Pericles the Athenian

by Rex Warner

  7

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  During all these years, and indeed throughout the remainder of his life, Pericles was continually busy from dawn until late at night and often through the night. When he was not in command of armies and fleets, he was occupied with politics at home. For his capacity for work alone he deserves to be famous, and it remains a wonder how he and the Athenian democracy which he guided achieved so much in so short a time. Indeed, rapidity and ambition were the outstanding qualities of the period. The building of the long walls and, later, the glorious construction of the Parthenon and the Propylaea were accomplished with a speed and perfection that seemed to most Greeks, and even to the Athenians themselves, incredible. And Pericles was the author and supervisor of nearly all these grand plans. In addition, as I have said, he was often in command by land or sea, busy with the planning of new laws to transform the organization of the democracy, designing foreign policy, receiving envoys from abroad. With so much on his hands it is remarkable that he still found time for his friends or for any kind of domestic life.

  He had already organized his household in a manner from which he did not deviate for the rest of his life. Here he showed the same logical precision that he showed in politics and, indeed, in every action. The organization was designed naturally to provide security but primarily to save time. Everything was in the hands of a trusted slave, Evangelos. Pericles himself, having laid down the lines on which his property was to be administered, had nothing more to do than, from time to time, inspect this servant’s accounts. Unlike every other landowner, he wasted no time on speculation or on the making of unusual profits. Every year he sold to the highest bidders the whole produce of his land for lump sums. Once the sales were concluded, he was freed from all worry and from all supervision over his estates. The buyers of the yearly produce saw to that for him. Evangelos bought day by day in the market everything that was required for the household. It was an arrangement not at all to the liking of Pericles’s wife or, later, his sons. They saw others who with less landed property than Pericles possessed made larger profits and lived more extravagantly. To their criticisms Pericles was wholly indifferent.

  At this time, of course, his sons, Xanthippus and Paralos, were still in their infancy and he saw little of them. His marriage had been a dutiful one. His wife was a cousin of his who, since she had no brother, had inherited her father’s fortune. In such cases Athenian law demands that the heiress marry her nearest male relative, the object of the provision being, of course, to keep the money in the family. So, in conformance with the law, Pericles married his cousin, who divorced Hipponikos, the husband whom she had already.

  In my view this custom is not a good one and it seems to me that the succession of property could be arranged for in some different way. I have made many observations of the children born to parents who are close relatives, and my conclusion is perhaps a surprising one. While it is true that in the cases of racehorses and other animals a certain amount of inbreeding is positively advantageous to the offspring, the same rule does not seem to apply to human beings. I admit that some of the children of these close marriages are exceptionally brilliant, but even these often have a strange instability, while in many more cases the children are definitely either deficient in ability or disproportionate in the abilities which they possess. I suppose that a horse is a less finely organized animal than a man. Not only is it without rational intelligence, but it is incapable of using its limbs in a constructive manner. The seeds out of which its nature is composed are mingled in different proportions from those of man and are less adapted to a variety of combinations. Thus when the generative elements of these animals are combined in the production of offspring there is a smaller possibility of error. The qualities desired are few (in a racehorse being only speed), and two closely related creatures already distinguished for only one quality are likely to breed successfully. But in man the combination of elements is much more subtle and obscure. A physically perfect specimen may be both morally and intellectually corrupt, and even in a good man there are bad impulses which are kept in check either by habit or by wisdom. Even in ordered conditions and among men of education a natural savagery is not always repressed, and in periods of revolution or disaster what is cowardly, unsightly, cruel and depraved seems to take precedence over the nobler qualities. Excellence is always a matter of effort, and no one is capable of more than a certain amount of effort. It may seem logical to suppose that in consanguineous marriages the qualities of the parents (whose nature must partake of the same seeds) will be intensified in their offspring, so that, at all events, the good will counterbalance the bad, the healthy the unhealthy and so on. But as I have explained elsewhere, nature does not work by the rules of simple arithmetic. There is a much finer and more delicate organization in what is good and what is rational than in what is irrational or depraved. Two fine organizations, even if similar, will not necessarily blend together, while what is bad will always be increased by the addition of what is equally bad.

  But, my friends, I find myself guilty of a digression, and in any case my views on this subject can easily be discovered in my books. I was led to make this digression by my desire to explain the fact that both of Pericles’s children by his legal wife turned out most unfortunately, revealing qualities which were certainly not evident in their father or their mother (though she was not, I think, a woman of great distinction). I suppose, as you will have observed, that within a family the generative seeds are all alike. Differences of character and looks within a family can be explained by the great amount of variation in arrangement of which these seeds are capable. And I suppose too that while defects can be increased by a process of simple addition, the finer qualities are not so easily amplified or transmitted.

  I mentioned these views of mine to Pericles at the time of his marriage, but he was not impressed by them. He considered it his duty both to raise children and to obey the law. Once the children had reached boyhood, he divorced his wife so that she could return to Hipponikos. I saw this wife of his only on one or two occasions and I do not think that Pericles saw much of her himself. She was scarcely fitted to intellectual conversation and in this respect differed greatly from the famous Aspasia, who combined great personal charm with the highest intelligence. But of her I shall speak later.

  In spite of all his activities Pericles continued to find time to devote to the society of his friends. He made friends without considering either rank or wealth, and all his friends were men of distinction. Of our original circle all were still present except Ephialtes. Sophocles was now in the very first rank of Athenian dramatists and many of us preferred his work even to that of Aeschylus. He is more capable, I think, than Aeschylus of bringing passion under control, and this is a most important quality in a work of art, which should embody rather than express passion. His thought is, I know, as acute and far-ranging as that of Aeschylus, and he expresses it with a greater economy and precision. In a word, I believe that what is concentrated and controlled is more effective than what is merely powerful and majestic and diffused. Not that I would belittle Aeschylus. He was now an old man, like all who had fought at Marathon, but so far from showing any signs of flagging powers, he was stimulated to greater and greater efforts, partly by the force of his own genius and partly by his rivalry with Sophocles. For, admirable as he was in most ways, he was not modest and found it difficult to understand how the judges at the dramatic festival could award the first prize to anyone but himself.

  I recall distinctly and with admiration the last occasion when Aeschylus received this honor. It was in the spring of the year of Myronides’s great victories at Megara that Aeschylus produced his Orestes trilogy, which I believe to be the finest of all his works. His investigations into the problems of crime and punishment and what appear to us to be the divided and irreconcilable counsels of the gods are profoundly moving, and there is more vivid characterization in these plays than in any others by the same author. For thi
s occasion, indeed, Aeschylus displayed not only the greatness of his genius but also every trick of that stagecraft for which he is famous. His references to the recent treaty with Argos were loudly applauded by the supporters of Pericles; and in the final scene his grave and balanced estimate of Athenian justice and of the sanctity of the Areopagus was received well, so tactfully did he write, by all parties. Aeschylus was a conservative and must have deplored the reform of this body, which had only just been carried out, first by Ephialtes and then by Pericles; but he accepted it in the patriotic spirit of Athenian unity, only urging his fellow citizens not to forget, in their zeal for innovation, what was good and dignified in their old tradition. This is a sentiment which nearly always appeals to the Athenian. Then, too, those who particularly admired Aeschylus for his bold innovations in costume and stage scenery were given everything that they could desire. At the first appearance of the chorus of Furies, with their streaming hair, their wild gestures and their horrifically painted faces, large sections of the audience were overwhelmed by panic and tried to fight their way out of the theater. Order was soon restored, and once these simple people had become convinced of the irrationality of their fears, they settled down with an increased pleasure to the spectacle. It was, from every point of view, a great personal triumph for Aeschylus. Shortly afterwards he went to Sicily, where his plays were enjoying a tremendous success in the Greek cities. Within a few years he died. According to the common report, his death was caused by a tortoise dropped on him from a great height by an eagle, who mistakenly believed that the poet’s bald head was a rock suited for the cracking of a tortoise shell. This is not a story which I find credible. For one thing the eagle is known to be the keenest-sighted of all living things. Moreover, its talons, though powerful, are not extensive enough to retain in midair a large and spreading carapace.

  After the death of Aeschylus, Sophocles became, and in the opinion of most people still is, pre-eminently the leading Athenian dramatist. I myself, very greatly as I admire Sophocles, believed even at this time that the young poet Euripides had particular qualities of his own which would allow him to equal, and in some ways excel, the other two great playwrights. In his choruses he shows the most exquisite ear for meter and for music, and his dialogue, while less stately, is more natural than that of either Aeschylus or Sophocles. Above all he is a philosopher, and it was his interest in philosophy which allowed me to make his acquaintance and to enjoy his friendship. He has few friends, since he is of a quiet and retiring disposition and, like many men who are shy, sometimes speaks too much and sometimes too little. His family had an estate on Salamis, and Euripides, I remember, had discovered a cave, beautifully situated by the sea, into which he would retire for months at a time to study and to write. He was one of the first to acquire a fine library for his personal use. He was ten years younger than Pericles and only twenty-nine years old, I think, when Aeschylus died. His first plays were produced in the following year and, like many of his plays, only received the third prize. Now, of course, he is much more popular; but even in those days he had a small but enthusiastic body of admirers. Among these were nearly all the young men who had a deep interest in philosophy, particularly in those branches of philosophy which have a practical bearing on political life.

  To me it seems that philosophy, as we understand it, began in Ionia through sheer curiosity. The first question was: What is the nature of the world in which we live? Is everything made of one substance, or are there two or more? What are the principles which determine mixture, change and motion? The very asking of these questions must challenge the conventional view of things. If, for example, we find reason to conclude that the sun is a very large object composed of much the same material as the earth, we cannot at the same time believe that it is a god, still less that it is somehow dragged across the heavens by horses. It was probably in connection with these absurd stories of the mythographers that philosophy first began to exercise what may be called a political effect. Other questions soon followed. The gods are assumed to be good. How is it, then, that many of the actions recorded of them would be regarded as shameful among ourselves? Is there, indeed, any sanction other than convention or convenience for our ideas of right and wrong? Is the powerful always right?

  Such questions as these were at least as disturbing to the traditional outlook as was any skepticism about the gods, and such questions were, at this time, being asked in Athens every day. Sometimes they were asked in the pure spirit of Ionian philosophy; that is to say, out of curiosity and an intense desire to discover the truth. Sometimes they were asked callously or out of self-interest. It was amusing to the young to be able to bewilder their elders with arguments that appeared irrefutable. And it was extremely useful in any kind of political debate or lawsuit to be able to set forth one’s case not only with clarity and logical precision but also with an agreeable kind of modernity and daring. It was observed that Pericles himself owed a great part of his influence and reputation to the possession of just these faculties, and clever but shallow minds failed to take into account the part played by his other qualities of integrity and magnanimity.

  So too with Euripides. His brilliant paradoxes, his apparent skepticism, his skill in expressing energetically both sides of a case, his evident acquaintance with every new idea won admiration and applause, but many of his admirers were blind to the fact that the chief aims of this poet were to discover truth and to improve his fellow citizens. Pericles was an admirer of Euripides, though he preferred the work of Sophocles, and I was sometimes able to bring the two men together in discussion, since for some years Euripides was a student of mine. At these conversations Euripides was somewhat tongue-tied, though he would speak eloquently on subjects connected with his art; and Pericles, of course, was interested in the theory and practice of every art. I think that, apart from his natural shyness, Euripides was somewhat alarmed by Pericles and that, though the two had much in common, Pericles was somewhat suspicious of Euripides. These attitudes are not altogether easy to explain; for both men equally admired intellectual accuracy, ingenuity and discovery; both men were devoted to the splendor of Athens. I am inclined to think that in Euripides, Pericles saw not only many of his own qualities but also a different quality, which he mistrusted. It was a quality which would appear to him an unnatural disinterestedness. And Euripides, for his part, would observe in Pericles a singleness of purpose, almost a ruthlessness, which he lacked and may, in some moods, have envied.

  For Euripides, unlike Sophocles, who could act with grace and distinction in any field of activity, never played a distinguished or energetic part in public affairs. He had, of course, like other able-bodied citizens, seen some military service, but his reactions to this service, as I have discovered in many conversations with him, were most peculiar. He was not, indeed, lacking in either courage or patriotism. Like every other man, he was proud of victory and ashamed of defeat. Nor was he foolish enough to imagine (few Athenians are) that victories can be won without bloodshed and without sacrifice. Yet he looked at these necessary concomitants of war with an extraordinary distress. When he described a battle to me he would be more likely to dwell on his impression of the faces of the wounded or the dead than on the more normal themes of difficulty, danger and elation in success. That he remained an efficient soldier in spite of this abnormal sensitivity to suffering does credit, of course, to his courage. But his intellect is so powerful that he cannot feel anything strongly without investigating very minutely both the feeling and the occasion for it. And it would not be wholly unfair to suggest that he was more moved by suffering than by the situation in which suffering was involved. He was offended by the fact that suffering seems to be a necessity of nature, and there is no doubt this attitude of his, just as much as any philosophical considerations, affected his ideas about the gods. But they also affected his views on politics. Though he admired Pericles, recognizing his supreme ability and perfect integrity, he retained in his mind some element of doubt, so
me slight grain of misgiving. He was inclined to wonder, I think, whether even the great aims of Pericles were worth the sacrifices that might be involved. Aeschylus all his life was proud of having fought at Marathon. Sophocles, the flower of his beauty, had led the choir of young men celebrating the victory of Salamis. But what Euripides, as a very small boy, saw most vividly was the pall of smoke hanging in the air as the Persians burned the city. There were times, I believe, when it seemed to Euripides that the whole of life was a trap set for man by the gods.

  Now with much of this attitude both Sophocles and Pericles would have sympathized. They too were most keenly aware of the suffering and injustice of the human condition. Their characters were both compassionate and profound. Pericles himself, unlike many commanders who think first of their own glory, would never risk the life of a single Athenian unless he considered the risk fully justified, and the depth of his admiration for those who fell in battle was an indication of his perfect awareness that these men had made for their city a sacrifice of supreme value. But he, like most of us, could not conceive of life without the city. In the city, he would say, there is scope for the exercise of every kind of ability and for every type of character except one, and that is the type of man who describes himself as “minding his own business.” Such people seemed to him contemptible and useless because they were only half developed and incapable of further development. He would not, of course, have classed Euripides with such people. For Euripides, as a dramatist must be, was acutely concerned in the affairs of the city and was himself a glory to it. Still, I think he may have sensed in Euripides a small yet dangerous divergence from his own complete ideal, and he was suspicious of this, knowing that great results often spring from apparently insignificant beginnings. And I am inclined to believe that he was right, though it is difficult to see precisely whence this divergence sprang. Certainly Pericles would never have concurred with those conservative critics who blamed Euripides for his extreme intellectualism, his sympathy with people not of a heroic order (such as slaves or women), and his unnecessary concern to understand and to reveal their problems. Pericles himself was, as I have said, the embodiment of intellectualism; he was as compassionate as any man I have known, and to him no human problem was a matter of indifference. I think that what perplexed and disturbed him (though he may well not have been conscious of this) was a quality in Euripides which may be described as pessimism. For there are times when Euripides suggests to us that our situation is hopeless, that the world is so formed that man’s aspirations can never be fulfilled, that we miss the mark more often than we hit it, that, in a word, happiness is unattainable. And often, after facing us with such conclusions, Euripides will, as it were, break off the argument and, in one of his exquisitely written choruses, soothe our feelings by transporting us into another world, a world of enchantment and extreme beauty, but one utterly remote in time and nature from our own. From our world, he wishes sometimes, it seems, to escape into something else — just as, to employ more popular examples, the worshipers of Dionysus, in their nocturnal orgies, find relief from the exigencies of reality, and the votaries of Orphic cults and other mysteries take heart in the belief that whatever their present misery they will receive certain benefits after death. But while such religious beliefs, whether true or false, are in a sense ennobling (since it is usually assumed that after death the good will do better than the bad), and while the orgies of Bacchus undoubtedly exercise in many cases a curative influence on the mind, it is difficult to see what good social or political effect can come from a mood of such utter and complete despair that the very possibility of good is rejected. All of us who possess any sensitivity have known these moods, and when we observe them in others we will, according to circumstances, either pity or deplore them. Often the circumstances which provoke such despair are tragic in the true sense; but the emotion itself is not tragic; it is a failure of nerve.