Peace, now known so seldom by Pericles, came to him. He saw his white farmhouse in the distance, surrounded by cypresses and sycamores; he saw his olive groves and his sheep and lambs and goats and cattle and horses, and he felt more pride than when he addressed the Assembly, which rose in a rustle of garments at his entry, and bowed before him. He could even forget hatred here and the hot sickness that often assailed him. Above all, politicians needed a retreat where they could observe their unimportance, and feel, however vaguely, the Presence of God, not the dutiful gesture to the Godhead which was expected of them in public, but the immanent Presence which touched the heart and the spirit with verity, and only in solitude.
Aspasia, with Helena at her side, greeted Pericles joyfully. He embraced her with hunger and delight, careful of her swollen body. Her face shone like the moon; never had he seen her so beautiful, so young, so radiant. She took his hand and kissed it, and pressed it to her breast. She gazed at him adoringly. She was in transports. She threw back her pale golden hair and laughed, and there were tears in her brown eyes. She even babbled incoherently, and never had he heard this before, and he held her again as one more precious to him than his own life. Helena watched them with indulgent affection and humor. One was a trained and experienced courtesan; the other was the most powerful man in Greece. Yet they were as bride and groom, awaiting their first child, parents as simple as peasants, and as innocent and unknown.
The food of the farm was theirs, as the three dined together: new cheese, dark rich bread, little carrots and lettuce drenched with oil and vinegar, young roasted lamb, broiled fresh fish from the river nearby, fowl fried in olive oil and tender as butter, soup of green peas with pork—and, always, the wine from his autumn hillsides. The food had a taste not to be found in cities, though it was coarse and had no pungent sauces. It was like life, itself, fragrant and satisfying and poignant, yet hearty. Pericles thought, It is well I sent her here where life is, and health, and simplicity. He could even forget that he was Head of State in this tranquil and pellucid spot, and he felt like a robust peasant who had worked with his brown hands in the earth and had produced this warm bounty. He looked at the bowl of poppies and apple blossoms on the bare wooden table, and at the last sunlight illuminating everything with rosy gold, and he heard the sweet silence about him, and forgot he was a politician. He was a country man, under his white roof. A nightingale began to sing, and in the zenith Jupiter rode in sparkling majesty. A horse neighed; cows passing into paddocks let their bells tinkle. A melancholy dulcitude came to Pericles. He had removed his helmet. In his brown tunic he was only a farmer, but he had his land and that made him a king. I should come here more often, he thought, to escape the hot breaths of men and their shrill exigencies.
He was accustomed to talk politics and affairs of State with Aspasia. Now with ease he spoke as a countryman, of crops and orchards and farm animals and weather, and she smiled at him like a farm wife glad to have her husband home from the fields and partaking of the fruits of his own land. Contentment welled between them, and peace. Helena’s firm cheeks were reddened; Aspasia’s face bloomed like a flower, vermillion and white. She told Pericles she had picked the vegetables herself, and the blossoms. She showed him her lovely hands with pride, because the pink nails held the honest earth which she had been unable to remove. When Pericles had poured the libation to the gods her eyes had glittered with reverent tears. “God is close to us on His land,” she said. “It is hard to discern Him in the city.”
“He is drowned out in the voices of men,” said Helena, the skeptic. “Pheidias tells me he has to retire to his garden in order to evoke majesty, and to think, and see glory. He cannot do that in the Agora. Philosophy, it is apparent, and the arts, grow with the pace of turnips in the field.” She laughed. They looked at her affectionately, their hands clasped together.
Later, they retired to their rough chamber, where the walls were of unpolished wood, and pale gold. The floor was of stone; it was covered by no carpets, and was cool to the foot. The blankets were coarse, the linen prickling, and it was not bleached. Pericles held Aspasia in his arms; he would put his hand on her belly, to feel the kicking of his child. It was as if he had no other wife, no other children. The uncurtained windows were bare and open and they could smell the carnal passion of the warming earth and could hear nothing but the nightingales, the shrilling of insect voices and the night wind. Pericles had blown out the lamp. Stars gazed through the windows.
Aspasia slept, her head on his shoulder, her hands entwined with his, her round limbs seeking him, her breasts full and warm and preparing milk. Her hair was fragrant with the aroma of grass and sun. Her shift was of linen, and simple. She wore no scent. He felt her soft silken hair against his chin, and he kissed it. She sighed happily in her sleep, and murmured like a maiden awakened to love. Athens became unreal to him; his problems and his distresses were of no significance. He held the whole world in his arms, the world of life and labor and veritable joy. A dog barked sleepily; a cow lowed in the barns. A horse stamped. The only discordant note was the voice of a guard speaking to another guard. The wedge of the rising moon peered in the window. Pericles slept.
The next morning, clad as a countryman, Pericles rode with his men and slaves over his land. This farm was not his most profitable; it was, in truth, a peasant’s farm, including the farmhouse. His other farms were almost opulent in comparison, with villas for the visits of the owner. But he preferred this, a return to simplicity.
Aspasia was in the kitchen peeling onions for a soup when Helena joined her, and Helena smiled a little mockingly at her friend’s humble occupation. Aspasia said with an almost childlike joy, “Oh, if but Pericles and I could live here always, in such peace and such unaffected plainness! How happy we would be.”
“Nonsense,” said Helena, critically selecting a citron from a reed basket on the table and beginning to remove the peel. “This is a novelty for you, dear. Go to. What, no Agora, no banks, no shops, no booksellers, no music, no dinners with philosophers and artists, no dancing, no pleasant luxury, no jewelry or fine robes, no solicitous services of slaves in the baths, no gossip, no excitement, no stimulation of the mind, no sophisticated conversation, no politics, no discussions of the arts, no meeting of thoughts? Pah. I agree that every man should have a little quiet land of his own to which he can escape and renew his peace of mind and be freed from the burden of thinking.” She laughed, her blue eyes sparkling. “Oh, I can see you and Pericles here for all time, until you gnaw your knuckles for very ennui and dullness and too much quiet!”
Aspasia was at first offended, then she laughed and wiped her eyes with the back of one of her hands. “How we pretend to ourselves!” she said. “I have known nothing but opulence all my life and daintiness and excellent food and wine, and I admit I do not despise them. But, for a space, this is good. Let Pericles and I have this pretense for a little while.” She then asked of her friends in Athens.
“Anaxagoras is coming under attack, and I fear for him,” said Helena. “All of Pericles’ friends are being scrutinized, including me.”
Aspasia stopped smiling. “You, Helena, who have given your life to the saving of others and the mitigation of their diseases?” She was incredulous.
“Ah, but I am a dissolute woman! My lack of virtue is beyond dispute. I am a black example to modest wives and daughters. I am unchaste, and impious. I go publicly into the market place with no attendants; I am the companion of many men. I wear no veils of discretion. I do not titter and cast down my eyes and say childish things, as do other women. Therefore, I am a disgrace, the shame of Athens.” She paused. “As for Anaxagoras, and the others of Pericles’ friends, they, too, are impious. They question not only government, but religion and superstition. They are leading the youth of Athens to disaster and rebellion against authority; they ask youth to think as well as merely to obey. These are capital crimes, of a certainty.” She sucked at the citron and her eyes were darkly serious. “On one hand
we hear talk of the splendor and glory burgeoning in Greece, and worship it. On the other hand we would destroy those who have brought this splendor and glory to our country. It is not a new tale; it is the history of every nation. But we never learn. After we kill heroes we elevate them among the stars. But the gods do that also, so what can we expect from men?”
Aspasia looked through the window at the warm and pellucid sky, at the far wide peace of the fields, at the stands of dark cypresses, at the orchards and the cattle and the lambs and the goats and horses, all exuberant in the spring air. Birds swooped and darted like colored arrows in the lucent light. She was about to say something when she caught Helena’s mocking eye, and so was silent.
“Of a certainty,” said Helena, “a man who thinks will be forever unhappy, for who can come to terms with this world except the stupid? Still, it is better to think and conjecture and be unhappy than it is to be happy in ignorance. The divine discontent—it creates glory. Contentment? That is for the tomb.”
Aspasia said, her thoughts still with her dear friend, “You are not afraid for yourself, Helena?”
The physician shrugged. “Of what avail is fear? If one ponders on it long enough one becomes cautious, and caution has blinded and deafened and made impotent too many who should have been bold. I despise prudence—to some extent. I do not court death or any other punishment. But I must live as I must, according to my nature, or expire, one way or another. What is it?” she asked quickly.
For Aspasia had suddenly put her hand to her belly and had gasped. Her face had paled and sweat had broken out on her brow. “A pain, a great pain,” she stammered, and all at once she was afraid. But Helena was calm. “The child is due. Let us repair to your chamber, where I have placed the birthing stool and my instruments. Let the slave woman continue with this preparation of food.”
“Pericles,” Aspasia murmured, as another pain seized her, causing her to bend deeply.
“Nonsense,” Helena said with briskness. “How can he assist? Men are only a trouble when women give birth. They become hysterical, and they dither. Let him look at his growing turnips and cabbages and talk of manure to his slaves; let him examine the new corn. Let us pray he does not return soon.”
She conducted Aspasia to her austere chamber and told the slave women to prepare towels and linens and oils and heat water and wine. She put Aspasia on the birthing stool and sat down placidly near her. If she were concerned about Aspasia’s age—she was thirty-four—and this a first child, she did not reveal it. She talked genially of Athens and their friends and politics, but ever watchful, counting the contractions. They were still not very fast. Occasionally she rose and wiped the sweat from Aspasia’s face with a cool cloth dipped in water of nard. She made no comment on this. She still conversed as she felt the other woman’s pulse. Her conversation was matter-of-fact; she did not discuss the coming birth. When she saw Aspasia was in pain, she told her a lewd joke, and Aspasia laughed. The sunlight came through the window, and the fresh scent of the jubilant earth. A bird, whose feathers were blue and gold, lighted on the window-sill and sang. “It is a good omen,” said Helena.
Aspasia began to writhe on the stool. Helena said, “It is not a good thing for a woman in labor to lie in bed. Now you must stand and walk.” She took Aspasia’s arm and led her up and down the chamber. Two slave women, crouching in a corner, wide-eyed, stared at the two. The garden slaves were singing; a fragrance of grass and lilacs blew into the room. A bee flew through the window and buzzed against a wall. A slave woman would have killed it but Helena said, “Let there be no death here. It is an industrious thing, the bee, and we should honor it.”
Helena permitted Aspasia to lie on her bed for a few moments while she examined her. She said, with satisfaction, “The head is already presenting itself. There are some physicians who hasten labor. I do not. Nature knows more than we. In your case, my dear, there will be little difficulty.”
Aspasia gasped. “What women must endure!” she said.
Helena forced a yawn. “It is no high tragedy,” she replied. “Do we not all endure travail in our lives? Besides, in the case of giving birth it is not only women who suffer. We suffer with other female animals, who assign no importance to it.” However, she was somewhat concerned. The enclosed child’s head was indeed presenting itself at the cervix, but the birth bag had not yet broken.
She made Aspasia walk again. Then she let her lie on her bed, and forced her legs apart. She hid a small instrument in her hand and then inserted her hand into the birth canal. She punctured the bag. Aspasia cried out as a gush of fluid mingled with blood ran from her. Helena was satisfied. Now the birth could proceed. She put Aspasia on the birthing stool again and knelt before her, her instruments at her side, and the high forceps which Hippocrates had invented. At her command a slave woman brought a pail of hot water and soap and Helena, as Hippocrates had taught her, washed the instruments and her hands over and over and then dried them on clean towels. The air was becoming warmer, more fervid. Helena, herself, might have been a hearty and very plump countrywoman herself, as she knelt before her patient, her brow wet and streaming, her auburn hair darkening with water. When a strong contraction came she pressed gently on Aspasia’s belly, pushing down. Aspasia’s gasps and groans became louder. “Do not draw deep breaths,” said Helena. “It delays birth. Press down as I press, even if it increases the pain.”
Aspasia was very pale and drawn. Helena studied her. Then she rose and mixed a murky liquid in wine. “Drink this,” she said. “It will ease you.”
Aspasia, beyond speech now, drank obediently. Her mouth contorted. “Opium,” said Helena. “I give it seldom for it inclines to delay the birth and the child is also affected. So says Hippocrates. However, you are near delivery, so it will not injure you or your child.”
The opium rapidly affected Aspasia, and she entered a dreaming state. At one moment everything was bathed in too much hurtful clarity, so that each object in the room and even Helena wore a bright outline and every mote of dust was painfully shining, and at the next moment everything was still and quiet and at a distance. Aspasia’s mind became confused. She was not separate from her pain; she was agony itself and no longer a distinct personality. Darkness sometimes fell over her straining eyes. Someone was panting in the room, or, was it eternity and not a room? Little bright moons swam before her; she tried to watch their passage; they too were physical anguish. She willed them to move more rapidly, to leave her in peace. They merely mocked her by increasing and dancing. Once she thought—and even her thoughts seemed far out in space—what we pay for an hour’s delight! It seemed to her that she had come on a profound truth which no one else had ever discerned, and she was for a moment elated. She must write it down, and talk of it with Pericles, who would marvel.
Now in the darkness before her she discovered a far and brilliant star and she watched it moving and waxing and waning. All at once she told herself that now she was embowed with all wisdom, that the star was a revelation of infinite and immortal Being, with whom her own soul was intermingled. Nothing was hidden from her. She possessed all knowledge, and a strange ecstasy seized her. She thought that she was speaking the words of Sibyls, but she was only muttering incoherently. Now she could see Helena in a haze. It seemed to her that she must impart what she knew to this woman, this friend, lest it disappear forever.
Helena’s voice came to her in a strong and peremptory fashion. “Do not sleep. Press down your belly.”
But what have I to do with my flesh? Aspasia asked herself with superb amusement. It surprised her that Helena could be so obtuse. A sudden unbearable pain tore her, but it was still apart from her. She gazed at the star again. She felt hands take her roughly, lift her, put her on her bed. There was one appalling convulsion, which slowly died away into night. She slept.
It was sunset, red and burning, when she awoke, flaccid and exhausted. She was in her bed and Pericles was bending over her, smiling. He was holding her hand. She looke
d up at him and said, “I have seen all things.” She heard Helena laugh.
“We have a son,” said Pericles, “a beautiful son, with hair of gold and with blue eyes, and he is very fat. He is perfect.”
She clung to his hand. She said, “Pericles,” and she spoke of both her lover and her child. She slept again, her cheek in the palm of Pericles’ hand, and she sighed with joy that the pain was over and that her bed was soft and that her beloved would never leave her.
To Aspasia, her child was a miracle. No other woman had ever given birth to such excellence, such beauty. She was amazed at him; she examined him with awe. It was morning and Pericles sat beside her in his rude countryman’s tunic, his knees already burned by the sun, his stern face youthful. “Never was there such a wonder,” she said to him, and he smiled. Helena, standing near him, said, “Life is always a wonder, and marvelous and full of mystery.” Aspasia knew compassion for her friend, Helena, who had never given birth. She felt the strong sucking of her son at her breast, and she was overcome with happiness. She said to Helena, “Oh, beloved, if only you had given birth to a child!”
“The gods have been kind to me,” said Helena in a satirical voice, and she pushed Pericles’ shoulder.
She and Pericles went outside into the lyrical morning light. “What is it?” she asked of Pericles. “I heard a messenger ride up to this house just before dawn, and I see that you are greatly disturbed.”