We shall now proceed to Malta, where we must be quarantined against smallpox before reentering the Continent. Pray that the French do not fire upon us during our long journey.
Please give our grandson sumptuous kisses from his doting granny and granddad.
Your loving
Mother and Daddy
From the city of Athens, July 1801
Dear Lord Elgin,
Mr. & Mrs. Nisbet were so kind as to include Mr. Carlyle and me in all their touring parties. Mr. Nisbet’s connection with Your Lordship opened the gates of the Acropolis and every recess of the superb buildings it contains. With the knowledge now accumulated by Your Lordship’s architects and modelers, the Athens of Pericles seemed to rise before me in all its pristine beauty.
Of the Temple of Athena, called the Parthenon, I can say nothing that would convey an idea of the effect it produces. It must be seen to know what the union of simplicity and beauty is capable of. Unfortunately, the Parthenon and the famous Great Gateway, also called the Propylaea—Pheidias’ masterpieces—are all within the walls of the Acropolis, now a Turkish fortress, garrisoned by mercenary and insolent Janissaries. The insults to which those great monuments are daily subjected are almost too painful to enunciate.
The Ottoman soldiers sell off fragments of this precious monument to visitors. Every traveler coming adds to the general defacement of the statuary within his reach. The Turks have defaced all the statues’ heads. In some instances, they have pounded down the statues and other magisterial architectural pieces to convert the lead holding them together into ammunition. Stones from her walls and columns have been used in the construction of the miserable, makeshift dwellings in which the Turks presently live. To witness the abuses is to die just a little.
The Parthenon of Pheidias is in an irrevocable state of disassembly. We must act immediately to preserve what is left, and to finish the important work that Your Lordship has begun. The Turkish officials put daily obstacles before your artists and modelers. The commandant has decided that they may not have access to any part of the Temple of Athena without the proper FIRMAN, which is a written order from the Sultan, stamped and signed. Without this firman, the great bas-reliefs, the magnificent frieze, the metopes, and the statues of the gods in the pediments—the last remaining wonders of that ancient civilization—can neither be modeled nor drawn by your staff.
Every day that they sit idle is a day that brings potential destruction to these pieces. Why, who knows what tomorrow will bring? The commandant might take it upon himself to topple a pediment statue in search of lead for his gun. Time is of the essence, I assure you.
I await your expeditious response.
Respectfully,
Reverend Philip Hunt
“DOES IT NOT TEAR at your heart, Mary?” Elgin asked. “Is it not unbearable to hear firsthand the sorry fate of the Athens of Pericles and Pheidias?” Elgin looked as wretched as a man had ever looked.
Mary regarded both letters, which had arrived in the same post, along with a private letter from her father to Elgin offering the funds for the Athenian project that Elgin had so boldly—in Mary’s estimation—requested, on top of the money they required to continue to fund the embassy.
She marveled at how Elgin had played his cards. Her father’s enthusiasm was right there on the page, in her mother’s handwriting, as worthy a translator of that man’s true sentiments as any, and again, in her father’s own. Elgin knew exactly how to fuel the ambitions of another man, even one as measured and skeptical as Mary’s cautious father. And, considering Hunt’s description of the wretched condition of the monuments, Elgin must have been correct all along in his desire to preserve what was left for present and future generations.
Mary must have been wrong in judging Elgin’s ambitions to be overarching. His goals must be completely worthy after all, if her father had been thus seduced into the game. Perhaps women simply did not have the wisdom or the foresight to see such lofty projects through to fruition. Women focused on small, domestic ambitions for attainable things like happiness, comfort, safety, and security. Perhaps they must leave the concerns of the larger world to men, who appeared to know no bounds in the pursuit of seemingly unachievable things. Perhaps that is what it took to make changes in the world. Perhaps Aspasia uniquely possessed this larger vision held by men, and that is what fascinated Pericles. Could she, Mary Nisbet, a practical Scottish girl, hope to hold such grandeur in her prosaic mind?
The ruins of once-majestic Athens must be saved. The glory of Athens would be preserved, its transformative beauty brought into the future by her own husband’s vision. Her father’s new enthusiasm validated that vision forever in her mind. He had seen something in Athens that had changed him, something so powerful that it had forced his hand where his bankbook was concerned. Whatever Mary’s personal needs and desires—even her own life, if need be—she must put it all aside and remember that she was Elgin’s soldier in his march on history.
The city of Athens, in the sixth year of the Thirty-Year Truce with Sparta
PERIKLES HAD BEEN AWAY for months, and I so occupied myself with new students and clients as best I could to avoid the perpetual longing I felt in his absence. He was with the Athenian fleet, attempting to suppress a revolt on the island of Samos. The Athenian forces had managed to overthrow the rebellious regime, installing a government cooperative to Athens. But still the Samians would not yield, and so Perikles besieged them, hoping to force capitulation. The siege dragged on and on, and had become unpopular with the people of Athens. The costs were high, in terms both of money and of human life, and as the war was happening on remote shores, most people forgot the cause and now only complained about their rising taxes.
I did not like to venture out of the house these days for fear of hearing the criticism leveled at Perikles. I busied myself tending to the romantic and domestic concerns of the men of Athens. I had developed a reputation as a counselor in matters of love and marriage. Men requested audiences with me to get advice on how to select a bride, how to tell a good matchmaker from a crooked one, and, once married, how to run a household. Fathers sent sons to me to improve their powers of oration—both in making public speeches and in making private declarations of love. I was delighted to oblige. Though legal marriage was denied me, I had formed a happy union with Perikles, and I did not like to see any young man or woman enter what would be a disastrous one.
“Do not allow Cassandra the Matchmaker to bring your son a wife,” I told the wealthy father of a shy and handsome young man named Lysander. I had helped the boy memorize and recite the more familiar parts of the speeches and axioms of the Seven Sages, and I had grown fond of him. “That woman does not tell the truth about the qualities of the parties to be wed, but accepts bribes for giving false praise to an ugly bride or a foolish groom.”
I always counseled prospective grooms to educate their wives if the girls came to the marriage ignorant. “The husband’s activities may bring the money into the household, but the wife’s prudence in matters of spending and management is what keeps it there,” I would say. “I realize that most women are kept apart from knowledge of any sort, but a wife who can read and write and count so that she might keep books of the expenditures is worth her weight in gold.” It was all common sense, but the men treated the information as nuggets of wisdom from a divine source.
I never accepted money for my services. If I did, I would have been doubly criticized. Sophists were sometimes despised for the very fact that they were paid. And for a woman to accept money for any activity would automatically put her in the category of prostitute. I who held a tentative place just above that on the ladder of respectability could not be too careful.
Staying indoors did not protect me entirely from Perikles’ critics. The men who came to me as students and clients often brought the gossip and events of the day with them. I learned soon enough of a new rumor that was making its way across the town, and possibly across the entire federation of G
reek states.
“Is it true that Perikles started the war on Samos at your behest, Aspasia?” a man who had come for matchmaking advice asked me.
“What are you saying?” I asked. I had heard the Athenian aggression criticized for many reasons, but that it had started at my behest was a new one.
“It is what they’re all saying in the marketplace. I heard that it’s even been suggested in the Assembly. They say that the only reason Perikles decided to crush the revolt in Samos was that the Samians declared war on Miletus. Everyone knows that’s where you were born, so it is easy to make the connection.”
“They can’t be serious,” I said. “Perikles went to war because—and only because—Samos challenged Athens’s authority. The Athenians and all their allies have charged him with protecting their interests and maintaining Athenian supremacy, but they criticize him and make up these ridiculous accusations when he carries out the mandate of the people.”
“I didn’t level the accusation, Aspasia. I merely heard it and am repeating it to you.”
“Well, it is so preposterous that it will surely die out very soon,” I said, rushing him out of the house so that he would not see how upset I was.
I became even more reclusive, deliberately ignoring the passage of time. One day, as I sat in the courtyard, I noticed that the air was considerably warmer, and was astonished to realize that we were ten days into Elaphebolion, the first month of spring, and that the Greater Dionysia was about to begin, celebrating the resurgence of life after the fallowness of winter. On the eve of the festival, weary of my solitude, I donned a mask and slipped into the streets to watch the ancient wooden image of Dionysus paraded in his chariot with the mule-headed prow, draped in ivy and decorated with grapevines and fruit. Though women composed the core of the cult of Dionysus, they would not attend a festival in the open streets, save the streetwalkers, the beggars, and the vendors come in from the country with their goods, so I took Hilarion of Gaza, a slave boy, with me for protection. He was only seventeen years old, but of a strong build, and good with a small knife. With the entire male population stirred up on jugs of the god’s wine, a woman alone would have been subjected to more than verbal insults.
We followed the procession all the way to the Theater of Dionysus, where in secret the priests would sacrifice a male goat on the altar that sat at the center of the stage. Once an animal was sacrificed, the season’s theatrical productions might commence, and even without Perikles, I hoped that I would have the chance to attend at least one event. I asked Hilarion to walk me back to the house before the men got caught up in the late-night revels, racing through the streets with torches, singing hymns to the god, but also looking for trouble and a bit of anonymous wine-soaked fun.
In the following days, I did not go to any of the tragedies presented. For the past two years, I had attended the productions with Perikles, which meant that I was safe. But with the new accusation, I did not want to venture out openly without his protection. Pheidias, however, called on me and offered to escort me to the comedy on the fourth night. I thought it might cheer me up to watch the antics of the actors, slinging insults through their grotesque masks and wagging their gargantuan leather phalluses. The comedies always lampooned the high and the mighty—those hubristic creatures who were on the tip of everyone’s tongue—and so were great fun to attend.
Perikles had entered the public arena by financing Aeschylus’ play The Persians, and at that time he began to develop a passion for the theater; this I shared with him. We had spent many a day and night here enjoying the work of the finest playwrights and performers Athens had produced. Ladies were not permitted to attend theatrical performances; if they did, they were often hissed at until they hid their faces and left. Of course, men brought their mistresses, and the priestesses sat in thrones in the front row set aside for them alongside the judges and city officials. When attending with Perikles, I would take my seat next to him in one of the front rows reserved for the more illustrious citizens. Since I was a courtesan, no one cared that I sat with the men of privilege.
This evening, in deference to Perikles, his seat remained empty while he was away at war. I felt many eyes upon me as Pheidias and I walked down the steps to take our seats, but that was not an unusual experience for me. As Perikles’ mistress, and a female philosopher, I was always a topic of gossip and speculation. But I had entertained so many of the men of the city at our parties that I had gradually come to feel accepted by them, at least when I was in their company. I am sure that when they were with their cronies, they indulged in coarser assessments of me, but at least they had come to treat me with dignity and respect.
As soon as we were seated, the entertainments began. We were treated to a pantomime of a boxing match, which was so much nicer to watch than an actual contest, with its body blows and blood. How lovely to experience the grace and artistry of the fighters without the damage. The pantomimists were especially good, moving with fluidity to the music of flutes and cymbals as they mocked punches and knockouts. Following them were erotic courtesan dancers, who twisted and contorted their nude bodies, with only scarves as props, writhing like snakes to the rhythm of the drummers. They so enthralled the audience that a second dance was demanded.
Finally, the comic presentation began. I adjusted myself in the seat, ready to enjoy the production. The set consisted of three housefronts, with the double roofs necessary for the spying and peeking and escape routes that were always part of a farce. The celestial balcony constructed for the appearance of the gods was gaudily decorated with fluffy clouds and boughs of flowers, an indication that even the deities who appeared would be ridiculed. I loved the twists and turns and mistaken identities of this sort of satire, where even sacred subject matter was not treated sanctimoniously. The heavy mood I had felt since Perikles left Athens was lifting, and I was ready to enjoy the entertainment.
The chorus took the stage, dozens of actors wearing masks of elderly men, their bodies padded with heavy paunches and wide, saggy bottoms. It did not take the audience long to understand that this was to be a meeting of the Assembly, what with the jokes made with the word “ass,” as the actors turned to us to demonstrate the same.
“If only Perikles were here!” I said to Pheidias.
“My dear, he has wrestled with the asses of the Assembly quite enough,” he quipped.
A character identified as Honest Citizen took the stage, giving the opening monologue. As he spoke, it did not take long for the smile on my face to fade. Honest Citizen revealed that he was from the isle of Samos and was a man who had suffered terribly in the war, which was perpetrated by the corrupt leaders of Athens. Since the Athenians and his government refused to make peace, he had come before the Assembly to cut his own deal.
I did not think that I could sit through a two-hour attack on Perikles.
“I came here tonight to escape all this,” I whispered to Pheidias. “Would you be upset if we slipped out of here?”
“Aspasia, you are the most notorious woman in Athens. I do not think that you can ‘slip’ anywhere without setting off a torrent of talk,” he whispered back to me. “The best thing to do is remain in your seat and laugh as if you think it the funniest thing in the world.”
If Pheidias was not going to escort me outside, I was not going to leave. His assessment was correct; if I left, it would cause a stir. I settled back into my seat, resolved to remain gracious, when I heard one of the characters ask, “And what was the cause of this war to begin with?”
The other faced the audience to answer. I could have sworn that he was staring directly at me. “Oh, two playboys from Athens went to Samos and stole a drunken whore named Simaetha. But the Samatians took it to heart and got themselves all liquored up and went over to Aspasia’s place and stole a pair of whores from her. That’s why Greece is in this pickle. Then, what do you think happened next? Olympian Perikles got all upset on her behalf and started to thunder and lighten in his wrath, throwing Greece into
an uproar.”
Needless to say, the fifteen thousand spectators in the Theater of Dionysus found this utterly hilarious. The laughter rang out all around me, to the point that I found it deafening. My face flushed so hotly that I thought I would pass out. My heart was racing, and quite against my will, I let out a gasp. Pheidias squeezed my hand, and I squeezed his back even harder to save myself from either screaming or crying. The intolerable laughter was echoing in my head, driving me crazy. My eyes darted about, as if I might find some means of escape, as if some part of me was refusing to accept that I could not simply disappear into the night and go somewhere safe where this was not happening—indeed, had never happened. But everyone in our vicinity was looking at me to see my reaction.
“Laugh,” he said under his breath. “Don’t let them see that you’re upset.”
But I could not laugh. I had just begun to feel that I had made a place in Athens for myself and a place in Perikles’ home and his heart. Now it seemed that I had been living in a fantasy. While I had been fooling myself that the people of Athens had begun to accept me, public sentiment had been turning on me behind my back, bringing with it a new level of scorn, one that was much worse than whispers in the marketplace. Did these people really believe that I had talked Perikles into besieging an island? What sort of power did they think I wielded?
Though the entire play was a scathing indictment of war, a good majority of the audience reacted with loud boos and heckling whenever Perikles was criticized. I felt better, knowing that he still had the support of many Athenians. My name, thankfully, was not mentioned again. When the performance was over, I clutched Pheidias’ arm and exited the theater, forcing myself to keep my head erect and my eyes meeting those of anyone who dared to look at me. I stared many, many men in the face quite defiantly, but my eyes did not register anything at all. As we walked with the crowd out of the theater, I might have been as blind as Oedipus after his fall.