In short, they were such men as once lived in Greece, proud and steadfast. Alas, thought Pericles, their tribe will disappear as our tribe of husbandmen disappeared, and their children’s children will dishonor their memory and call them simpletons.
They knew much of Sparta, and questioned Pericles. He smiled. “This is a most auspicious and pleasant occasion for me,” he said. “I pray that you will not darken it.” They laughed loudly, an honest and knowing laughter. “We Romans, too, have trouble with little city-states in Italy,” they said. “We wish to live and flourish in peace and in trade, but others challenge us.”
“It is the way of all men,” said Pericles, without originality.
They told him of Cincinnatus, the Father of his Country, who had left his flocks and his fields to defend Rome, and to give it a government which all could revere and respect. “Dusty he came from the meadows, walking barefooted through our streets, his noble head high, his beard flecked with straw, his stride the stride of a man who cannot be turned from principle. When he spoke it was as though a trumpet sounded, for he was a man of truth. Even evil men were silenced by the sound of that voice, the voice of patriotic fervor and conviction. He honored the gods with devotion, as a man of integrity must. For what can destroy a nation if God is with her?”
Pericles had a pungent reply to that, which, out of mercy, he refrained from voicing.
“We are a tribal people,” one said with pride.
“So once were we,” replied Pericles. “Now we are complicated and urban. Every man is his own philosopher in Athens.”
They detected cynicism in his voice and were concerned. But again his smile reassured them. They thought him beautiful and godlike, and his graciousness evoked a response of fraternity in their countrymen’s hearts. They felt sympathy for him but why they did not know. They began to speak of their sons, of their parents, whom they reverenced, and even of their wives, whom Pericles suspected were as frugal, simple and sturdy as themselves. He thought of his father, Xanthippus, and his elegance, and of his mother, Agariste, who would have disdained these men, at least when she had been younger.
They inquired with true interest of Pericles’ family, and he told them of his sons. “My youngest is named for me, and he is an infant still,” he said. Now he became thoughtful. He could not speak of Aspasia as his mistress, and his son as illegitimate, for they would have been shocked to the very heart. He cursed himself for not earlier thinking of this emergency, for he already knew that though Romans respected and loved their wives they kept them secluded, and mistresses secret. How would he explain Aspasia to them, for it was not possible to keep them in ignorance long; they would meet others in government besides himself. So he said, “I have a lovely wife of much intelligence, but Athenians do not regard her as my wife for she is a foreigner born in Miletus.”
He was both pleased and surprised when they laughed in comradeship, and spoke of the Sabine women whom their fathers had abducted and brought to Rome and made wives of them. “To this day,” they said, “many Romans do not acknowledge that those of Sabine ancestry are their equals. Are not men foolish?”
“Of a certainty,” said Pericles.
He was relieved. But what would these Romans think of Aspasia when she joined them at his dinners? Like Athenian wives, Roman wives could dine with their husbands only when they were alone. How could he explain the hetairai to them, for surely they would hear of the ornamental and learned courtesans. They would also learn that Aspasia had been one of that adorable company. He said, “My beloved wife has been gifted with intelligence, and so she was educated highly. In consequence, she has come under suspicion as a woman of immoral character.”
One Roman hesitated, then said with candor, “I have four sons, in whom my heart rejoices, but I have a daughter who is the sweet core of my heart. My sons are valorous and are soldiers, but their minds are not of great consequence. My daughter has the wit of a man, and I have a tutor for her, though my wife disapproves, being an ‘old’ Roman. My daughter, Calabria, swears she will not marry a man except of her choosing, and though this is reprehensible in a mere chit,” and he bridled with pride, “I agree with her, for I saw her mother in the market and loved her at once and asked her consent after her parents had given me their heartiest approval. Had my wife refused me I would have withdrawn, in spite of my love for her, for she had a beauteous face. But Venus was kind and her son, Cupid, had pierced my wife’s soul with his arrow.”
Pericles knew that the Romans had changed the names of the Greek gods, and he understood that his guest meant Aphrodite and Eros. So he said, as the host, “Your wife was fortunate, and your daughter must be a veritable Minerva.” The brown countryman’s face flushed with gratification, but he said somewhat sheepishly, “She is a mere chit.”
But what would they think when Aspasia greeted them in the atrium? Would they consider her an outrageous and forward woman whom no man could respect? As they neared the acropolis they exclaimed at the sight of Pheidias’ Athene Parthenos, glittering with gilt fire and august majesty in the sun. They were overcome with wonder and reverence. “Minerva,” said Pericles. “The patroness of our city.” They nodded solemnly.
The guard of honor on their horses trotted briskly beside the car, and crowds stopped to stare at the company, and many hailed Pericles in joyful voices while some merely remained sullen and silent. This surprised the Romans, for they were accustomed to respect given to the head of the government. Perceiving this Pericles said, “We Athenians are very lively, and often are abusive to the Head of State, at least in language, and we are not disturbed. We accept it as evidence of freedom.”
However, it was apparent that the Romans did not approve of this. One had honor for a man who had been voted into the highest office, and only heinous conduct could deprive him of that honor. “Freedom,” one said with a certain severity, “is not license. If a citizen does not respect his government, for which his fellows have voted even if he had not, whom will he respect?”
As Pericles had a paradoxical attitude towards government, especially his own, he merely nodded. The complexity of his thoughts would not be understood by these men of rectitude. But alas, he thought, their children’s children will have other opinions. It is inevitable.
When they arrived at his house, which the Romans considered a magnificent palace of possibly too opulent a taste—judging from their expressions—Pericles was happy to see that Aspasia was not in the atrium but only the overseer of the hall and the most handsome of the male slaves, all dressed exquisitely. Ah, I have not given her credit for her reticence and discretion and wisdom, he thought with tenderness. The house had been garlanded with laurel and wreaths of flowers, in honor of the guests, and it resounded with soft music and gently singing voices of unseen female slaves. Once more it was evident that the Romans thought this somewhat effete, and Pericles smiled inwardly. The overseer conducted the Romans to their assigned chambers and Pericles wondered what they would think of silken coverlets and delicate alabaster statues and Egyptian glass lamps and marvelous mosaics and Persian rugs, not to mention exotic scents and painted walls delineating nymphs and satyrs in somewhat liberated postures. One chamber wall depicted Aphrodite and Adonis coupled together in voluptuous enjoyment, both rosily naked, and Pericles went to his own chamber, laughing, and wished that he could overhear any scandalized comments.
When they emerged to join him he could scarcely refrain from mirth, for their faces were openly embarrassed. But they were men with manners, however recently learned, and they thanked him for his hospitality, even if at first their voices were constrained, and even if they avoided each other’s eyes for a while. In his heart he did not deride them as ingenuous farmers, for so his own ancestors had been in a time less corrupt than this. He told himself that he must not, even in wine, tell them any lewd jests of the city, but must impress them as a man of gravity and open sincerity, for they expected this of him.
He conducted them to the dining hall
, and they stared at its lavishness, which was yet tasteful. But they averted their eyes from the bawdy paintings on the walls and pretended that they did not exist. One furtively fingered, with hardly suppressed disapproval, the rich texture of the tablecloth, and one examined the knives and spoons, of beautifully wrought design, and another gazed at the silver plates. But as they were innately courteous, as were most men of the earth, they did not exchange meaningful glances. He could almost hear their thoughts: This is truly inexcusable luxury, which we Romans dislike. However, one must remember that Greeks are not Romans, and Romans are not rich. The gods forbid that ever our children’s children will become so decadent! Ah, thought Pericles, but they will, they will, when they reach affluence through your labors! In the meantime, may God bless your austerity, for it is like the clean air of mountains above a murky city.
One said, unaware he was voicing Pericles’ thoughts, “I have been in Egypt and it is very depraved, and very extravagant and—sensual.” When he colored at what he considered unpardonable and covert criticism, Pericles said quickly, “That is the history of nations when they become wealthy and debauched. We, in Greece, have not as yet become so, but I fear we will.” He shook his head sadly. “Of a certainty, we will.”
He added, “When a nation is agricultural, and cities are small, they are virtuous and ascetic. We have a philosopher in Athens, Socrates, who avers that cities breed infamous men, but the land breeds heroes.”
“We have heard of your Socrates,” said one of the guests, relieved that Pericles had not taken offense. “We should like to see and to listen to him, for surely he is a great and honored man in Athens.”
Pericles’ mouth twisted a little. He said, “Socrates is an immured man, by his own will, and it is difficult to approach him.” He could hear the shrill laughter of Socrates in his own mind at these words. “Yes, he is honored, though few understand him, among his students. He has said that the unexamined life is not worth living.”
The Romans nodded in assent. “We examine our lives each morning, during our prayers, and search our consciences, for is that not our duty to God and our fellow men?”
“Indeed,” said Pericles with a most solemn face.
He was pleased when he saw the simplicity of the meal which the astute Aspasia had ordered. Yet the goblets were ornate and jeweled, and the Romans were openly taken aback and touched them dubiously. Cool beer was poured in the goblets and once again Pericles thought of Aspasia with gratitude. The following wine was one of which Dejanira, in her meagreness, would have approved. Pericles wondered where Aspasia had found it, and he drank it very sparingly.
There were no dishes with sauces, cunningly flavored. The fish had been broiled simply, the tough meat was stewed, the vegetables were heavily burdened with garlic, and there was a dish of beans with robust pork. Pericles thought it all execrable and was again reminded of the frugal Dejanira. Aspasia, unlike himself, had known exactly what Pericles’ guests would appreciate, and he marvelled, and saw that the Romans heartily enjoyed what was set before them. The meal was of their taste and their lives. He could hear their thoughts: Our host is not ostentatious or depraved. His table is commendable, if not his house. Moreover, his appetite is not voracious. He eats but little.
The Romans expanded. They gazed at Pericles with fondness. For all his house, he was one of their own, a man of asceticism and prudence. No doubt his wife has been indulged too much, and she had chosen what we have seen. Or possibly she had brought him an enormous dowry and licentious articles from her father’s house. Perhaps he loves her too much, this handsome and elevated Head of State, and lets her have her female way. It is probable that she is very young and willful in addition, and extremely beautiful. Such are hard to resist and oppose.
They smiled wisely at Pericles, as at a brother. They began to ask him questions.
CHAPTER 11
Pericles conveyed his Roman friends to the Agora, where they would meet the Assembly and the Archons. He said to them, “You have spoken of a perfect government which would meet the needs and aspirations of all its citizens. In theory, a perfect government is possible. But it is not possible in reality. We must always remember human nature, which is not in the least exemplary.”
“However, if a nation is founded on a firm Constitution, and its leaders bound to that Constitution, which they will not dare disobey, what ill can come to a republic?” asked one of the Romans.
“You will always be able to find some politician who has a unique interpretation of any Constitution,” said Pericles, “and one which will serve his own purpose and the purposes of his friends, or some other exigency.”
“Not,” said another of the Romans, “if the Constitution is so written that it is not equivocal, and its language is so clear that no expediency can misinterpret it.”
Though Pericles was dubious he reminded himself that Athens did not have a Constitution such as these Romans understood was necessary for the foundation of a republic. He said, “It is possible that the Constitution you envisage could be so soundly written on immortal stone that none would dare to misinterpret it, that is, the law would carry an extreme penalty for any manipulation of the Constitution to further the ends of any man or group of men. But let us suppose that Rome creates such a Constitution today. Other eras might arise when venal men would use that very Constitution in the light of their then present ambitions.”
When the Romans looked a little baffled, he said, “Let us suppose that certain crimes in the Constitution you are now planning carry the capital penalty. And let us then suppose that future generations of politicians shall say. ‘That is not exactly what our fathers intended in that particular table of law.’ Or, ‘They really intended such and such.’ Who can then refute the politicians? Who among you would be alive to insist that indeed the old meaning was intended? In short, different ages would have different interpretations for their own purposes.”
One of the Romans shook his head decidedly. “That would not be possible.”
Pericles was a little impatient. “Let us say that your Constitution carries the penalty of death for treason. But later politicians and judges might inquire, ‘What was our father’s definition of treason? Indeed, what is treason? It must be defined in today’s meaning of the term.’”
The Romans were silently thoughtful and forgot to look at the sights of Athens for a few moments. Then one said, “I see clearly the extent of your argument. Other ages, other interpretations.”
“Yes,” said Pericles. “Today’s patriotism may be tomorrow’s treason, if it serves any judge or politician. And so it would go with any statute you might define today, no matter how explicit the terms. Let us suppose that a future Roman Head of State is a plotting and ambitious man, and a liar. He can only become all-powerful if he is a traitor to his country. So he might say to his people, ‘I love my country and in the name of that love I propose such and such an amendment to the Constitution, of which our fathers would have approved in the light of today’s needs and changing circumstances. In truth, the Constitution of our fathers really means so-and-so.’ I assure you, gentlemen, that he will already have a band of fellow traitors who will uphold him, and help to confuse the citizens. Then, if any patriot would oppose him the traitor will denounce him for treason! You can be certain, then, that the unfortunate patriot would suffer the penalty for the alleged crime.”
The Romans were depressed. Pericles pitied them. So he said, “But you must remember that Athens is not a republic, with a firmly written Constitution, as Solon intended. She is a democracy, and democracies can be manipulated at will by any demagogue or traitor or exigent man. Democracies carry within themselves the seeds of their own death; they are not ruled by judicious and virtuous men, but ruled by the mob, which is neither judicious nor virtuous, and is inspired only by its own belly and lusts and greeds.”
“You are implying that democracies are chaos, Pericles?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “That is why they can n
ever long survive.”
One of the Romans was gazing about him and then up at the acropolis. “But observe what your own democracy has created here in Athens, where lives freedom, a reverence for beauty and law, among the common men.”
Pericles could no longer restrain his bitterness. “Democracy, as such, did not create this beauty nor does it reverence any law at all. Beauty and law rise from the souls of only a few men in any nation of the world. They are visitations of God, through His chosen vessels.”
“However that is true,” said a Roman, “beauty and law could not flourish in a hostile environment. Therefore, the climate of Athens is not hostile.”
My dear innocent friend, thought Pericles. Your syllogism is not apt, not valid, not true. Most often your famous beauty and law survive not because of, but in spite of, governments and their mobs. And often they are trampled and despised. That they persist is not due to the goodness of human nature—for that goodness is very doubtful—but due to the immortal designs of the Godhead. He said, “Only in a republic, or a Constitutional monarchy, can beauty and law truly expand and continue to exist and be reverenced.”
He laughed a little, remembering Aspasia’s counsel. He said, “In your Constitution you must exact the extreme penalty for any man who would subvert one iota of it, no matter his claims to love of country or ‘changing times.’”
“That we shall do,” said one of the guests in a strong and determined voice. “As your Solon has said, there must be rule by law and not rule by men and their whims and exigencies.”