the latter instantly perceived the intention of the offended youth, and knew he wished to annoy her by bestowing admiring words upon the beauty of another woman. With feminine quickness she instantly arranged her thoughts and formed her resolution.

Amid the lightning-like reflections that darted through her mind, was the wonder what impression Alcamenes’ words might have made on Pericles’ susceptible fancy. She considered that he might wish to see the fair Corinthian, and gratify this desire on some other occasion than when accompanied by his friend. She did not care to have Pericles meet Theodota unless she was present, but had little fear of such an interview in her company. She well knew what she could throw into the scales against all other women, and as for Alcamenes, decided that she could not punish his secret malice better, than by showing him how little she cared for this kind of annoyance.

To these motives for her resolution was added another—she herself was not without some curiosity to see the much-praised Corinthian beauty.

So, to the no small perplexity of the young sculptor, she eagerly accepted his offer to take any one to Theodota, who might desire to go, saying with careless gayety:

“If you are able to show us the way to the most beautiful and graceful person you know and let us see Theodota dance, it would be folly for Pericles, Socrates, I myself, or any one who hears you, not to instantly take you at your word and compel you to fulfil so tempting a promise without delay.”

“I suppose,” replied Alcamenes, quickly recovering his self-control, “that you have spoken in your own name, as well as for Pericles and Socrates.”

Pericles hesitated a moment, then said he would not oppose Aspasia’s wish. “We are going,” he added, “only in Socrates’ train and for his sake: but it can never reflect disgrace upon a man to follow a philosopher.”

“Our fiery Alcamenes,” said Socrates; “is a friend to all hasty and bold ideas. See how joyously he rubs his hands and seizes his Thessalian hat. I’ll wager that he’ll give us no farther peace, but is fully determined to conduct us immediately, just as we are, from Phidias’ house to the fair Theodota’s dwelling.”

“Even so,” cried Alcamenes. “Our master Phidias has slipped quietly away while we were talking. I advise you not to disturb him by leave-taking. Here is a passage close at hand, the door is open, the street empty, Theodota’s house not far away—let us go.”

They soon reached Theodota’s residence.

There was no occasion to fear annoying the beauty. Alcamenes went first to tell her his companions were coming, but returned almost immediately and invited them to follow him.

He conducted them to Theodota’s most private apartments, which were furnished with the most luxurious splendor. Soft pillows and purple cushions lay scattered everywhere, the floor was covered with thick carpets, delicious perfumes rose from delicately-wrought vases. A couch, with purple coverings, was supported by graceful cupids; jewels and garments were strewn around in picturesque confusion. Soft sandals, fillets, costly girdles, pots of rouge, boxes of ointment, circular mirrors of polished metal with richly-carved handles, exquisitely-shaped sunshades, and gaily-painted fans in the form of leaves, were intermingled with small works of art in bronze and marble—some gifts from Alcamenes—musical instruments inlaid with gold and ivory, fresh and withered garlands of every kind. At the first glance, all these things in their motley confusion made a bewildering impression on the senses, an impression strengthened by the perfumed air of the room, while the beautiful, richly-dressed hetæra rose from one of the soft cushions to greet her guests.

Theodota was beautiful. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing, her eyes were dark and fiery, and her features delicate. She was very much rouged, her eyebrows were artificially curved, and her lips much redder than the coloring of nature. She wore a robe embroidered with flowers, and was adorned with magnificent jewelry. This robe was fastened around her waist by a girdle of gold plates, whose clasp was richly ornamented, and from which hung no less tasteful and daintily-formed amulets of various kinds. Her neck, bosom, arms, and even her ankles were encircled with ornaments of serpent-shape, set with garnets or amber. Even her small, delicately-formed ears were adorned with dangling rings of exquisite workmanship. On her head she wore a metal coronet, set with pearls.

“I have already informed Theodota why you came,” said Alcamenes, turning to his companions.

“Alcamenes is rash to suddenly bring me such distinguished guests, without permitting me to make the slightest preparation to receive them worthily,” replied Theodota smiling.

“No preparation is necessary,” answered Alcamenes, “for you are always yourself, and our visit is not paid to your house, but to yourself, your charms, and your art. You see before you a wise, earnest man,” he continued, pointing to Socrates, “who is longing to see you and admire your dancing. You owe it even more to him than to my enthusiastic words, Theodota, that to-day the great Pericles and the far-famed Aspasia from Miletus cross your threshold, to convince themselves, by the evidence of their own eyes, of your much-praised skill.”

“What,” cried Theodota, “must I venture to display myself and the little I can do to the criticism of such judges?—a philosopher, a dignified statesman, and one of my own sex, who it seems, surpasses in brilliant accomplishments all other women?”

“Fear nothing, Theodota,” said Pericles, “Alcamenes has praised you to us, and Alcamenes knows how to discover what is most beautiful in everything.”

“Indeed,” added Socrates, with a subtle smile, glancing at Aspasia, “he always meets the most beautiful first.”

“Then he can take the responsibility!” said Theodota. “To act the prude before any one, or refuse to display my art, ought not to enter my mind. You wish to see me dance, like hundreds before you, and I obey. Consider yourselves my masters. What do you desire me to dance and represent? What goddess? What heroine? What myth or history?”

She addressed these questions principally to Pericles, but he replied:

“Ask the philosopher, for he came here with intentions, that certainly make it desirable for him to be permitted to fix the subject of your dance. Speak without hesitation, Socrates. What do you wish to have Theodota dance?”

“If you and Theodota are willing to leave the decision to me,” replied Socrates, after a short pause, “I know of nothing I should like better, than to request her to dance the three goddesses seeking to win the prize of beauty from Paris on Mt. Ida. What a task, to appear before us first as Aphrodite, then as Hera, and then as Pallas, and show how each with the same means, though subtly varied according to her character, strove to bewitch the shepherd and snatch the prize from his hand. Alcamenes has promised to let me learn here what grace is, so we will compel Theodota to be as charming and graceful as possible, yet in the most different ways imaginable.”

When Theodota had left the room to make certain changes in her dress and appearance, required by the task imposed upon her, Socrates said:

“We shall gain our object, for Theodota is not like other beauties, who only deal out what they mean to give by drops, but will honestly offer us what she has to proffer and pour out everything at once, as if from Amaltheia’s horn of plenty. The whole affair will be settled, and we can go home. Theodota, I can see, is yielding and gentle, but not intelligent. How Aspasia would dance if she chose! But which of us, except perhaps the Olympian Pericles, has ever seen her!”

Theodota now returned, clad in a robe that did not check the freest motions. With her came a boy bringing a lute, and a flute-player. The latter began to play, and the boy chimed in with a few chords. Theodota’s movements commenced, as it were, to blend with the sounds, and it was impossible to say at what precise moment she had begun to dance.

First, as she had been requested, she danced Aphrodite’s wooing for the apple, the prize of victory in the hands of Paris; then Hera’s, then that of Pallas. It was the same dance, thrice repeated, yet each time with totally different expression, in accordance with the characters of the goddesses. Theodota seemed thrice transformed. It was marvellous to see what changes she succeeded in bringing into the mimicry of the suit by speaking glances, buoyant gestures, significant movements. By turns the wooing appeared like graceful pleadings, sweet flattery, charming coquetry, bewildering fascination, promise of the fairest reward; then proud command, an imperious order rather than bold or sportive entreaty, then as a swift surprise, an attempt to wrest the prize of victory from the judge’s hand by gentle violence. Meantime, she succeeded in displaying every physical charm of attitude, movement, gesture. As each cleverly-devised expressive feature, exactly adapted to the character of the goddess, appeared in the triple performance, the spectators knew not whether to most admire the wealth of invention and variety of the whole, or the charm and perfection of the execution of each individual trait.

The fact should be mentioned that Theodota, during the whole dance, kept her eyes, glowing with a varying but always beseeching expression, almost constantly fixed upon Pericles. She made him the involuntary companion of her mimic suit, seemed to see in him Paris, and seek to win from his hands the prize of victory.

When the fair Corinthian had finished her dance, Pericles praised the grace and expression with which she had performed her task.

“The commission you gave the beautiful Theodota was by no means too difficult,” said Alcamenes, “she would have performed harder tasks in a way to rouse still greater astonishment. She can not only imitate the tenderness of the dove and the fierceness of the lion, but if necessary the undulation of water, the blaze of fire, and the light rustling of the trees.”

“I don’t doubt,” replied Pericles, “that she even understands, like the dancer I saw a short time ago, how to represent the letters of the alphabet by the motions of her wonderfully lithe and pliant body.”

“And now what have you to say about Theodota?” cried Alcamenes, touching Socrates on the shoulder. The latter had not once averted his eyes from the dancer during the entire performance, and now stood apparently absorbed in thought.

“I will learn to dance!” he answered gravely. “Hitherto I only knew of wisdom of the head; I now perceive that there is also a certain wisdom of the hands and feet.”

The listeners smiled, supposing he was speaking with his usual irony. But Socrates continued:

“Rhythm is proportion, and proportion is morality. A rhythm of the body so beautiful as that Theodota has shown us, must necessarily fill the whole nature of men with appreciation and love for beauty of proportion. When this has once been seen, everything rude, coarse, unpolished and base must be despised. I envy you your beautiful rhythm of body and soul, Theodota.”

“I enjoy this beautiful rhythm myself,” replied Theodota, smiling, “if I possess and others take delight in it, for it is my profession to amuse and please. But this art of pleasing and amusing seems to grow daily more difficult in Hellas. To the eyes of you art-pampered men, beautiful nature in woman is not enough. You require us to adorn ourselves with every charm of art, if we desire to attract or captivate you. Yet,” she added with a bewitching smile, “difficult as you make the profession of pleasing, I shall not cease to consider this calling the most delightful, and, if you allow it, mine.”

“You evidently don’t belong to that class of women, who seek to please only one man,” said Socrates.

“No, by the gods!” exclaimed Alcamenes. “She doesn’t belong to their ranks. She is the terror of all enthusiastic youths, who babble of love. Young Damotas complained yesterday, Theodota, that you drove him out of the house, because he became too melancholy.”

“Yes,” said Theodota, “I not only deride Hymen’s chains, but those of Eros also. I am no priestess of love, but a daughter of pleasure.”

“I admire you, Theodota!” said Socrates. “You seem to me to have chosen not only the fairest, but the most philanthropic of all professions. What self-sacrifice you must practise! You disdain to be the refreshing draught in one man’s pitcher, honorably placed in the shade of the domestic hearth, you prefer to mount into the air like a light cloud, float over many lands, and melt away in a rain of pleasure on the heads of men. You renounce household peace, the honor of wifehood, maternal happiness, the consolations of age, merely to gratify the strengthened desire for beauty and pleasure in the bosoms of the men of Hellas. And it is not only Hymen’s fetters you disdain—but with insolent courage, and so to speak Promethean defiance, dare the wrath of Eros, the most revengeful of all the gods. Yet you are not ignorant how short a time beauty and youth last. You stand there full of self-renunciation and self-sacrifice, like a blossoming tree in the month of March, and say: ‘Gather and shake off all the flowers of my fleeting Spring, and let any one bind a bouquet to last a few days. I have no wish to be a fruit-tree, I am a flowering-tree!’ What self-sacrifice, Theodota, what self-denial! May gods and men bless you for it, and the Graces bury your body under roses.”

Theodota thanked him with a smile. She had become too familiar with the eccentricities of different men, to be surprised by this strange mortal’s words.

“You exaggerate my merits.”

“I have not yet told all,” replied Socrates.

“That will be a reason for coming again,” answered Theodota.

The conversation between the two continued for some time, but soon grew more animated as the others took part in it, and Theodota found opportunities to direct many an eager glance, many a significant word to Pericles.

Pericles responded in the gentle, friendly manner peculiar to him, when addressing women.

Aspasia noticed the advances made, but without the passionate blindness of other women. She herself announced the message of free, joyous love, and publicly declared her hostility to slavery not only in marriage, but in love. Besides, she knew that a woman who betrays jealousy is lost, and was aware of the distance that separated her from Theodota. The latter carelessly spent her life in fulfilling her calling of nymph. Aspasia could never have entered upon such a career. She was far removed from the self-sacrifice Socrates had praised in Theodota. She did not renounce the blossoms of her Spring to gratify the love of pleasure of the common crowd; she had sought and found a more brilliant goal. She was beloved and loved—though only with the gay, bright love she preached. As for the means of bewitching and captivating—Theodota gave what she had recklessly, and soon had nothing more to bestow. Aspasia’s rich, deep nature was inexhaustible.

Yet the latter did not disdain to note the best way to wrest from her rival even a fleeting victory. A little plan quickly matured in her mind, and the visit to the Corinthian beauty was not without its consequences.

When the four companions left Theodota’s house, the sculptor asked:

“Well, friend Socrates, what have you learned for your group of Graces from the charming Theodota’s triple dance?”

“Many and marvellous things!” replied the latter. “I now know what the trio of Graces is intended to mean, each in herself and all three united. But this shall remain my secret for the present, for it is time to take the chisel in my hand and let the marble speak. You will see what I have learned from Theodota to-day, when my group of the Graces stands completed on the Acropolis. To-day accept my thanks for having given me your company on the way I took for the sake of the wise and beautiful woman, who commanded me to sacrifice to the Graces.”