by Rex Warner
However, this solitary witness of my condition seems to have hurried to find Pericles and to have informed him that I was not only dying but appeared to want to die. Next I was aware of Pericles himself in my room, grasping my shoulders, pulling the cloak from my head and forcing me to turn my face to his. I seemed to see him from a great distance and to find him, with his gray hair and worn expression, scarcely recognizable. Behind the visible face I saw the face of the boy whom I had known in Salamis and I was bewildered by both the difference and the similarity. For some time I could not grasp the sense of his words. I observed with a faint feeling of surprise that his eyes were streaming with tears and that he was laboring under some emotion the cause of which I could not understand. Gradually I found myself listening with a dim understanding of what he was saying. He was grasping, my hand between his two hands in a grip that was both firm and gentle, and his voice was almost breaking as he pronounced the words: “Anaxagoras, my dear old friend, have pity on yourself, have pity on me and on all of us. What is it you need? Who is it that has done you any harm?”
I shook my head and made no reply, but I had begun to feel moved by his manner, even though it still appeared to me so strange as to be incomprehensible. I listened half idly as he went on to speak of the great happiness we had found in each other’s company, of the affection of my friends, of my scientific discoveries, of my duties to friendship and to myself. The voice seemed to come from a remote past, but as it continued, this past began somehow to grow nearer and to fill out into reality. Quite suddenly, and almost with a shock, I became aware of the precise situation — that I was lying, in my room nearly dying and that Pericles, my friend, was being like himself in wishing to save my life. I found that I was smiling: “Pericles,” I said (no doubt most feebly), “even a lamp will go out if it has no oil inside it.”
Pericles sprang to his feet and now I could understand the mixed emotions reflected in his face. He was delighted that I had been induced to speak and he was horrified at the thought that, up to this moment, he had not realized that at least one of the causes of my collapse had been starvation. He made as if to leave the room and I, now strangely with each passing second renewing my vitality, felt a moment of dread at the prospect of being left alone. But Pericles did not leave me. He called for a servant, gave him some rapid instructions and came back again to sit on my bed. His happiness and relief were so evident that I too burst into tears. They were tears not only of shame but of joy. I wished to find words to thank him but, in my condition, he would not let me speak. Instead he loaded me with affectionate reproaches. Why had I not informed Aspasia of my state? Had I doubted his willingness to help me? Was I, against all reason, ashamed to gratify my friends by calling on them for aid?
As for me, my sanity and almost my health were restored even before I had tasted the food for which Pericles had sent. As soon as I was able to move he had me carried to his own house and kept me there for several weeks until I was fully recovered. He would visit me every day, and when he was absent Aspasia would be with me, or else some other friend; for Pericles had urged each one of our circle to show for me the affection which he felt. I will not attempt to describe my own deep emotions at this time both of gratitude and of shame. I have mentioned this incident simply to illustrate an aspect of Pericles’s character which is known well enough to his friends, but is not apparent to those who think of him only as a general, a statesman and an administrator.
By the early winter I had fully recovered and even Pericles was satisfied that I should not relapse again into the miserable state from which he had saved me. That winter I attended the public funeral held for those who had lost their lives in the Samian war. These public funerals are a peculiar, and to my mind admirable, Athenian institution. The whole ceremony takes two days. The bones of the dead are collected and for one day remain in a tent. Here friends and relatives come and make whatever offerings they think fit to their own dead. Next day there is a great procession in which everyone can join, citizens, foreigners and the women mourning for sons, fathers and brothers whom they have lost. The procession passes through Athens, skirting the Agora and the public buildings, and goes through the great new gate to the burial quarter outside the walls, which is situated in one of the most beautiful suburbs of the city. All Athenians who have fallen in war are buried here with the exception of those who died fighting against the Persians at Marathon. They were buried on the battlefield, where the great mound which hides their bones is a landmark which is likely to remain for ages. In the procession coffins of cypress wood are carried on wagons. There is one coffin for each tribe and one empty coffin to commemorate those whose bones have not been recovered from the sea or the battlefield. When the procession reaches the burial ground, the coffins are solemnly laid in the earth, while the women make their lamentations and utter their prayers. Finally some famous man, chosen especially for his powers of eloquence, mounts a platform and makes a speech in praise of the dead to the assembled crowd, which disperses quietly after the speech has been made. In this way the Athenians pay the greatest honor they can to those who have died for them. They also support from public funds the children of the dead until they have come of age.
Pericles had on many former occasions been chosen to deliver the funeral speech, and it was natural that on this occasion too he should be the man selected. He was without doubt the ablest speaker I have ever heard, but in these funeral orations of his he was perhaps more moving than at any other time. This was due not so much to his skill as to the depth of his sincerity. He valued life more than any man and more than any man honored those who had given their lives for Athens. There were splendor and sadness in his words, and those who listened to him went away happy in the sense that he had expressed and shared their sorrow, while giving them true and valid reasons for pride in the past and resolution for the future. It seemed to me as I listened to the speech he made after the Samian war that there was a more than usual sadness in his expression and in his choice of words. It was then that he used the phrase to which I have already alluded, “It seems to us that the spring has gone out of the year,” and, momentarily, I imagined in him a kind of weariness as he looked back over so many years of unremitting struggle — the glories of the Persian war, the confident seaborne campaigns of his early youth, the victories and daring of Kimon, Myronides and Tolmides, the disaster in Egypt and the superhuman efforts to surmount it, Megara, Tanagra, Koroneia, Euboea, campaign after campaign, danger after danger, achievement after achievement. He seemed to me then like some brilliant charioteer, forced to drive forever his plunging and impulsive horses round a cruel track. Would the race never finish? Would not the horses stumble and his own knees grow weak?
I do not think that such ideas ever occurred to Pericles himself, though he was peculiarly sympathetic to the weaknesses of others and thus paid all the greater honor to those who were able to surmount their disabilities.
When he came down from the platform at the conclusion of his speech, he was greeted by one of the greatest demonstrations of affection that I have ever witnessed. Men crowded about him to press his hand or to touch his garments. The women covered him with garlands, as though he were some victorious athlete. The one dissident voice was that of old Elpinice, Kimon’s sister. Her husband Kallias had died soon after the peace with Persia, and though she had grown children of her own, she seemed chiefly occupied with her memories of her brother. Certainly her loyalty to him did her credit, but it was marred by exaggeration, pigheadedness and a lack of justice. She had bitterly disapproved of the peace negotiated by Kallias. She blamed Pericles for Kimon’s ostracism and gave him no credit for having passed the decree which recalled Kimon from exile and established him in his last command. Now she thrust her way through the crowd and, being a formidable and respected lady, succeeded in making herself heard. “A fine thing, Pericles,” she shouted, “for you to be crowned with garlands! These brave men have lost their lives fighting against a Greek city and an all
y — Kimon never led an army except against Persians, Phoenicians and barbarians.”
The crowd began to show anger and impatience with the old woman, but Pericles smiled and spoke to her gently. He forbore from reminding her that her facts were, in any case, incorrect — Kimon had been the first to lead an Athenian army against an ally in revolt. He merely laid his hand upon her arm and said, “My dear Elpinice, you remember the verse of Archilochus, ‘This gray head needs neither perfume nor garlands.’ ” He may have known that she was always peculiarly irritated by the playful attitude which he was accustomed to adopt towards her.
Now, as I look back at that time and at the times before it when we were young, I see more clearly than I did then the significance of the words “the spring has passed from the year,” though I remember too that we were only conscious of a splendid summer. In the following year the Parthenon was completed, and at the great celebration of the Panathenaea the crowds were greater and more enthusiastic than any which had ever been seen in Athens. The festival, as you know, is the most splendid in Greece. It includes horse and foot racing, contests in music and poetry, and more than a hundred prizes are awarded to the winners of the various events. Not only the Athenians but members of the Athenian alliance take part in the festival and the sacrifices. Resident foreigners all wearing red cloaks also have their place in the great procession to the Acropolis with which the ceremonies conclude. In this procession the new embroidered cloak for the goddess, which has been woven and decorated throughout the year by Athenian girls of the highest birth and best reputations, is carried through the streets spread out like a sail on a model ship, a reminder, perhaps, to Athenians and to the world that the greatness of the city was won and is maintained on the sea. Representatives of the whole population escort the sacred robe. There are girls with baskets carrying the sacrificial implements, boys with pitchers, old men with olive branches in their hands, chariots, and finally a detachment of young men of the cavalry, the handsomest of their age riding the finest horses. This year there was more joy and excitement in the spectacle than ever before, for the robe was being carried to the new gold and ivory statue of Athene which was the great work of Pheidias. It is a figure forty feet in height and in the dark sanctuary it seems to burn and shimmer with a light of its own. The features are radiant and severe. It seems divine but also Athenian, and indeed in this whole temple the people of Athens seem to mingle with and become almost inseparable from the gods. On the sculptured frieze are depicted the boys and girls, the young and old of Athens and they move with the grace, dignity and freedom of gods. I know of no other temple where mortals have such places of honor. Half the people, freemen and slaves, had taken part in the construction of this work. Their joy in their achievement was indescribable, and equally great was the admiration of guests and foreigners, all of whom were asking each other the same question, “What other city in the world could show anything so splendid?”
Greatness will inevitably produce envy, yet during the days of celebration and dedication even envy did not show itself. All was joy, triumph and generous admiration. This was not a mood that could long continue. One soon began to hear again the old complaints that Pericles had squandered the resources of the allies on a display for which he himself was taking all the credit. Yet the niggardly and carping criticism was ineffective. The position of Pericles was more secure and unassailable than that of any statesman who has ever controlled the affairs of Athens. As had happened before, those who wished to attack him had to divert their attacks upon his friends. The victim they chose was Pheidias and the instrument they used was a cantankerous, vain and opinionated artist of the name of Menon, who had worked under the direction of Pheidias in the decoration of the temple and who, in his own opinion, was a great sculptor who had received insufficient recognition. Menon took up a position as a suppliant in the market place and, when people questioned him, said that he had information to lay against Pheidias, but was afraid to act against one who had such powerful friends unless his own safety and immunity were guaranteed. This was a clever move, since the curiosity of the Athenians is so great that they would rather condone a crime than be deprived of any scandalous information which the criminal is capable of producing. Menon was promised his safety and proceeded to accuse Pheidias of having diverted to his own use some of the gold which had been voted for the construction of the statue. Both Pheidias and Pericles treated this accusation with contempt. In fact the gold had been laid on in such a way that it could easily be detached from the statue. This was done and the weight of the gold was found to be precisely what it should have been.
This should have been enough to discredit Menon, but he still found an audience for his second charge. He now accused Pheidias of impiety and sacrilege. He pointed out that on the shield of the goddess, which was adorned with sculptures of the battle with the Amazons, could be seen likenesses of Pericles and of Pheidias himself. And indeed Pheidias had amused himself in this way. He had represented himself as a bald old man, struggling with both hands to lift up a rock, and he had also included a portrait of Pericles as a young, man engaged in fighting with an Amazon. Here the likeness could be disputed, since the face of the figure was covered by an upraised arm, but the general character and bearing of the figure were certainly those of Pericles. To any intelligent man this performance of Pheidias must seem innocent enough, but, as I have every reason to know, the very mention of the word “impiety” is apt to affect a large section of the Athenians in a wholly irrational way. There was now no doubt that Pheidias would be summoned for trial before the courts. Pericles was perfectly willing to defend him, but even Pericles could not be certain that prejudice and envy would not be too great to be resisted. As for Pheidias himself, he had finished his work in Athens and was in any case anxious to take on a commission in Olympia, where he had been asked to make another great gold and ivory statue, this time of Zeus. He therefore refused the help of Pericles as an advocate and, wisely, I think, merely asked him for his assistance in escaping from Athens before the day of the trial was fixed. This was easily arranged and Pheidias reached Olympia safely. He died there during the early years of this present war, but before he died he completed the statue of Zeus, which many regard as the greatest work of his career.
The attacks of Menon had no effect whatever on Pericles himself. As soon as Pheidias had disappeared, the whole affair was forgotten. No effort was made to remove or alter the likenesses on the goddess’s shield. They are there to be seen today. But both Pericles and I were saddened by this incident. First Damon and now Pheidias had been treated with injustice. Nor was Pericles pleased with his own immunity. It seemed to him particularly dishonorable in an enemy to attack his friends while shrinking from attacking him personally.
15
Before the War
I think that at this time no one (not even Pericles himself) imagined that peace would last only for the next five years. Certainly it appeared to me that the long work of Pericles’s life was proving wholly successful and was established as securely as any human organization can be. The administration of the empire was working smoothly; taxation had been put on a more equitable basis; there seemed to be no likelihood of any other revolt like that of Samos. In Athens the great building program continued. As soon as the Parthenon was finished, Mnesicles began work on the great gateway of the Propylaea, a piece of architecture still not completed but even now of a splendor and daring which can compare with the Parthenon itself. The authority of Pericles was more secure than ever before. Each year he was elected general and nearly always had his friend Hagnon as one of his colleagues. Under their guidance the power and influence of Athens grew steadily greater, nor was this growth attained by any infringement of the clauses of the thirty years’ peace with Sparta. As Pericles had foreseen, there was plenty of scope for Athenian enterprise outside the Peloponnese. The effects of this enterprise would, in the long run, certainly alter the existing balance of power, but this alteration would come, he
expected, peacefully and, as it were, naturally. The areas marked out for activity were the north, the northeast and the west. Different policies were pursued in each of these areas, and in all of them these policies appeared successful.
In the year when building operations began on the Propylaea, Pericles sailed out in command of a great fleet to the Black Sea. This was an expedition in which he took particular pride, since he accomplished much without incurring any but the most trifling losses. He appeared in these distant waters not only as an Athenian general leading an invincible fleet but as the champion of all Greeks against their barbarian enemies and their own oppressors. There are, as you know, great numbers of Greek cities on both the northern and southern shores of the Black Sea and many of them are under constant pressure from the tribes of the interior Thracians, Scythians and others. Pericles showed that an Athenian fleet could sail anywhere unopposed and that the protection of Athens was available to all who needed it. A large proportion of Athenian imports — in particular corn, dried fish and iron — comes from these Black Sea ports, and in the course of his voyage Pericles was able to strengthen the ties, both political and economic, which united their interests with those of Athens. At the important city of Sinope, he intervened in a war being fought by the people of the town against their ruler, who had established himself as a dictator. Athenian intervention was enough to turn the scale and, in gratitude, the people of Sinope welcomed a colony of six hundred Athenians to whom they gave the full rights of citizenship. In the far east too, at Amisos, again at the invitation of the local population, another Athenian colony was planted and given the name of Piraeus. These, as Pericles was proud to say, were Pan-Hellenic actions. The power of Athens was being employed now, as it had been in the beginning, not to subjugate others but to increase and maintain their liberty.