Читать книгу Alkibiades - Charles Hamilton Bromby - Страница 8

Table of Contents

‘HYMEN O HYMENAIE’

In the late autumn of 425 B.C., when the keen bright winter was just beginning to give warning that he was coming soon, Alkibiades brought his young bride home to his great house in the heart of Athens. First came the bearer of the marriage torch, which had been lighted by Deinomaché; then the chorus of youths and maidens dancing, and shouting to the shrill reedy music of the double oboes their thrilling and exulting cry, ‘Hymen O Hymenaie!’ then bride and bridegroom on the wedding-car, drawn by four white horses of his breed that was to become so famous.

A flight of steps led up to the wide portico, supported by six Ionic columns, crowned by its sculptured tympanum, on this day hung with garlands. The massive doors, covered with beaten bronze plates, were opened as the festive band approached, and showed a troop of slaves, young men and maidens, upon either side, awaiting the arrival of their lord. The bridal procession entered the great courtyard, which had been much changed and ornamented since the days of Kleinias. A colonnade of sculptured columns now ran all round it; the walls were painted with scenes from the Argonautic expedition by the young painter Mikôn. A graceful fountain rose and fell in the centre of the court as they passed through to the rooms beyond, painted for this occasion with hymeneal subjects by Aristophôn. There the women had prepared the nuptial couch.

Athens was astir that day. All the world knew Alkibiades, and had heard many things of the riches and the ancestry of the daughter of Hipponikos. Slaves and dependents, from the demesnes of either house, followed in their train. Hipponikos was proud at having for his son-in-law one who had proved his valour in the field, and bade fair by his talents to become a leading man in Athens. The people lined the streets to see the show, and cheered their favourite as he went by as heartily as they applauded when the actors, in their great masks, mouthed out licentious satires of him on the comic stage.

At the rich feast which Hipponikos gave, friends and relations of bride and bridegroom, and most of the great men of the state, were present. Kallias, the brother of the bride, of course was there, with his philosopher Protagoras, and others of his loquacious Sophist friends, and Sokrates, who never spoke a word. The banquet, gay and joyous, with its great dishes of sesame cakes, lasted late, and then the bride bid adieu to her old sire, and left her home of innocence and peace, happiest of them all, unmindful of the troubles that were to come with the new life.

She thought that she indeed had cause to be contented. She had gained the bravest, cleverest, most splendid of all the Greeks. Even his gallantries, of which her women told her, could not lessen the admiration that she felt, and all these gallantries, excusable in him till now, she knew he would abandon for the love of her. Had she not cause to be contented?

And he, as the epithalamium he had written for her was sung outside their chamber door by girls and boys, to the music of the harps and flutes—he, tired with the day’s excitement, as he laid him down by her, he too was happy, while Timandra—poor Timandra!—was almost forgot.

Lonely Timandra, who had given up all else for him, and loved him as only such a one as she can love, in her fair Grecian villa—far from the bustle of the town, she sat her down in dark despair and rage. The very luxury with which he had surrounded her grew hateful to her. The garden perfumes from the orange-trees, whose blossoms the late autumn winds had not yet shaken off, grew sickly. The shaded seats, where they had sat on summer nights, looked drear. The birds, which had so often sung to them in the bright springtime, on quiet cloudless evenings, their songs of love and endless happiness, were still. All, all, was desolate.

She had sometimes feared this end. And yet what fault was it of hers that she was not descended from as long a line of ancestors as this Hippareté? Was her rival any better for her trip to Samos, and all the other childish myths about her family? Perhaps her own forefathers—who could tell?—had been as great as that one’s. Her mother—and now she almost wept—her kind, fond, virtuous mother, who had died hardly forgiving her, she, at least, was better than that poor doll’s, with three husbands living at one time. She was more beautiful, she knew, than poor Hippareté, for he had often told her so; and she had wit and learning, and was more skilled in every art than any woman in her time, except, perhaps, Aspasia.

So the day passed with her. When the night came on, a maddening frenzy seized her soul, till the chill morning dawned, and then an evil smile crept over her disdainful mouth; she knew her time would come.

For a season Alkibiades became another man. He laid aside the flowing Persian robe in which he loved to scandalize the sterner Greeks. The long and curling locks, tokens of youth, were cut at last. His days again were given to military exercise, and sometimes he would even seek out Sokrates, and listen to his teaching. The faithful Sokrates had never ceased to follow him through all his dissipation, had never ceased to love him for his beauty and his understanding, nor ceased to mourn for him as over a great soul departing.

As the spring drew on there was greater martial stir than ever in the town of Athens. It was indeed a time for all who cared for her or wished to make a name to brace themselves for action. Besides Korinthian, Spartan, and other Doric enemies in the Peloponnesos, Boiotians to the north, Megarians on the west, were threatening her. Now was the moment come for struggle, if she meant to burst the toils that were closing round about her.

Like Venice afterwards, and another island in the north, Athens found her chief ally in the sea-waves. On the sea she still ruled despotic. The sea was Athens’ true divinity, the highway of her commerce and her armies, her protection from her enemies. To the sea, it was said, the tribune in her Assembly turned as to a deity.1

A desultory warfare had been going on with varying success since the victory at Potidaia. Kleon, who had succeeded to something of the popularity and something of the political wisdom of Perikles, had, by a lucky chance, increased his reputation by vanquishing the Spartans and taking many of them prisoners at Sphakteria, when Nikias had refused to go there.

To prevent and put a stop for ever to the frequent ravages of Attika by Lakedaimôn, aided by Boiotian cavalry, it was determined to make a final stand, and by a sudden incursion on Boiotia to gain so strong a position within its borders that invasion thence should be impossible in future. A levy was made of nearly all who could bear arms, and the largest expedition ever yet sent out was ready to march, under Hippokrates, in September, 424.

Sokrates served with the heavy-armed. Hipponikos was placed over a portion of the force, while Alkibiades was foremost, gayest, best equipped of all the knights.

He was enthusiastic for the war, but Hippareté was plunged in terror as the time drew near for his departure; and, on the day before he left, she gave birth, too early, to their first-born son. Hipponikos was overjoyed at the event, doubled the large dowry he had given her, then bade farewell to the beloved daughter he was not to see again, and Alkibiades kissed tenderly the wife he had to part from in her weakness and foreboding.

Whatever solicitude he may have felt at leaving his young wife at such a time, it was soon forgotten as he rode off along the way the traveller still takes who journeys from Athens to the ruined Delion. Nor did the beauty of the road which goes through olive woods near home to the mountain passes of Pentelikos and Parnes, on to Oropos, and so, by the sea-shore, to where the temple of Apollo overhung, from its high rock, the surging sea below, make much impression on him then.

When they arrived in the enemy’s country, three days were spent in fortifying the temple and throwing up entrenchments. This point was of great strategic value. If the Athenians could keep it, they would have a fortress on the frontier of Boiotia, inside their neighbours’ territory, whence so many invasions had of late years come upon them.

Hippokrates, having finished his entrenchments, and having placed there a small force of foot and horse for the defence of the newly-acquired fortress, ordered the main body to return to Attika. The light-armed went first, and had got safely across the frontier before the heavy-armed and the cavalry had left the temple. Hippokrates stayed behind, for a time, at Delion. The hoplites and the cavalry, after a rapid march, halted on the frontier, about a mile from Oropos. They were about to start again, after a short rest, when, late in the afternoon, a herald from Hippokrates galloped up in haste with orders to range themselves at once in line of battle, for the forces of Boiotia and her allies, twenty thousand men, fresh and eager for the fight, were coming over the hills to fall upon them.

Hippokrates, who soon came up, had not eight thousand men, all told, to meet this unexpected blow, and they were tired out with marching. The general got them into some sort of order, and was addressing them, pointing out the immense importance of gaining a foothold in Boiotia, to stop the incursions the Spartans, with the help of the Theban cavalry, were able continually to make upon the soil of Attika, when he was interrupted by the war-cry of Boiotia, and the Boiotians and their confederate forces were upon them.

The Athenians rushed to meet them. They were only eight men deep; the Thebans were twenty-five. The shock was terrible. The Athenian right wing, throwing itself on the Boiotian left, where the Thespians fought, drove it back, and cut the Thespians to pieces. But they went too far, and got involved with the deep columns of the enemy, and lost as many as they slew.

On their left wing the Athenians were broken at the onset, and retreated, overpowered by numbers. The centre and so much of the right wing as could disengage themselves followed in good order. But as they turned the hillside they saw the Boiotian cavalry, fifteen hundred strong, charging down upon them. They broke and fled in all directions. Some made their way back to Delion, others to the sea at Oropos; others, struggling through the passes of Parnes, at last got home again to Athens. The enemy, pursuing them, did fearful execution in their ranks.

Brave old Hipponikos was slain at the beginning of the rout while endeavouring to rally his retreating men. From the hilly nature of the ground where the main attack had been delivered, the small force of cavalry, placed at each extremity of the Athenian line, had been unable to give much help during the heat of the conflict. That division of the horse posted on the left wing, where Alkibiades chafed at his compulsory inaction, covered, as far as it could, the disorderly retreat. While thus engaged, it was his good fortune to save the life of Sokrates, and so repay the service his friend had rendered him seven years before at Potidaia. He came upon him retiring with his face to the Boiotians as calmly as if he had been combating some common error in the groves at Athens. Misfortune ever made more manifest the greatness that was in him. The rugged figure had a majesty about it as he bade defiance to the foe. Death when threatened by his country’s enemies brought no more fear to him than when at last it came to him in the cup of hemlock, by which that country afterwards rewarded him.

The temple at Delion was soon afterwards retaken by the Boiotians, and that disastrous campaign was ended. At the same time in Thrace the Spartans, under Brasidas, were encouraging Athenian dependencies to revolt. Through the negligence of the historian Thoukydides they were able to take Amphipolis, one of the most important possessions of Athens on the Thrakian coast, an event which became of curious importance in deciding the future life of Alkibiades.

He had returned to Athens in less glorious circumstances than those in which he had set out. Through no fault of his, he and the other knights had been unable to do much. He was discontented. His wife received him back with tears. He who was almost all to her had come back indeed, but the brave old father, where was he? Her father had ever been her constant friend, the dear companion of her childish days and early womanhood. When his wife left him his daughter had become everything to him. He lavished all his love on her, for the worthless Kallias deserved and got but little. And he who gave it to her so ungrudgingly was gone. She would never see that strong old tender face again. How could she keep her tears from flowing—tears of grief, tears, too, of joy, as her husband stood by her side once more?

Egoism, from which most men, even the best, suffer more or less, was not a stranger in the breast of Alkibiades. He liked the blind devotion of his wife, and would not have her show her grief for anyone when he was there. He did not understand how much less worth her love for him must be if she did not love her father with another and as great a love.

He grew weary of his life at home. Hippareté was rather dull. She was weak and feeble, and spent most of her time attending to her child. His absences from home grew longer and more frequent. When he came there she met him with a grieved, sad smile. Silent reproaches drove him off again.

1. The remains of it show this was not so.