“I have seen him, alas,” said Helena. “My unfortunate Pericles! Yet, I believe this marriage to be advantageous to you, and there are always consolations, are there not?”
Pericles’ pale eyes shone on her with such ardent tenderness that she embraced him, sighing while she smiled. She wondered why she could not love him and had only a deep affection for him. Was he not the most desirable man in Athens and did he not possess attributes of mind and character to enthrall any woman, and was he not virile and gentle and considerate in her arms? But she had loved once and could not bring herself to love any other man, no matter how illustrious. As if in extenuation she ate alone with him tonight in her beautiful little house, and arranged that her dinner table held only his favorite dishes and the best of wines. While they dined she would talk seriously of nothing, but amused him with naughty gossip of the city and new raucous jests she had heard.
Pericles secretly hoped that something dire would happen to prevent his marriage to Dejanira. But the winter day in the month of Gamelion dawned crisp and especially bright and vigorous, which Agariste said was a good omen, but Pericles considered it disastrous. He had seen Dejanira at family festivals, when her husband was still alive, and he had had the heartiest, if derisive, sympathy for him. He remembered that Dejanira had never had the slightest prettiness even as a child and young girl and now, as a widow, she seemed particularly abhorrent to him. Before her marriage she had had, at least, a slender figure and kept herself reasonably hygienic with the help of slaves. Even these had departed.
Ah, well, he said to himself on this day Agariste proclaimed was auspicious, I suppose worse things can happen to a man than marriage, though at the moment I do not believe it. He had chosen Anaxagoras as his parochos (best man) to the fury of Agariste, and she was further incensed that his wedding party was “composed of all the ragamuffin philosophers from the dirtiest of the arcades,” and not the men of distinction Pericles ought to have chosen. She had never liked Zeno of Elea at the best of moments. He was another of Pericles’ attendants. She was convinced that her son had done these things to vex her. Only the fact that her brother had dubiously informed her that these “ragtags” were bringing fame to Athens could mollify her anger. She admitted that they had intellect; however, were they not very poor and wore coarse garments and, if they possessed shoes, did they not wear them only to dinners in order to preserve them as long as possible? On hearing this Pericles said, “Better bare of feet than barren of brains.”
Coldly, and to annoy his mother more, he insisted on hearing the details of Dejanira’s purificatory ceremony the night before the wedding which Agariste had attended. The women of the bride’s house, and her female relatives, had formed a procession to obtain the water from the fountain called Callirhoë. They had all carried torches, and there had been two flute-players, instead of one, leading the woman who carried the special buckets for the water—the loutrophoras. The bride, in the women’s quarters, was then ceremoniously undressed—“What a delectable sight that must have been!” said Pericles with gloom. She had been rubbed and cleansed with perfumed oil then clothed in pale linen, and, with her relatives and bridal attendants, had appeared at her father’s side where the sacrifice was offered up to Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Artemis and Peitho. (Gamelion was considered to be particularly a choice month in which to be married, as it was the month of Hera, goddess of marriage.) For the second time—as though she were a virgin bride—she had offered up her childhood toys and her dolls. “Alas, that she could not offer up her son!” said Pericles, to his mother’s wrath. “I thought such a ceremony was only for a virgin. Is it possible that she never lay with her husband at all but produced her son—who resembles her remarkably—by some parthenogenesis?”
Agariste, too outraged to reply to this, went to supervise the decorating of her house with garlands of olive and laurel leaves, as the house of Daedalus was being decorated on this bridal morning. The bridal chamber, which Pericles refused to inspect, was also being garnished with olive and laurel leaves and flowers. As the weather was shiningly cold, braziers stood in every room and curtains were drawn over windows and lamps were lighted, though the sun outside was brilliant. Pericles, who was never restless, was restless today, and he strolled outside to breathe the sharp chill air and look down on his beloved city. He said to it, “I am doing this for you. I am offering myself as a sacrifice.” He stared up at the great bronze statue which Pheidias had created and murmured to it, “Athene Parthenos, my patroness, grant that what I am about to do will enhance your glory.” The statue on the acropolis gazed sternly to the east and the morning light glittered on her mighty and severe face. But her face was no more stern than was Pericles’ and his light eyes had the blind look of a statue, a phenomenon that many found disconcerting. Like Athene, he wore a helmet which concealed the extraordinary height of his brow and head. He shivered in the blazing cold and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. He decided to get drunk, though as a rule he was careful in his drinking.
By noon he was sleeping in his chamber, snoring, and though Agariste, on hearing this, tightened her mouth, she had to admit to herself that perhaps he had reason, considering Dejanira, about whom she had no delusions. But Dejanira was rich and her father powerful, and a man could do worse than marry her, especially an ambitious man like Pericles.
As Pericles slept in an aura of sour wine he dreamed again that the beautiful little figurine Pheidias had presented him enlarged to the height of a tall and slender woman, and that again she bent over him. But this time she kissed his lips and laid her hand tenderly against his neck and whispered, “I am coming to you, O my beloved!” He felt the warmth of her mouth; it was as fragrant as a lily, and soft as a feather, and her hair, silver-gold, fell over his throat and his shoulders and hands. Her eyes, so close to his, were as brown as choice autumn wine, tinted and flecked with gilt and sparkles of changing light. She seemed radiant to him and vital and she smiled. He came abruptly awake, searching for her in the dimness of his chamber, his eyes strained and enlarged, so real had she appeared, so imminent. He was certain that he could smell the odor of lilies. He turned on his side, his heart beating fiercely with yearning for what was only, surely, a dream. He was as desolate as a man newly deprived of his loved bride before even the consummation of marriage. The thought of Dejanira now was unbearably repugnant to him so that he had to restrain himself from rising and fleeing his house and the city of Athens, itself, to roam the world for the vision he had dreamed. At length, groaning, he put the figurine against his lips and kissed it, then placed it under his pillow and slept again until almost sunset. When he awoke he felt dulled and numb and without feeling, which, he thought, was fortunate. Then he laughed at himself. What was marriage after all but a convenience to produce sons? He was taking this matter too seriously and was not Helena always admonishing him that he did so in all things?
“There are only two things worthy of solemnity,” she had said, only three nights ago. “Birth—and death. Between them, if one is wise, lies hilarity, for is not life hilarious, even when tragic?” Pericles did not answer this. There were occasions when he suspected that Helena, despite her wisdom, could be light-minded, and so, on that night, he had been so surly with her that she had dismissed him in exasperation, and, unpardonably, had advised him to go to his espoused bride.
At sunset he was his apparently calm, stately and rigidly dignified self. His face, under his helmet, was so without expression that it appeared less flesh than white stone. This was due not to his dread of marriage to Dejanira but to Anaxagoras’ teaching that at all times a true man is self-disciplined, especially during acute events or under stress. “Disorder of mind,” he had said, “is unpardonable.”
“Zeno of Elea thought I was too self-controlled,” Pericles had replied to this.
“Ah, there is a subtle but profound difference between an appearance of self-control and the physical and mental effort and anguish this involves, and the true self-discipline whi
ch orders the emotions within and the appearance without. The latter produces peace of mind, for it is absolute dominance of one’s self. The first produces, at the end, physical and spiritual collapse, for nothing is more deadly than lack of command over one’s own weaknesses. Composure is in the mind, if one has dominion of his thoughts. Without such, a man is a victim of random emotions which come and go and can destroy him, and are wild and savage and animalistic.”
Anaxagoras had smiled kindly at the young man. “You have extraordinary serenity and steadfastness of appearance. But this must seep into your mind and your emotions. When I was attacked on the streets by howling and disheveled young men who violently disagreed with my theories I felt no fear or anger or heat at all, and certainly no indignation! I knew they were only echoes from our primitive and chaotic past and were of no consequence.”
On this, his wedding day, Pericles reflected on what Anaxagoras had said: Objective and apparent emotions could be used deftly by a politician to impress voters—if one cared for public office. However, thought Pericles dismally, I am only flesh and blood and true serenity is far from me. Was it better, in this appalling world, to resemble marble within and without than to feel passions? Or, was marble alive, as Pheidias had said? (Zeno had once remarked that all things have being: To be is to feel, and stone, itself, grew and therefore had sentience.) Pericles felt more than a slight confusion in his mind. It came to him, with no originality, that life was very perplexing and dark and enigmatic, and not, as Helena had said, hilarious, unless one found earthquakes humorous and mysteriously tormented humanity infinitely ridiculous and mirthful. Anaxagoras had declared that a true man did not just rise above calamity. He remained impervious to it. Pericles shook his head. There were occasions when a man must weep or die. Blood was blood, no matter what the philosophers said. A man could not escape himself, nor his human heritage. Perhaps even God was the Victim of His own Nature. Alas, thought Pericles, what of us mere mortals, if that is so? We must all deal with tangibles, God or man, even if they are not of our own making. Reality confronts us all. Unlike the east, the west is pragmatic.
CHAPTER 8
Among the wedding guests was the shy and emotional Ichthus, who was, from a calm and philosophic view, deplorable in his lack of self-restraint. His feelings were ever visible, in the constant slight trembling of his face and in his ardent and fervid eyes. He seemed always on the verge of flight; his sensitivity was that of a man who has been flayed. A felicitous word or a kind smile could provoke him to tears. He haunted the colonnades, following the philosophers and listening, and sometimes he would cry out as if unbearably moved. The philosophers found this gratifying, if amusing. Their students did not. They did not know that here was an undefiled soul who yearned for beauty and justice and truth and could not understand a world in which these were so terribly lacking. (Worse, he could not express in eloquent speech the majesty he perceived, and so could only mumble though his spirit vibrated. His tongue was as if paralysed.)
However, he could write. He wrote anonymously, and broadcast his writing throughout Athens, employing young lads to toss pieces of parchment in public places, and against the doors of houses. His poems were poor if touching. But his polemics were potent and galvanic. They rang with passion and eloquence and fire. He questioned everything, but with humility, if it pertained to the Godhead. However, when he questioned government it was as if a volcano had broken its stony fastnesses and was pouring lava and flame over the city, full of wrath.
His particular hatred was for the hypocritical democracy of Athens, which pretended to serve the people but only served politicians. “The Founding Father of our once-beneficent laws, Solon of holy memory, sought to establish a just republic, wherein there would be no slaves and all men would be equal under the law, and all would have recourse to government if offended or deprived of their rights. No privileged man would be above the law nor too humble to evoke it. The Tyrants proclaimed that they followed the laws of Solon; they perverted them for their own advantage and almost destroyed Athens with their venality, their craftiness and exigency. Virtue’s own spotless raiment was assumed, and is still assumed, in which to envelop demons and give them an air of authority and sanctity. Harpies swooping with the white wings of justice! Where is the man in Athens today, no matter his station, who can declare in all honesty, ‘I am a free man?’ Onerous taxes destroy ambition and create listlessness in the strong and mendicancy in the weak. No man knows this very hour whether his land belongs to him or if the government will seize it tomorrow for evil purposes. The Ecclesia is a den of thieves; it is a congregation of liars and oppressors! It deprives honorable men of their goods or their lives. It elevates Cerberuses to be the guardians of the people! The River Styx flows through Athens and her dominions. Who will build a bridge upon it over which free men can flee and be safe?”
The Ecclesia affected to be ignorant of these writings, or if someone brought them to their attention they laughed indulgently. “A hot-head, a fool, a disgruntled idiot,” they said. “Who but slaves would read such nonsense—if slaves can read? Is not Athens rich and strong and proud, filled with artists and philosophers, the wonder of the modern world? Such could not flourish if Athens were oppressed by its government or restricted or muted. There will always be dissenters. If their cause is just we will listen. But when their cause is stupid or mad we must ignore them.”
But the Ecclesia did not ignore the writings of Ichthus. They set their spies searching for him. Only one person was convinced that he knew the author of these fiery writings which were disturbing the minds of the people and forcing them to think of their government even above their petty daily affairs. That man was Pericles. He was determined that he must speak to Ichthus for the latter’s own sake. Prudence, prudence, he said to himself, as if addressing his shy friend. Then he would add with bitterness, “Dear Ichthus, the truth is a deadly spice and can poison the administrator. I agree with you, but the time is not yet. Prudence, no. Patience, yes.” Then he would ridicule himself for his own discretion. More nations, he thought, were destroyed by indifferent patience on the part of the people than by perhaps any other destroyer. A people which had too much tolerance for evil deserved to die in its own leniency. There was a difference between indulgence for natural faultiness and indulgence for wickedness. The first was civilized, the second perfidious.
Then Pericles reflected that there was nothing more invincible than a just and uncorrupted man who set out to right wrongs. Gentle and timid though Ichthus was he had the soul of a Hercules bent on cleaning out the Augean Stables though he died for it. Rightful anger was a frightful weapon, stronger than Damascene steel, and he who used it must beware that it did not turn in his hand and slay him. Pericles decided that at some time during the wedding festivities he would speak quietly to Ichthus and urge—what? Self-preservation? Such was the cave in which shivering cowards died of their own inertia. If men had any reason for living at all it was for truth and honor and justice. For anything less, for compromise, a man was only a devouring beast intent on his miserable security and appetites.
Pericles thought of his father, Xanthippus, and his heart burned. What should he say to Ichthus which would not be a soothing lie?
Pericles, with his best man and his other friends, went to the house of Daedalus to the wedding ceremonies. He was so preoccupied with his dream of the beautiful mythical woman and the problem of Ichthus that any thought of his own state was numbed. Seeing his abstraction his friends became silent.
The house of Daedalus was already seething with gay guests, and was wreathed in laurel and olive leaves and somewhat dejected flowers wilting in the cold air. The Ecclesia, many of them, wore the bland and smiling faces of politicians and greeted everyone as if they were the honored. At last a signal was given and all repaired to the banqueting hall, where tables were set aside for the men, including the bridegroom and his attendants, and others in the rear for the women. Daedalus, though very rich, was frugal and so the
cloths on the table were of the coarsest linen and the spoons and knives thinly plated with silver. Here were no rugs or precious murals but only small statues of the household gods on wall pedestals. The bare stone floor was icy. There were no silken curtains at the windows; heavy dull wool hung there instead. No braziers warmed the air except for a thrifty one in the center of the hall. The Archon boasted of his austerity; Pericles decided he was less austere than mean. The vases in the corners of the hall were slightly filled with drooping branches, unflowered.
Pericles saw his bride at a distance, clad in a demure tunic of blue linen with a toga over it of a darker blue. She was veiled and had a wreath on her overly large round head which appeared to be set solidly on her shoulders with no neck intervening. Her friends sat about her, chattering happily, but she was stolidly silent as always except that occasionally her thin voice, laden with complaint on this, her wedding night, could be heard over the voices of the other women. As she was the most important person among the women today some gave her complaints attention, for all they were meaningless and irrelevant and did not express true dissatisfaction with anything. Her mother, as stoutly shapeless as herself, and with the same hard round head and heavy stupid features, sat sullenly at her side. Semele was very pleased by this marriage of her daughter to the handsome and distinguished Pericles. But if one were to judge by her wary and sulky expression one would have guessed that she was in ill-temper and morose. Her graying hair was lank by nature, though for these festivities it had been painfully curled and waved and bound in red ribbons. Her clothing was brown; she wore no jewelry. Like her daughter, she had a truly snout-like nose, with large gross nostrils, a low sallow forehead and sallower fat cheeks, a thick mouth sharply downturned, and very small sunken black eyes constantly darting with suspicion of all things. Her chin was greasy.