Penelope's Secret

by Nicolas Ségur

  “Thus, I’m convinced, Plato, that after death, the friends of wisdom, of beauty and the Muses, will rise to Bliss, cross the Empyrean and be incorporated in the celestial harmony, while those who have not striven to perceive the divine in life, and who have gorged themselves on the impure aliment of vice, will feel their wings weighed down after death and will fall back to earth in order to inhabit the bodies of vile animals. And I would have liked to be a poet, like you, Plato, in order to translate by means of rhythm that vision of the heavens and their hierarchies, all of the iridescence of light, wings and wisdom that dazzles me.”

  Socrates raised his eyes again, listening to the hectic song of the cicada, and then said:

  “In turning my eyes just now, I saw the imposing tomb of Nisus that rises over there behind the Lyceum. You remember the legend of that unfortunate prince. He had the promise of the Immortals of remaining invincible so long as his beautiful golden hair remained intact on his head. He scorned the Cretans who besieged him, and remained victorious. But his daughter, wounded by amour for Minos, the handsome enemy, cut her father’s hair by night and provoked his death and the doom of the city. Such is the violence of the arrows of Eros!

  “That tragic legend made me think about our conversation the other day. You’ve come to look for me, and I’m sure that you must have discovered the secrets of amour. Speak! I’m attentive now, chasing away my thoughts in order to fill myself with your own science.”

  “You’re mocking me in vain, Socrates! The problem is too great, and surpasses me. I’ve come without shame to admit my disappointments and ask you for the thread of Ariadne in order to get out of the labyrinth.”

  “Have you found nothing thus far, then, son of Ariston?”

  When Plato had recounted his adventures, the night he had spent with Nicareta, and the apparition of Sthenelais, Socrates patted him on the shoulder, smiling.

  “Don’t be discouraged, excellent child. If you have already been led to propose the soul as the seat of amour, the progress is satisfactory. You ought to congratulate yourself for it. However, I advise you to proceed with prudence, for the road is full of mirages. Now you’re disposed to reject pleasure and beauty entirely and to see them as insults to amour. Refrain from doing that. They are, on the contrary, two powerful wings on which passion relies in its ascent.

  “Above all, don’t forget that amour is a sentiment so tightly woven with the elements of life that one finds it at the root of all great and fecund things. It is the abundant source that vivifies bodies and souls, the instigator of bold actions, beautiful thoughts and profound sensualities. Spread nobly in the body it is called beauty, impatient to pour forth its fruits in the future it is named desire, and when it rises nobly in the mind, vivifying with its seeds not the womb but the intelligence, we call it wisdom.”

  Socrates paused momentarily, avidly turning his face toward the breath of the sea breeze that was coming from Phalera, rippling the trees. Then he continued:

  “You adventures with Nicareta and Sthenelais will help you to find the origin of amour hidden in the secret accord of souls. Without that accord, beauty remains inefficacious and sensuality only produces disappointment. If, on the contrary, the radiance of beauty and voluptuous grace descend to crown and, so to speak, complete spiritual affinities, then they can lead a man all the way to the bosom of the Eternals.”

  And as Plato pressed him to continue speaking, Socrates said: “Evening is arriving, and I must go to Aspasia’s house to watch the celebratory torch relay commemorating the Promethean conquest from her terrace. I think that you could come with me. Aspasia enriches her beauty with new harmonies every day. The death of Pericles touched her without casting her down, and she continues to crown everything with the flowers of her thought. I consider frequenting her as a benefit of the gods. Don’t hesitate, then, and come with me.”

  “I would like that very much, Socrates, if you think that, not knowing Aspasia, I can go to her house without inconvenience.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just hurry up, for fear that we might be late.”

  Night was falling and the mountains were clad in cloaks of somber purple. There were still red gleams above Aegina, but clouds were invading the horizon, rendering the night black.

  They went along a deserted and winding street on which Pericles’ modest house was located, in which Aspasia still lived.

  “Every time I come this way,” Socrates said, “I remember a trivial event, which seems memorable to me because it is linked to the grandeur of Athens. While still young I was going along this same street, on the evening after the stormy session in the Agora during which Pericles obtained from the Athenians the money necessary to build the Parthenon. It had been necessary for him to beg, almost to weep. Then, seeing that it was all in vain, he threatened that if the people of Athens refused the expense, he would punish them by building the temple with his own money. It was by means of such efforts that he ended up convincing the turbulent crowd. We had watched the session with Anaxagoras and we were walking this way in order to spend the evening with Aspasia, as usual.

  “Suddenly, as we arrived in this deserted street, we heard coarse vociferations and we distinguished a man of tall stature who was walking preceded by a slave carrying a torch. Another individual was following behind him, addressing insults to him: ‘Thief! You don’t want to respond when I list your crimes,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve sold five thousand Athenians by auction, and now you want to snatch the last obol from the treasury of Delos! The world has never seen a corrupter like you, just as it has never seen a head resembling a squash like yours. But just because you find fine words and stupid people to believe them, it doesn’t mean that you won’t end up throwing yourself in the Cocytus anyway.’

  “Meanwhile, the abused individual walked on, imperturbably, at a measured pace, avoiding the ditches and remaining as calm as if his ears did not hear the insults. ‘But it’s Pericles!’ Anaxagoras said to me, recognizing him and hastening his steps in order to catch up with him.

  “‘Are you going to build more temples to impiety, stealing with Phidias, who procures women for you in his studio,’ the insulter continued, ‘or are you going to bring the Furies down on us by following the advice of Anaxagoras, the contempter of the gods?’

  “‘What’s happening, then, Pericles?’ asked Anaxagoras, when we drew level with Pericles, who was continuing tranquilly on his way.

  “‘It’s nothing,’ Pericles replied, saluting us amicably. ‘This citizen has pursued me from the Agora, haranguing me in the fashion that you’ve heard, but we’re at my house now. We have no more need of light.’ And, turning to his slave, he said: ‘Go now and illuminate this vociferating citizen, in order that he doesn’t fall into some ditch on his way home. I’d regret it eternally if, because of his dementia, he took a false step and broke a leg.’

  “And while the man stood, as if petrified, behind the slave, who was waiting for him, torch in hand, Pericles went into Aspasia’s house with us.

  “But we’re there ourselves, Plato! Take care to contemplate that inimitable woman attentively, and try to nourish yourself on her words and profit from them.”

  VI. The Torch Relay

  When Socrates came in with his young friend the wine was already being passed, and the guests were beginning to extend themselves more limply on the low couches.

  Next to Aspasia was Sophocles, and then the young Agathon, Alcibiades and Aristophanes.

  “If I’m late,” Socrates said, as he entered, “You’ll certainly forgive me, Aspasia, since I’ve bought a companion avid for learning, and who will gather within himself the good seeds of your wisdom, and enable them to fructify. He’ll be a disciple much less dense and mediocre than I was when you taught me rhetoric. I promise you that he won’t disappoint you like me, but will do honor to your lessons.”

  Aspasia received the handsome adolescent with amicable words and then, having looked at Socrates with a smile, she turned toward the ot
her guests and said to them: “Look at this man! He’s redoubtable for his wisdom, and Nature was prudent in creating him as ugly as a Silenus.”

  “He always reminds me,” Alcibiades put in, laughing, “of those old deformed Satyrs that the sculptors fashion hollow, like boxes. When you open them, you find hidden therein the radiant image of an Olympian deity. Such is the sublime and harmonious soul of Socrates in his poorly compassed and thickset body.”

  “Can you see him smiling under his snub nose?” Aspasia went on. “I’ll wager that the vicious man has been preparing some embarrassing question in the street.”

  “Every day I observe your wisdom, Aspasia,” Socrates replied, “but in calling me vicious now you’ve surpassed yourself in clairvoyance. Only yesterday I was with me friends near the Pnyx when Zopyrus, the celebrated physiognomist went past. He didn’t know me, but he stopped close by and stared at me in surprise. ‘Why,’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve never seen a face more imprinted with evil instincts, more steeped in vice, than this man’s!’ And while my friends laughed, I blushed, full of confusion, recognizing how right Zopytus was. I was, in fact, a treasure-trove of vices, a den of evil passions. If I have vanquished my instincts somewhat, it is only by dint of assiduous determination and constant effort...”

  Socrates was about to continue, but Alcibiades intervened again. “Cease this performance, Socrates,” he said, “and don’t hope to fool us or draw us into the nets of your irony. It would be easier to convince us that you’re stupid than to make us see you as a rascal. We know you to be judicious, generous and insupportable. The evidence is abundant. I only have to furnish Aspasia with the most recent for her to be able to judge.

  “You’ll all recall that last year, my chariots won the prize in the Olympic races. Perhaps I was more swollen with pride by that than wisdom and dignity permitted. In any case, my friends flattered me by running to me and heaping me with honors and felicitations. Only Socrates didn’t condescend to do that. He was among the last to come to my house, toward evening. Instead of asking the porter to be brought to me, he asked to be shown the way to the stables. There he praised n a loud voice the horses that, he declared, had won the victory by their merit. He distributed cakes to them that he had brought with him, and then, without seeking to converse with me or to salute me, he left.

  “Don’t you agree that I’m right, and that the man is insupportable? What do you say, Sophocles? You’ve known Socrates for a long time. Don’t you share my opinion?”

  At that moment, however, a young slave from Crete, with sparkling eyes, who was pouring the wine, had reached Sophocles in order to refill his glass. The poet, moved by the beauty of the cup-bearer and having a soul always inclined toward amour, did not hear Alcibiades’ question. On the contrary, turning to the ephebe, he said: “Would you like me to drink with a double pleasure the Thasos that you have just poured me, child?”

  “I would indeed,” said the Cretan, in a velvety voice, moving the bowl closer.

  “Then present me the cup slowly,” said the poet, “and let me savor the wine for a long time.”

  And as he saw all eyes turned toward them, the intimidated ephebe, who was conscious of his beauty and the effect that it had produced on the old man, blushed and became hesitant in his movements.

  Sophocles, who was still gazing at him, found that the modesty went well with his features and perfected heir beauty. Without taking his eyes off him, he exclaimed: How right old Phrynicus was when he said in a verse: ‘The flames of amour shine in his crimson cheeks.’”

  But the poet Agathon, in order to animate the conversation and excite the old master, replied to him:

  “In poetry, Sophocles, you are the master of us all. I concur with that! It seems to me, however, that Phrynicus did not strike accurately in giving his crimson cheeks to his adolescent; for, in sum, I think the color crimson is ugly and garish. If a painter had applied it to the cheeks of a young man we’d have found the portrait poor. That’s why I believe that it’s necessary not to compare what is beautiful with what is not.”

  Sophocles laughed then, and replied to Agathon with slight irony:

  “In that case, excellent man, you won’t approve any more of Simonides, who said, to the approval of all Greece, moreover: ‘The virgin pronounced those words with her rosy mouth,’ nor Homer when he gave ‘golden hair’ to Apollo. The painter does in fact give him black hair, for with gold in his hair you would certainly have found the painting very poor, with reason. In the same way you would disapprove of whoever said of Aurora that she has ‘rosy fingers.’ If anyone covered her fingers with the color of a rose, he would have tinted hands, but not beautiful ones.”

  That response was appreciated, and Sophocles turned to the pretty youth, who, still holding the full cup, was trying to remove a little wisp of straw that had fallen from the bowl along with the wine.

  Smiling, Sophocles invited him to blow lightly on the cup. “Blow adroitly,” he told him, “And above all, blow at very close range. The straw will fly away.”

  And as the young cup-bearer bent over innocently in order to follow the advice and blow into the cup, his cheek approached the poet’s. Then Sophocles took hold of him, laughing, and, holding his head in his hands, deposited a swift kiss on his lips.

  Turning toward the others then, he said: “You can see that I’m as fertile in artifices as the divine Ulysses. It’s only in war that I lack all invention.”

  “Like your heroine you were born for love and not for hatred,” Aspasia said to him, laughing. “But I ought to warn the young people that in amour, you seem to be very fickle and capricious.”

  “People are even recounting,” the wily Aristophanes insinuated, “a humorous adventure that happened to you, it appears, the other day. Should we give any credit to it, Sophocles?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Aristophanes,” replied the old man, distractedly. Having forgotten the present, he was lost in his meditations.

  “Tel us what you know anyway, Aristophanes,” said Agathon, curious and pricking up his ears.

  “You’re all going to say that I have a venomous tongue, and Sophocles will hold it against me; but I’m nothing but an echo and only repeating. So, I’m assured that our glorious friend, transported by the flames of amour, followed a youth the other day whom he judged handsome. He followed him as far as the tender grass that grows around the Cynosarges. There they lay down together, and, as the child’s mantle was small and narrow, they covered themselves with Sophocles’ sumptuous cloak. But when the cruel moment of separation arrived, the youth went away with the poet’s rich cloak and left him his own.”

  “It’s Euripides again who’s spreading that lie!” exclaimed the irritated poet.

  “Yes, I must confess that it’s Euripides.”

  “I knew it. That malevolent anecdote had already been repeated to me. Here’s the very epigram that I sent to him in response. You can judge whether the lines are beautiful: ‘Euripides, it was the sun and not a handsome youth who, testing me with his heat, stripped me of my cloak. But you, wretch, it’s Boreas who chills you in the arms of other people’s wives. You must not be very thoughtful to occupy yourself in all your remarks about the amours of others, while you have in your own home the very person who steals their clothes.’”

  When Sophocles fell silent, Aspasia turned to Socrates and said: “You’ve scarcely spoken, Socrates, and yet, as I said, you appear to have a question or an enigma to pose. Am I right or am I in error?”

  “Can you ever be mistaken, Aspasia? You don’t believe incorrectly that I have a question to pose. That question will please Sophocles; it is, in fact, a matter of the tender and redoubtable passion that attracts and bring beings together. Young Plato, whom I took the liberty of bringing here, confounded me the other day by asking me innocently what the essence of amour was. I did not want to spout in reply the hollow and vague phrases that run around on that subject. But, on the other hand, I was obliged to recognize that I had nothi
ng personal to say about it. Both finding ourselves thus embarrassed, we thought of having recourse to your science, Aspasia. You, who teach eloquence and poetry, and whom Pericles himself recognized to be wise, can assist us to triumph over that problem.”

  “Socrates,” Aspasia replied, without smiling, and fixing Plato with a serious gaze, “your question is thorny. Defining amour appears to me to be as difficult as defining the form of a wave or the colors of a sunset. But it is necessary to have courage in extreme circumstances. Since we all love ideas and science, it would be cowardly to retreat before the problem in question. In any case, I won’t permit us to separate before honoring the son of Venus and contenting Socrates. Let us set aside the wine, put down our crowns and each say in turn what we think about the properties and nature of Amour. It is for you, Ion, to begin.

  “I consider Amour,” said Ion, after a few moments of silence, “to be the most ancient of the gods, the primordial, original and venerable source of everything. I believe amour to be beneficent. It incites to action. It is, in sum, the ferment and the salt of the earth. The mysterious fire, stolen from Jupiter by Prometheus and which animated clay, must have been a spark of amour. And it is also amour that inspires the appetite of heroism. Among the glorious statues that populate the Acropolis, there is not one that I venerate as much as that of Laena, the lover of Aristogeton, who preferred to bite her tongue in two and spit it out rather than fail in her sentiment by denouncing under torture the man she loved.14 We see thus that amour stimulates all our moral strength. Like an internal sun it brings to their full florescence the good seeds contained in the human soul.”