Читать книгу Alkibiades - Charles Hamilton Bromby - Страница 10

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‘Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.’

Sir W. Scott.

Many great affairs of state have happened since the events we have just recorded. Kleon, at length carrying out the threat made at his celebrated banquet the year before, put himself at the head of the Athenian army, and at the end of B.C. 422 met Brasidas, the Spartan general, at the fatal battle of Amphipolis, and was defeated. Both generals fell.

The death of Kleon at that time was a leading fact in the future life of Alkibiades. But for that event happening just then, he might have been spared his great temptations, saved from many errors, and this narrative might never have been written.

Nikias was left without a rival; his opponents had no leader. His party, chiefly the safe and wealthy citizens, with the suburban and rural inhabitants, could now meet the Spartan Kings and Ephors upon equal terms. A peace was signed for fifty years. So far, perhaps, they acted wisely. An alliance was then made, offensive and defensive, between these two leading states—Sparta pre-eminent again by land, the Athenians by sea. A questionable policy, as the event soon proved. So matters stood at the beginning of the year 421, the turning-point in the career of Alkibiades. The son of Kleinias then reached the age at which all citizens of every rank could take their part in the Parliament of Athens.

For some time he had been in much perplexity. At one period he had nearly joined his fortunes with the aristocracy, the peace party. Many circumstances inclined him to that side. His large domains were injured by the war. His personal proclivities were all towards the knights his comrades, and the great old families, most of whom were his relations or his friends. Then Nikias was getting old, and though an experienced soldier, he was feeble, and near-sighted, and bungling as a politician. Another and a younger man would soon be wanted; none so likely to succeed, or supersede, him as Alkibiades.

By throwing in his lot with the old and powerful plutocracy, he would be spared the constant efforts, distasteful and laborious, the oftentimes degrading arts he knew were necessary, if he was to win and keep the suffrages of an exacting populace.

The country and suburban interests were all against the war. War meant loss and even ruin to the farmers and workers in the mines, to all who depended on their lands outside the city, and to many of the middle class within. So there was a strong party pledged to peace. He was really persuaded, too, just now, that peace with Sparta, if she could be made to keep her promises, was better for the future welfare of the state, surrounded by her many enemies.

On the other hand, to join the oligarchs was to desert the traditions of his ancestors. From the reformer Kleisthenes, who had expelled the tyrants—the far-sighted founder of the Athenian democracy—to Perikles, his family had been the leaders, the benefactors, of the people. The policy of the old conservators seemed tame to him. Changes must come. Better to lead the van than drag along amongst the rear. Progressive instincts of the people may be directed: they cannot be confined for ever. The excitement of the popular assembly was in accord with his impulsive nature. By force of intellect to rule the people in the Ekklesia, as the deliberative Parliament was called, as their recognised leader, to sway them by his words, to persuade them by his greater wisdom—was not that worth the sacrifice of ease and high conservative respectability? War, too, gave his ambitious soul more scope than peace.

Had Kleon lived, it may be doubted to which side the balance would have turned. Had he lived but for a short time longer, it may be that Alkibiades would have placed all his weight against the war, have sided with the oligarchic faction, have in time become their leader, have lived and died a rich and comfortable conservative. He might have been spared his great temptations, his faults and sufferings, and might have missed the tide which bore him on to victory, and enabled him to make a name to be remembered amongst the greatest of mankind for ever.

But Kleon died just at the nick of time, and Alkibiades resolved, with all the ardour of his energetic soul, to cast his lot upon the side of progress and the people.

He had already become famous for his lavish hospitality. His triremes, when the state wanted ships, were the largest, strongest, most completely manned, and liberally provided. The chorus which he presented to the city, when he undertook the duty of choregos for his tribe, was the finest, best instructed and most splendidly got up, that had appeared upon the Athenian stage. He had maintained the singers, both men and boys, at his own house during their time of training, and no objection had been made to his addition of some of the famous musicians from other Grecian cities.

The play given on that occasion was that most touching tale of Herakles and Deianira. He arranged the choric songs himself, and gained immense applause for that one especially, where the chorus laments the tragic fate of the strong man of Greece and of his wife. Though the wits laughed and pretended to see in Deianira, because of her jealousy, and her fears lest she should not be able to retain the sole affection of her hero, a resemblance to Hippareté, the people were enraptured.

As the chorus burst out, ‘But the Kyprian goddess, silently busy, has plainly appeared the doer of these things,’ the applause was unanimous. Even the old-fashioned musicians who condemned the new style in which the cadences of the songs were sung, the larger instrumental accompaniment, and, above all things, the additional string which his friend Timotheos had added to the kithara, were for the moment carried away by the beauty of the music, and forgot to grumble.

His bounty to the poor, too, was boundless. Even the lawlessness of which his enemies complained had generally some kindness, or at least some mere exuberance of spirits, at the bottom of it. No instance could anyone remember where his eccentricities had done harm to anyone. These eccentricities were forgotten, forgiven, for his generosity.

Passing one day when a state distribution of small coins was being made to all the indigent and workless, he ordered the dole to be doubled at his charges. The people, unable to restrain their gratitude at this new evidence of his compassion, led him home in triumph.

And thus at the opening of his political life, though there were envious rivals, he was the most popular of the citizens. The people love to have a man of great and ancient family to lead them. So even before he could take part in the debates of the Assembly he was recognised as the leader of the people’s party in the place of Kleon.

It is a great event in a man’s life when he first takes his seat in a popular assembly. After many years of hope deferred and unsuccessful efforts, when, each time we try, we think this time at last we must succeed, and then, when the votes are counted, after waiting with ill-concealed anxiety for the result, we find we have again just missed the mark, and we determine we will never, never try again; when we think, after all, the game is not worth playing, and we have to make a speech thanking those who have voted for us, and hinting at all we might have done for our opponents, as well as for those who have given us their support; and then, and then, come other opportunities, and we allow ourselves to be persuaded, against the grave advice of friends and relatives, to try once more, and then, if at length we are elected, with what strange indescribable feelings we walk in and take our place, if there is room for us, upon those seats it has cost us so much to get at! Those only who have undergone all this can really know the feeling.

True, Alkibiades had not to wait until he could get the people’s vote and confidence as against some other candidate, but he had waited for at least ten years till he was old enough. Though there was no precise law at Athens forbidding citizens to speak as soon as they had completed their twentieth year, the age at which they were capable of assisting at the meetings of the Ekklesia, there was so strong an unwritten custom against anyone below the age of thirty presuming to address the great Assembly that it had all the force of law.

In fact, few ever spoke at all except the wealthy, the high-born, or the trained orators. So great was the critical nicety of the Athenian ear and taste that any fault of grammar or pronunciation, which all but the well-educated few could not help but make, at once called forth a clamour of disgust. It was only by force of impudence, or extraordinary natural power, that such men as Hyperbolos or Kleon could gain a hearing.

During all these tedious ten years he had felt how much fitter he was to direct affairs, to persuade the people, to govern in their name, than those who were in power. He saw the short-sightedness, and all the wretched bungling, both in peace and war, of a man like Nikias. He saw the mistakes and weakness of Kleon, and while admiring the skill and artifice with which the demagogue could gain his ends, he could not help despising his—well, his want of breeding. Still, for a whole year after the time when he might have spoken, he only pondered over and elaborated his great designs, and thought or talked of them in private; with marvellous restraint he held his peace in public, and bided his time.

At length the full time came. The day arrived at last when he might not only sit and vote, but might also mount the steps of the great stone tribune, and loudly speak his long-pent-up thoughts unto his fellow-citizens.

Argos, it was known, had been in treaty for some time with Lakedaimôn for an alliance. An alliance between these, the two strongest states in the Peloponnesos, against Athens meant the end of the Athenian Empire.

Nikias had given back to Sparta the prisoners Kleon had taken at Sphakteria, without receiving any compensating advantage in return for them. So the Athenians lost the great check they had held for so long upon their rivals. Sparta had promised, in return, to restore Amphipolis; but this she had not done. She undertook, on oath, to assist Athens in her wars; she gave her no assistance in her efforts to recover her revolted dependencies. She was bound by the terms of the alliance not to make a treaty with anyone without the consent of Athens; but she made a treaty with Boiotia, the most dangerous enemy of Athens, without consulting her.

At last even Nikias and his party, who were answerable for the peace, grew weary. Alkibiades, who at one time had imagined, and hoped for, the possibility of a peace with Sparta, the home of many of his ancestors, and, indeed, had endeavoured to bring it about, now saw the hopelessness of ever being able to trust such a people. He also foresaw the strength it would bring to Athens, the perils it would save her from, if her future policy were alliance with Argos against Sparta.

There never could be, he was convinced, a lasting truce with Sparta. She was oligarchic and dishonest. Argos was democratic, and he had reason to know from his friends there that the Argives, together with the people of Elis and Mantineia, were about to send an embassy to Athens to treat for an alliance. The Spartans, hearing of this, and frightened by the warnings and threats of their friend Nikias, thought it was time they too should send ambassadors to explain their conduct, and prevent, if possible, the proposed alliance with the Argives and their allies. Both embassies arrived at the same time at Athens.

Endios, a leading Lakedaimônian of high birth, whom we shall meet again, was one of the three Spartan ambassadors. He was a relation and firm friend of the family of Alkibiades, and was his guest during his visit to Athens.

The cordial terms upon which these two representatives of both branches of the great family remained with one another then, and always afterwards, in spite of the strong part taken by Alkibiades against Lakedaimôn, is a sufficient refutation of the calumny on him, first formulated by Thoukydides—who never can resist the temptation of an opportunity to bear false witness against the leader of a side opposed to him in politics—that, with a cunning alien to his whole character, he deliberately misled his guest and relative by an unworthy trick, and induced the Spartan ambassadors to deny their powers.

Not only his friendship with Endios, but the way in which he was afterwards received by Sparta, is enough to dispose of the accusation, without pointing out that the ambassadors would have been below the ordinary level of human beings in intelligence, instead of being picked diplomatists, if they could have been taken in by any such artifice as that ascribed to Alkibiades, which would not have been noticed here had not the tale of Thoukydides been repeated by nearly every historian since he wrote.

The Spartan ambassadors appeared before the Senate, and, amongst other things, declared they had full powers to treat with Athens. They were favourably received, and referred to a meeting of the Assembly to be held in a few days, at which the ambassadors of Argos and her allies were also to appear.

In fact, the Spartan envoys had exaggerated their powers before the Senate. They had really only been sent to gain time, to prevent the threatened alliance with the other Peloponnesian states, not to bind Lakedaimôn by any precise obligations. Having incautiously declared they were entrusted with powers they did not in fact possess, they now saw it would be necessary when they came before the Ekklesia, the fundamental ruler of Athens, to modify their unqualified pretence.

The appointed day arrived. A summons to the citizens to attend a meeting of the Ekklesia to be held that day at the Pnyx was made by criers throughout the town. A notice of the questions to be discussed, of the business to be done, was placed upon the well-known post in the old Agora. At dawn the huge semicircular theatre, cut out of the rock from which it took its name, with its innumerable seats of stone, was duly purified. Then came the heralds’ solemn prayer, with the offering of incense, and the curse on all who should give evil counsel or deceive the people.

By this time the citizens had assembled, and all, except the rich, received a token entitling them to the payment of an obolos for their attendance. They came in more than their ordinary numbers this day, for the business was interesting and important, and it was rumoured that Alkibiades would speak.

The people took their seats according to their several tribes. The President of the Prytanes—those whose duty it was, each successive month, to guard in turn the sacred fire, symbol of a common hearth of the one great family at Athens—called on the business of the day, and then put the ancient formal question: ‘Who wishes to speak?’

The Spartans, as allies, had the right of prior audience. They came forward and attempted to explain their conduct. After making several lame excuses, on being pressed, they admitted they had not full powers to pledge their country for the future.

Then Alkibiades arose, mounted the great stone steps that led to the bema, or tribune, which Solon and Aristeides, Themistokles and Perikles, had often trod before—and which the traveller may still see standing there silently, as they stood more than two thousand years ago—and found himself alone on that exalted platform, about to engage the whole attention of the vast audience.

At the first utterance of his pent-up thoughts his countenance glowed with animation. His personality seemed to himself to be projected on to the listening multitude. Almost unconscious of his individuality, there was a consciousness of a great silence round about him—a silence of everything except his own voice, which sounded as from a distance on his ears. He felt the rapt attention of the crowd, and saw ten thousand faces turned to him, their eyes fixed on him alone. He marvelled for a moment at his rush of eloquence, his facility of speech, his ready argument. Yet it was altogether different to that which they had been accustomed to from Kleon. There was no ranting, no pacing up and down. He had not studied in the schools of rhetoric in vain. Even the lessons he had learnt among the Sophists were of use to him. There was a conciseness, a conclusiveness, in his arguments. His very hesitation sometimes for a word, when he wished to be precise, the repetition which he sometimes made of one sentence ere he began another, which he sometimes made, gave an added power to his utterance. But there was something more than this—a soul which spake from out the depths, and went to the souls of his hearers, holding them captive. His splendid presence, his graceful action, lent a charm to all he said, and when roused to passion his whole face seemed transformed, his eyes fired with the latent energy within.

At first he spoke of Nikias and the peace, and showed how it had been dictated by a selfish policy, because Nikias, having got a reputation as a general, had nothing more to gain by war, and was anxious to enjoy the laurels he had won, for peace meant to him a long continuance of such fame as he had got, free from all further risk, while it prevented any other from rising up to rival him.

The people rose, and, as it were, with one voice demanded that Nikias should be haled before the dikasts, the judges in such cases, and tried for treason to the state. With perhaps real generosity, Alkibiades soothed their vehemence.

‘After all, it may have been the fault of old age and imbecility, not of design,’ he said, and then went on to say that others at one time—indeed, he himself for a short space—had thought that peace was necessary.

So, passing by the peace, he came to deal with the alliance.

‘Alliance!’ he exclaimed, and with a state known for its perfidy. Alliance! With a people whose selfishness and craft made it better to have them as open enemies than as friends! Alliance! With a people who from the time when they had laid upon themselves the most sacred obligations, with all the solemn sanction of libations to the gods, had never ceased to break each separate clause and article of the treaty they then made; and who quite lately, when they renewed their promises, were, at that very time, intriguing with the enemies of Athens!

The Spartan prisoners taken by the great Kleon at Sphakteria had by Nikias been given up to Sparta, while Athens got nothing in return. Amphipolis, which by another clause was to have been immediately restored to Athens, was in the power of the enemies of Athens still. All this was allowed by Nikias. Panakton had been promised in like way to be restored. It had been restored indeed, but shorn of more than half its value, and dismantled of its fortress. According to another clause no alliance should be made by either party with the enemies of either, yet Sparta had been allowed to enter into close alliance with Boiotia, the deadly foe of Athens. All this without remonstrance! And now the perfidious Lakedaimônians were seeking fresh alliances with Argos, Elis, and other states, to help them in their old desire to crush Athens. All this he had foreseen and provided for. The ambassadors of Argos, Elis, and Mantineia were here ready to come before the people and propose an enduring treaty with them. He advised that the Spartans be sent home again and the other ambassadors be heard.

In conclusion, he dwelt upon the greater wisdom of a firm alliance with the democratic Argos—‘a state with the same honest hopes and form of government as we have, rather than with an oligarchic aristocracy like Sparta, which hates freedom and the power of the people; which can do nothing that will bring us any good; which will do all it can to aid our enemies at home to restore an oligarchic rule’—and which would in the end bring back that tyranny which his own ancestor had once before freed Athens from, they then had hoped for ever.

The people shouted their assent. They rose and waved, shouted and cheered, and cheered and waved again. They had most of them known this Alkibiades from boyhood. They had laughed at his many young excesses; sometimes they had feared his lawless disposition, and dreaded his imperious nature. They had been told by those who knew him best that there was something more within him. They had seen his splendour, shared his generosity; but many doubted when he had been chosen as their leader. But now this—this was a revelation to them. None had imagined the possibility of such great earnestness and force in him who had been known as the soft, sensual, luxurious, even effeminate Alkibiades.

They were for sending the Spartan envoys home at once. Indeed, had it not been for the sanctity of their office, they would have been rudely treated. The ambassadors of Argos and her allies were admitted to the Assembly, and their offers listened to with respectful approbation. No one could doubt which way the vote of the Ekklesia would go.

So great had been the effect wrought by the speech of Alkibiades, that the more circumspect, even among his own friends, taking advantage of the rumour of an earthquake, thought it wiser to close the session for that day, and not give their final vote till they had recovered from the spell of the enchanter.

He went home, declining the prayers of many of his companions, of both parties, that he would come to the gay banquets with which the rich Greeks were wont to celebrate the closing of the day. He was filled with many thoughts and introspections. This was the end, so far, at which he had aimed. He felt that thus far he had done well. What of the future? Was his choice always to be that which he knew was best for Athens? He faithfully believed he had made a wise choice that day. But in the future, when her best interests might clash with his, when hers and his might come in conflict,—what then? He could see such conflicts possible. How would he then demean himself?

Amykla had heard the news; it had soon reached his home. She had already told Hippareté of his great success. A strange new feeling came upon the wondering wife. She was not surprised at what was told her. It was what she always knew must happen if he cared to try. She had loved him hitherto with a blind, unreasoning love. She knelt before him now as though he were a god.