by Laurie Gray
“It’s also quite different from the hygiene and medicine we studied in the midwifery book,” I agreed. “Does the fact that this is different make it untrue?” I asked.
“I don’t know if it’s true or not, because I don’t know how to test it,” said Lamprocles. “I can work the mathematical calculations myself, and we were able to follow the instructions and advice of the midwifery book when Sophroniscus was born. I just don’t know what to do with this or where to start.”
“We could erect a pole and record the shadows and see if we find the same image of yin and yang described by the travelers,” I offered.
Lamprocles studied a sketch of the shadow images in the book. “The pattern of shadows around the pole makes sense. And the swirling line dividing the light from the shadow appears very natural to me—similar to the swirl in a seashell or a ram’s horn.” Lamprocles picked up a stick and drew a circle in the dirt. He drew a series of O’s and 1’s; then he started drawing yin and yang within each open circle.
“It’s like the river of Heraclitus surrounded by the being of Parmenides,” I said. “Together they are the genesis.”
Lamprocles dropped the stick and stared at his scratchings in the earth. After a long while he looked at me, eyes full of wonder. “It is, isn’t it?” he pondered. “Still, if I spend a year recording the shadows and produce the same image, how does that make the rest of it true?”
“And even if your recordings produce a different image, would that destroy the underlying principles represented by the symbol?” I asked.
Lamprocles sighed. “If it’s true, it’s true regardless of whether I can prove it.”
“And if it’s not true?” I asked.
“Then it’s even harder to prove a negative,” Lamprocles responded. He began to brush away the images he’d drawn in the dirt.
“Does it really matter whether or not you can prove it if you believe in your heart that it’s true?” I asked.
“The only way to persuade others is by proof,” he insisted.
“But I believe it, even without your proof,” I said. I carefully rolled up the papyrus and placed it securely in Lamprocles’ satchel.
Lamprocles brushed the dust from his tunic and stood. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you believe it?”
The way he stood over me suddenly made me feel inferior. I rose to my feet to look him squarely in the face. I realized for the first time that he was actually quite a bit taller than I these days. Still, standing on my own two feet before him, I felt every bit his equal. In many ways we were different as night and day, but no different in human value.
“I believe it because it feels true to me,” I said simply.
“But how can you persuade someone else that you are right and he is wrong?” asked Lamprocles.
“I do not wish to persuade anyone of anything,” I said. I handed Lamprocles his satchel.
“Well, I do!” exclaimed Lamprocles. He slung the satchel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips. “What’s the point of being right if you can’t prove it?”
“Maybe the point isn’t about who is right and who is wrong,” I suggested. “Maybe the point is that today I feel a deeper sense of truth than I did yesterday. As I continue to think and grow, my understanding will continue to change as well. Maybe it’s more about seeking wisdom than being right.”
Lamprocles threw up his hands in exasperation. “Every time I think I’m really getting it, you say something like that and all of my thoughts just go up in flames!”
I smiled and nodded. “And every time I think I am beginning to really know something, I am reminded that someone older and wiser and much more experienced than I understands that he knows nothing.”
“Right,” Lamprocles sighed. “What do I know?”
26
THAT EVENING AS we ate, Lamprocles and I discussed our reading with Socrates.
“The symbol of the yin and the yang intrigues me,” said Socrates. “In fact, it reminds me of a book by Democritus called Little Cosmology.” He broke off a large piece of bread and passed it to Lamprocles.
“I’ve heard of Democritus, but I didn’t think anyone took him seriously,” replied Lamprocles. He also tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and placed it in a small dish of olive oil. “Even Plato said that the papyrus he writes upon is more valuable for burning than for reading.” He passed the bread to Xanthippe, who kept the greater share and placed the remaining portion between us.
“Perhaps,” replied Socrates, “but Democritus attempted to resolve Parmenides’ being and Heraclitus’ becoming by conceiving of an eternal, indivisible particle called the atom.” Socrates poured some wine in a bowl for me and filled both of our glasses before passing the jar to Lamprocles.
“What exactly is an atom?” I asked as I broke my bread into small pieces and dropped them into the bowl of wine to soften.
“According to Democritus, it’s exactly what its name suggests: something that is ‘uncuttable.’ Atoms are like little, eternal, unchanging beings that combine to form larger, visible objects,” explained Socrates.
“But what happens when the object ceases to exist?” Lamprocles asked.
“The atoms disperse,” replied Socrates. “They simply move on to combine with other atoms and form other objects.”
“What about fire?” I asked. “Can fire destroy atoms?”
“Not according to Democritus,” said Socrates.
I held up a piece of softened bread. “So this wine and this bread are both made of atoms?”
Socrates nodded. “If Democritus is to be believed, they are indeed.”
“So the wine begins to disperse the bread atoms and wine atoms by mixing them together,” Lamprocles hypothesized. “Then Myrto uses her teeth to chew the bread into even smaller pieces, mixing them with saliva and swallowing them where the juices in the stomach break them down even further?”
“And inside my body, some atoms join with my blood and circulate through my body providing nourishment, while others pass through as waste?” I asked.
“Waste!” Xanthippe grunted. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my meal without analyzing the holy crap out of it!”
Socrates and Lamprocles both laughed. I remained silent, consumed by the enigma of atoms and immune to Xanthippe’s cutting remarks.
“What about wind and water?” asked Lamprocles. “Can they be made of atoms, too?”
“They must be,” said Socrates, “or Democritus is greatly mistaken.”
This puzzled me. “If an atom cannot be divided, and atoms make up everything, then how can they move about and change form?” I asked. “They must either pass through each other or there must somehow be room for them to move.”
“Good point,” said Socrates. “What do you think Lamprocles?”
Lamprocles contemplated this for some time. Finally, he replied, “In The One, Theano suggests that all is one, but that the one is actually a pulsating series of nothing and something.”
“Excellent connection,” Socrates said, nodding his approval. “What Myrto has called ‘room to move,’ Democritus would call ‘space’ or ‘the void.’”
“A universe of something and nothing,” I whispered.
“Where nothing always has the potential to become something,” Lamprocles reflected. “Anything really.”
Socrates looked at me and smiled. I nodded. “And the only constant is the change from something to nothing back to something and again into nothing.” I concluded.
“So if an atom were large enough to observe with the human eye, would it look like the yin-yang image?” Lamprocles asked.
“What is this yin-yang image you keep talking about?” Xanthippe interrupted.
“Let me show you, Mother.” Lamprocles jumped to his feet and returned with a tablet. He swiftly drew a circle. “It is a circle divided by a winding river, like this.” He drew the twisting line and began shading one side. “And half is light, and the other half is shadow, like this.” H
e explained briefly about erecting the pole and recording the shadows for an entire year.
“And you think that every one of us and everything in this room is nothing but a bunch of those little circles?” Xanthippe cackled. “All of this reading has finally driven you mad!” She banged the table with her fist before taking up her bread and continuing to eat.
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not, Mother,” replied Lamprocles. “We’re just thinking about it and testing whether or not it could be true.”
“Democritus never really decided on a shape for the atom,” Socrates added. He combed through his beard with his fingers to remove the bread crumbs and pursed his thick lips. “He originally postulated a triangle, but then decided that perhaps atoms were all different shapes.”
“Well, if you take away the actual circle,” said Lamprocles, “you’re left with three parts: the river that runs through the center, light and darkness.”
I stared at the table top. “An infinite number of centers, surrounded by light and dark, but no circumference anywhere?” I felt a flash of insight, but it almost seemed too simple. And neither Socrates nor Lamprocles responded to my inquiry.
“Where can we get this book, Little Cosmology?” Lamprocles asked. “I’ve never seen it in the Agora.”
“Plato has more books than anyone, but I think Lamprocles is correct that Plato has no appreciation at all for Democritus,” Socrates replied. “The only person I would know to ask would be Aspasia.”
“Your former teacher?” I asked.
Socrates nodded. “She may have kept all of Pericles’ books and papers.”
Lamprocles’ face brightened. “Will you ask her?” Lamprocles beseeched him.
Socrates clapped his hands together and then raised them up and out toward us. “I think we should all go ask her,” he said, his voice full of adventure.
I wasn’t sure who “all” included. I sneaked a peak at Xanthippe, and she appeared uncertain, too. Does Xanthippe want to join us? It is one thing for me to sit at her table, in her house, in the world that she controls. It is quite another for her to venture out into a world she neither knows nor controls. My heart quickened as I reminded myself that while I may still be afraid of Xanthippe, perhaps she is also afraid of me.
I took a deep breath, turned to Xanthippe and addressed her directly for the first time since I had asked if Leda could assist with Sophroniscus’ birth. “Would you like to join us?” I asked. I placed my hands in my lap so that no one could see them shaking.
She stared at me in silence. Lamprocles’ eyes betrayed his astonishment, but Socrates only smiled.
“If you wish to walk with Lamprocles and Socrates, I will follow with Sophroniscus,” I offered, making it clear that I intended to show her every respect outside of this home as I had within it.
“I’ve never met Aspasia,” Xanthippe replied, looking at Lamprocles first and then at Socrates. “I believe I would like to go.”
“Excellent, my dear,” replied Socrates. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to Xanthippe, but somehow it didn’t matter. “Tomorrow we journey together to the house of Aspasia.”
27
WE LEFT AT sunrise and spent most of the morning walking to the house of Aspasia. She lived on the opposite side of the city on the sheep farm owned by her second husband Lysicles. As we walked, I wondered how any woman once married to a man as rich and powerful as Pericles could take a second husband. Of course, General Lysicles had died some years ago, too.
Lamprocles frequently walked beside me rather than ahead of me with his parents, and carried Sophroniscus most of the way. Sophroniscus was well past being tightly wrapped to my body in a tunic. At times he walked, but his interest lay in the world around us rather than in our destination. Lamprocles and I each took a hand so that he could lift his little legs and swing or take Herculean jumps in the direction we wanted him to go. Lamprocles entertained us both with tales of Odysseus’ adventures following the Trojan War.
As we approached the house of Aspasia, the late morning sun illuminated the face of the elegant mansion as if it were a true temple of Apollo. A sense of quiet excitement and anticipation connected us. Even Sophroniscus blinked quietly with awe. Socrates knocked on the house door igniting the bark of several dogs. After much rattling of bars and bolts, an attendant appeared.
“Socrates!” the man cried with delight. “Aspasia will be so pleased to see you! Do come in!”
Socrates introduced us each in turn so that we might be properly announced to Aspasia. “How is Aspasia?” he asked.
The man shrugged. “Her time with us is nearing its end. Yet the weaker her body grows, the stronger her mind and spirit become.” We passed through a long, dark corridor and back into the sunlight of a well-tended court. The man brought us water to drink and to cleanse ourselves of the long walk. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I announce you.”
Sophroniscus ran from white violets to blue hyacinths chasing a butterfly. Xanthippe reclined on a couch, surrounded by red and white roses. Her eyes followed Sophroniscus as he danced throughout the courtyard. Not long after we were all refreshed the man returned and ushered us into a dining room with seven ornate couches arranged along the walls, the head of one couch abutting the foot of the next. The doorway was somewhat off-center, creating a natural inclination to move to the right into the openness of the room, but a reclining figure on the second couch to our left captured our attention.
“Aspasia!” cried Socrates, kneeling beside her and showering her with affection.
“Forgive me for not rising to greet you properly,” she said, “but I am indeed delighted to see you and your family.” Her voice sang the words, creating an enchanting melody. As her deep blue eyes met mine, they drew me into a profoundly calm and safe place. Sophroniscus ran to her side and wriggled his body in between Socrates and the couch.
“May I present my sons, Lamprocles and Sophroniscus,” said Socrates, motioning to each in turn. Lamprocles approached and kissed her hand with respect. Sophroniscus just touched her hand and giggled. “And may I also present my wives, Xanthippe and Myrto.” We each bowed in turn. Men and women began carrying in trays of food and jars of wine, setting them on the tables in front of the couches.
As Socrates and Aspasia exchanged news of family and mutual friends, one alabaster jar on the table before Aspasia completely mesmerized me. Etched into the side of the jar was a symbol similar to the yin yang, but also different. Instead of the dark seed in the light water droplet and the light seed in the dark water droplet, the seeds were joined in the middle into a concentric circle. The circles were turned so that the river ran through them horizontally, like an ocean wave on the horizon. It looked rather like the sun setting on the ocean.
Once the tables were set, Aspasia bid us all to find a place and begin eating. Socrates took the couch nearest Aspasia and facing her with his feet in the corner of the room behind her head. Lamprocles took the couch next to Socrates, and Xanthippe took the middle couch on the wall opposite Aspasia. Rather than reclining on either side of Xanthippe, Sophroniscus and I shared the couch nearest Aspasia’s feet where I could continue to study the alabaster jar.
As we ate, Aspasia talked to Socrates about the mounting suspicion that had followed them both for decades. “Ever since those ridiculous comedies by Aristophanes,” said Aspasia. Aristophanes had written a comedy called The Acharnians more than 20 years ago that was most unflattering to Aspasia. Not long after that, he also wrote The Clouds portraying Socrates as a pompous, air-headed fool.
Socrates nodded and gave a hearty laugh. “It’s only because your beauty rivals Helen of Troy that people believed you alone launched our wars with Sparta!”
“You’ve always flattered me, Socrates,” Aspasia said shaking her head. “Still, the image Aristophanes’ painted of you as a buffoon in The Clouds may bring you harm even now. There are still those who talk of bringing charges against you for impiety.”
Thi
s was news to me. After the Thirty Tyrants were overthrown, I’d thought Socrates safe again. But I’d spent little time in the Agora since Sophroniscus was born to hear any talk for myself. I glanced at Lamprocles, who seemed to be avoiding my gaze.
“These are the same charges they threatened to bring against you after The Acharnians took first place at the Lenaea festival.” Socrates laughed. “The older I get, the less I worry about the gossip,” he said. “No one has posted a complaint against me yet.”
Yet. The word lingered uneasily in my mind. Socrates was approaching 70 years of age and unlikely to survive a prison sentence. I ate my food in silence.
When the meal was finished, Aspasia asked, “So what brings you to visit on this fine day?”
Socrates turned to Lamprocles and nodded. Lamprocles sat up to face Aspasia more directly. “We have read the books by Theano that you’ve given Socrates and have come in search of another book.”
Aspasia nodded. “What is it that you seek?”
“Little Cosmology by Democritus,” Lamprocles replied.
“I’ve read it,” Aspasia responded. “That and Big Cosmology by Democritus’ teacher Leucippus, but I cannot say whether or not I still have either one.” Aspasia called for an attendant. “Show Lamprocles to my library and give him a small cart that he can fill with whatever books he chooses,” she instructed. Then she turned back to Lamprocles. “Whatever books you find that interest you, you are welcome to keep.”
As Lamprocles departed, Aspasia motioned to Xanthippe to move to the couch where he had been sitting. “I have something for you, too, Xanthippe,” said Aspasia, “but first you must answer three questions. Will you indulge me and answer my questions honestly?”
Xanthippe appeared puzzled, but responded, “I will.”
“Very well,” sang Aspasia. “If your neighbor had finer gold jewelry than yours, would you prefer your own jewelry or your neighbor’s?”
Xanthippe looked to Socrates who nodded his encouragement for her to answer sincerely. Xanthippe studied the rings on her fingers and the bracelets on her wrists. She clasped the necklace in the palms of her hands and took a deep breath.