Glory and the Lightning (56 page)

She became frightened by her own fascination with him, and turned to listen to others. The conversation had advanced from whispered and intimate remarks with adjoining neighbors, and had become centered on the approaching three-day festival of plays, and other arts.

Sophocles, that gentle poet and writer of plays, had introduced three actors on the stage simultaneously, and he was famous for his delicate discrimination as well as for the power of his work. His play, Oedipus Rex, was to be produced again this year during the festivals, though some priests had protested that there was little religious dialogue or direction in the play.

“I have talked with him concerning a sequel to Oedipus,” said Zeno of Elea. “It would concern a man’s expiation of evil through penance and understanding of his own evil. He thought of it long and said he would remember our conversation and that he might, at some later date, write a sequel.”

“I respect Sophocles,” said Socrates, the light of controversy glittering in his brilliant and colorless eyes. “I grant you that expiation of a crime is most desirable. But the perpetrator of such a crime must be a man who undertook evil deliberately and with complete knowledge and will and malice. Oedipus was not such. His crime was an innocent one, in that he did not know he was committing it, did not do so with deliberation and will and malice, was not aware that his wife was his mother and that the hostile stranger he had encountered and killed was his father. He gouged out his own eyes for a crime of which he was intrinsically blameless, however we may find it horrifying. That was absurd of him, as was his self-exile.”

He smiled at the listening company. “In one way I am a Sophist. Truth, as they say, is often a matter of individual opinion, and varies with cultures and philosophies and religions, and, with governments. We can, therefore, call it subjective. The agreed truth is that Oedipus committed a crime against nature and law and order. But, the truth also is that he did not know he had committed a crime. Why, then, should he have expiated anything? Why should he even have engaged in an agonizing dialogue with himself, which led to his destruction?”

“But you, yourself, Socrates,” said Zeno, “have said that ultimate truth is attainable through dialogue and the defining of terms.”

“I have said,” Socrates replied, “or I meant, that an agreed-upon truth can be arrived at. But who knows it is the ultimate truth, however many agree? The terms we think we define exactly are often a mere accord on semantics, for a word which means something to one man may mean nothing to another. Therefore, in the very agreement we must admit that that agreement, itself, is subjective, and each man will retain his own version on what has been agreed.”

“You are disagreeing with yourself,” said Pericles, smiling.

“But, that is the function of philosophy! To assert a hypothesis, then demolish it!” He laughed his high piping laughter, at himself. “I affirm nothing, not even that I affirm nothing.” He continued: “If Oedipus had been a prudent man, given to reflection, he would have discerned that he was not truly guilty of anything at all. But he did not examine himself, and the unexamined life is not worth living.”

He turned his faun’s face on Pericles. “And what is our politician thinking of all this?”

“Do not mock politics,” said Pericles, with a slight edge of reproof in his words. “Would you tell me that politics are nothing to the man of mind? I do not say that a man who takes no interest in politics minds his own business. I say he had no business here at all.”

“Ah,” said Socrates. “That is true. I did not mean to offend.” He looked merrily at Aspasia. “Was it only two nights ago, Lady Aspasia, that we were discussing politics in your house? Will you repeat what you have said of government so that this company can not only have the pleasure of gazing at your face but of listening to your words?”

Aspasia blushed, and Pericles thought this most charming, for, again, she resembled a young girl. “It was nothing, Socrates,” she said. “But, if you wish, I will repeat it: Republics suppress aristocracy, democracies, freedom. What, then, is the best government? I have heard it said, from one who was a governor, that a benign despotism is the best, but as there are few benign men and despotism is abhorred by such, my—friend—was wrong. It is my belief that an aristocratic Republic is the best, though that may seem a contradiction in terms. Democracies are the worst; they become tyrannies, for the reason that when every man speaks, whether or not he is a fool or a wise man, chaos and shouting take over government and inevitably a strong if dangerous man assumes power. The man on horseback.”

Pericles looked at her fully and smiled at her with amusement. “You do no like our form of government?”

She hesitated, looking for mockery in him, but there was none. “I see it, in its present form, as a disaster to Athens.”

Pericles drank from his goblet and then said, “So do I.”

He thought of Ichthus, whom he still mourned unceasingly, and so did not see the look of surprise on some of the guests’ faces. But Anaxagoras nodded, and so did Zeno, and then Socrates. Pericles said, “There is a great clamor among politicians in Athens now that my plans to make her the diadem of the world, in art and poetry, in science and in marble and in learning, should be abandoned for ‘the domestic necessities of the people.’ In short, to pamper all the appetites of the mob, as one pampers cattle—for their milk. Votes. The tearful critics who shrill at me proclaim that their own plans arise from their love of humanity, but it has been the experience of history that when government pretends benevolence it really means it intends to abolish freedom. We have little enough now, the gods know. We shall have even less if those who prate of the purity of their intentions and their hearts prevail. An official who truly loves mankind seeks to elevate it through beauty and knowledge. An official who thinks only of bellies degrades mankind.”

He looked at his old teacher, Zeno, and said with respect, “What does the speaker in paradox think of this?”

Zeno considered. Then he sighed. “I am growing old, Pericles, and I discover more and more paradoxes, and no longer do they seem consistent to me. For instance, we long for that which is alien to our natures. The violent man craves peace, the coward, bravery. The dissonant speak of harmony, the placid, enterprise. The husbandman dreams of cities; the urban man of grass. He who cannot love admires love; the loving would often hate. Not in self-deceit are these. They are the unattainable, and therefore the stuff of poets. We philosophers, alas, are less astute. I no longer understand this world.”

Helena, seeing that her guests had taken on melancholy countenances, said with her robust smile and laugh, “Pindar has said that the best of healers is good cheer, so let us drink to this night and this gathering, for this moment is all we have.”

Aspasia gave her a look of fondness and for the first time she truly smiled and said, “Aeschylus has remarked that the pleasantest of all ties is the tie between host and guest. And so, let us drink to our dearest Helena, who condescends to teach one of my classes twice a week, in the art of medicine.”

After the toast had been drunk and the singers and harps had struck a lighter note, Pericles said to Aspasia, “Tell me of Persia, for I admire the Persians.”

Again she hesitated, and the pale veil of sadness drew down over her features. Then she began to speak to him alone in a quiet voice, as the guests had begun to jest among themselves and Helena was telling some of her more indelicate stories. Aspasia spoke of Al Taliph with difficulty yet with candor. As she became more eloquent, and saw that Pericles was regarding her with disconcertingly intent eyes, she was less constrained. A warmth pervaded her. She discovered she could now speak of Al Taliph without the overwhelming pain she had endured for several years. In fact she laughed gently now and then as she related some tale of his unpredictabilities and his acrid conversation. Yet she was not able to conceal from Pericles the sombreness of the aristocratic Mede, the bitterness under his sallies.

“I should have liked to have known him,” said Pericles, when she fell silent, smiling to herself at some memory. She looked up, started, and said as if with amazement, “He should have liked to have known you also, Pericles!” She knew this was true, and was even more astonished.

“In his terrible way, he was a great man,” she added, and now without any sorrow at all but only with admiration. “He never said a crafty or deceptive word, yet he was most elusive and inexplicable. He could be frightful, and then the kindest of men. We did not understand each other, yet—”

“You loved each other,” said Pericles. His jealousy seized his throat. “How fortunate was he to have had your love, Aspasia!”

“He was spared a deep suffering: He never knew I loved him,” she replied, and all at once her face was no longer young but grave with years.

“You speak in mysteries, Lady. Do you not believe in the real rapture of the love between a man and woman?”

“I have not found it. I think it is the imagination of poets.” She looked restive. She knew he was scrutinizing her with too deep an intensity, and it disturbed her. She did not know how she felt concerning this man; she did not want to be concerned with him at all, yet there was a powerful struggling in her, and an overwhelming fear. She said, “I must content myself with my school, in the hope that women will be recognized as human and be permitted to acknowledge talents. The world is poorer for lack of this recognition.”

She thought, in her confusion, to turn him away, but he said, “I hope this also. It was not so in Persia, was it? Did its women submit to their servitude?”

She was horrified at his perceptiveness, for she had not spoken of the monstrous oppression of women in Persia nor the women’s bland acceptance of their fate. She stammered, “Without a single protest!”

He said, “But the women of Athens have been protesting, though futilely, since Solon. At least a number of them are so doing. Athens is the richer for your presence, Aspasia.”

She murmured her thanks. She was more and more frightened. She could feel the warmth of his body, now so close to hers, and the scent of fern which rose from his garments. It was all like a threat—or an embracing—and she feared both. She half-started to her feet, involuntarily, in instinctive flight, then sank down again and a bright haze seemed to cover her eyes and she felt weak and undone. She looked timidly into his face and saw there only kindness and approval, and she thought again that there was something Olympian about him, something splendid, and a soft melting came to her and for some reason she wished to weep. She saw his strong white hand near hers. She longed for him to touch her, yet she shrank. Never had she experienced such an inner trembling, such a tumult of feeling, and she did not understand it. This was entirely different from her passion for Al Taliph, and she endured no pang of betrayal.

When Pericles and Helena were alone Helena said with an arch smile, “So, you have fallen in love with my beauteous Aspasia? Ah, do not suddenly look so stiff and annoyed. I have watched your face for hours. She loves lilies and the scent of them. Send her a sheaf tomorrow. You have touched her heart.”

“She is like a nymph who has never been awakened,” said Pericles.

The cynical Helena said with demureness, “Then, awaken her. For the last time, my Hercules, you may enter my bed tonight, in a farewell. I am not unhappy. My heart rejoices in your future happiness. But Aspasia will be hard to woo. I must pray especially to Aphrodite tonight.”

Pericles, lying with Helena in her bed, found that he could embrace her, not as a lover, but only as a tender brother or passionless friend. With alarm, he thought of impotence. However, Helena understood and kissed him with cool tenderness. For the first time, she thought, he had truly loved a woman and therefore—for a time at least—he would be indifferent to other women. Yes, I understand, she reflected, for when I had my beloved I saw no charms in other men, but alas, as I am a faithful woman, I still find few charms in them, remembering my love.

Aspasia lay sleepless in her chaste bed in her small and delightful house adjoining her austere school. The moon stood in her window, as white and pure as Artemis, and as cold. She turned from it, restlessly. She could think of nothing but Pericles, not as yet with joy, but with yearning and fearful agony. Al Taliph had been like a sleek and sinuous leopard, revealing eyes which reflected secret emotions but which would not answer an inquisitive glance. Pericles was like a lion, stately and regnant, deliberate and lonely, resembling a mountain. The man of the east and the man of the west were singular in that both possessed enormous strength, yet one had the strength of the unknowable and the other the strength of steel, flashing yet icy. One moved with subtle grace, the other with overt power.

She thought of a fragment which Sappho of Lesbos had written: “Now Love masters my limbs and shakes me, fatal creature, bittersweet.”

Again, she was frightened and was full of the instinct for flight. Then a deep sweetness came to her, a surrendering sweetness, and she wept and smiled, then slept, and dreamt that she was a girl again in a moonlit grove of myrtles.

PART THREE

Pericles and Aspasia

“Not houses finely roofed or the stones of walls well-builded, nay, nor canals and dockyards, make the City. But men able to use their opportunity.”

ALCACUS (611-580 B.C.)

CHAPTER 1

Daedalus, father of Dejanira, stood before the King Archon, shaking with hysterical rage, and cried, “It is infamous! A man in his position, who takes a notorious harlot, an open courtesan, to his bed and often to his house, should be impeached by virtuous citizens! At the very least, the ostraka should be used against him. He is a public outrage; he is a spendthrift; he is devious and unapproachable. He is robbing the treasury of the labor of the people, for his fantasies in architecture and his patronage of low artists and sculptors and barefoot philosophers!” Daedalus almost choked with his rage; he had become incoherent. When he could find his breath he burst out again: “A harlot, a notorious and infamous woman, who flaunts the modest feminine decencies and flaunts herself in public and debauches young girls! There is not a woman of immaculate morals who does not avert her eyes at the mention of her impious name! The people despise Pericles and demand redress and his removal from public office.”