Jason said in a faint voice, “He was a most iniquitous man.”
The next day Anaxagoras said to Pericles, “God took His own way in avenging Ichthus.”
Pericles smiled at him blandly. “Was it not fortunate? I did not have to intervene.”
Anaxagoras answered the smile with his own, though reluctantly. “Who shall limit the instruments of God? He often employs men to carry out His will.” He drank from a goblet of wine and said, “However, do not presume too often, Pericles, in deciding that what you do is His will. He may have other plans.”
CHAPTER 13
Pericles arrived at the house of his beloved Helena, who greeted him with her usual robust and rosy smile, and embraced him. “I fear I shall lose you tonight, O Apollo.”
“Never, my Hebe,” he said, kissing her soundly and stroking her auburn hair in which were diamond pins he had given her. They were no brighter than her eyes. He smacked her rump and she led him from the atrium into the dining hall, laughing. She whispered a short lascivious joke to him, and he smiled in appreciation though he did not admire lewdness in women except in the bedchamber. But physicians were famous for their improper jests.
The dining hall was already filled with guests, though they had not yet seated themselves. Slaves went among them with wine, beer and whiskey and various savory tidbits. The silken curtains at doors and windows moved in a brisk breeze and there was a sullen stalking of thunder in the hills and an occasional flash of blue lightning. Beautiful Egyptian and Damascan lamps of glass and gold and silver stood on the long waiting dining table, and hung from the frescoed ceiling where nymphs and satyrs and fauns frolicked in intense colors. The table was strewn with late roses and lilies and ferns in delicate patterns and the air of the dining hall was suffused with their fragrance. The chairs and the divans, both at the table and against the yellow marble walls, were rich with silk and velvet of many hues, which were all harmonious. Even the Chinese vases, overflowing with blossoms in the corners and against the walls, had been chosen with meticulous taste for their form and their decorations. Helena was a physician; she was also a woman of great artistry and discrimination.
Helena rarely if ever entertained dull and stolid matrons so Pericles knew that the beauteous women present were rich and courted and beguiling courtesans, all selected for their appearance, wit and intelligence and gifts of entertainment. With pleasure he observed that his friends, Zeno of Elea and Anaxagoras, were among those present. But with surprise he saw the roughly clad young man, Socrates, with his goatlike beard and vivacity and ugly face. Even more to his surprise, Pericles saw that Zeno and Anaxagoras were listening to him intently and with evident pleasure. Also present was the shy sculptor, Pheidias.
Pericles had halted in the archway with Helena and so he surveyed the guests, particularly the women, before entering the hall. Beautiful women were no novelty to him; he knew most of them present and had enjoyed their loveliness and their conversation. Then he saw the stranger, and his heart rose like a fountain in him and he was lost.
She was the woman of his figurine and of his dreams, with whom, in a drunken fantasy, he had consummated his marriage with Dejanira. She was not young; she was in her early twenties and so had lost the first freshness of youth. But she had the maturity of a ripe pear, of opalescent grapes ready for the treading. She was speaking gravely to Pheidias, a goblet in her hand, and the sculptor appeared entranced. She was much taller than Pheidias, and, unlike the other women’s her hair, a cobweb of silvery gold, flowed simply down her back and almost to her knees. She wore a garland of pink rosebuds. She had the easy grace and slenderness of a trained courtesan, and the courtesan’s elegance of movement and gesture. Her robe was of green silk, Pericles’ favorite color, and seemed to flow about her body like tinted water rather than fabric, and so outlined her incredibly perfect body. Her breasts were high and full, her waist delicate and fragile, her hips swelling daintily. Her waist was entwined with a girdle of gold, blazing with gems, and there were armlets clasped about her round white arms and bracelets about her small wrists and a multitude of flashing rings on her adorable hands. She wore golden shoes, also ablaze with jewels, and when she moved a little Pericles saw her ankles, as beautifully wrought as a statue’s. There was, to Pericles, a strange air about her, a lack of personal consciousness, a lack of artifice, in spite of the splendor of her garments and her jewels, in particular a necklace of incomparable opals set in rubies and diamonds. Her intimate attention was not on herself, unlike other women, but upon Pheidias to whom she listened with intensity and respect. The sculptor seemed almost animated in her presence, forgetful of his shyness, his eyes glowing eagerly. He had lost his stammer; his gestures were vehement; he shone with excitement, and Pericles marveled.
Pericles looked at her face, disbelieving that any countenance could reveal so faultless a contour, whether she was in profile or facing him.
Her face, like her arms and shoulders and neck, had a translucence, as if light went through them rather than around them. Her cheeks and lips were a natural vermillion, her brown eyes like wine, her nose and her brow clear and pure, as was her dimpled chin. Her mouth, Pericles saw, had a certain lovely sternness about it, as if she had suffered much, and she had a tranquility which was not assumed but natural. She appeared composed and restrained, and betrayed discipline. Sometimes she threw back her hair with a pretty impatience, but never stopped listening to Pheidias whom she apparently found magical. Once she smiled and dimples raced over her cheeks and about her mouth. Above all was her aspect of extreme intelligence.
“Aspasia,” whispered Helena, smiling broadly. “The harpy, the Medusa.”
Pericles confusedly thought of Helen of Troy, of nymphs and dryads, of green water and moonlight, of fire and flame and snow, of hushed restful glades, and of storms. This woman was all women in one person. Yet, she did not have the appearance of pliancy and complaisance, for all her feminine attributes. She was a woman of convictions, of certitude, of mind, and he, well acquainted with human nature, knew that she could be bent through love but never broken. Passions might rule her briefly, but never would they destroy her. Always, she would remain herself, intact and invulnerable. There was something formidable about this, something that warned against vulgar intrusion, for she implied explicit aristocracy.
Once or twice she turned her head and looked at Pericles, but as if she did not really see him. He saw that her eyes were lustrous and autumn topaz and filled with brilliant lights like moving water in the sun. Still, they were unreadable, starred with golden lashes. He thought of a forest pool, shifting with shadows as wind blew the trees, holding secrets, seeing nothing but its own being.
In that he was wrong. Aspasia, though listening with all her attention to Pheidias, had noticed Pericles immediately and knew who he was. An instant glance had revealed his tall stature to her, his strength of compact body, his tawny mane of hair like a lion’s, his air of power and assurance, not flaunting but immediate. She had seen his face, calm and impassive and rigorously controlled, his strong straight nose, his carved severe lips. She also saw his helmet, which he invariably wore even on festive occasions, and which hid his towering brow and skull. He wore a tunic of green and a toga of white linen and a silver girdle and there were silver armlets on his arms and he wore one jewel on his finger, a sapphire as blue and as iridescent as a Grecian sky. He is puissant, she thought, a man of men, and Helena had not exaggerated in her buoyant enthusiasm. He had eyes so very pale that they seemed to have no focus at all. She doubted that they ever overlooked anything, even of the smallest importance. Above all, he had Olympian grandeur.
She was stirred for the first time since she had left Al Taliph, and she was annoyed with herself. She had vowed never to look again on a man with interest or provocation. How different they were, the man of the unknowable and intricate east, and this western man who had the appearance of immovable marble. She saw that his eyes were fixed on her, those inexplicable eyes which reveal
ed nothing. No doubt to him she was just another beautiful woman, ripe for exploitation. She would enlighten him. Helena had assured her that Pericles was not as other men, but the skeptical Aspasia had not believed this.
She permitted a slave to refill her goblet with Syrian whiskey. She drank with almost the same gusto as Helena. She glanced briefly at Pericles. He did not display any distaste or disapproval. Now Helena and Pericles were advancing on her and she showed them a face without expression, and not even a smile. She said to Pheidias, in her lovely voice, “We must continue this conversation, for I, too, think of Athens as the glory of Greece.” She turned to Helena and Pericles and her eyes were merely expectant and courteous. Helena had told her, “Pericles is a man who respects women and does not regard them as animals fit only for breeding, or stupid. When you know him you may be able to exert influence on him.” Aspasia had smiled cynically to herself. Helena was an intelligent woman but Aspasia suspected her of being too ardent in her relations with men, and too gullible, for Helena had boasted of her lovers, all of whom, according to her, were men of intellect as well as distinction, and who had regard for women. Aspasia was now mistrustful of all men, remembering Al Taliph. She had led an ascetic life since leaving him, despite the malicious rumors in Athens. She had promised herself over and over never to love another man. That way led to destruction. Thargelia had been correct.
But still she loved and anguished after Al Taliph, and yearned for his kisses and arms.
Helena embraced Aspasia, as she had embraced her earlier, and exclaimed, “You grow more entrancing every moment, my dear friend! Behold! Pericles, son of Xanthippus, Head of State, has deigned to grace our dinner tonight. I have told you much of him.” She glanced humorously at Pericles, who took Aspasia’s hand, bowing, and kissed it.
“Rumor has not lied of you, Lady,” he said, and she was pleased by his eloquent voice.
“Of what has it said concerning me?” she asked, and he saw the bright watery lights in her eyes dancing.
“Only that which was laudatory,” he replied. He still held her hand and smiled down at her.
“You are gracious, lord,” she said. “But I do not believe you.” He saw that she had a mischievous look, almost saucy, and that she suddenly appeared as a young girl. He held her hand tighter, when she tried to withdraw it. She frowned slightly and her smile disappeared. She felt a tremor through her body; where his lips had touched her hand there was a burning, a smarting, which ran up her arm. She had not felt this for two years and she was frightened. She was confused; she saw the pallor of his eyes and knew him to be inexorable, and all at once she was excited and the tremor was stronger in her flesh.
“I have heard of your school, Lady,” he said.
“That is good, lord. I educate young ladies from the age of twelve to seventeen, so that they may be worthy citizens of Athens.” She waited for a jocular remark, for a shrug. But he was regarding her seriously. “Alas,” he said, “they cannot vote.”
“Once, in Homeric times, they did, lord. Surely a woman is as worthy to vote as the market rabble!”
His powerful interest in her heightened. Here was no light woman; his first opinion of her was confirmed. “I agree with you, Lady. I had a very intelligent mother, who was worth ten thousand of the street men.”
He smiled over his shoulder at Pheidias, who was shyly trying to retire. “Pheidias,” he said, “I have much to discuss with you, and your plans to glorify our city.”
“Ah, yes, Pericles, I am at your service. I have sketches drawn, for the Parthenon.” Pheidias’ face was illuminated. “I hope you will approve of them.”
Pericles nodded, then turned to Aspasia again, whose hand he still held. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you teach your young ladies in your school, which has acquired some renown?”
“History, science, art, mathematics, medicine, patriotism, poetry, literature, responsibility, esteem for one’s self, astronomy, architecture—whatever path their native talents suggest.” She waited for an upraised eyebrow, but Pericles was still serious. She continued, “Not domestic duties, which are the province of their mothers, nor religion, which is the province of their priests.”
“Not dancing, not singing?”
“No. The arts of entertaining are to be taught by their mothers.” Now Aspasia’s dimples reappeared. “Surely their mothers are expert in that, having husbands!”
“Are all your young ladies intelligent, Aspasia?”
“I accept none whom I have not personally questioned, and chosen. I want no fools in my classes, to exasperate teachers and to degrade the teaching rooms. My school is not a place for frivolities and chatter and gossip. I also teach gymnastics, for the health of the girls and to develop their bodies. As the Greeks say, a sound mind needs a sound body, if it is to be effective.”
“I have seen many great men who were not sound of body, Aspasia. And many men of sound bodies who have the minds of pigs.”
‘True, lord. They both labor under misadventure. I do what I can in my school. I have two young ladies who have deformed limbs, who are extremely intelligent. How they escaped infanticide I do not know, except that they were rescued by their mothers.”
“It is a most extraordinary school,” Helena said, noting that despite Aspasia’s small struggles Pericles did not relinquish her hand. “You must send earnest men to observe it.”
“I will remember,” said Pericles. It was a polite remark but Aspasia believed that he spoke the truth and not idly.
“I have heard that you are an Ionian and that you have spent some years in Persia,” said Pericles.
So, she thought, he knows much about me. She looked at him directly with her luminous eyes. “I was the companion of a Persian satrap for nearly five years. No, he was a Mede.”
“He let you leave him?” he asked in an incredulous tone.
“No. I left him.” She drew a quick breath, and her eyes did not avert themselves. “It broke my heart, but I had to leave him, for never shall I understand the east. Two years ago he died, and left me a vast fortune. He had sought me earlier but could not find me.” Her eyes were suddenly filled with mist. “His lawyers were more successful. I am using his money in my school, though he would hardly have approved of that.”
She did not speak as the Greek and other women spoke, timidly and fearfully, averting their eyes when addressing a male stranger. She spoke, rather, with the forthrightness of a man, and with simplicity. There was an absolute fearlessness about her; she had his own assurance.
So, thought Pericles, she still loves her satrap, and love is women’s armor against other men. Here, he reflected, was a woman who once giving her heart gives it passionately and perhaps for life. For some reason this vexed him. Despite what Helena had told him of Aspasia he had believed that she would be delighted to fall into his arms, he the Head of State, and a rich and handsome man. After all, she was a courtesan. Now he was uncertain, and his yearning for her increased. She was no longer even faintly smiling at him. Her face had paled a little, as if at memory, and with sorrow. Seeing this, he felt a deep respect for her, and a gentleness, and he longed to hold her and console her, not with passion but with a tender understanding he had never felt for a woman before.
The thunder which had been snarling in the mountains now advanced on the city and the lightning glittered and flared at every window and door and the wind rose and shouted against the walls. Slaves scurried to close every portal and window, drawing curtains, securing bolts. But outside, the trees began to roar and whiten in the approaching storm.
“You must tell me of your Persian, or Mede,” Pericles said. “They are a mighty people, brave beyond imagining, with a magnificent history. I revere them, for all I am a Greek.”
“They are beyond our understanding, they being of the east,” Aspasia replied, and a sigh lifted her breast. All at once he saw her grief fully.
The guests repaired to the dining table, laughing and vehemently arguing, and Pericles, forge
tting even his Helena, led Aspasia to the chair which stood beside the ornate divan reserved for him as the most distinguished guest. He could smell her perfume, that of lilies, and he wondered if that had pleased the Persian satrap, and that she wore it in memory of him. He felt a pang of jealousy. Nard became her more, or heliotrope. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, though he saw that she was not deliberately voluptuous, and used no conscious arts or seductions. There was a certain pure clarity about her, almost virginal, for all she had been a courtesan. He no longer believed in the vile rumors about her. She had put from her, like a garment, the lessons she had been taught by Thargelia, the artifices and smirks and graces destined to lure and hold a man. If she had any passions now it was for her school. He had heard that she had had lovers in order to obtain money for her young ladies’ tutoring. He knew it was not true. The satrap had left her a fortune. He must have loved her dearly, Pericles thought, with a stronger pang than before, and now with resentment. He decided he hated the satrap who had brought her to his bed from Thargelia’s house.
The guests began to seat themselves, still arguing. Suddenly the thunder became a deeper, heavier sound, a subterranean rumbling, and the earth moved and the lamps and curtains in the dining hall swayed. The guests looked at each other with dismay. “Pluto,” said one, “is stirring on his black bed. Doubtless Proserpine lies in his arms.” Some laughed, though uneasiness had them. They waited for another ominous rumble, but it did not come. The curtains fell into place, and the chattering of plates and cutlery and glass ceased.
“It is strange,” said Socrates in his high and piping voice, “that the forces of nature disturb us more than do the utmost ferocities of men. That is because we cannot control nature but we can exhibit even worse ferocity to enemies.”