August Strindberg
Historical Miniatures
As a matter of fact, Socrates was notorious for his drinking powers, but now he was not in the mood. “Not to-day! Wine is bitter to my taste,” he said.
And turning to Pericles, he whispered: “Evil eyes have come here. This Aristophanes is not our friend! Do you know him?”
“Very little, but he looks as though he would like to murder us.”
Alcibiades continued to address the skeleton: “Thus looks Athens at this moment! Sparta and the Persian King have gnawed off its flesh; Cleon has tanned its skin; the allies have gouged out its eyes; the citizens have drawn out its teeth,—those citizens whom Aristophanes knows and whom he will soon describe. Here’s to you, skeleton! ‘[Greek: Polla metaxu pelei kulikos kai cheileos akrou]!’”
There was a sudden change in the scene. The skeleton sank backwards like a drunken man; the lamps began to sway on their chains, the salt-cellar was spilt on the table.
“Ohioh!” cried Alcibiades, “Tralall! Ha! Ha! Ha! The table wobbles, the sofa rocks; am I drunk, or is the room drunk?”
All were alarmed, but Socrates commanded quiet. “A god is near! The earth shakes, and I hear … does it thunder? No! That is an earthquake.”
All jumped up, but Socrates continued, “Be quiet! It is already past.”
After they had all taken their places again, he continued: “I was five years old when Sparta was visited by an earthquake; twenty thousand men perished, and only six houses remained standing. Then it was Sparta. Now it is Athens. Yes, friends, a voice says to me, ‘Before a babe can become a man, we shall have been dispersed and destroyed like a bevy of birds.’”
Again the dog barked, and the door-keeper shouted. There entered an uninvited guest in a state of excitement.
Alcibiades greeted him. “It is Nicias,” he said. “Now I will be sober; the thoughtful Nicias comes to our feast. What is the matter?”
“Allow an uninvited guest.”
“Speak, Nicias!”
“Pericles!” began the new-comer hesitatingly, “your friend, our friend, the glory of Athens and Hellas,—Phidias is accused....”
“Stop! Silence!”
“Accused! O shame and disgrace! I cannot say it without weeping: Phidias is accused of having purloined gold from the statue of Athene.”
The silence which followed was first broken by Pericles: “Phidias hides his face in his mantle; he is ashamed for Athens. But by the gods and the nether world, let us swear to his innocence.”
“We swear!” exclaimed all like one man.
“I swear also,” said Nicias.
“Athens is dishonoured, if one has to swear that Phidias has not stolen.”
Nicias had approached Pericles, and, bowing to Aspasia, he whispered, “Pericles, your son Paralos is ill.”
“Of the pestilence! Follow me, Aspasia.”
“He is not my son, but yours; therefore I follow you.”
“The house collapses, friends depart, all beauty passes away, the ugly remains.”
“And the gods sleep.”
“Or have emigrated.”
“Or are dead! Let us make new ones.”
Another shock of earthquake extinguished the lamps, and all went out into the street, except Socrates and Alcibiades.
“Phidias accused of theft! Let the walls of the world fall in!” said Socrates, and sank, as was his custom, into a fit of absent-mindedness that resembled sleep.
Alcibiades took one of the largest double-goblets, veiled it, and improvised the following dithyramb:
“May everything break up from Pindus to the Caucasus!
Then will Prometheus be unbound and bestow fire again
on frozen mortals!
And Zeus descends to Hades, Pallas sells herself;
Apollo breaks his lyre in two, and cobbles shoes;
Ares lets his war-horse go, and minds sheep;
And on the ruins of all earthly glory, stands Alcibiades alone,
In the full consciousness of his almightiness,
And laughs!”
The pestilence had broken out in Athens accompanied by shocks of earthquake.
When Pericles, accompanied by Aspasia, reached his house, his son by his divorced wife was dead.
According to the prevailing custom, and to show that he had not been murdered, the corpse was placed in the doorway. A small coffin of cedar-wood, painted red and black, stood on a bier, and showed the dead child dressed in a white shroud. He had a garland on his head, woven of the plant of death, the strong-scented Apium or celery. In his mouth he had an obol as Charon’s fee.
Pericles uttered a prayer in an undertone, without showing especially deep sorrow, for he had gone through much, and learnt to suffer.
“Two sons the gods have taken from me. Are they enough to atone?”
“What have you to atone for?” asked Aspasia.
“One must suffer for another; the individual for the State. Pericles has suffered for Athens.”
“Pardon me that my tears dry sooner than yours. The thought that our son lives, gives me comfort.”
“It comforts me also, but not so much.”
“Shall I go, before your wife comes?”
“You must not leave me, for I am ill.”
“You have spoken of it for a long time now. Is it serious?”
“My soul is sick. When the State suffers, I am ill.... There comes the mother of the dead.”
A black-robed woman appeared in the doorway; she wore a veil in order to hide the fact that her hair was cut off; she had a garland in her hand, and a slave followed her with a torch.
She did not immediately notice Aspasia’s presence, greeted her former husband with a glance, and laid the garland at the dead boy’s feet. “I only bring a funeral garland for my son,” she said, “but instead of the obol, he shall take a kiss from the lips of his mother.”
She threw herself on the dead child, and kissed him.
“Beware of the dead!” said Pericles, and seized her arm; “he died of the pestilence.”
“My life has been a lingering death; a quick one is preferable to me.”
Then she noticed Aspasia, and, rising, said with quiet dignity, “Tell your friend to go.”
“She goes, and I follow her.”
“That is right! For now, my Pericles, the last tie between us is dissolved! Farewell!”
“Farewell, my wife!”
And, turning to Aspasia, he said, “Give me your hand, my spouse.”
“Here it is.”
The mourning mother lingered: “We shall all meet again some day, shall we not? And then as friends—you, she, and he who is gone before to prepare a dwelling for the hearts which are separated by the narrow laws of life.”
Pericles and Socrates wandered in the avenue of plane-trees below the Hemicyklion, and conversed together.
“Phidias has been acquitted of theft, but re-arrested on the charge of blaspheming the gods of the State.”
“Arrested? Phidias!”
“They say that he has represented me and himself in Athene’s shield.”
“That is the mob’s doing, which hates all greatness! Anaxagoras banished because he was too wise; Aristides banished because he was too just; Themistocles, Pausanias.... What did you do, Pericles, when you gave the people power?”
“What was lawful and right. I fall certainly by my own sword, but honourably. I go about and am dying piecemeal, like Athens. Did we know that we adorned our statues for a funeral procession? that we were weaving our own shrouds? that the choruses of our tragedies were dirges?”
“Athens is dying—yes! But of what?”
“Of Sparta.”
“What is Sparta?”
“Sparta is Heracles; the club, the lion-skin, brute-strength. We Athenians are the sons of Theseus, ranged against the Heraclidae, Dorians, and Ionians. Athens dies by Sparta’s hand, but Hellas dies by her own.”
“I believe the gods have forsaken us.”
“I believe so too, but the Divine lives.”
“There comes Nicias, the messenger of misfortune.” It was Nicias; and when he read the question in the faces and glances of the two, he answered, without waiting to be asked: “From the Agora!”
“What is the news from the Agora?”
“The Assembly seeks help from the Macedonians.”
“Why not from the Persians? Good! then the end is near. Do they seek help from the enemy? From the barbarian, the Macedonian, who lies above us like a lion on a hill. Go, Nicias, and say, ‘Pericles is dying.’ And ask them to choose the worthiest as his successor! Not the most unworthy! Go, Nicias, but go quickly.”
“I go,” said Nicias, “but for a physician.”
And he went.
“No physician can cure me!” answered Pericles; but in a weak voice, as though he spoke to himself. He took his old seat in the Hemicyklion. When he had rested a while, he made Socrates a sign to come near, for he did not wish to raise his voice.
“Socrates, my friend,” he began, “this is the farewell of a dying man. You were the wisest, but take it not ill if I say, ‘Be not too wise’; seek not the unattainable, and confuse not men’s minds with subtleties; do not make the simple complicated. You wish to see things with both eyes, but he who shoots with the bow, must close one eye; otherwise he sees his mark doubled. You are not a Sophist, but may easily appear so; you are not a libertine, but you go about with such; you hate your city and your country, and rightly; but you should love them to the death, for that is your duty; you despise the people, but you should be sorry for them. I have not admired the people, but I have given them laws and justice; therefore I die!
“Good-night, Socrates! Now it is dark before my eyes. You shall close them, and give me the garland. Now I go to sleep. When I awake, if I awake, then I am on the other side, and then I will send you a greeting, if the gods allow it. Good-night.”
“Pericles is dead. Hear it, Athenians, and weep as I do!”
The people streamed thither, but they did not weep. They only wondered what would now happen, and felt almost glad of a change.
Cleon the tanner stood in the orator’s pulpit in the Pnyx. Among his most attentive hearers were Alcibiades, Anytos, and Nicias. Cleon said: “Pericles is dead, and Pericles is buried; now you know it. Let him rest in peace with his merits and faults, for the enemy is in Sphacteria, and we must have a commander; Pericles’ shadow will not serve for that. Here below sit two adventurers, fine gentlemen both; one is called Nicias, because he never has conquered; the other Alcibiades, and we know his conquests—goblets and girls. On the other hand, we do not know his character, but you will some day know him, Athenians, and he will show his incisors himself. Such and such and such a one have been proposed for commander—oddly enough all fine gentlemen, and all grandees, of course. Athens, which has abjured all kings and their like, must now fight with royal Sparta, and must, faithful to its traditions, appear in the field under a man of the people on whom you can rely. We need no Pericles who commissions statues and builds temples to Fame and Glory; Athens has enough of such gewgaws. But now we must have a man who understands the art of war, who has a heart in his breast and a head on his shoulders. Whom do you wish for, men of Athens?”
Alcibiades sprang up like a young lion, and went straight to the point. “Men of Athens, I propose Cleon the tanner, not because he is a tanner, for that is something different. At any rate the army may be compared to an ox-skin, and Cleon to a knife; but Cleon has other qualities, especially those of a commander. His last campaign against Pericles and Phidias closed with a triumph for him. He has displayed a courage which never failed, and an intelligence which passed all mortal comprehension. His strategy was certainly not that of a lion, but he conquered, and that is the chief point. I propose Cleon as leader of the campaign.”
Now it so fell out that this patent irony was still too subtle for the mob, who took it seriously. Alcibiades also had a certain influence with them because of his relationship to Pericles, and they listened to him readily. Accordingly the whole assembly called out for Cleon, and he was elected.
But Cleon had never dreamt of the honour of being commander, and he was prudent enough not to endeavour to climb beyond his capacity. Therefore he protested against the election, shouting and swearing by all the gods.
Alcibiades, however, seized the opportunity by the forelock, and, perceiving that the election of Cleon meant his death, he mounted an empty rostrum and spoke with emphasis: “Cleon jests, and Cleon is modest; he does not himself know what sort of a commander he is, for he has not proved himself; but I know who he is; I insist upon his election; I demand that he fulfil his duty as a citizen; and I summon him before the Areopagus if he shirks it when the fatherland is in danger.” “Cleon is elected!” cried the people.
But Cleon continued to protest, “I do not know the difference between a hoplite and a peltast; [Footnote: a heavy-armed and a light-armed soldier.] I can neither carry a lance nor sit upon a horse.”
But Alcibiades shouted him down. “He can do everything; guide the State and criticise art; carry on law-suits and watch Sophists; he can discuss the highest subjects with Socrates; in a word, he possesses all the public virtues and all the private vices.”
Now the people laughed, but Cleon did not budge.
“Athenians!” said Alcibiades in conclusion, “the people have spoken, and there is no appeal. Cleon is elected, and Sparta is done for!”
The assembly broke up. Only Cleon remained behind with his friend Anytos. “Anytos!” he said. “I am lost!”
“Very probable!” answered Anytos.
But Alcibiades went off with Nicias: “Now Cleon is as dead as a dog. Then comes my turn,” he said.
Socrates walked, deep in thought, up and down the courtyard of his house, which was very simple and had no colonnades. His wife was carding wool, and did it as if she were pulling someone’s hair.
The wise man kept silence, but the woman spoke—that was her nature. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“For the sake of old acquaintance, I will answer you, though I am not obliged to do so. I am thinking.”
“Is that a proper business for a man?”
“Certainly; a very manly business.”
“At any rate no one can see what you are doing.”
“When you were with child, it was also invisible; but when, it was born, it was visible, and especially audible. Thus occupations which are at first invisible, become visible later on. They are therefore not to be despised, least of all by those who only believe in the visible.”
“Is your business with Aspasia something of that sort?”
“Something of that, and of another sort too.”
“You drink also a good deal.”
“Yes, those who speak become thirsty, and the thirsty must drink.”
“What is it in Aspasia that attracts men?”
“Certain qualities which give zest to social intercourse—thoughtfulness, tact, moderation.”
“You mean that for me?”
“I mean it for Aspasia.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“No.”
“Anytos declares that she is.”
“He tells an untruth. Do you see Anytos, Cleon’s friend and my enemy?”
“He is not my enemy.”
“But mine. You always love my enemies and hate my friends; that is a bad sign.”
“Your friends are bad men.”
“No, on the contrary. Pericles was the greatest of the Athenians, Phidias the best, Euripides the noblest, Plato the wisest, Alcibiades the most gifted, Protagoras the most acute.”
“And Aristophanes?”
“He is my enemy, though I do not know why. I suppose you have heard of the comedy which he has written about me.”
“Anytos told me. Have you seen it?”
“I saw the Clouds yesterday.”
“Was it amusing—was it clever?”
“What did Anytos think?”
“He made me laugh when he described some scenes.”
“Then it must be amusing, or you would not have laughed.”
“Did you not laugh, my Socrates?”
“Yes, of course; otherwise they would have thought me a blockhead. You know that he has depicted me as a rogue and fool. Since I am neither, it was not serious; therefore it was in jest.”
“Do you think so? I think it was serious.”
“And you laugh at the serious? Do you weep, then, at jesting? Then you would be mad.”
“Do you think I am mad?”
“Yes, if you think me a rogue.”
“You know that Cleon is with the army.”
“I was astonished to hear it.”
“Astonished! You think, then, that he is not fit to command.”
“No, I know nothing about his fitness as commander, for I have never seen him in the field. But I am astonished at his election, as he himself was, because it was unexpected.”
“You therefore expect him to be defeated.”
“No, I wait for the result, in order to see whether he wins or loses.”
“You would be glad if he lost?”
“I do not love Cleon, but as an Athenian I would mourn if he were defeated; therefore I would not rejoice at his overthrow.”
“You hate Cleon, but you do not wish his overthrow.”
“On account of Athens—no.”
“But except for that?”
“Except for that, Cleon’s overthrow would be a blessing for the State, for he has been unjust to Pericles, to Phidias, to all who have done anything great.”
“Here comes a visitor.”
“It is Alcibiades.”
“The wretch! Are you not ashamed to be on intimate terms with him?”
“He is a man; he has great faults and great merits, and he is my friend. I do not wish to be on intimate terms with my enemies.” Alcibiades knocked at the door, and rushed in. “Papaia! The pair are philosophising together, and talking of yesterday’s comedy! This Aristophanes is an ass! If one wishes to kill an enemy, one must hit him; but Aristophanes aims at the clouds. Hit, yes! Do you know that Cleon is defeated?”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Socrates.
“Is it a pity that the dog is unmasked?”
“I think Alcibiades is misinformed,” broke in Xantippe.
“No, by Zeus, but I wish I was!”
“Hush! here is Anytos coming,” said Socrates.
“The second tanner! It is strange that the destiny of Athens is guided by tanners.”
“The destiny of Athens! Who knows it?”
“I, Alcibiades, am the destiny of Athens.”
“[Greek: Hubris]! Beware of the gods!”
“I come after Cleon; Cleon is no more; therefore it is my turn.”
“Here is Anytos!”
Anytos entered: “I seek Alcibiades.”
“Here I am.”
“Must I prepare you....’
“No, I know.”
“Prepare you for the honour....”
“Have I waited long enough.”
“To go at the head....”
“That is what I was born for.”
“To take the lead....”
“That is my place.”
“And conduct the triumphal procession?”
“What procession?”
“Ah! you did not know. Cleon’s triumphal procession from the harbour.”
Alcibiades passed his hand downwards over his face, as though he wished to changed his mask, and it was done in a moment.
“Yes, certainly, certainly, certainly. I have in fact just come here to—announce his victory.”
“He lies,” broke in Xantippe.
“I jested with the pair. There will be a triumphal procession, then, for Cleon! How fine!”
“Socrates,” continued Anytos, “are you not glad?”
“I am glad that the enemy is beaten.”
“But not that Cleon has won a victory?”
“Yes, it is nearly the same thing.”
Xantippe seized the opportunity and struck in: “He is not glad, and he does not believe in Cleon.”
“I know you,” concluded Anytos. “I know you philosophers and quibblers! But take care!—And now, Alcibiades, come and receive the despised Cleon, who has saved the fatherland!”
Alcibiades took Socrates by the hand, and whispered in his ear. “What a cursed mischance! Well, not yet!—but the next time!”
ALCIBIADES
Kartaphalos, the shoemaker, sat in his shop by the Acarnanian Gate, and repaired cothurns for the Dionysian theatre, which was about to make a last attempt to revive the tragic drama, which had been eclipsed by the farces of Aristophanes. The Roman Lucillus lounged at the window-sill, and, since philosophy had been brought into fashion by Socrates and the Sophists, the shoemaker and the exiled Decemvir philosophised as well as they could.
“Roman!” said Kartaphalos, “you are a stranger in the city, as I am: what do think of the state and the Government?”
“They are exactly like the Roman. One may sum up the whole past history of Rome in two words—Patricians and Plebeians.”
“Just as it is here.”
“With the difference that Rome has a future. Hellas only a past.”
“What is known of Rome’s future?”
“The Cumaean Sibyl has prophesied that Rome will possess the earth.”
“What do you say? Rome? No, Israel will possess it; Israel has the promise.”
“I do not venture to deny that, but Rome has also the promise.”
“There is only one promise, and one God.”
“Perhaps it is the same promise, and the same God.”
“Perhaps Israel will conquer through Rome.”
“Israel will conquer through the promised Messiah.”
“When will Messiah come, then?”
“When the time is fulfilled, when Zeus is dead.”
“May we live to see it. I wait, for Zeus has gone to Rome, and is called there Jupiter Capitolinus.”
Aristophanes, who was easily recognised by his crane-like neck and open mouth, looked in through the window.
“Have you a pair of low shoes, Kartaphalos? A pair of ‘socks’? [Footnote: a low-heeled shoe worn by comic actors.] You have plenty of cothurns, I see, but the ‘sock’ has won the day.”
“At your service, sir.”
“We want them for the theatre, you understand.... Ah! there is Lucillus! … and of raw leather, not tanned.”
“What are you going to play in the theatre, then?”
“We are going to bring on Cleon, and make him dance, and fancy! since no one dares to represent the low-born tanner, I must do it. I will play Cleon.”
“Where is the great general, Cleon, now?”
“In a new campaign against Brasidas. When the commander Demosthenes won the battle of Sphacteria, Cleon claimed the honour of the victory and received a triumph. Then, since he regarded himself as a great warrior, he marched against Brasidas. The pitcher goes so often to the well....”
“Till it is broken,” interrupted a new arrival. It was Alcibiades. “Papaia!” he exclaimed, “Cleon is beaten! Cleon has fled! Now it is my turn! Come to the Pnyx.” And he went on.
“Very well—to the Pnyx,” said Aristophanes, “and I will obtain matter for a new comedy, to be called Alcibiades.”
“You are right, perhaps,” answered Lucillus. “The whole matter is not worth weeping for. Therefore let us laugh!”
Alcibiades stood again on the orator’s platform in the Pnyx. He felt at home there, and he always had the ear of the people, for he was not tedious. They all spoilt him, and his grotesque impudence had an enlivening effect upon them.
Before the orator’s platform, among others, was to be seen the wise, rich, and aristocratic Nicias, who had always sought to mediate between Sparta and Athens, but through his over-deliberation had done more harm than good.
Alcibiades, who knew Nicias and his political views, and feared his opposition, resolved on a master-stroke. He would not speak of Sparta and Athens as Nicias expected, but determined to make a diversion, and speak of something quite different. The people loved novelties, and to-day they should have something quite new.
“Athenians!” he began, “Cleon is defeated and dead, and I place my undoubted talents at the service of the State. You know my small failings, but now you will know my great merits. Listen, Athenians. There was a time when Hellas possessed Asia Minor and extended its wings eastward. The Persian King took these settlements from us one after the other, and he is now in Thrace. Since we cannot go farther eastward, we must go westward, towards the sunset. You have heard more or less vaguely of the Roman Republic, which is growing and growing. Our countrymen have long ago taken possession of that part of the Italian peninsula which is called Tarentum, and we have thereby become close neighbours of Rome. And the finest of the islands, opulent Sicily, became ours. But the Romans have gradually surrounded our colonies, and threaten their independence. The Romans are pressing on us, but they are also pushing northward towards Gaul and Germany, and southward towards Africa. The Persian King, who was formerly our enemy, has now nearly become our friend, and our danger is not now Persia, but Rome. Therefore, with the future in view, I say to you Athenians, ‘Let us go to Italy and Sicily. With Sicily as our base, we can dispute with the Romans the possession of Spain and the Pillars of Hercules. In Sicily we have the Key to Egypt; by means of Sicily we protect the threatened Tarentum, and can, in case of need, save sinking Hellas. The world is wide; why should we sit here and moulder in the wilderness? Hellas is an exhausted country; let us break up new ground. Hellas is an outworn ship; let us build a new one, and undertake a new Argonautic enterprise to a new Colchis to win another Golden Fleece, following the path of the sun westward. Athenians! let us go to Sicily!’”
These new prospects which the speaker opened to them pleased the people, who were tired of the everlasting Sparta and the Persian King; and stimulated by fear of Rome, the growing wolf’s-cub, they received the ill-considered proposal with applause, and raised their hands in token of assent.
Nicias sought an opportunity to speak, and warned them, but no one listened to him. The Scythian police who kept order in the Pnyx could procure him no audience. And when Nicias saw that he could not prevent the enterprise, he placed his services at Alcibiades’ disposal, and began to equip the fleet.
Aspasia was now the widow of Pericles, and had mourned him for a long time. The “Hemicyklion” was no more, but her few remaining friends visited her from time to time. Socrates was the most faithful among them. One evening he sat with her in the little brick-roofed villa on the bank of the Cephisos.
“No, Aspasia,” he said, “I advised against the Sicilian expedition, so did Nicias, so did the astronomer Meton, but it was to be. Alcibiades had managed to procure a favourable response from the oracle in the Temple of Ammon.”
“Do you believe in oracles, Socrates?”
“Yes—and no! I have my own ‘demon,’ as you know, who warns but never urges—who advises, but never commands. This inner Voice has said to me, ‘Hellas will not conquer the world.’”
“Will Rome do it?”
“Yes, but for another!”
“You know that Pericles’ great thought was a single Hellas—a union of all the Grecian States.”
“That was Pericles’ wish, but the will of the gods was otherwise. Alcibiades’ dream of Hellas governing the world is also great, but the dreams of the gods are greater.”
“What gain do you think comes to Athens from Cleon’s death?”
“None! After Cleon comes Anytos. Cleon is everlasting, for Cleon is the name of an idea.”
Protagoras, grown old and somewhat dull, appeared in the inner courtyard.
“There is Protagoras!”
“The Sophist! I do not like him,” said Aspasia. “He is a file who frets all will away; his endless hair-splitting robs one of all resolution.”
“You speak truly and rationally, Aspasia, and in an earlier age you would have sat upon the Pythoness’s tripod and prophesied. Like the priestess, you know not perhaps what you say, but a god speaks through you.”
“No, Socrates; I only utter your thoughts; that is all!”
Protagoras came forward. “Mourning in Athens! Mourning in Hellas! Alas!” was his greeting.
“What is the matter, Protagoras?”
“Phidias of immortal memory lies dead in prison.”
“Alas! then they have killed him.”
“So it is rumoured in the city.”
“Phidias is dead!”
“Probably poisoned, they say; but that need not be true.”
“All die here in Athens before their proper time. When will our turn come?”
“When it does.”
“Are we falling by the arrows of the Python-slayer? We are shot like birds.”
“We are the children of Apollo. Would our father kill us?”
“Saturn has returned to devour his children.”
Socrates sank in meditation, and remained standing.
“We have angered the gods.”
Lucillus the Roman entered. “See the Roman!” said Socrates, “the lord of the future and of the world. What has he to tell us?”
“I come to warn Protagoras. He is to be banished.”
“I?”
“You are banished.”
“On what grounds?”
“As a blasphemer. You have repudiated the gods of the State.”
“Who is the informer?”
“The sycophant, the invisible, who is present everywhere.”
“All is probable; nothing is certain,” exclaimed Protagoras.
“Yes, this is certain.”
“Well, my fabric of thought is shattered against this certainty as everything else is shattered.”
“[Greek: Pànta reî]. Everything flows away; nothing endures; all comes to birth, grows, and dies.”
“Farewell, then, Aspasia, Socrates, friends, fatherland!
“Farewell!”
Protagoras departed with his mantle drawn over his head.
“Will Athens miss Protagoras?” asked Aspasia.
“He has taught the Athenians to think and to doubt; and doubt is the beginning of wisdom.”
“Aristophanes has murdered Protagoras, and he will murder you some day, Socrates.”
“He has done that already; my wife rejoices at it, but still I live.”
“Here comes young Plato with an ominous look. More bad news I expect.”
“Expect? I am certain! Sing your dirge, Plato.”
“Dirges, you mean. Alcibiades has been accused and recalled.”
“What has he done?”
“Before his departure he has mutilated all the images of Hermes in the city.”
“That is too much for one man; he could not do that.”
“The accusation is definite; injury to the gods of the State.”
“And now the gods avenge themselves.”
“The gods of Greece have gone to Rome.”
“There you have spoken truth.”
“Now comes number two: The Athenians have been defeated in Sicily. And number three: Nicias is beheaded.”
“Then we can buy sepulchres for ourselves in the Ceramicus.”
Near the Temple of Nemesis in the Agora stood the tanner Anytos chatting with Thrasybulos, a hitherto obscure but rising patriot.
Anytos rattled away: “Alcibiades is in Sparta; Sparta seeks the help of the Persian King; only one thing remains for us—to do the same.”
“To go over to the enemy? That is treachery.”
“There is nothing else to be done.”
“There were once Thermopylae and Salamis.”
“But now there is Sparta, and the Spartans are in Deceleia. Our envoys have already sailed to the Persian King.”
“Then we may as well remove Athene’s image from the Parthenon! Anytos! look at my back; for I shall be ashamed to show my face now when I walk.”
Anytos remained alone, and walked for some time up and down in front of the temple portico. Then he stopped and entered the vestibule.
The priestess Theano seemed to have been waiting for him. Anytos began: “Have you obeyed the order of the Council?”
“What order?”
“To pronounce a curse on Alcibiades, the enemy of his country.”
“No, I am only ordered to bless.”
“Have the avenging goddesses, then, ceased to execute justice?”
“They have never lent themselves to carry out human vengeance.”
“Has Alcibiades not betrayed his country?”
“Alcibiades’ country is Hellas, not Athens; Sparta is in Hellas.”
