by Rex Warner
And now, with the sight and smell of death everywhere about them and with each man fearing for his own life, with homes and farms destroyed and not even the encouragement of victory in war, the Athenians, unable to understand how such sufferings had so suddenly come upon them, sank into a mood of utter despondency, enlivened only by bitterness and irritation. If they thought of the war at all, they thought only in terms of making peace at almost any price. Wishing to make someone other than themselves responsible for their irresolution and for their undeserved miseries, they began to blame Pericles for everything that had happened. He might, they said, have prevented the war altogether forgetting that they themselves had voted for it. Or he might have adopted a different strategy. It would be better to die in battle against the Spartans than to perish cooped up behind fortifications in quarters that had only ceased to be overcrowded because of the number of deaths. Or perhaps, it was said, there might be some truth in the view that the house of Pericles was under a curse.
The attacks on Pericles began, as in the past, with attacks upon his friends. I was one of the first victims, being accused of impiety and of pro-Persian sympathies. There is no need for me, whom you all know, to comment on the absurdity of these charges which, of course, were only made in an effort to discredit my friend. Pericles himself, worn out as he was with continual work and anxiety, would willingly have defended me in the courts, but he knew that his own position was now weaker than it ever had been and was afraid that now his public intervention might do me more harm than good. I remember the gentle smile with which he said, “You used to teach me always to put first things first. In this situation what comes first is your life.” So, as you know, I took his advice. He still had power enough to give orders that would be obeyed. He put at my disposal a ship which brought me to Lampsacus and there entrusted me to the kindness of those of you who are his friends. This is not the time for me to attempt to thank you for having acted toward me with all the generosity which Pericles himself could have desired. Nor is it important to dwell upon my personal feelings as I said goodby to him. If I say that I felt more concern for him than for myself, I may appear to be indulging in some boastful affectation; but if you knew him and loved him as well as I did, you would believe that I was speaking no more than the truth.
I never saw him again. The little that remains for me to report is therefore based on hearsay, but my sources are reliable. I have had regular news from Hagnon and have also received some most moving and clear accounts of events from young Thucydides, who caught the plague himself but fortunately recovered. He is not alone in the devotion he feels for Pericles, but he is remarkable for the clarity of his understanding.
It seems that very soon after I escaped from Athens, Pericles called a meeting of the Assembly. He spoke with his usual authority to an audience which, though almost entirely hostile, still listened to him with respect and followed his arguments even though they were determined not to be sympathetic to them. He spoke with deep feeling of the sufferings to which everyone was exposed and he spoke with humor of the angry criticism which was being leveled against himself. If, he said, he was going to be blamed for every piece of bad fortune that came their way, then he should expect to be praised for every stroke of good luck too. They might as well praise or blame him according to the state of the weather. As for his power, they knew perfectly well that he would willingly relinquish it if they could find someone else more capable of using it wisely in the interests of them all. But his chief aim in this speech was to give back to them their courage and resolution and to make certain that there would be no more talk of making a dishonorable peace. He told them that even now they had no conception of their own power. The whole world, he said, could be divided into two parts the land and the sea — and over the whole of one of these parts they were supreme. The possession of this power was in a wholly different category from the ownership of land or houses. So long as they remained free they could easily recover everything that they had lost, but if they once allowed themselves to submit to the will of others, they would lose everything which they still had. There should be no question of sending embassies to Sparta. What had made the Athenians great was their capacity to bear misfortune with the utmost courage and to react against it with the utmost vigor.
The Athenians on this occasion acted in a manner which was strangely illogical but, considering their varied emotions and unprecedented sufferings, not more perverse than any student of human nature might expect. They were so used to relying on the judgment of Pericles and to following the precision and certainty of his arguments that they once again accepted the truth of his analysis and from that time had no more thoughts of peace but showed a renewed energy for the war. On the other hand they found it essential that someone other than themselves should be held responsible for the sufferings which they could not understand and which yet persisted, since it was still the height of the summer and it was not till the early autumn that there was any diminution in the violence of the plague. So they deposed Pericles from his position as general and sentenced him to pay a large fine in money.
For the first time in fifteen years Pericles was no longer in charge of affairs, though in fact those who were in charge were consistently following his policy and would continually seek his advice. Pericles, so Hagnon told me, bore his disgrace with dignity. He had gained the only point that seemed to him vital namely, that the war should continue to be fought with resolution; and before the end of the year Potidaea had capitulated and Phormio had won a brilliant naval victory in the Gulf of Corinth, demonstrating once again the complete ascendancy of Athenian seamanship.
But in his private life Pericles suffered as much misfortune as anyone else. First his sister died of the plague and then his two sons, Xanthippus (with whom he had never become reconciled) and Paralos. His family was now extinct, since his son by Aspasia, young Pericles, was disqualified from citizenship. They say that when, at the funeral of Paralos, his father laid a wreath on the dead body, he was unable to restrain his tears. Only once before had he been known to show his grief in public.
Soon afterward Pericles himself caught the plague and for some weeks his friends despaired of his life. During this time there occurred a complete reversal of feeling among the Athenians. They had been heartened by their victories and by the fact that in the cooler weather fewer and fewer people were becoming infected with the plague. Now they began to regret what they recognized as their ingratitude to the man who had led them for so long and, even in disgrace, had continued to inspire them. They were sorry for his private misfortunes and considered that they themselves would be dishonored if he were to die with his power and reputation diminished. Just as they had blamed Pericles for decisions which they had made themselves under his guidance, now they began to blame those others who had persuaded them to disgrace him. Every day people inquired earnestly as to his condition, and when it was known that he had a good chance of recovery they rejoiced almost as though one of their own sons or brothers had been restored to life.
I hear that the members of Pericles’s own circle remained without exception loyal to him throughout this time. Even young Alcibiades, who had returned with a brilliant reputation from Potidaea, behaved with a gentleness and consideration which surprised all who in the past had often been shocked at the young man’s levity and impatience in his relations with his guardian. It was Alcibiades, they say, who was most urgent in supporting Hagnon and others in their appeals to Pericles to stand again for the generalship in the following year, and I believe that he did this not so much from his personal ambition for the splendor of his own family as because he genuinely believed that Athens could not do without the services of one whom, in the past, he had been accustomed to describe as “the old man.” And I am sure that it was from a sense of duty rather than for any further desire for power or glory that Pericles did consent to offer himself for re-election.
The people were anxious and proud to restore him to all his old honor, a
nd in sympathy for his losses, they passed a decree by which his illegitimate son Pericles should be granted Athenian citizenship. It seems that this act gave Pericles more pleasure than anything else.
He was still too weak to engage in active service but continued to attend all meetings of the war council until it became clear that his recovery had been only partial and that his health had been permanently undermined. He lay sick at home and scarcely capable of movement for some weeks before he died. Though toward the end he was almost too weak to speak, he retained the full use of his mental powers and the grace and gentleness of his manner were the same as ever. They say that shortly before he died Aspasia, who in her distress tended to be, like most women, superstitious, hung around his neck when he was sleeping some kind of charm or amulet. When Pericles opened his eyes, he smiled at her and said, “I really must be ill, if you think I shall take this sort of nonsense seriously.”
When he was at the point of death, many of his friends were at his side. They tried to please him by speaking of his triumphs and victories, the trophies he had set up, the expeditions he had commanded. He surprised them by speaking, though he could only faintly utter the words. “I am not proud of these things,” he whispered — “most of them depend on chance. I am proud because no Athenian has ever had to put on mourning because of me.”
So my friend died. Next year at the dramatic festival Euripides won the first prize with his play Hippolytus. As the chorus spoke the last words, the audience rose and stood in silence, since they regarded these words as a reference to the dead man and to their own sorrow:
This is a grief that is common to all of us,
And came unexpected.
Many the tears that now will be falling,
Since for great men mourning voices
Still last longer.