difficulty. There is only one Aspasia, and she belongs to Pericles—the greatest woman to the greatest man. Pericles is the greatest in the State, as Euripides is the greatest on the stage.”
This was an opportunity for Protagoras, without his needing to seek it. “Is Euripides greater than Aeschylus and Sophocles?” he asked.
“Certainly, Protagoras! He is nearer to us; he speaks our thoughts, not those of our fathers; he does not cringe before the gods and fate; he fights with them; he loves men, knows them, and laments them; his art is more elaborate, his feelings warmer, his pictures more life-like than those of the ancients. But now I should like to speak of Pericles.”
“Stop, Socrates! In the Pnyx or the Agora, but not here! Though I should be glad of a word of encouragement since false accusations rain on me. We have come here to forget and not to remember ourselves, and Socrates delights us most when he speaks of the highest things, among which I do not count the State of Athens. Here comes Alcibiades with his following. Kindle more lights, boys, and put more ice in the wine.”
There was a noise at the entrance; the dog barked, the doorkeeper shouted, and Alcibiades entered with his companions. These consisted of girls and of two strangers whom he had found in a wine-house.
“Papaia!” he cried. “Here is the host! And here is Aristophanes, a future dramatist. Here is the Roman Lucillus, formerly a Decemvir, who has been banished. There is one of the many Laises who have sat to Phidias. Aspasia must not take it ill. And here are flute-players from Piraeus. Whether they have the pestilence, I know not! What can they do to me? I am twenty years old, and yet have done nothing? Why, then, should I live? Now Lais will dance. Papaia!”
Euripides rose and made a sign for silence. “Let the dance wait; Pericles is not pleased, and looks serious.” A pause followed. The heat was oppressive. It was not thunder-weather, but something like it, and a sense of uneasy expectation seemed to weigh upon all their spirits.
Then, as if by accident, the arm of the skeleton fell on its knee with a slight snap. The flower, which it had held under its nose, lay on the earth.
All started, even Alcibiades, but, angry with himself for this weakness, he took a cup and stepped forward.
“The skeleton is thirsty! I drink to it! Who pledges me?”
“Socrates can do so the best. He can drink half a jar of wine in one pull, without winking.”
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,
