CHAPTER IX.

ANTIGONE.

Those who passed the house of the wealthy Hipponicus in Athens, during the spring month Elaphebolion of the fourth year of the eighty-fourth Olympiad, heard the sound of flutes and the notes of men’s voices, practising in chorus, which echoed from within into the street.

Similar sounds were also heard from the mansions of Pyrilampes, Midias, Aristocles, and other rich Athenians. It almost seemed as if the blows of the chisel were drowned by the music of flutes, stringed-instruments, and voices. The festival of Dionysus had returned, and with it the season when public interest in Athens centered upon the dramatic performances, which took place in the theatre of Dionysus.

The plays, according to custom, were submitted by the authors to the second archon. The latter, aided by the judgment of experts, selected those to be performed; the actors who were to appear in them were engaged at the public expense, and the wealthy Athenian citizens, whose turn it was to defray the cost of the choruses, that is, to hire the men, clothe, feed, and have their voices trained, had been appointed to discharge their offices. Hipponicus had to procure a chorus for Sophocles’ Antigone, Pyrilampes for a tragedy by Euripides, Midias for one by Ion, Aristocles for a comedy by Cratinus, and others for other plays. An almost passionate rivalry had sprung up between these men, each of whom strove, with the ambition peculiar to the Athenian, to surpass the others in the careful, artistic, and magnificent outfit and training given to the chorus of which he had charge. A wreath, scarcely less desired than the garlands of Olympia and Pytho, allured the victor.

The melody of voices and the music of flutes rang loudly from Hipponicus’ mansion, as a man of very pliant figure and lithe, agile tread, came down the street. He seemed to be a stranger, for he had a mule-driver behind him, whose beast was laden with luggage. His eyes roved about as if in search of some particular house.

Suddenly the voices and music from Hipponicus’ dwelling echoed in his ear. He listened an instant, then smiled as if well satisfied, and said to the slave:

“We need not ask any one. This, and no other, is Hipponicus’ house.”

He hastily approached and was about to knock at the door, when a man coming up the street from the opposite direction, met the stranger.

The latter seemed very pleasantly surprised at the sight of the new-comer, and as he smilingly approached, threw his head a little back, laid his left hand on his breast, raised his right, and in slow, sustained tone, as if his feet were in the cothurni, uttered the following words:

“If my mid wanders not In dark forebodings, and the light Of reason doth not fail me—”

“It is a favorable omen from the gods, to meet on Hipponicus’ threshold my old friend, the tragic poet Sophocles.”

So saying, he held out his hand to the poet, who cordially grasped it.

“Welcome, admirable Polus!” he cried. “Welcome to Athens! Have you been bewitching men in all the cities of Hellas with the music of your voice, as you strode in the high-heeled cothurnus, reaped fresh renown, and ringing reward?”

“Even so!” replied Polus. “I have been honored here and there, wherever I was needed at the festivals in the cities of Hellas. But there was ever an echo in my soul:

“‘O! could I climb the woody steep That hangs incumbent o’er the deep, From Sunium’s cliff by waves forever beat! Thence should my eye the lovely prospect greet, And smile on sacred Athens rising at my feet.’ [2]

“And when the message from your archon reached me at Halicarnassus, summoning me back to Athens and promising any payment I might ask, and I heard that at your request the principal part in your new tragedy had been assigned to me, I flew across the Archipelago as if on wings, for nowhere do I more gladly buckle on the cothurnus than at Athens, and there is no poet I would rather serve with my art than my glorious friend Sophocles.”

Again the poet cordially pressed the actor’s hand.

“And you are always the most wished for by me!” he answered.

“In Hipponicus’ house,” continued Sophocles, “you will meet the members of the chorus, their leader, and perhaps also your two fellow-actors, Demetrius and Callippides. Hipponicus invited you to come here at this hour, that we may all assemble to distribute the parts and make every preparation necessary to secure our tragedy the victory. Let us go in; Hipponicus is expecting you impatiently.”

The two men knocked at the door and were admitted. Hipponicus received Polus with great delight, and instantly invited him to be his guest during the time he might remain in Athens.

“Do you wish to burden yourself with this trouble, in addition to all your other cares?” replied Polus.

“I should not consider the new burden, even if it were one, worth mentioning,” replied Hipponicus. “But you were not wrong in saying that I have had no little care and trouble, since the duty of procuring the chorus of Antigone was assigned to me by the archon. The necessary singers and musicians were to be obtained, and I now have them all in the house. These people must be lodged and boarded at my expense, and what boarding! Fed with milk, virgin honey, and all kinds of sweets, that their throats may not get rough. Caged nightingales couldn’t be more carefully cherished, than I feed and care for these fellows. Then there are costly garments and jewels to be ordered for each member of the chorus, and you know what Athenians require. If they don’t see gilded garlands and every kind of Dionysian splendor, victory is not to be expected. I don’t know whether I can get off this time at a cost of less than five thousand drachmæ. But I would spend twice the amount, if necessary, to surpass that peacock-raiser, Pyrilampes, who is trying to win the prize with a tragedy of the woman-hater, Euripides. Sophocles already knows, but you do not, my friend, what this man has done to wrest the victory from my hands. First he tried to bribe the archon, then endeavored to alienate the best members of my chorus, and at last even secretly offered the leader money to conduct the practising carelessly. All this did not suffice. When my ornaments and costumes for the chorus, whose magnificence cannot be exceeded, were finished and lying in the maker’s shop, Pyrilampes passed by and wanted to force the man to sell them to him. When refused, he ordered his slaves to beat him, and threatened to burn down his house at night with all it contained. That’s the way this scoundrel, Pyrilampes, behaves.”

“Be comforted, be comforted, thou dear one!”

Polus began with deep pathos:

“Zeus is still in Heaven, Leave with him thy bitter grudge, Hate not too much, neither forget The objects of thy wrath.”

“For the rest,” he continued in a less lofty tone, “I know this man and his wiles myself, Hipponicus. You think you can teach me something about him, but I can tell you what you don’t know, the means he employed to prevent me from taking part in Sophocles’ tragedy. He promised to add to the payment of the government a large sum from his own purse, if I would appear in the tragedy of Euripides. But I—I stood like Philoctetes, when the cunning Ulysses sought to convey him and his victorious bow away to Ilium.

“Never, never, (Be sure of that) though thunder-bearing Jove Should with his lightnings blast me, would I go.”

“I thank the gods, Polus,” said Hipponicus, “that a man like you stands by us faithfully; for no matter how admirable a chorus may be, if the actors appointed by the government are good for nothing, the Athenians hiss and whistle.”

“And I thank the gods,” said Polus, “that it is you who fit out Sophocles’ chorus, for no matter how admirable the actors may be, if the chorus is not magnificent, the Athenians pound with both hands and feet.”

Two new-comers, the actors Demetrius and Callippides, now entered. They were kindly received by Hipponicus and exchanged greetings with Polus, with whom they had often been on the stage, especially in the tragedies of Sophocles.

“I now see all who are to work together, to win the victory for ‘Antigone,’ assembled in my house,” observed Hipponicus.

“The practising of the chorus,” said Sophocles, turning to the actors, “commenced long ago; we have been waiting for you impatiently. Now you are here, we will not delay in making the distribution of the parts. First of all, there is Antigone herself: she falls to the player of the leading character.” So saying he addressed Polus, the “protagonist.” The latter, like his companions, silently assented as if this arrangement was a matter of course.

But Sophocles interrupted himself, by asking Polus:

“Have you ever heard of the beautiful Milesian, Aspasia?”

The latter answered in the affirmative, and he continued:

“If we obeyed her wishes, my dear Polus, I should be obliged to request the archon to assign a woman for the character of Antigone. I had an excited argument with her, in which she condemned the custom of having women’s characters assumed by men, and said that women should be allowed to go on the stage. I vainly spoke of the masks which cover the face, and the enormous size of the theatre.”

Polus laughed scornfully. “What,” he cried indignantly, “when I entered as Electra and began:

‘O sacred light! and O, thou ambient air!’

did any one ever miss the woman in me, my bearing, or the voice that issued from the mournful mask?”

“No one! No one!” all exclaimed.

“And when I sorrowfully embraced the urn containing the supposed ashes of my brother,” continued the excited Polus.

“O, ye dear remains Of my Orestes, the most loved of men—”

“The whole audience was moved, stirred, melted with sorrow!” cried Sophocles, and the others assented.

“Never was any voice heard on the stage,” continued Sophocles, “that sounded more touching, more womanly than yours.”

“I hope you don’t mean to say, that my voice has a feminine character,” replied Polus? “I think you must still remember my Ajax.”

“Wretch that I was, to let The cursed Atridæ ’scape and shed the blood Of harmless cattle!”

Polus’ voice seemed utterly changed in the delivery of these words. “That is the deepest, most powerful of all heroes’ voices!” cried the listeners enthusiastically.

“Well? And my Philoctetes?” continued Polus, “my cry of anguish, when the old serpent venom glowed within me—my oh! oh! oh! oh! it comes—it comes—”

Again exclamations arose: “What a voice of sorrow! What a natural expression of grief, feebleness, faintness!”

“Well!” cried Polus; “but when at the end of the tragedy I began:

“I will but pay my salutation here, And instantly depart, Now ye fresh fountains! each Lycœan spring I leave you now.”

“It was a glorious moment,” assented Hipponicus; “but the finest thing I have ever seen or heard you do, was when, as Ajax, you stood on the stage repeating that wonderful soliloquy—”

“You mean,” said Polus, “when in the lonely ravine, just before the suicide, I thrust the sword point uppermost into the earth—

“There stands my sword, and fixed as it may best Perform its office—”

“That is it!” cried Hipponicus, “and when you called Zeus, and then the Furies, and then Helios—”

“Oh, Helios,” interrupted Polus.

“And then, O Sun! who drivest the flaming car Along the vaulted sky; when thou shalt see My native soil, O! stop thy golden reins. Tell the sad story to my hapless sire—”

“And when last of all,” continued Hipponicus, enthusiastically, “you remember your native soil, the paternal hearth, Salamis, the famous city of Athens, and your kindred, the Athenian nation—the hearts of twenty thousand Athenians quivered with a fiery glow! Each breast thrilled with patriotic emotion, and each individual felt that he shared the dying hero’s farewell. Hitherto they had been secretly touched and moved—now they burst into a storm of applause, bestowed on you, Sophocles, and the heroes of Salamis.”

“You are right, Hipponicus, in praising Polus,” said Sophocles, “but do not forget to recognize the merits of Demetrius and Callippides. They too are sought and honored in the Hellenic cities; they too have helped many of my tragedies to victory. To you, Demetrius,” he continued, “I will confide the part of King Creon, to Callippides, Ismene. There are a few minor personages, who, it is true, only appear on the stage a few minutes, yet I should not like to entrust them to the care of the first bungler procured.”

“Give them to us!” cried the actors, “we are ready to undertake as many characters as may be wanted, if they don’t appear on the stage at the same time. Anything can be played under the masks.”

“Then there is the lover Hæmon,” said Sophocles; “he does not appear until after Antigone has been led to death.”

“Then give me Hæmon!” cried Polus.

“Callippides must undertake the blind prophet Teresias,” continued Sophocles. “Then there is a guard and a messenger. These two have long tales to relate, and stories must always be delivered as well as possible on the stage. Nothing is more disagreeable than to have them stammered out by a person, who scarcely understands how to speak. I have determined to play these two minor characters myself. I often took part in my former pieces in this way.”

The actors applauded the poet, as if honored by his companionship. Hipponicus joined them.

“Finally there is Eurydice, Creon’s wife,” said Sophocles; “she appears and utters a few words at the end of the tragedy.”

“I’ll take Eurydice!” cried Polus.

“She is already assigned,” answered Sophocles. “A person who has never appeared on the stage and desires to remain unknown, wishes to play Eurydice.”

The poet’s mysterious manner aroused no small degree of curiosity in the minds of Hipponicus and the actors, but he refused to give any further information.

Sophocles then handed to the actors copies of the tragedy, made suggestions concerning the conception and representation of their parts, and arranged the costumes in which they were to appear.

Hipponicus introduced the fifteen members of the chorus, with their leader, to the new-comers, and invited them to attend the rehearsal which was to take place that day.

Accompanied by the music of the flutes, the chorus, with solemn melodies and the measured dancing-step specially associated with the god—because the first commencement of dramatic plays originated with the expressive dance around his altar—began to repeat the numerous and beautiful hymns of “Antigone.” While so doing they moved now to the right, now to the left, stood still, separated, then mingled again. The didascale, or leader and teacher of the chorus, enthusiastically marked time with hands and feet, and often when zeal overpowered him, with his whole body. Sophocles himself often assisted. It had been his task to compose the melodies for the choral songs, the dance-like motions of the chorus. Sometimes he pushed the flute-player aside, seized a stringed-instrument, and accompanied the chorus, to be better able to guide the singing as well as the majestic movements.

Euripides was in Pyrilampes’ house, Ion in Midias’ and other authors in other dwellings, all eager to win the Dionysian prize of victory, and directing, urging, commanding as Sophocles did at Hipponicus’ home.

These dwellings were so many hearth-stones, from which a tumult of anticipation and eager partisanship spread over the whole city. The usual interest felt by the Athenian populace on such occasions had been increased this time to a still higher degree, since the unprecedented exertions made by Hipponicus and Pyrilampes to secure the triumph, and the hostilities practised by the two rivals towards each other, which daily threatened to break out in deeds of violence, constantly occupied the nimble Athenian tongues. Public affairs, the news from the colonies, business at the Piræeus, all were set aside, and if an Athenian fleet had put out to sea against an enemy, it would have been less discussed than the contest between Hipponicus and Pyrilampes.

Two men, however, met on the Agora, who talked confidentially of very different matters. These were Pericles and Anaxagoras.

“You are thoughtful,” said the philosopher; “have you a new idea in your mind, or does some beautiful woman occupy your fancy?”

“Perhaps both,” replied Pericles; “how delightful it would be if we could dispense with one, namely woman, and devote ourselves wholly to public affairs, or knowledge, or some great, serious cause.”

“We can dispense with women—we can dispense with everything!” said Anaxagoras impressively, plunging into a dissertation on the question of how much better it would be to renounce everything beforehand, since there is nothing we can certainly and inalienably possess.

Pericles listened quietly, but not with the expression of a man convinced.

“And if,” said Anaxagoras in conclusion, “you cannot do without a woman, your wife, Telesippe, sensibly considered, is as good as any other. She gives you children. What more do you want?”

“You know her,” replied Pericles. “You know she is superstitious, narrow-minded, and no friend to the Muses. Perhaps this might be endured, if she only possessed as much consideration as is shown her. But she is always full of contradiction and prejudice, ever ready to misconstrue my most well-meant intentions. When, in former days, I often gave her some dainty undergarment or pretty trifle for her adornment to please my eye in the house, she took offence and asked: ‘Am I no longer beautiful enough for you, that you consider such things necessary? If I don’t please you as I am, I don’t wish to please you adorned!’ Can any one talk more absurdly? Does not even the youngest, fairest woman gladly adorn herself for the man she loves, and is it not the natural impulse for lover or husband, to adorn the woman of his choice? You know too, that it is one of my peculiarities, to carry the love of cleanliness to a passion. How many bitter words have been exchanged between Telesippe and myself on account of the pen for sucking-pigs and poultry, which according to ancient custom, is close beside the hearth, and is a horror to me, but greatly endeared to her. She does not understand the feeling of loathing. Doesn’t she offer me her lips, sullied with the smut or saliva she has just kissed from her children’s faces? To dabble and soil her fingers and lips unnecessarily, if the children are ill, seems to her a natural proof of maternal love. But ought not the mother to be also a wife? Should not a woman of proper feeling understand how to unite and equalize both duties? What avails maternal tenderness, the instinct she shares with every maternal ape, if it remains shut up in the dark depths of nature, and is not coupled with a correct judgment of what is really advantageous to the offspring? Have you not often asked: ‘What is the use of instinct without judgment, without the moral consecration that raises it from animal to human life?’”

“What you say on this last head is both true and beautiful,” replied Anaxagoras. “But the ornamented saffron robe and such things, which Telesippe will or will not wear, are, considered in the light of reason, folly and wantonness. Such delight in beauty is harmful. A woman is a woman, I tell you. In the name of wisdom, cease this extravagant admiration of the beautiful Milesian, Aspasia.”

“Is it my fault,” asked Pericles smiling, “if the gods have endowed beauty with greater power on earth than wisdom?”

On the day of this conversation something occurred, which, had Pericles chanced to see it, would have made him perplexed and thoughtful, perhaps shaken his faith in Aspasia, dimmed the bright glow of his enthusiasm for her, as a brand on the hearth is extinguished, with sudden smoke and odor, by pouring water upon it.

Messengers had secretly gone to and fro repeatedly between Sophocles and Aspasia. Nay, once the poet himself had been seen to glide stealthily at dusk into the house of Pericles’ fair friend.

But this time it chanced that Aspasia, on returning home, was accompanied by a man, whom the watchful neighbors, in the gloom, mistook for Pericles.

But it was Sophocles. On reaching the door, both stood still a moment. Perhaps they were considering whether the poet might cross the threshold, or must turn back? At last the latter, in his gentle manner, asked the beauty:

“Which is most sacred: friendship or love?”

“Probably, in each individual case, whichever is the older”—said Aspasia, smiling and giving the mysterious question an equally mysterious answer.

Sophocles then took his leave, and Aspasia entered the house.

The morning after this little incident, Lampon came down from the Acropolis, where he had been holding a long, whispered conversation with Diopeithes, and went to see Elpinice.

Scarcely was the priestly office, for which she had summoned the prophet, completed, when with a mysterious face she turned the conversation upon Pericles and Aspasia.

These two often exchanged the news gleaned in extensive circles.

“The gods seem to wish to punish the haughty Pericles,” began Lampon.

“What has happened?” asked Elpinice eagerly.

“It is said, that another steals in the dusk of evening to the Olympian’s fair friend, Aspasia,” replied the other.

“Why not?” cried Elpinice. “She is a hetæra. But who is this other?”

“Pericles’ best friend, the ‘beloved of the gods,’ as he likes to be called, the smiling tragic poet from the province of Colonus.”

“A woman-hunter,” cried Elpinice, “a woman-hunter and love-maker like Pericles himself. But the news you bring, friend Lampon, is almost old. It’s a long time since the poet was first seen with Pericles and Aspasia. It is well-known, that he is no less in love with the adventuress than his friend. It was to be expected that he would go to her. But who has seen him? Who can positively prove it?”

“I saw him myself,” replied Lampon, “and even heard a snatch of the conversation between the two at the door of the house. If a second witness is necessary, summon Diopeithes.”

“That is well!” cried Elpinice with heart-felt delight. “This news, conveyed to Pericles, will give the death-blow to his bond with the Milesian, which is the centre and shield of all the impiety of Athens, as this Ionian woman is the great corrupter. She must be supplanted, expelled, ruined. But who will undertake the office of messenger to Pericles?”

“Diopeithes thought Theodota would be the best person. For some time this woman, apparently not wholly without success, has cast her nets around Aspasia’s lover. If it is she, who gives him proof of the Milesian’s faithlessness, she can most surely supplant her, by taking her place.”

“Poor Telesippe!” cried Elpinice. “It would be best that you should have no rival; but for the present it is gaining much, nay everything, to get rid of the Milesian.”

“Indeed it is!” replied Lampon. “A beautiful, crafty woman can only be torn from the heart of a man like Pericles, by a beautiful, crafty woman. Theodota is far less dangerous than Aspasia. On the contrary, this venal Corinthian will be wax in our hands. She must lure Pericles to her house on the pretext of having something important to tell him about the faithless Aspasia. Then the affair will take care of itself.”

“Success is certain!” cried Elpinice. “Pericles has already cast his eye upon her. I know it. He has already been to her house once, though in the company of the Milesian, who was bold enough to take him there.”

“At Alcamenes’ instigation!” said Lampon. “He has been preparing the way for us. He is one of those, who hate the Milesian, and would reap advantage from seeing her rejected, humiliated, cast off by Pericles. He seeks to revenge himself upon the woman who betrayed him. He formed the plan of supplanting the Milesian in the statesman’s favor through Theodota’s influence, long before us, but lacked the right weapons to use against Aspasia. We will supply him with them. But who shall tell Alcamenes, that he may arrange matters with the Corinthian?”

Elpinice reflected a moment, then replied: “Leave that to me. I know what way the message must take, to reach the Corinthian’s ears in the shape we desire.”

From this hour Aspasia had to prepare for serious warfare, not only against Telesippe, but Theodota.

Elpinice applied to her friend Polygnotus; the latter was on intimate terms with Agoracritus, Aspasia’s bitter enemy, who delivered the message from Lampon and Cimon’s sister, to his companions in Phidias’ workshop. These hot-blooded youths found the opportunity for vengeance on the proud beauty quite too tempting, and he quickly came to an understanding with his impetuous friends.

In this zig-zag line moved the thunder-bolt hurled against the bond uniting the best man and the fairest woman in Hellas, a thunder-bolt first fabricated in the forge of the angry old god Erechtheus on the Acropolis.

The festival of Dionysus was celebrated in a joyous, noisy fashion. The last days were dedicated to the contests of the tragic muse.

While the gay comedy of Cratinus was being performed on the stage, amid the frantic mirth of the spectators, a cloud bringing a light shower of rain floated from Hymettus over the theatre of Dionysus, and the high-priest, who sat in his magnificently-carved marble arm-chair in full view of the audience, was wet on the nose by a falling drop, just as the saucy Cratinus, amid the laughter of the Athenians, discharged a feathered shaft of his Attic wit at this very high-priest, Agasthenes.

“It is beginning to rain,” said the high-priest to his neighbor Pericles, “I think we will stop the play.”

“The shower is passing,” replied his companion smiling.

But another arrow whirred, striking the speaker himself. All the Athenians laughed and looked at Pericles, who smiled with them.

A third arrow came—an allusion to the new Hera and the new Zeus, Omphale and Heracles.

Again all the Athenians looked at Pericles. But the latter no longer smiled, a cloud flitted over the Olympian’s brow. The shaft had struck Aspasia.

Other plays followed, and thus the greater part of the first day was spent by the Athenians. Many went away and returned again, others remained till the end of the performances. The rich had wine, fruit and cake brought to them by their slaves.

The next day everything began afresh. Again thirty thousand Athenians sat on the stone benches of the theatre of Dionysus, garlanded dignitaries on beautifully-adorned marble chairs in the first rows, the rich men on purple cushions brought with them, attended by their slaves, the poor with figs and onions in a knapsack to last all day. Yet the latter felt themselves as truly citizens of Athens, summoned to behold the most beautiful things, as the others, and talked of Sophocles, Ion, and Euripides, or cast a searching glance at the tiny clouds in the sky, to see if any of them threatened to dim or interrupt the festivities of the day.

Again the first thousands of the thronging crowd were lost like pygmies in the vast amphitheatre. But at last the whole theatre was packed from the topmost to the lowest seats, a huge, seething, roaring human crater. It was almost horrible, enough to make the head swim, to look down from the upper row on this surging sea of human beings.

Amid the confused roar that arose, a threatening tumult became more and more audible. The fiery strife between Hipponicus and Pyrilampes was to be decided that day. The partisans of the two men seemed ready to rush at each other. If either appeared amid the spectators, a loud outcry burst from friends and foes, shouts of applause and jeering hisses.

The agonothetæ and mastigophori were constantly compelled, in the discharge of their duty, to rush from their stations in the orchestra up the flights of steps that obliquely intersected the rows of seats, to settle some quarrel, or silence some unruly spectator.

The calmest of the excited throng was Socrates, who had come less to see the plays than the spectators, and pursue his thoughts about their conduct.

“There sit thirty thousand Athenians with eager faces,” he said to himself, “all intent upon listening to a fictitious tale, to amuse themselves with false tears and feigned sorrow. They are like children, who listen open-mouthed to idle stories, only the latter do not know they are pure inventions, while the former do. Whence comes this strange love of mankind for mimicked, invented things?”

The beautiful Theodota, most charmingly attired, was among the spectators. Her gaze was constantly fixed on the chair occupied by Pericles, who did not refuse to sometimes return the ardent gaze of her dark eyes.

At last the herald’s clear voice, commanding silence, rose above the roar of the multitude. A libation was poured on Dionysus’ altar. Then the herald’s voice was again heard:

“Let the chorus of Ion come forward!”

Ion’s tragedy was heard, applauded, and criticised with innate delicacy of perception by the Athenian populace. A tragedy by Philocles followed. The pronunciation of the protagonist of the piece did not perfectly satisfy the sensitive Attic ear. A storm of wrath fell upon him in the shape of laughter, groans, shrill whistles and stamping feet. A comedy came next. The scoffer was now master of the world, elevated even over Zeus and all the Olympic gods. The most unbridled wit found vent in the most perfect rhymes.

Then the chorus of Euripides came forward.

This author’s work stirred all hearts. The women were touched by what appealed to the soul, the men by the brilliant thoughts with which the whole poetic drama was interwoven, as a purple fabric is wrought with golden threads. The splendid appearance of the chorus was greeted with exclamations of astonishment and admiration. Rarely had anything of the sort been seen. Loud applause burst forth at the close of the piece. Pyrilampes, with his friends and followers, revelled in the anticipation of certain triumph.

In the short time which elapsed between the representation of this tragedy and the beginning of the next, a slave suddenly approached Pericles’ chair and handed him a folded sheet of papyrus. Pericles unfolded it and read the words:

“Sophocles glides in the dusk of evening to Aspasia’s house.”

Pericles was perplexed. Who had written these lines? They came from Theodota.

When he looked for the bearer of the curt, strange tidings, the messenger had vanished.

The clear voice of the herald roused the statesman from earnest thought.

“Let the chorus of Sophocles come forward.”

And now a tragedy of love was performed before Hellenic eyes and ears, a tragedy of love in the three forms in which it successively visits the human heart, fraternal, conjugal, parental. Antigone dies for the sake of her beloved brother, Hæmon for his bride, Eurydice for her son.

Long, dark mourning robes floated around the tall figures of the daughters of Œdipus. The masks showed noble, earnest, girlish faces, the voices sounded soft and touching. Antigone swears to bury her beloved brother, whom King Creon has cast forth to be the prey of dogs and birds; she will perform this sacred duty in defiance of human law. The chorus of aged Thebans robed in purple garments, whose splendor suited the festival of Dionysus, and with golden circlets on their brows, performed their majestic evolutions.

The passionate, stormy rhythm.

“By Dirce’s sweetly flowing stream Ne’er did the golden eye of day—”

burst forth. King Creon, clad in a gold-broidered purple robe, his brow adorned with a diadem, appeared on the stage, leaning on a sceptre, surmounted by an eagle. His form, elevated by the cothurnus, towered far above the ordinary stature of mankind, the mask lent him royal dignity; he stood there a mighty prince, distinctly visible to the most distant spectator in the vast building. He asserted the ruler’s power against the noble girlish figure—but she recognized only the one supreme duty written in her heart: love—and made the king, who based his cruelty to her brother on the righteous hatred felt by the citizens of Thebes towards the dead man, the immortal answer:

“My love shall go with thine, but not my hate!”

Then she went forth to do what she had vowed, and sacrifice the right of the living to the right of the dead. In a solemn majestic chant, the chorus reflected upon the presumptuous minds and audacious resolves of men, and mourned the sorrows of the Labdacidæ. Hæmon, Creon’s only son, came and pleaded for the life of Antigone, his bride—but the king held to his decree, there were brides enough, “other soil might be tilled;” the despairing lover departed, uttering words of dark significance—then the chorus began the strophe composed on the glowing day, when Pericles and Aspasia lingered in the poet’s rose-arbors on the banks of the Cephissus.

“Mighty power, all powers above! Great, unconquerable love!”

Then, alternating with the chorus, began the touching death-lament of the daughter of Œdipus, condemned to descend alive into the rocky tomb—the long threnody was deeply pathetic, and every eye in the wide circle of listening Athenians grew dim with lofty emotion at this climax of sorrowful fate—reminded, by the character, of Danæ, who like Antigone was

“Condemned to change heaven’s cheerful light, For scenes of horror and of night. Within a brazen tower long time immured.”

Teresias, the infallible prophet, entered and with solemn warning addressed himself to the implacable king; at last the Olympians changed his obstinate temper,—suddenly overwhelmed by a horrible foreboding he yielded—the chorus were already exulting, in a joyful strophe addressed to Dionysus, the god of joy—the exultant strains sounded strangely after the mournful death-chant—but it died away and again gave place to the dirge, for Antigone had killed herself in the tomb and Hæmon, slain by his own hand, had gone down with her, embracing her dead body, to the dark realms of Hades.

Eurydice, the wife of the sorrowing Creon, now appeared, heard from the lips of the messenger tidings of the united deaths in the rock-tomb of Œdipus’ daughter, learned that her son was dead. The news broke the mother’s heart.

The announcement of death from the messenger’s mouth produced a strange effect on the minds of all, but still more marvellous was the impression made by the few words the queen uttered.

The multitude listened breathlessly to the close of the sublime tragedy, which ended, as if with a magnificent final accord, in a strophe praising moderation.

Great and deep was the impression produced on the minds of the listening Hellenes by this tragedy of Sophocles, which intertwined three bonds of love and three deaths. The grave, sombre sternness of tragic art had never before been so beautifully mitigated—never had the sublime been so human, the human so sublime.

Never in any tragic work had such a wealth of magnificent melodies been poured forth upon the listeners; never had the Attic stage witnessed a representation so harmoniously finished down to the minutest detail, and never had so well-trained and splendid a chorus appeared before the assembled Athenians.

When Hipponicus’ chorus had disappeared, and the dramatic contest of the year was ended, the whole audience with loud shouts declared so impetuously in his favor, that the umpires, without consultation, at once announced to the Athenians, who were eagerly awaiting the verdict, that the author of Antigone, and Hipponicus, were victors in the department of tragedy. Sophocles and Hipponicus, according to custom, appeared on the stage to receive a crown of victory from the hands of the umpires before the eyes of the spectators.

It is impossible to describe the joy and pride of Hipponicus, equally impossible to picture the fierce wrath of Pyrilampes and his adherents.

As Pericles left the theatre amid the throng, he suddenly saw Theodota beside him. Her beautiful face was turned towards him a moment with a most expressive glance, a most significant movement of the lips. Unseen, she herself slipped a note into his hand.

Pericles read this also. Its contents ran as follows:

“If you desire news of Sophocles and Aspasia, come to Theodota. A slave will await you under the columns of the Tholus and guide you by a private way through a back door into my house.”

Before Pericles could consider whether to accept this invitation, he found himself in the midst of a group of Sophocles’ friends, who were thronging around the poet to congratulate him.

When the latter perceived Pericles, he released himself and hurried towards him.

The Olympian, though thoughtful and out of humor, also congratulated the victor.

“I thank you,” said Sophocles, “but do not speak to me as a friend, but as a critic.”

With difficulty repressing the subject uppermost in his thoughts, Pericles replied:

“Do you know what part of your tragedy has given me cause for reflection? Like many others, I was almost surprised to see the tie of plighted love accorded the same power, the same rights, the same mortal earnestness in the tragedy as the bonds of blood, ever held sacred by the Hellenes from the earliest times. This innovation completely occupied my mind, and I cannot yet determine whether you have done right.”

Digressing from the subject, Pericles continued:

“Was it not you, who, under the mask of the messenger, so solemnly related the touching story of Hæmon’s death? I thought I recognized your voice? But who spoke Eurydice’s words? What actor was concealed under the mask of the queen? I know not what mysterious, secret charm hovered around the scene in which you, as messenger, and that queen, confronted each other. I have never heard any words uttered on the stage as the queen spoke them. What man, save Polus, could feign the wondrous magic of that voice?”

“Not even Polus!” replied Sophocles smiling. “You have spoken of innovations in my tragedy; know that in the representation to-day an innovation took place, of which until now no human being was aware except myself and Hipponicus. For the first time since Thespis put her car in motion, a real woman appeared to-day upon our stage under the mask. You shall be the third sharer of this secret, and let it remain buried among us three for all eternity.”

“And who was the woman, who dared, though unknown, to tread the stage and defy ancient usage and the good old customs?”

“You shall see her,” replied Sophocles, who disappeared and returned with a female figure, wrapped and disguised beyond recognition.

When Sophocles, accompanied by this figure, had led Pericles a short distance aside till they were perfectly safe from the curious gaze of the crowd, he said:

“Is unveiling necessary for you to recognize the woman, who is not only the most beautiful, but the most daring of her sex?”

Pericles was perplexed: “It is necessary,” he replied in a cold, grave tone. With a resolute movement of her hand the female figure drew the veil aside, and Pericles stood face to face with Aspasia.

He remained silent. The contents of Theodota’s lines now seemed confirmed. Aspasia, as was evident, had secretly conspired with the poet, carried out the bold plan in connection with him. To be sure, he knew the loyal friendship of the noble Sophocles; but Aspasia had given a fresh proof that her mind, in gay freedom, mocked at all fetters.

All that Pericles was thinking, Aspasia read clearly written on his brow, in his eyes, as he stood gazing mutely at her.

Answering the eloquent silence with eloquent words, she began:

“Frown not, Pericles, and above all do not be angry with your friend Sophocles. I compelled him to do what he did—”

“But don’t be angry with Aspasia either,” interrupted the poet, turning to Pericles, “and above all, know that it was she who made me remember that friendship is more sacred than love, when it is older.”

“It is my mission to battle against custom!” continued Aspasia, “and why should you be angry with me because I take no less interest in the poet’s images, than in the marble statues in Phidias’ work-rooms? I came to Hellas to find beauty and freedom. Had I sought slavery, I should have remained at the Persian court and spent my life under the sleepy eyes of the great king. What governs you at this moment, my friend, is a delusion, a prejudice, a horrible feeling, unworthy of a Hellene. Away with it, Pericles!”

At this moment, Hipponicus approached and invited Pericles and Aspasia to the banquet, with which he intended on the following day to celebrate the victory of himself and Sophocles.

Twilight was already approaching, when the statesman parted from Hipponicus, Sophocles, and Aspasia, and walked thoughtfully homeward.

He was thinking of Aspasia, reflecting upon what she had just said to him. He admitted that she was perfectly right. Love should be no chain, no slave’s yoke to Aspasia.

But neither should it fetter him. “You can go to see Theodota!” he said to himself; “perhaps it is not well to be the slave of one woman too long.” The demands of the free, proud Aspasia, now blended harmoniously in his mind with the warning words of Anaxagoras. He remembered the Corinthian’s note, and the slave who was awaiting him under the columns of the Tholus. True, the tidings Theodota had given him, had meantime been better explained by Sophocles. But might she not have something to say?

He came to the columns of the Tholus. The slave approached and led him through a deserted lane to the enclosure of a garden, where he prepared to open a little gate. Pericles was standing on Theodota’s threshold. He could enter, no one saw him. The nightingales were singing in the bushes.

Suddenly he paused, reflected, and found that he utterly lacked inclination for a conversation with Theodota. He was surprised at himself, but told the slave he must defer entering the little gate until another opportunity. The messenger gazed at him in bewilderment, as he slowly withdrew.

The moon had risen. The sea glittered in her light, and the peaks of the mountains of Attica shimmered with a silvery lustre. The air was soft and refreshing. Suddenly, borne on the evening breeze, fragments of the choral song:

“Mighty power, all powers above! Great unconquerable Love!”

fell on the ear of Pericles. Youths, returning from the theatre in the soft spring night, were joyously singing portions of the song which had aroused their enthusiasm.

Anxiety of a different kind blended with Pericles’ mental excitement and thoughts of Aspasia. He almost envied Hipponicus and Sophocles the laurels of the day. It seemed as if he ought to gird on a sword, collect a fleet or army, and rush to brilliant victories. The long peace began to appear destitute of lustre. A sense of oppression stole over him, from which he only succeeded in escaping by the sight of the Acropolis glittering before him, and the echoes of the Antigone in his soul. He had reached that point in the ascending path, where on one side the huge granite and marble mass of the theatre of Dionysus yawned in the darkness, while on the other towered the rocks of the Acropolis, gleaming in the moon-beams. A death-like stillness pervaded the vast theatre, which during the day had been stirring with active life, resounding with the highest creations of Hellenic poetry. Pericles gazed down into the marble abyss, then upward to the height of the Acropolis, shining in the moon-beams, where the stones of the rising temple were gleaming. His own person and his own fate almost vanished from his mind, the slight cloud on his brow passed away, his breast heaved, and from the depth as well as from the height he felt himself fanned by a breath of immortal life.