Читать книгу Alkibiades - Charles Hamilton Bromby - Страница 6

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‘Vivere, Lucili, militare est.’—Seneca.

During the fifty years which immediately preceded the period at which we now arrive Athens had risen from a level little higher than that of many of her neighbour towns to be the chief, the queen, of Hellas. Through an undiscoverable something in her people, through an innate power lying hid within her, through a succession of great men to lead her, through hard work and self-sacrifice, she had shot ahead of all her rivals. And while boundless enterprise, which sent her merchant vessels beyond Ionian and Aigaian Seas, enriched her coffers, she was protected seaward by a navy which had become a match for all the other Grecian states together, and landward by a solid force of soldiers, each of them a self-relying, self-governing citizen, believing the fate of home depended on his own peculiar strength, courage, and obedience; and all this compact mass by sea and land was led by Generals not unworthy of the warriors they commanded.

So Athens was become the head of numerous allied, almost dependent, towns and tributary states, whose help she could call upon at need, whose tribute flowed a constant stream to swell her treasury. And all the time that this material prosperity had been increasing, her intellectual, her artistic growth had been as wonderful. It is generally noticed that only in the decline of nations an æsthetic, or subtle, sense of beauty is obtained, and arts are seen to flourish. So true has this been found in other states and peoples that from the one the other may often be inferred. Was this so with Athens? Had not her arts grown with her growth, and flourished in their full perfection as she grew? Was it not peculiar to Athens that they had not to wait until she was decrepit? However this may be, we find that a small town, as it seems to us in our days of unwieldy cities, centres of overpeopled provinces, a fifth-rate municipality, with a population, even at its highest, not much greater than that of many a modern watering-place, had bred amongst her citizens the purest taste, and highest genius, that marks a people as superior to ordinary men. And not in some only of the higher occupations of the mind was she ahead of others: she excelled in all. Her sculptors, her painters, her architects, her orators, her tragedians, her comedians, her statesmen, her philosophers, at that time were the marvel of the world, as it seems they will remain that marvel for all time to come.

If it is hard to realize the pre-eminence of Athens in genius, who amongst us hath an imagination large enough to realize her outward show? Who is so vain as to attempt to picture it to others?

The city was placed just near enough to the sea to catch its breezes and the zest of life sea-breezes bring with them, under a sky hung higher overhead than ours in the North appears to be; her streets a maze of beauty with innumerable gold and marble statues wrought by the finest sculptors that the world has seen; her temples, public halls and colonnades at noontide giving shade, at evening shelter, at all times free to all; her groves and gardens perfumed by the rich scent of orange-trees and gayest flowers, beautiful by day and perhaps more lovely still on moonlit nights. And overshadowing was seen from every point of view the towering Akropolis, where the maiden goddess, sprung from the brain of Zeus, emblem and patroness of wisdom, her calm brow half covered by her Grecian helmet, her mighty spear in hand, stood guard over her beloved city, its silent sentinel.

But then the thronging concourse in the streets, the busy markets, workshops, arsenals! If outward Athens was chaste classic quietude, what a bustling stream of life she did contain! She had just reached the zenith of her day—everything was prosperous. Her rival states had been left far behind. The league of Delos, counterplot to the Peloponnesian confederacy, had placed Athens at its head, and Perikles was still in power.

Whenever a people has by self-restraint and long determined toil, patience, and courage, raised itself to wealth and greatness, the old and simple thoughts and ways soon begin to seem too small for them, the frugal practices of their forefathers all too poor. So life at Athens in the heyday of her splendour was very pleasant.

It was at this time that the son of Kleinias—the noble, duty-loving Kleinias, who kept aloof from politics, and let his abler comrades rule, while he was happy to obey the laws which others made, and give his strength and substance and, at last, his life for Athens—it was at this time the son of Kleinias approached the dawn of early manhood. Gifted with a greater power to enjoy the sensuous pleasures of the world than most others have been, he had a larger intellect to understand, a stronger will with which to keep others in subjection. He had, too, a loftier ambition, and every apparent means to gratify his pride.

By accident he had been placed in the highest rank among the Athenians, if we can speak of rank where all are equal. It was not the vulgar rank which in our modern societies is marked by tinkling titles, but a position willingly conceded to the descendants of a line of heroes, sprung originally, as men believed, from the gods themselves.

His friends, his relations, were of the most powerful amongst the citizens. The chief man in Athens was the guardian to whose care his father had entrusted him. Scion of a line of frugal folk, whose wealth had long accumulated, he had enormous riches, and owned a vast and fertile territory. Thus he reached the golden age when every sense is keenest, when almost every experience brings a new delight, and each pulsation is a pleasure—an age we afterwards look back upon with fond regret, not quite unmixed with pride, and which we sadly recognise we shall never see again.

Small wonder, then, if Alkibiades threw himself without restraint into a whirl of pleasure. Vague longings of his boyhood were, if not forgotten, driven out of sight. The earnest hope of something higher lay buried underneath the intense enjoyment of the present.

He had seen little of the strange philosopher since they met, apparently by chance, on a sunny afternoon by the Ilissos. Sokrates was not a Puritan. He could make allowances. But he saw too plainly what the effect would be of constant excess and dissipation upon a mind like that of Alkibiades. He held aloof. He said his daimôn, that ever-present monitor, which told him what to do, and what to leave alone, prevented him. Alkibiades had many friends. Besides the sons of Perikles and other relatives of his own age with whom he associated, there were an abundance of parasites in Athens to pander to his wishes. He had his studies, too. These for the most part were in the military schools. Through his wealth he was bound, by the law of Athens, to serve as a knight in the cavalry of the Athenian army, so much of his time was taken up in learning the art of war and military tactics. If his ambition to excel in oratory, when he should be old enough to take his place upon the bema, in the great Assembly of the people, led him sometimes to the house of Protagoras, and to other Sophists, it was rather to learn the tricks of a quibbling debate than to gain a knowledge of that philosophy the Sophists pretended they were able to impart.

But all such pleasant things must have an end. The serene sky became overcast. Sparta, fearing for her independence, and encouraged by the Delphic oracle, determined to put her ‘whole strength into a war’ with Athens. Korinth was intriguing with the other states against her. Towns and islands where oligarchies ruled hated the democratic city, and joined in a confederacy against her.

The year 432 B.C. is ever to be remembered as the beginning of the long and tedious war. Potidaia, a Korinthian colony, on the Chalkidian coast, and subject to Athens, was encouraged by both Sparta and Korinth to rise against her suzerain.

In the beginning of this year an expedition was sent out by Athens, under Archestratos, with orders to act peaceably, if possible, and to bring back these refractory subjects at Potidaia rather by persuasion than by actual hostilities. Archestratos, finding peaceful overtures were of no avail, and his force too small to coerce the revolted town, sailed north, and made an attempt against the Makedonians, and met with some success there, while another larger army was prepared at Athens.

Here, then, was an opportunity for Alkibiades. He had not yet completed his twentieth year. By the law which regulated the military service of the Athenian citizens, youths from eighteen to twenty, though bound to serve, could not be called upon to leave their country; they with the old men formed a guard to protect the city and the frontiers. But Alkibiades, like other less fortunate young men, was burning with military excitement, and with the full force of his strong will he determined to go upon that expedition.

When this busy schwärmerei is in the air it is wonderful how infectious it becomes. The call to arms resounded on all sides. Painting and sculpture were neglected. Sophistic quibbling was forgotten. Pursuit of pleasure for a time was laid aside. Luxurious banquets, lasting from evening far into the night, went out of fashion. The music heard was not the wailing of the Lydian flutes, but the trumpet calling to warlike exercise. All the world, though it knew it not, was preparing for a war the end and dismal consequence of which was to be terrible to Athens.

With flying pennants, with brave huzzas, and gaily-decked triremes, the force set out for Potidaia. Alkibiades had got leave to go. As cavalry would be of little use, at what the generals saw would most likely be a lengthy siege, none of the golden youths could go as knights. So many of them stayed at home. The son of Kleinias volunteered as an ordinary hoplite, or heavy-armed foot-soldier. And we can well imagine the pride, the joy, with which this scion of a stock like his would stand, with all his heavy armour on, upon the prow of the great ship moving grandly out to sea, as with its threefold banks of oars it breasted the Aigaian. What thoughts! what hopes! what exaltation! His late excesses had been but little more than youthful folly, and not much really cared for. Now the descendant of Homeric heroes felt himself heroic. Even before the Trojan War an ancestor of his had been in the mysterious strange voyage with Jason and the Argo, when all the adventurous of the time took part in that immortal voyage to Kolchis. He would not prove unworthy of his sires; he would rival, and perhaps surpass, them. He would leave behind him a fame which should astonish men for ever.

The Athenian army, with their allies, under the general Kallias, son of Kalliades, in forty ships of war, sailed up the coast as far as Makedonia, and there joining the army under Archestratos that had set out some time before, and coasting down the Shemaic Gulf, they landed near Beroia. Then, after three days’ marching along the shore, they encamped not far from Potidaia, and watched the movements of the enemy. While the army under Kallias were joining forces with Archestratos, the Korinthians had sent a strong detachment, under Aristeus, to help the Potidaians, and thus the Athenians, somewhat unexpectedly, found themselves confronted with Korinthians, as well as Potidaians and their Olynthian and Makedonian allies. Aristeus was made commander-in-chief of this formidable host. He placed the main body of his army at the entrance to the isthmus on which Potidaia stands, and posted the Makedonians beneath the walls of Olynthos, in position to attack the enemy in the rear on their first forward movement.

Kallias, seeing this manœuvre, sent some of his allies against the Makedonians, and gave the signal to the main body to advance.

At the first onset Aristeus, with his left wing, drove back the Athenian right, and followed them too far as they retreated. The Athenian left wing and centre, in which was Alkibiades, raising their loud shout to the god of war, came on in splendid style against the Korinthian right. Then Greek indeed joined Greek, and fought with more ferocious hatred in their hearts than they had ever felt against a common foe, when, fighting side by side, they had sent the Persian home again.

Modern warfare consists, for the most part, in well-drilled marksmen shooting at a distant mass scarce visible, and in receiving leaden pellets from an unseen enemy. The tug and tussle of the old engagements, where man grappled with man, and the final victory depended more on the individual skill and courage of a few, is gone. Alkibiades rushed headlong into the fray. It was his first experience of real war. Forgetting everything in his excitement but the antagonists before him, he found the noblest and strongest youths among the foe, and astonished many on both sides as he felled opponents in his impetuosity.

The Athenian attack was stubbornly resisted. Kallias, the young general, the pupil of Zeno, the philosopher of Elea, and a firm friend of Alkibiades, was slain. Each foot of ground was fought for vigorously, and fought for, sometimes, more than once, as now Athenian, now Korinthian, gave way, and rocked and swayed together.

The son of Kleinias, blind to dangers round him, fearless of thrusts or blows, strode in the front of the Athenian army. He had just felled a stalwart Korinthian, when a blow upon his helmet, glancing down upon his breastplate, brought him to his knees still fighting, till, with loss of blood, he bowed his head and fell prone upon the ground.

The battle raged around him as before. He heard the din of it confusedly—the calling on the gods, the cries of rage, the clanking of the swords and shields; no one seemed to notice him. Those who, just now, wondered at his courage were too much engaged to see his fall. His blood, although he knew it not, was pouring from his wound. A dim vision of his past life came before him—his father’s parting words, his hopes, his ambition; now all was over, ended at his first attempt to make a famous name. The great gods had struck him down in his pride. He recollected indistinctly his late excesses, and dread Aiakos, the Judge of Hell, he had been used to jest about as his old ancestor in his careless health and jollity; he trembled as he thought how soon he was to meet him. And then a sweet remembrance swam before his darkening eyes of a sunny afternoon by the Ilissos, and the pleasant voice and kindly words of that strange friend of his came back to him, like far-off music in his ears; then darkness, and then—nothing.

Presently a sound as of the same voice came over him again. That which had been indistinct and dreamy was now real and clear. His eyes opened, and he saw Sokrates striding across him, his big eyes shining with a rage which made them look almost beautiful; the ungraceful body trembled with a god-like energy, his whole countenance glowed as if inspired. With a blow he had brought to the ground a Potidaian, who, taking advantage of the young man’s helplessness, was about to slay him with his sword.

The Athenian army, everywhere victorious, chased the enemy into Potidaia, and left the young hoplite and the philosopher behind amongst the dead and dying. Neither of them spoke: one was too weak, the other only stood and watched him.

When some of their side returned, Alkibiades was taken to his tent, and his wound was dressed. Youth, vigour, and relenting Zeus soon did the rest.

Amidst rejoicing and loud hymns of triumph to the God of War, with which the Athenians celebrated their success, the generals deliberated, according to their wont, to whom the prize of valour should be given. They decided on the favourite Alkibiades, already celebrated for his wealth and beauty and now made famous by his prowess. Alkibiades refused, and with true generosity declared that Sokrates, the saviour of his life, deserved it more than he did. But the generals cared little for the philosopher, so Alkibiades was afterwards crowned with laurel and invested with a splendid suit of armour before the assembled host, as hero of the victorious day.

Meanwhile he was not ungrateful. He had made Sokrates come back with him and share his tent as long as he remained in the besieging camp. His wound, though quickly healing, left behind it a sense of lassitude he had never felt before. He had time to study the strange character, and many an occasion to marvel at the curious man who was living with him in the close confines of a soldier’s tent. He loved to gaze on the grotesque figure, and listen to his words, which had about them a charm unspeakable, and carried all away who listened to them.

Sometimes Sokrates remained lost in thought for hours—all the whole day together—undisturbed by the tumult of the camp, or by the wit and frolic of the younger men who thronged the tent. But Alkibiades cared less than heretofore for the gay society of his companions. He would often rather sit and learn, answering the perpetual questionings by which the sage, humblest of men himself, would show how ignorant men are, how puffed up only by conceit of knowledge, how appearances are taken by them for realities, how even those who pass for the wisest of mankind, when brought to book, give but the poorest explanation of the simplest things, how those only are truly wise who know their utter, necessary ignorance.