Philothea, you think me vain, and heartless, and wicked; and so I am. But there are moments when I am willing that this tongue, so praised for its eloquence, should be dumb forever—that this beauty, which men worship, should be hidden in the deepest recesses of barbarian forests—so that I might again be as I was, when the sky was clothed in perpetual glory, and the earth wore not so sad a smile as now. Oh, Philothea! would to the gods, I had your purity and goodness! But you despise me;—for you are innocent.”
Soothingly, and almost tearfully, the maiden replied: “No, lady; such were not the feelings which made me say we could not be friends. It is because we have chosen different paths; and paths that never approach each other. What to you seem idle dreams, are to me sublime realities, for which I would gladly exchange all that you prize in existence. You live for immortality in this world; I live for immortality in another. The public voice is your oracle; I listen to the whisperings of the gods in the stillness of my own heart; and never yet, dear lady, have those two oracles spoken the same language.”
Then falling on her knees, and looking up earnestly, she exclaimed, “Beautiful and gifted one! Listen to the voice that tries to win you back to innocence and truth! Give your heart up to it, as a little child led by its mother’s hand! Then shall the flowers again breathe poetry, and the stars move in music.”
“It is too late,” murmured Aspasia: “The flowers are scorched—the stars are clouded. I cannot again be as I have been.”
“Lady, it is never too late,” replied Philothea: “You have unbounded influence—use it nobly! No longer seek popularity by flattering the vanity, or ministering to the passions of the Athenians. Let young men hear the praise of virtue from the lips of beauty. Let them see religion married to immortal genius. Tell them it is ignoble to barter the heart’s wealth for heaps of coin—that love weaves a simple wreath of his own bright hopes stronger than massive chains of gold. Urge Pericles to prize the good of Athens more than the applause of its populace—to value the permanence of her free institutions more than the splendor of her edifices. Oh, lady, never, never, had any mortal such power to do good!”
Aspasia sat gazing intently on the beautiful speaker, whose tones grew more and more earnest as she proceeded.
“Philothea,” she replied, “you have moved me strangely. There is about you an influence that cannot be resisted. It is like what Pindar says of music; if it does not give delight, it is sure to agitate and oppress the heart. From the first moment you spoke, I have felt this mysterious power. It is as if some superior being led me back, even against my will, to the days of my childhood, when I gathered acorns from the ancient oak that shadows the fountain of Byblis, or ran about on the banks of my own beloved Meander, filling my robe with flowers.”
There was silence for a moment. Eudora smiled through her tears, as she whispered, “Now, Philothea, sing that sweet song Anaxagoras taught you. He too is of Ionia; and Aspasia will love to hear it.”
The maiden answered with a gentle smile, and began to warble the first notes of a simple bird-like song.
“Hush!” said Aspasia, putting her hand on Philothea’s mouth, and bursting into tears—“It was the first tune I ever learned; and I have not heard it since my mother sung it to me.”
“Then let me sing it, lady,” rejoined Philothea: “It is good for us to keep near our childhood. In leaving it, we wander from the gods.”
A slight tap at the door made Aspasia start up suddenly; and stooping over the alabaster vase of water, she hastened to remove all traces of her tears.
As Eudora opened the door, a Byzantian slave bowed low, and waited permission to speak.
“Your message?” said Aspasia, with queenly brevity.
“If it please you, lady, my master bids me say he desires your presence.”
“We come directly,” she replied; and with another low bow, the Byzantian closed the door.
Before a mirror of polished steel, supported by ivory graces, Aspasia paused to adjust the folds of her robe, and replace a curl that had strayed from its golden fillet.
As she passed, she continued to look back at the reflection of her own fair form, with a proud glance which seemed to say, “Aspasia is herself again!”
Philothea took Eudora’s arm, and folding her veil about her, with a deep sigh followed to the room below.
CHAPTER III.
All is prepared—the table and the feast—
With due appurtenance of clothes and cushions.
Chaplets and dainties of all kinds abound:
Here rich perfumes are seen—there cakes and cates
Of every fashion; cakes of honey, cakes
Of sesamus, and cakes of unground corn:
What more? A troop of dancing women fair,
And minstrels who may chaunt us sweet Harmodius.
Aristophanes
The room in which the guests were assembled, was furnished with less of Asiatic splendor than the private apartment of Aspasia; but in its magnificent simplicity, there was a more perfect manifestation of ideal beauty. It was divided in the middle by eight Ionic columns alternately of Phrygian and Pentelic marble. Between the central pillars stood a superb statue from the hand of Phidias, representing Aphrodite guided by love and crowned by the goddess of Persuasion. Around the walls were Phœbus and Hermes in Parian marble, and the nine Muses in ivory. A fountain of perfumed water from the adjoining room diffused coolness and fragrance as it passed through a number of concealed pipes, and finally flowed into a magnificent vase, supported by a troop of Naiades.
In a recess stood the famous lion of Myron, surrounded by infant loves, playing with his paws, climbing his back, and decorating his neck with garlands. This beautiful group seemed actually to live and move in the clear light and deep shadows derived from a silver lamp suspended above.
The walls were enriched with some of the choicest paintings of Apollodorus, Zeuxis, and Polygnotus. Near a fine likeness of Pericles, by Aristoläüs, was Aspasia, represented as Chloris scattering flowers over the earth, and attended by winged Hours.
It chanced that Pericles himself reclined beneath his portrait, and though political anxiety had taken from his countenance something of the cheerful freshness which characterized the picture, he still retained the same elevated beauty—the same deep, quiet expression of intellectual power. At a short distance, with his arm resting on the couch, stood his nephew Alcibiades, deservedly called the handsomest man in Athens. He was laughing with Hermippus, the comic writer, whose shrewd, sarcastic and mischievous face was expressive of his calling. Phidias slowly paced the room, talking of the current news with the Persian Artaphernes. Anaxogoras reclined near the statue of Aphrodite, listening and occasionally speaking to Plato, who leaned against one of the marble pillars, in earnest conversation with a learned Ethiopian.
The gorgeous apparel of the Asiatic and African guests, contrasted strongly with the graceful simplicity of Grecian costume. A saffron-colored mantle and a richly embroidered Median vest glittered on the person of the venerable Artaphernes. Tithonus, the Ethiopian, wore a skirt of ample folds, which scarcely fell below the knee. It was of the glorious Tyrian hue, resembling a crimson light shining through transparent purple. The edge of the garment was curiously wrought with golden palm leaves. It terminated at the waist in a large roll, twined with massive chains of gold, and fastened by a clasp of the far-famed Ethiopian topaz. The upper part of his person was uncovered and unornamented, save by broad bracelets of gold, which formed a magnificent contrast with the sable color of his vigorous and finely-proportioned limbs.
As the ladies entered, the various groups came forward to meet them; and all were welcomed by Aspasia with earnest cordiality and graceful self-possession. While the brief salutations were passing, Hipparete, the wife of Alcibiades, came from an inner apartment, where she had been waiting for her hostess. She was a fair, amiable young matron, evidently conscious of her high rank. The short blue tunic, which she wore over a lemon-colored robe,
was embroidered with golden grasshoppers; and on her forehead sparkled a jewelled inseet of the same species. It was the emblem of unmixed Athenian blood; and Hipparete alone, of all the ladies present, had a right to wear it. Her manners were an elaborate copy of Aspasia; but deprived of the powerful charm of unconsciousness, which flowed like a principle of life into every motion of that beautiful enchantress.
The momentary silence, so apt to follow introductions, was interrupted by an Ethiopian boy, who, at a signal from Tithonus, emerged from behind the columns, and kneeling, presented to Aspasia a beautiful box of ivory, inlaid with gold, filled with the choicest perfumes. The lady acknowledged the costly offering by a gracious smile, and a low bend of the head toward the giver.
The ivory was wrought with exquisite skill, representing the imaginary forms of the constellations, studded with golden stars. The whole rested on a golden image of Atlas, bending beneath the weight. The box was passed from hand to hand, and excited universal admiration.
“Were these figures carved by an artist of your own country?” asked Phidias.
With a smile, Tithonus replied, “You ask the question because you see a Grecian spirit in those forms. They were indeed fashioned by an Ethiopian; but one who had long resided in Athens.”
“There is truly a freedom and variety in these figures, which I have rarely seen even in Greece,” rejoined Phidias; “and I have never met with those characteristics in Ethiopian or Egyptian workmanship.”
“They belong not to the genius of those countries,” answered Tithonus: “Philosophy and the arts are but a manifestation of the intelligible ideas that move the public mind; and thus they become visible images of the nations whence they emanate. The philosophy of the East is misty and vast—with a gleam of truth here and there, resting like sunlight on the edge of a dark and mighty cloud. Hence our architecture and statuary is massive, and of immense proportions. Greece is free—therefore she has a philosopher who sees that every idea must have a form, and in every form discovers its appropriate life. And because philosophy has perceived that the principle of vitality and beauty flows from the divine mind into each and every earthly thing, therefore Greece has a sculptor who can mould his thoughts into marble forms, from which the free grandeur of the soul emanates like a perpetual presence.” As he spoke, he bowed low to Plato and Phidias.
“The gigantic statues of Sicily have fair proportions,” said Plato; “and they have life; but it is life in deep repose. There is the vastness of eternity, without the activity of time.”
“The most ancient statuary of all nations is an image of death; not of sleeping energy,” observed Aspasia. “The arms adhere rigidly to the sides, the feet form one block; and even in the face, the divine ideal seems struggling hard to enter the reluctant form. But, thanks to Pygmalion of Cyprus, we now have the visible impress of every passion carved in stone. The spirit of beauty now flows freely into the harmonious proportions, even as the oracle is filled by the inspiration of the god. Now the foot bounds from the pedestal, the finger points to the stars, and life breathes from every limb. But in good time the Lybian pipe warns us that the feast is ready. We must not soar too far above the earth, while she offers us the richest treasures of her fruit-trees and vines.”
“Yet it is ever thus, when Plato is with us,” exclaimed Pericles. “He walks with his head among the stars—and, by a magic influence, we rise to his elevation, until we perceive the shadows of majestic worlds known in their reality only to the gods. As the approach of Phœbus fills the priestess with prophecy, so does this son of Phæbus impart something of his own eloquence to all who come within its power.”
“You speak truly, O Pericles,” replied Tithonus; “but it is a truth felt only by those who are in some measure worthy to receive it. Aspasia said wisely, that the spirit of beauty flows in, only where the proportions are harmonious. The gods are ever with us, but few feel the presence of the gods.”
Philothea, speaking in a low tone to Eudora, added, “And Plato rejoices in their glorious presence; not only because he walks with his head among the stars, but because he carries in his heart a blessing for every little child.”
These words, though spoken almost in a whisper, reached the ear of the philosopher himself; and he turned toward the lovely speaker with a beaming glance, which distinctly told that his choicest blessings were bestowed upon spirits pure and gentle as her own.
Thus conversing, the guests passed between the marble columns, and entered that part of the room where the banquet was prepared. Aspasia filled a golden basket with Athenian olives, Phænician dates, and almonds of Naxos, and whispering a brief invocation, placed it on a small altar, before an ivory image of Demeter, which stood in the midst of the table. Seats covered with crimson cloth were arranged at the end of the couches, for the accommodation of women; but the men reclined in Asiatic fashion, while beautiful damsels sprinkled perfumes on their heads, and offered water for their hands in vases of silver.
In choosing one to preside over the festivities of the evening, the lot fell upon Tithonus; but he gracefully declined the office, saying it properly belonged to an Athenian.
“Then I must insist that you appoint your successor,” said Aspasia.
“Your command partakes little of the democracy of Athenian institutions,” answered he, smiling; “but I obey it cheerfully; and will, as most fitting, crown the wisest.” He arose, as he spoke, and reverentially placed the chaplet on the head of Plato.
“I will transfer it to the most beautiful,” rejoined the philosopher; and he attempted to place the garland on the brow of Alcibiades. But the young man prevented him, and exclaimed, “Nay—according to your own doctrines, O admirable Plato, wisdom should wear the crown; since beauty is but its outward form.”
Thus urged, Plato accepted the honors of the banquet; and taking a handful of garlands from the golden urn on which they were suspended, he proceeded to crown the guests. He first placed upon Aspasia’s head a wreath of bright and variegated flowers, among which the rose and the myrtle were most conspicuous. Upon Hipparete he bestowed a coronal of violets, regarded by the proud Athenians as their own peculiar flower. Philothea received a crown of pure white lilies.
Aspasia, observing this, exclaimed, “Tell me, O Plato, how you knew that wreath, above all the others, was woven for the granddaughter of Anaxagoras?”
“When I hear a note of music, can I not at once strike its chord? answered the philosopher: “Even as surely is there an everlasting harmony between the soul of man and the visible forms of creation. If there were no innocent hearts, there would be no white lilies.”
A shadow passed over Aspasia’s expressive countenance; for she was aware that her own brilliant wreath contained not one purely white blossom. But her features had been well trained to conceal her sentiments; and her usual vivacity instantly returned.
The remainder of the garlands were bestowed so rapidly, that there seemed scarcely time for deliberate choice; yet Pericles wore the oak leaves sacred to Zeus; and the laurel and olive of Phæbus rested on the brow of Phidias.
A half mischievous smile played round Aspasia’s lips, when she saw the wreath of ivy and grape leaves placed on the head of Alcibiades. “Son of Aristo,” she exclaimed, “the Phœnician Magi have given you good skill in divination. You have bestowed every garland appropriately.”
“It needed little magic,” replied Plato, “to know that the oaken leaves belonged to one whose eloquence is so often called Olympian; or that the laurel was due to him who fashioned Pallas Parthenia; and Alcibiades would no doubt contend boldly with any man who professed to worship the god of vineyards with more zeal than himself.”
The gay Athenian answered this challenge by singing part of an Anacreontic ode often repeated during the festivities of the Dionysia:
“To day I’ll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne’er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
I’ll haste to quaff my w
ine again.
For death may come with brow unpleasant—
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us— drink no more!”
This profane song was sung in a voice so clear and melodious, that Tithonus exclaimed, “You err, O Plato, in saying the tuneful soul of Marsyas has passed into the nightingale; for surely it remains with this young Athenian. Son of Clinias, you must be well skilled in playing upon the flute the divine airs of Mysian Olympus?”
“Not I, so help me Dionysus!” lisped Alcibiades. “My music master will tell you that I ever went to my pipes reluctantly. I make ten sacrifices to equestrian Poseidon, where I offer one gift to the Parnassian chorus.”
“Stranger, thou hast not yet learned the fashions of Athens,” said Anaxagoras, gravely. “Our young equestrians now busy themselves with carved chariots, and Persian mantles of the newest mode. They vie with each other in costly wines; train doves to sho wer luxuriant perfumes from their wings; and upon the issue of a contest between fighting quails, they stake sums large enough to endow a princess. To play upon the silver-voiced flute is Theban-like and vulgar. They leave that to their slaves.”
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