Pericles said, “I have just received a message that Anaxagoras has been arrested, on the accusation that he has been teaching impiety and heresy, and that death has been recommended for him.”
Helena made a sound of angry protest. “What will you do?” she asked.
“I must return to Athens at once, and save him.”
“Yes, you must go,” she said. “Do not fear for Aspasia. Fear for Greece.”
“Do I not always? The gods have struck her with lightning and glory, but there are always men! We must invariably fight our brothers that even they may survive and not be the victims of their own crimes and stupidity.”
She put her hand on his arm and said with gentle affection, “Go at once. Do not see Aspasia again, lest she be troubled. I will tell her later.”
CHAPTER 9
Pericles found Anaxagoras in the same prison where Ichthus had been incarcerated and had died. But Anaxagoras was not in a pleasant cell, for he was poor and only a philosopher. A dim lantern hung on the sweating walls of the corridor and shone fitfully into the cell, where Anaxagoras was lying on a bed of straw. Pericles had come directly from the road to this noisome place and was covered with silvery dust and was weary. Before he even spoke to his friend he said in cold rage to the guards, “Remove my friend immediately to a large cell with a window, and bring him wine and fruit and cheese and bread.” He had seen a brown plate on the floor with a repulsive mixture on it, which Anaxagoras had not eaten.
Anaxagoras opened his great blue eyes and he started and gazed at Pericles with pleasure and raised himself on his elbow. His magnificent face was gaunt and drawn, but he had retained his air of utter serenity. He rose slowly to his feet while the guards unlocked the door of the cell. Pericles took him by the arm and, led by the guards, they proceeded to a larger, warmer and airier cell. A guard went for the ordered food and returned, placing it on a bare wooden table. During this interval Anaxagoras and Pericles did not speak, but only exchanged smiling glances.
When the astonished but respectful guards had left, saluting, Anaxagoras embraced Pericles and said, “I am overjoyed to see you, beloved friend, but you should not have come here. You endanger yourself.”
“The time has come,” said Pericles, “when one should not consider such danger, but how to preserve what small freedom we yet retain. Now, you must tell me the charges.” He sat down at the table and poured wine for Anaxagoras and broke bread and cheese for him. They began to eat and drink together. Anaxagoras sank into thought and looked dreamily at the wall. Then he said, “I do not know. I was teaching in my small academe when the government guards arrested me. They told me I had committed an offense against the State, by impiety, heresy and corruption of youth, and so was an enemy of the people. On query they said the charges had been placed against me by Daedalus, the Archon.”
“So,” said Pericles. He had removed his dust-covered mantle and helmet. The light of the lantern flittered over his hard face and lofty forehead.
“I will, tomorrow, appear before the Assembly to defend you.”
“I beg of you, no,” said Anaxagoras, and his eyes filled with sharp anxiety. “Your former father-in-law will halt at nothing. He has powerful friends in the government.”
“In short, they are striking at me through you,” said Pericles. His weary face flushed with rage, but his voice remained quiet. “I will, then, be defending myself and my office against these scoundrels.” He thought of his son, Paralus, and Aspasia, who had been wantonly attacked in order to injure him. “Do not protest. Had you not known me you should not now be in this predicament.”
Anaxagoras shook his head. “You are wrong, dear friend. It would have happened to me eventually, even if you had not known me, as it has happened before to others.”
But Pericles was frowning in thought. “Have they witnesses against you?”
Anaxagoras spread out his hands. “Who knows? My students? My friends, with whom I have conversed often? It is impossible to know.”
“Be sure they have witnesses who will eagerly aid them to exile or imprison you or kill you. Doubtless, they are avowed friends.”
Anaxagoras regarded him with compassion.
“Tell me,” said Pericles, “have you been expounding some new theories which conflict with the accepted religious dogmas?”
Anaxagoras sank into thought. Finally he said, “They were extensions of what I have already been teaching. Only recently I repeated that there were no magical or supernatural or godlike interventions in eclipses, meteors, rainbows or comets. They were only manifestations of the eternal order, founded by God, and could be predicted. You will remember I predicted an eclipse of the moon three weeks before it occurred, and related that it is but the shadow of the earth between the moon and the sun. This enraged the authorities, who, on the eclipse, called upon the people to pray that the moon would not be obliterated. They sent criers through the streets, shouting, armed with torches and carrying statues of the gods. My students laughed. This was unpardonable, of a certainty. The priests were particularly enraged. Had they been a little more stupid they would have declared that I, Anaxagoras, through sorcery, had caused the eclipse, but then the whole populace would have laughed.”
He, himself, laughed gently, but Pericles remained somber.
“I wrote a thesis,” said Anaxagoras, and Pericles winced. The written word was far more dangerous than the spoken. “I said it was my belief that all things that exist now had existed from eternity, and would continue to exist, whether it was the material of the stars and their planets or the life of living organisms. Not their immediate manifestations, but in other forms. While all is flux and change, the innate patterns remain, though giving rise to either more intricate manifestations or simpler on the base of their original matrix. This was because, I wrote, all matter, whether of stars or a blade of grass, are only an illusion of form, for all things are composed of infinite particles which are not matter at all, but only energy. In short, all things, suns, planets, galaxies, dust, trees, the earth itself, constellations, flowers, men, birds, insects, wheat, water, wine, houses and temples, mountains and marble, furniture and statues and murals, oceans and continents, are but one dynamic force and are indications of one endless pattern of energy which can change itself—perhaps by accident or by the will of God. There is only a Oneness in all that we see, hear, feel, touch, taste and smell, despite the apparent differentiations, and so variety of apparent objectivities is only an illusion. I even ventured,” said Anaxagoras, “that nothing really exists but the Mind of God, which contains all manifestations and apparencies, and therefore is subjective.”
When Pericles did not comment, Anaxagoras said, “To put it more simply, everything that exists is only in the Mind of God, and in His dreams, and there is nothing but His Mind.”
Pericles put his head in his hands and groaned. “That neatly disposes of the gods, who, our priests say, are overt and material.” He laughed grimly. “In short, as you surmise, the gods themselves are subjective.”
Anaxagoras looked depressed. “That was possibly the conclusion of the priests.” He added, “But, was my thesis blasphemous? God contains everything and all things. Surely that reveals His majesty. For He is all, and there is nothing else. He is Energy, itself, and weaves, like a weaver, patterns without end, and evokes changes which are yet the same. He cannot disobey His own divine Laws, which He established from eternity. If He once disobeyed His own Laws, then all would be chaos and darkness. He is the Law. If the Law disintegrates, nothing would exist any longer.”
“I see,” said Pericles. “Our gods constantly disobey the laws of decency, morals and justice and mercy. Therefore, they do not exist—except in particles of mindless energy,” and he laughed without mirth.
“That is the interpretation of the priests of what I have taught. It is not mine.”
“Did you truly expect that the average man would understand your thesis?”
“One can only try,” replied Anaxag
oras. “It is the duty of those who teach to speak the truth, though all teachers know only a small portion of what they teach. There is such a thing as integrity.”
“Which is very rare,” said Pericles.
Anaxagoras looked down at his veined and elegant hands. “I also wrote, in that thesis, that there is but one God, and not a variety of male and female antagonists.”
“How thoroughly you disposed of all the goddesses,” said Pericles, “and most of our gods.”
“Who were created in our own image—by men,” said Anaxagoras. He looked again into space. “There is but one God, in Whom all things exist. I wrote, in my thesis, that the endless colors and forms of nature, in both land and sea, exist because He moved over the world in music, and in the diversities of His music rose the varieties which we discern, the multitude of varieties.” His blue eyes sparked with fervor. “Who shall limit God to the dimensions of men? Only blasphemers.”
“True,” said Pericles, “therefore you must recant the truth.”
“If I do, then am I myself destroyed and there is no meaning to my existence.” His eyes glowed. “I believe in one God, eternal and unchanging, even if manifestations appear to change, as a lute and a lyre and a drum change tempo though remaining themselves as entities, unchanging.”
He looked at Pericles earnestly. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I am no philosopher, Anaxagoras. I am only a politician. I discern, dimly, what you mean, but only dimly. Zeno would understand you more.”
Anaxagoras sighed. “Philosophers are also egotists. They deny all philosophies but their own, which they believe is divine revelation.”
“Including yours?”
Anaxagoras chuckled. “Including mine.” Then his face became grave. “I do believe, however, that future ages will understand what I have been saying. Perhaps to their glory. Perhaps to their death. When men grasp the fact that all apparent things are only energy, and that energy can be manipulated—it may be the end.” He was graver than before. “I do not dispute with God. But would it be wise to give man the secret of the universe?”
“Perhaps,” said Pericles, “God is weary of man and his stupidities and his evils. Therefore, He will give the secret so that man can choose between life and death.”
Pericles stood up and began to pace the cell. “That is a terrible and momentous choice, considering the limitations of men’s capacities. It is as though we gave the secret of guiding a fleet into the hands of children.” He looked at his friend. “Our minds approach the universal but our tongues are the gross tongues of apes. We communicate with each other in the meagre language of the jungle, even while our thoughts are afire. That is the tragedy of mankind.”
“We must find a different mode of communication, then, Pericles.
Mind to mind, and not tongue to tongue. For, despite what Socrates has said, there is no defining of terms which are relevant to every man. Our emotions intrude.” He smiled faintly. “In the midst of discussions, sometimes flaming and exalted, my students have to repair to the latrines. When they have taken care of their animal needs the divine flame has left them.”
“Perhaps that is the curse which God has inflicted on man.” Pericles laughed. “It is possible that God, Himself, does not wish us to complete our knowledge, so our intestines demand our attention.”
Anaxagoras said, “In the middle of an elevated conversation I spilled a plate of beans on my lap, and that ended the discussion, as my students hovered about me—picking up the beans and commiserating and wiping the debris from my garments.”
“It was possibly a relief for them. You terminated their thinking.”
He refilled Anaxagoras’ goblet and leaned back in his chair. The friends were much refreshed not only by the wine and food but by their conversation. Pericles said, “If I let this pass, and they exile or kill you, then I am guilty of betraying my country. So, I will not let this pass.” He looked at his friend, who was about to protest. “I assume, for the sake of peace and your freedom and your life, that you will not recant, and beg the pardon of the government?”
“Of a certainty, no!” exclaimed Anaxagoras, astonished. “I cannot deny the truth I know.”
“Hmm. Do you recall what Sophocles has told us: Truly, to tell lies is not honorable, but, when the truth entails tremendous ruin, to speak dishonorably is pardonable’? I agree. Again, it is not you who is on trial, Anaxagoras. It is the freedom of Athens.”
“You believe that Athens, and freedom, can be saved by lies?”
Pericles shrugged. “When I was younger I would have denied that. Now I am a middle-aged man and no longer young and I know that in the cause of truth lies are sometimes necessary, paradoxical though that seems.”
“Did you tell that to Ichthus?”
“I did. But he was too emotional to listen and to understand.”
“And so he died for truth.”
Pericles shrugged again. “It would have been better if he had lived, by a lie, so that he could later utter the truth and perhaps with impunity.”
Anaxagoras pondered. He was no passionate young man like Ichthus. Pericles said, “Would you at least hold your tongue while I defend you?”
The older man began to smile. “It may be a good comedy.”
“What, in life, is not?” Pericles was relieved. “If truth is so dear to you then you have no right to condemn it to death. It deserves to live—to flourish again in another time. You are no tragedian, Anaxagoras, who makes a sublime gesture in the face of the gods, and defies them. You are more discreet. Therefore, again, in the name of truth, live.”
“You are very eloquent and persuasive, dear friend. Perhaps Sophocles is right. Gestures may be heroic, but it is possibly better to be silent. Gestures are for the stage.” He sighed deeply. “I do not lust to be a martyr, and certainly not a sacrificial bull for the priests and the government.”
His face saddened. “But can I live with myself? My students would no longer believe what I said. They would think I betrayed them, and that my words had been foolish.”
“The true ones among them will understand. The others will only be satisfied, and the self-satisfaction of rascals is amusing in itself. For they never believed you anyway.”
Anaxagoras burst out, “The moral purity of the immoral corrupt! That is what we are fighting! The sanctimony of the base!”
Pericles picked up his mantle and shook it. “I have not told you. I have a son, as young as the morning, and as beautiful.”
Anaxagoras rose and embraced him. “He will be a glory to you and to Aspasia.”
“Who knows? You will see I am again melancholy. The dark Sisters, the Fates, have the thread of his life in their hands, for good or evil, and who can know what pattern they are weaving for my son?” He added, “Or for me, or for you?”
Pericles left with a lighter heart than he had come. Anaxagoras was a sensible man. He had immediately discerned that he need not deny the truth. He had only to be quiet. Truth should not be shouted from the rooftops; it should move with the wise subtlety of the serpent, and often in silence. Then it was potent.
When Pericles had left, Anaxagoras sat thinking. Years ago he had rebuked Pericles for his proposed plan to save Ichthus. But age brought more hesitation, more weighing of facts, more thought for the future and its consequences. Too, Ichthus would have condemned himself openly before the Assembly and the Ecclesia, and that would have endangered Pericles beyond hope. Pericles, at that time, had not been above gestures, himself! Anaxagoras smiled wryly.
Before going to the place of judgment, before the King Archon, Pericles first went to his offices and studied some of his dossiers. He wrote some short notes on a tablet and put them in his pouch. He had dressed himself soberly, in a blue tunic and a gray toga and he wore black shoes. His helmet had been polished diligently. He had gargled with honey and water so that the full power of his sonorous and eloquent voice would not be impaired. Composing himself, for at intervals his cold a
nd bitter internal rage became unusually intense, he went to the place of judgment. He knew that the King Archon, a noble and just man, would listen with gravity and detachment to the accusation and defense of Anaxagoras, but if he was convinced that Anaxagoras was indeed an enemy of the people and State, and a corrupter of youth, he would not refrain from ordering even the extreme punishment. Pericles had rarely seen him smile, for he took all things seriously.
The huge jury was already assembled, and Pericles, somewhat to his dismay, found that many members of the Assembly and the Eleven, and the Ecclesia were there also, all avid, like men in the theatre awaiting a bloody drama. The spring day was hot. The judgment hall was crowded and very warm, and the high small windows let in shafts of smarting sun and the effluvium of the Agora. When the stately Pericles entered, all eyes turned upon him, and he knew, as he had guessed before, that Anaxagoras was not the chief accused, but himself. Some of his friends were there, also, standing against the ochre walls, a number of them with foreboding that one day, sooner or later, they would be the accused and suffer ostraka or death. They watched Pericles’ approach before the high seat and bench of the King Archon, and their quiet eyes were anxious.
Also before the bench was the Archon, Daedalus. Pericles turned very slowly and studied him as a gentleman studies some obnoxious sight—that is, with an expression of faint incredulity, faint astonishment, and cool aversion. The aged Archon, bent and even more skeleton-like than he had been at the marriage of Pericles and Dejanira, returned Pericles’ gaze with venom, his face writhing and wrinkling so that he resembled an ancient ape with jaundice. His sunken eyes were fiery, vindictive and almost insanely fierce, and his mouth twisted as if he wished to spit but his throat was too dry. He trembled visibly with his hatred; his hands appeared palsied. All looked at both the men, some gloating and anticipatory, some with alarm. Anaxagoras became insignificant before these two mortal antagonists, who loathed each other.